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20 2 



• • 



The Story of our Ldvee from Year to Year" — shakespkarb. 


Jl nUekIs Jottttml. 




Fboh JxmE 16, 1883, TO Noyxicbi!b 17, 1883. 
Including No. 769 io No. 781.. 













Mx.8oa&bobouoh'sFaicilt. a 

Serial Story by Anthony Trol- 

lope 19 

Abbey Dore .178 

About Bank Notes ... 274 
About SoMmary .462 

Admiralty lalandB ... 356 
African SnpentltioDB . 22e 

After the HoUdayi ... 896 
Aldenhotk The Camp at * . 68 

AUbl audita Price, An. A Story 

by Theo Gift 116, 189, 168, 187, 

210, 286, 260, 288, 800, 881, 866, 

Along the SUver Streak 106, 184, 

166, 181, 206, 220, 254, 208, 292, 319, 

Altilncham .176 

American nah .... 19 
Among the Coffee Palaces. . 520 
Archers of Lincoln ... 464 
Castle of ... 265 
jht, The luTentions of . 5 
Anny. The Soldier at Home 28, 58 
Arromanches .... 268 
As Others See Us ... 487 
Astly, John, the Artist . . 176 
Australasian Federation . 64 

Australia. Gigantic Trees . 843 
Australian Annexation . 858 

Australia, New Guinea, and 

the Neir Hebrides ... 868 
Australian Land Grabbing . 852 
Australia, The Population and 

of . .64 

. 275 

. 274 

. 427 

. 223 

. 221 

. 168 

. 178 

124, 149 

841, 413 

. 423 

. 179 



. 53 

. 53 

. 870 

. 276 

BASK Note Sobberles 
Bank of £ngland Notes 
Bamsrd Castle . 
Bayenx, The Tapestry at 
Bayenx, Town of 
Beaumont Hague 
Beeston Castle . 
Benvenuto Cellini 
BigTrees . 
Bishops of Durham . 
Blue, The Colour 
Boaiding-House Bomanoe 

Bildgewater Canal 
Bridgewater, The Duke of 
Bnn-ilghts in Spain . 
Bnrdett, Sir Robert . 

ClEV, The City of .272,293 

Caen, The Conqueror's Tomb at 294 
Caistor Castle .... 500 
California, Forests of . 841, 418 
California, The Sportsman in . 417 
CampiDg Out in California 847, 414 
Carentan, The Town of . .206 

Carlin 42 

Carlisle, Executions at . . 
Candebec, Town of . .876 

Cedar Trees .... 843 
Cellini, The Life of . . 124, 149 
Charles the First. Execution . 248 
Cimrles the Second, English 
Manners and Customs in the 

Time of 247 

ChAteau of Tourlaville . 186 

Cherbourg .... in, 136 
Cheshire, Chronicles of . 100 

Chest Complaints, A Climate to 

Cure 877 

Chester, The City of . . . 102 

Chester, The Earls of . 173 

Chester. Wars with the WeUh 105 

China. The Fish of ... 19 

Chrisps Croft, Lancashire . 5 

Chronicles of English Counties : 

Lancashire. Part III. . 4 

Lancashire. Part IV. . 53 

Cheshire. Parti. ... 100 

Cheshire. Part II. . 172 

Durham 423 


lincolnshlre. Parti. . . 461 

lincolnahire. PartIL . . 609 

Clement the Seventh . . 125 

CodFishertes .... 17 

Coffee Palaces .... 620 
Colour Sense . .178 

Coming Back to Town . 896 

Commissions from the Banks . 82 

Cook, Captain, and the Maoris . 199 

Cosmo, Prince, in England, 1669 245 
Cotton Fabrics. Growth of the 

Lancashire Trade ... 6 

Cotton Famine in Manchestor . 9 

Country Doctor, Letters to a . 161 

Court Fools .... 828 

Crewe 176 

Crompton, Samuel, Inventions 

of 6 

Cromwell's Head .248 

Curious Letters of Invitation . 460 

Daxonolooib. King James's 

Book 399 

Dahomeans, Superstitions of the 227 

Dartmouth 878 

Davos Am Plats . . .877 

Delamere Forest . . .173 
Derby, Execution of the Earl of 57 
Derby, The Earls of ... 56 
Dives, The Town of . .296 

Doctor and Patient. A Story . 84 
Doctor's Letters, A . .161 

Dragon of Lambton . . 428 

Drama in England in 1669 . 248 
Drawn G ame, A. A Serial Story 
by Basil 409, 488, 457, 481, 505, 

Duclair 876 

Durham, Chronicles of . .423 

England, An Italian's Visit to, 
in 1669 245 

England. Its Population, 
Manners and Customs, etc., 
in 1669 246 

England under the Romans . 498 

English People and Manners, A 
I^ench Writer's Opinion of . 487 

EnUsting in the Army 28, 68 

Faib Rosamond, The Grave of . 462 
Fairy Tales of Normandy . . 266 
Farming in Cheshire . .101 

FederaUon of Australian Colonies 67 
Fen Country . . 461,467,611 

Fetishism 226 

Fish, Ancient Cookery of . .16 
Fish Auction .849 

Fish Diet 16 

Fisheries Exhibition ... 16 
Florence. The Plague in 1627 . 127 
ITlowers of the Forest . . 416 
Forest, life in the . . .413 
Forests of California . . 841, 413 
Forest Trees . . 311,418 

Formlgny, Battle of . . .255 
Fort Charles, Jamaica . 893 

Fosse-dyke, The .... 466 
France. An OldChftteau. . 161 
IVancis the J^lrst, The Court 

Fool of 229 

French Circus Performance . 187 
French Country Life . . 161, 181 
French Farmers . . . .225 
French Fishermen, Supersti* 

tioiisof 168 

Frauch Opinion of Eiiglish 

Manners 487 

Gallantby, Strange Form of . 370 

Gallows Puint, Jamaica . . 389 

Ghost of Hylton ... 428 

Gigantic Trees . . 311, 413 

Gold Coast Fetish ... 227 

Grimsby 467 

Guesses 542 


Harfleur .... 
Hargreaves, Inventions of 
Harlequin, Carlin the 
Hawarden Castle 
Herodotus on Werewolves 
Herrings .... 
Hidden Treasure, The 
Higgins, The Highwayman 
Himalayan Forests . 
Hotel Formed of Trees 
Hotel life . . . . 
Houlgate .... 
Human Sacrifice 
Hylton Castle 

. 18 
. 875 
. 44 
. 106 
. 400 
. 892 
. 174 
. 841 
. 844 
. 898 
. 296 
. 428 

IGB Harvest, The ... 202 
Ice, The Trade in .' . 202 

Inventors of Weaving Machinery 5 
InviUtions .... 450 
Ireland in 1669 . . .245 

Italian Opera in England in the 

Eighteenth Century . 67 

Italian Prince on His Travels . 244 

Jamaioa, a Reminiscence of . 889 

Jarrow 429 

Jenifer. A Serial Story by 
Annie Thomas (Mrs. Pender- 
Cudlip). 1, 26, 49, 73, 97, 121, 145, 
169, 193, 217, 241, 265, 289, 313, 837, 
861, 885, 429. 458, 476, 501, 526, 645 
Jews of Lincoln . 464 

John Bull et Son He, Par Max 

O'Rell 487 

John of Gaunt . . . .465 

KAVFIBToad .... 533 

Knowlesley 55 

Knutsford Characters . 175 

Knutsford, Cheshire . .174 

La Hogue, Bay of ... 185 
Lambton, The Dragon of . .428 
Lancashire, Chronicles of . . 453 
Lancashire Cotton Factories . \ 5 
Land Crabs . . .898 

Lathom House, The Defence of 66 
Leghs of Lyme, The . . .177 
Letters of Invitation, Curious . 460 
Letters to a Country Doctor . 161 
life in the Forest . .418 

Lillie'B Compilation of Letters 

to Steele . . . .816 
Lincoln Castle .... 464 
Lincoln Cathedral and Anti- 
quities 462 

Lincolnshire, Chronicles of . 461, 609 
Liverpool, Siege of . . .67 
Liverpool, The City of . .57 
Lords of the Forest . .841, 413 
Luc-Bur-Mer . .271 

Macclbsvibld. Silk Manufac- 
ture 177 

Madrid in Old Times . 866 

Malpas, Tlie Town of . . 172 

31auchester, History of . . 7 

Manchester, Prince Charles in 9 

Manchester Regiment, The . 9 

Man-of-War Ship in 1669 . . 249 
Man, The Idle of, Ancient Lords 

of 57 

Maoris and Pakehas . . 196 
May-Day Celebrations, Antiquity 

of 499 

Monkwearmouth .429 

Montoagle, Lord ... 66 

Mosquitos of Jamaica . . ^1 

Mrs. Beaumont's Love Story . 130 
Mr. Scarborough's Family. A 
Serial Story by Anthony 

TroUope 19 

Myrtle. A Story . 82,111 








Karcissua. A Story . . . 250 
Neighbours. A Story . 419, 443 

New Britain .... 854 

New Guinea .... 66 

New Hebrides . . . . S5S 

New South Wales ... 64 

New Zealand .... 64 

New Zealand. The Maoris . 201 

Norman Conquest, The . 296 
Normandy, A Tour in 134, 156, 181, 

206, 220, 254, 268, 292, 820, 848 
Normandy, Coast of . . 206, 256 

Northwich, Cheshire . . 178 

Old Ch&teau, An .161 

Old Lady of Threadneedle Street 275 
Old Spanish Life ... 865 
On Coming Back to Town . . 896 
Opera in England ... 67 
Our Lady at Lincoln, Shrine of 462 
Our Man of Oenina ... 7 

PULS, The Family of the 6 

Plague in Florence .127 

TU^iairl, A. A Story 878,802,824 
Pope Clement and Cellini . . 127 
Pope Clement the Beyenth . 126 
Population of Xngland in 1660 . 246 
Portland Island ... 872 
PortBoyal .... 888 
Postmaster-Qeneral In 1660 . 246 
Pressing to Death ... 249 
Prince Charles at Manchester . 9 
Prince Cosmo in England, 1660 246 
JMyate Soldier, Life of the 28, 58 

Babt Hall 427 

Battlesnakes .413 

Kayensworth Castle . . .428 
Becrniting for the Army 80, 58 

Bellglons in England In 1660 . 249 
Rhuddlan Castle ... 106 
Biyer Weayer, The . .178 

Soman England . ... 496 
Boman Origin, Customs of . 499 
Soman Bemains at Durham . 426 
Bome Besieged in 1627 . . 127 
Bome, Lawless Days in . .127 

Bosemary 452 

Bostheme Church Bells, Curious 

TradiUon .... 176 
Bouen,Cityof .... 876 
Boyal Banquet in 1669 ^ 247 

Boyal Baglment, The, In 1669 . 246 
Byes and Douvres, The French 

Towns of 260 

ST. Angelo, The Castle of, CeUinl 

aPzisonerin .... 180 
St Aubin-by-the-Sea ... 271 

St. Cuthbert's Shrine. . 424 

St Jean d'Et^, The Feast of . 188 
St Maroouf. The Church of . 206 
St Paul's, The Ruins of Old . 249 
Salmon-shad .... 18 
Salt Mines of Cheshire . 178 

Salt Towns of Cheshire, The . 173 
Sandbach, Antiquities of . . 176 
Santa Cruz Islands . . .854 

School Bill 473 

School Board for London, Ac- 
counts of the . . . .475 
Seine, A Bun Up the . . 875 

Serpent Worship . 226 

Shlllingbury Sketches : 
Our Man of Genius. 76 

Our Organist .... 297 
Our Maiden Lady ... 488 
Sierra Nevada Forests . 841, 418 
Silkworms, Introduction into 

Europe 177 

Sir Bicbard Steele, Letters to . 816 
Sir Bobert Peel .... 7 
Slaye Trade, Old Days of the . 68 
Slayonic Fairy Tales ... 401 
Snakes in Calif omia . .413 

Snow and lee ... . 208 
Soldier at Home 28, 68 

Soldiers at Aldershot. 58 

Solent, The 871 

Solomon Islands ... 854 
Some Boman Bemains . 498 

Some Things of Old Spain . . 865 
Soyereign, Man-of-War Ship in 

1669 249 

Spain in Old Times ... 865 

Spalding 514 

Spanish Gentleman, A . .866 
Spitalflelds Weayers ... 177 
Sportsman in California . . 417 
Stanleys in the Isle of Man 57 

Stanleys, The Family of the 65 

Steele's Waste Paper Basket . 316 

Stockport 178 

Boarding-House Bomance 468,493 

Doctor and Patient 84 

KafHrToad .... 533 
Mrs. Beaumont's Love-Stoiy. 180 
Myrtle . . .82,111 

Plain Girl, A . 
Time Bargains 
'Twlxt Cup and Lip 


. 419, 448 

278, 802, 824 

0, 45, 69, 00 

. 229 


Stories about Bank Notes . 

Summer Tour Along the Silver 
Streak 106, 134, 156, 181, 205, 220, 
254, 268, 288, 292, 319, 848, 871. 

Superstitions .... 899 


Superstitions Bespecting the 
Colour Blue . . . .179 

Table d'Hdte .... 897 
Tapestry at Bayeox, The . . 223 

Tasmania 64 

Tattershall Castle .610 

Thirty Thousand Pounds, A 

Bank Note for .276 

Time Bargains. A Story 9, 45, 69, 90 
Tithe Collecting. Dangers lu 

Old'Hmes . .173 

Traditions and Folk Lore . . 400 
Trees, Gigantic . . . 841, 413 
Trees, The Age of . 842, 413 

Triboulet the Fool ... 328 
Troam Abbey . .295 

Trouyille 320 

True Blue 178 

'Twixt Cup and Lip. A Story . 229 

VALS Boyal . .173 

Vampyres 402 

Ylllais, TheT6wnof. • . 822 

Walls of Chester ... 102 
Walpole, An Inyitation from . 450 
Wardley Hall, Legend of . .56 
Warrington, Lancashire . 55 
Weavers of Lancashire 5 
Weaver, The Primitive 5 
Welsh Warfare against Chester 105 
Wenham Lake Ice . , . 202 
Werewolves .399 
Western Australia ... 64 
Weymouth .... 106 
Whales, Ancient Mode of Cap- 
turing 17 

Whitehall In Charles the Second's 

Time 248 

Widow and the Artist, The . 176 
William the Conqueror's Church 

at Caen 294 

Wolves in Ardennes ... 208 


ALONB 468 

AmorMortuus . . 847 

At Eventide . .155 

By the Yew Hedge 84 

Hannted Boom, A . .106 

In the Golden Glow . 537 

Legend of the Bock-Buoy Bell 278 
Life Lilies .443 

Love Bird .... 396 
Marjory May . • .249 

Song 493 

Twin Souls .205 

Voices of the Sea . . ., 371 

Waiting 82 

Whenthe Sea Gives Up Her 
Dead 9 





Under thb Apple Blossoms .... 1 

A Study from Life 13 

A Young Man's Fancy 20 

Jack's Sweetheart . 

Penelope . 

In the Golden Prime 

A Dangerous Secret 


. 32 
. 41 
. 49 



Dorothy, Wife of .... 

A Chance Acquaintance . . . . 
The Romance of a Lighthouse . 

The Pobeinoton Tbagedt 



. 19 


The Other Side 

In the Nick of Time 

Outgrown It . 


. 37 
. 44 
. 51 


2 (June 16, 1888.] 


[Ooodactod b j 

Yet for all his complete disregard of her 
as a Ray, there was something about his 
manner to her as a woman that Jenifer 
liked. For one thing he took it for 
granted that she was going to. be precisely 
the same Jenifer Bay she had been always, 
though fate and her father had cast her 
from opulence into poverty. He never 
seemed to be anxious to pro£fer her either 
pity or advice, but just assumed that she 
was as able as ever to look to herself, and 
adjust that self to all the rough-hewn places 
into which it might be forced. 

But he thought about her much, and 
frequently painted vivid mind-piciures for 
himself of Hhe way in which she would 
probably deport herself under widely differ- 
ing circumstances. 

Mrs. Jervoise, in enquiring about him, 
had a£^ked if he was '*old and a fogey," 
and Mrs. Bay, the younger, had replied 
that he " was neither that, nor young and 
beguiling, but worse." 

And it is a fact that he was a difficult 
man to describe. There was about him 
neither heroic beauty nor professional 
suavity, nor social veneering of any kind. 
He had passed into middle age; he 
did not tower to any remarkable neight, 
he was rather stout, and more than rather 
bald. The best things that he ever uttered 
were said to one or two chosen associates 
at his own dinner-table. Yet other men 
found that women's attention flagged to- 
wards them when Boldero came on the 
scene, and women found that other men 
disregarded their fascinations in favour of 
a talk with Boldero. 

Perhaps, after all, the real secret of the 
sway he exercised was to be found in the 
conviction, that forced itself .upon every- 
one with whom he came in contact, of his 
profound, unswerving honourableness and 
integrity. Essentially it was felt above all 
that he was to be trusted. And trusted he 
was by many a man and woman, who would 
not have revealed that which they confided 
to him to any other human being. 

It was this instinct about him which had 
led Mr. Bay to make Boldero one of the 
witnesses to the contents of the sealed 
letter, and its keeper during the three 
years^hich were to elapse before it was 
to be read to Hubert Bay. 

There was one other signature as witness 
te this document — that of an Admiral 
Oliver Tullamore, a friend of Mr. Bay's of 
thirty years' standing. But as he resided 
on his own demesne of Kildene, in Kerry, 
the curious around Moor Boyal gained no 

insight into the real state of the case from 
Admiral Tullamore's knowledge of it. 

Mr. Boldero's house on the borders of 
Exeter was built on one of those Nature- 
favoured spots that abound in Devonabire. 
It stood in a sheltered hollow at the base 
of a well-wooded gentle slopa Its lawn 
was bounded by a rigidly running, grace- 
fully winding river, in which were number- 
less little cascades, caused by the check and 
resistance which the many moss-grown 
boulders offered to the stream. A rustic 
bridge euabled one to pass from the lawn 
over to the orchard, which was a bloomless, 
leafless, barren-looking place enough in 
these December days, but which in April 
and May would gladden the heart of a pre- 
Baphaelite painter by its lavish display of 
every shade of blossom, from the pear-tree's 
snowy whiteness, through all the pink 
apple-blossom tones, to the rich rose-colour 
of the peach. 

It was difficult to tell whether the irre- 
gular picturesquely-built house was of brick, 
or granite, or of common stucco, so 
completely was it covered with ivy, myrtle, 
magnolias, and other evergreen climbiug- 
plants. In summer, roses transformed the 
house into a huge bouquet — roses that 
had struggled free of the evergreens and 
straggled up to the roof, where they made 
themselves quite at home among the 

The entrance-door led straight into a 
warmly-carpeted hall, where huge logs of 
wood burnt all through the winter days 
upon dogs on the open hearth. On the 
right hand an open door gave callers a 
tempting glimpse of the perfect arrange- 
ments which had, at some time or other, 
conduced to the good appetite of most of 
them. And a little further on, at the end 
of the hall on the opposite side, you passed 
by folding-doors into Mr. Boldero's study. 

Every inch of the walls on three sides 
was covered with books. The fourth side 
was given up to pictures, of which there 
were five only. Two were portraits by a 
modem master, one of a young sister of 
Mr. Boldero's, the other of a little bo^, 
her son and his god-child. Five or six 
fine bronzes stood on marble pedestals in 
different parts of the room, notably a 
bull by Bosa Bonheur, which, being first 
favourite, had a place immediately opposite 
to the chair in which Mr. Boldero habitually 
sat when reading or thinking. 

He was occupying this cnajr about ten 
o'clock on the morning of the day following 
that on which old Mrs. Bay had Joined her 



Charln DickflDi.] 


(jQne 16, 1S8 

chfldren at the dinner-table for the first 
time since their father's death. Bat he 
was neither reading nor biirie4 in thought, 
but was merely prosaically instructing his 
housekeeper as to the sort of dinner which 
he would wish to have provided that night 
for himself and a party of three guests. 
When he had concluded all the remarks he 
had to make on the subject, he turned to 
pick up the novel he nad been reading 
before her entrance, but Mrs. Williams, who 
had been cook at Moor Boyal for many 
years before she got the promotion of 
coming as housekeeper to Mr. Boldero, still 

"What is itf" he asked, looking up. 
His morning read was very precious to 
him, but he was not a man to betray 
impatience to a powerless inferior. To 
anyone strong enough to resent it, and 
hurt him, he nught possibly have done 

"Excuse the liberty, sir, you be sure to 
know more about it than anyone, but they 
do say that old Mr. Cowley have given up 
the home-farm.'' 

" At Moor Eoyal 1 " 

'^ Tes, sir, at Moor Boyal ; a farm the 
Cowleys have held as long as the Bays 
have held Moor BoyaL Mr. Hubert will 
get himself ill-wished if he goes on like 
thisL Then you didn't know it, sir ? " she 
added cheerfolly, for it was delightful to 
her to give novel intelligence to anyone. 

" No, I had not heard of it." He did 
not add, " And I am sorry to hear of it 
now," but he thought this, and though his 
eyes sought the page again at the passage 
at which he had been interrupted, he read 
fiction no more that day. 

It was half-past ten, and at twelve he 
had an appointment with a client at his 
office in ibceter. Before starting he had 
to see to the well-being of his four fine 
horses, of his conservatories, and hot-beds, 
and, indeed, of his little dominion. He 
never scolded his servants, he rarely rebuked 
them. That quiet daily presence of his, 
in quarters that perhaps they had found 
other masters wont to neglect, was quite 
sufficient incentive to the doing of their 
duty on the part of every one in his 

Be had got on his coat, and had picked 
up hid hat and cloves, when a ring at the 
hall-door bell, followed ty the sound of 
a ringing voice that he knew and liked 
well, but that he had never heard in his 
house before, made a bright light come 
into the clear, steady, brave-looUng grey 

eyes, and a warmer tone of colour mount 
to his brow. 

In another moment Jenifer Bay was 
ushered into the room. 

She came, in bringing a rush of keen 
sweet air with her, her youth, and health, 
and beauty triumphant over the anxiety 
that was in her heart. She looked 
graceful, strong, and determined in her 
well-fitting black habit, and plain round 
felt hat; but he saw that she was nervous 
and trembling a little, in spite of her erect 
bearing and brave front 

" 1 have come to speak about something 
important — so important to us, and you 
are just going out and have no time 
for me." 

Even to detain her in his house for a 
precious minute or two, he would not tell 
a polite lie, and say " time was no object 
to him." He told her : 

" I was just starting for my daily round 
of my premises ; will you come with me. 
Miss Bay, or shall I give the time to you 
in here f I will give it delightedly. I 
ni^edn't be in Exeter till twelve." 

" I will go with you," she said, turning 
to the door again, and together they went 
out into the garden. 

She opened her mission at once. 

" I know how much my father thought 
of your judgment, Mr. Boldero; I know he 
would have consulted you in such a strait 
as we are in now ; and sO| even against 
my mother's wish, and unknown to my 
brothers, I have come over to ask for your 
opinion and aid." 

" In what matter 1 " 

" In a matter that may bring ruin upon 
Jack if he is not advised against it, and 
made to give it up. My brother Hubert 
has put old Mr. Cowley out of the home- 
farm, and has offered to let it to Jack ; and 
Jack has accepted the offer, and — I can't 
word my fears to you about him, but they 
are many." 

She looked at him so appealingly, and 
withal seemed so confident of his assistance, 
that it pained him horribly to be compelled 
to say: 

" Miss Bay, I am unable — I am bound 
not to interfere by word or act." 

'* Bound not to advise and aid my 
father's children ! " she said incredulously. 
" I thought that possibly yon might not 
like to seem adverse to the wishes of my 
brother Hubert ; but I did think that you 
would have opposed even Hubert where 
Jack's welfare is concerned." 

''Miss Say, whatever my own wishes 




4 [June 16, 1888.] 


tOondiioted t/j 

may be with respect to the course of con- 
duct either of your brothers may pursue, I 
am bound not to express them." 

They had crossed the little bridge into 
the leafless orchard, and were standing 
under the interlacing bare boughs looking 
out over the low boundary hedge of holly 
on to the road that led into Exeter, as he 
said this. He, looking down very kindly 
and gravely into her upturned face ; she 
trying to tear the whole of the reason why 
he spoke and acted thus out of him with 
her beseeching eyes. 

'' Mr. Boldero, I will tell you more than 
I came intending to tell — hoping that I 
may melt you even now. It is not Hubert's 
act this pushing poor Jack into the home- 
farm. It's the doing of his wife and her 
sister, Mrs. Jervoise. For some reason or 
other they want to keep Jack down here, 
where he'U lead a life of comparative idle- 
ness. Mr. Boldero, what can that reason 

" I don't know," he answered curtly, for 
her eyes were beginning to torment 

** But you guess, perhaps, and won't tell 
me. Nor wiU you say why you think I 
am so anxious to get Jack away into a 
new groove, where he wQl have plenty of 
work, and where he will be free from some 
old associates who are not good for 

"Your last words have told me your 
reason ; but I will make no comment on it. 
Miss Bay, I dare not — ^I cannot make any 
comment to you or to anyone else about 
your brothers or their conduct. I am 
bound not to do it" 

" Will you hold yourself ' bound ' still, 
even when I tell you that Jack has taken 
to spending his evenings away from home, 
and that he is oftener at Thurtle's house 
than at Moor Boyal 1 " 

" Thurtle was your father's gamekeeper, 
I beUeve I " 

** He was, and is Hubert's." 

" May it not be that Jack has to consult 
him frequently about sport f I hope that 
it may be so, for your sake." 

He said these last three words with a 
tender thrilling intonation for which he 
blamed himself instantly. But it was too 
late. They had touched Jenifer's heart. 
Bending forward her head in one last 
attempt to win him to her ends, she caught 
him by both hands and cried : 

" Then, for my sake, get Jack to give 
up the home-farm, and go to London. 
Thurtle has a very pretty daughter. Oh, 

Mr. Boldero, help me to save my brother 
Jack !" 

A pony-carriage had come along the 
road unobserved by either of them as she 
was speaking. And now as she paused, 
still keeping his hands in hers, two clear, 
ringing, merry voices cried out : 

" Why didn't you wait for us ; it's rather 
a shame not to have given us the chance of 
invading Mr. Boldero's famous fortress ; " 
and they looked up, to see Mrs. Ray 
and Mrs. Jervoise enveloped in sealskin, 
radiant with merriment, and evidently de- 
lighted at the discomfiture of the pair in 
the orchard. 



We are standing on some commanding 
brow in the heart of the manufacturing 
districts of Lancashire, on a fine Sunday 
evening when the engine-fires have been 
out for a space of twenty-four hours or so. 
They are lighting them now though, in 
readiness for the coming week of toil, and 
from each tall unlovely chimney a column 
of smoke is slowly rising, lurid in the 
light of the setting sun, but still with pale 
blue sky above, melting into the sea-green, 
streaked with soft rosy bands^ of the horizon, 
against which rises the gaunt framework 
of some colliery, with its continual clank- 
ing, creaking, and subterranean groaning; 
with clusters of workmen's cottages bare 
and desolate-looking, and fields between ; 
with trees stunted and blackened, and 
cinder-paths running between. Who that 
has seen such a scene can fail to re- 
member it in its melancholy, almost 
repellent sternness, and yet with touches 
of natural grace here and there — inky 
streams that the sun turns to molten 
gold, or the steam of a passing train that 
rises in violet-coloured wreaths against the 
sky. • 

It is Bolton, perhaps, on whose moors 
more wealth has been gathered than in all 
the fertile meadows in the rural shires; or 
Blackburn, that is almost the cradle of the 
cotton manufacture; or Ashton. These 
are places which, no one would visit in 
mere gaiety of heart without some definite 

Eurpose in view, and yet full of a vivid 
ving interest, tiie ebb and flow of lives 
and fortunes, now the strenuous fight 
against adversity, and now the triumphant 
march to wealtL But you would never 
be able to realise that this was once the | 



CliarI«Z)ioken«.l CHRONICLES OP ENGLISH COUNTIES. [June le. 1888.1 5 

quietest, most retired spot in all England 
— Christ's Croft it was called. 

When all England is albfte, 
Safe are they that are in Christi^B orofte ; 
And where should Christies crofte be, 
But between the Ribble and Mersey. 

An industrious race, too, were these 
Christ's crofters, as you may well suppose, 
alwQjB agate at something, to use the 
vernacular expression, weaving and spin- 
ning, whether it was wool or flax, or the 
then less familiar fleece, which out of 
deference to the original staple we have 
called cotton- wool. Cotton, indeed, as a 
material for wicks, and probably also for 
night-caps, had been known from at least 
the thirteenth century, and by the six- 
teenth century had come into considerable 
use — ^for coarse strong fabrics that is, and 
for mixing with wool and flax. English 
cotton cloth was at that date exported to 
Bouen, and Leland, visiting Lancashire 
ia that same age, notes that Bolton 
Market *' standeth chiefly by cotton." 
The finer cotton fabrics were articles of 
luxury, imported through Venice and the 
Mediterranean ports, and it was not till 
1681 that the Indian source of supply was 
directly opened, when Calicut^ then the 
great port of the Malabar coast, gave its 
name to the now familiar calico. A more 
delicate fabric was obtained from the mer- 
chants of Mosul, a fabric worn perhaps by 
the fair Zobeide, or that bound the sacred 
brows of the Commander of the Faithful, 
and this muslin, hence called, became 
fashionable wear among English dames. 
To muake these greatly admired and 
highly-profitable fabrics became an ob- 
ject of longing desire to the weaver of 
the north, and the means of fulfilment 
were aa anxiously sought as the philoso- 
pher's stona But the so finely-spun cotton 
of Eastern spinners could not be equalled 
by the fingers of Lancashire lasses, not, 
perhaps, from want . of dexterity in the 
fingers, but because a warm moist tempera- 
ture is most favourable for the production 
of these eossamer threads. Already, how- 
ever, wideawake people were speculating 
whether something more might not be 
done : such as John Carey, who, writing in 
1695, sn^ests that if encouragement were 
given to fine spinning, ^'no doubt we 
might in time nuEkke calicoes enough, not 
only for our own expense, but also for 

AS this time the supply of cotton had 
been small and uncertain, bom Cyprus and 
Smyrna, and the Levant generally, but 

towards the end of the eighteenth century 
cotton began to arrive in considerable 
quantity from our American plantations, 
and the manufacture in Lancashire began 
to assume larger proportions, so that we 
find early in the eighteenth century the 
Lancashire county gentry ea^er to bind 
their younger sons to the trade. 

Up to this time the weaver of Christ's 
Croft had only the primitive loom — such a 
one as Penelope might have used for her 
web — in which the shuttle was thrown by 
the weaver from hand to hand, as in the 
Indian loom still in use. But in 1738 a 
Lancashire man, one John Kay, invented 
the fly-shuttle, driven to and fro by a 
spring, and a quarter of a century later, 
his son Robert introduced the drop-box, an 
invention by which several shuttles, con- 
taining diflerent kinds of weft, may be 
made to function at the weaver's will 
With these improvements the weavers 
began to distance the spinners. The 
demand for the new fabrics was everywhere 
increasing, and the weavers were running 
about from house to house almost begging 
for yam, which could not be produced fast 
enough for their needs. 

Invention soon followed necessity, and 
the first inventor was found in one 
Hargreaves, a carpenter, of Blackburn, who 
invented the jenny — a modification of the 
old spinning-wheel, itself a great mechani- 
cal advance upon the distaff and spindle of 
the Dark Ages. And soon after a barber 
of the same district — Arkwright, after- 
wards knight and millionaire — adapted an 
earlier invention of spinning and drawing 
out the fibre by means of rollers revolving 
at different rates of speed — a machine 
called the water-frame, because it was 
originally driven by water-power, or, more 
poetically, the throstle, from the warbling 
noise, like a thrush's note, of the machinery. 
But with machinery came discord in Christ's 
Croft. The weavers and spinners had an 
instinctive notion that these inventions 
boded no good for them. Hargreaves 
and Arkwright were both obliged to 
fly, and establish their machinery else- 

In spite of the workmen, however, the 
new machinery came everywhere into 
use. Factories sprang up here and there, 
aJthough the old-fashioned home manu- 
facture still flourished. The weavers 
especially found a golden age, an Indian 
summer of fleeting prosperity. In 1793, 
we are told, they wore top-boots and 
mfSed shirts, and sometimes brought home 


- . MJ 

JU i 

■V .' ^ 




6 tJimel6,1888.] 


[Conducted bj 

their work in glass coaches. They would 
carry bank-notes sticking in their hats, 
and their high spirits and prosperity found 
vent in rough humour, and rude practical 

A glance at the people of this past world 
and of the life in Christ's Croft may be 
had in the life of Samuel Crompton, the 
greatest inventor of them alL Close by 
Bolton there stood, and still stands, unless 
it has been recently removed, an old 
manor-house called Hall-in-the-Wood — a 
great, roomy, timber - framed mansion, 
with gables, and porches, and projecting 
storeys, and a bell-turret at the top, with 
an old clock that gave the hours to the sur- 
rounding neighbourhood. In this old hall, 
deserted by the family that built it, and 
even by the family ghosts, had settled a 
colony of three or four industrious families, 
the children playing hide-and-seekamongthe 
nests of little rooms, and chasing each other 
up and down the grand oak staircase and 
along the dark passages that led to nothing. 
Among these families were the Cromp- 
tons, the father dead, but Betty Crompton, 
the mother, energetic and austere, farming, 
carding, spinning, weaving ; and her son Sam 
being made to take his full share in all the 
work that was going. We have a glimpse, 
too, of an uncle, Alexander, lame and un- 
able to leave his room, but working always 
steadily at his loom, selling his fustians, 
and saving money. On Sundays, when the 
church-bells begin to ring, Uncle Alec 
dresses himself in his best and dons his 
Sunday coat, reads the Church Service 
solemnly to Umself, and then the best coat 
is taken off and put by for another week. 
And young Sam grows up at his loom, 
thoughtful and spiritual, with a love of 
music deep in his soul. His mother, a 
strict taskmistress, exacts the daily tale of 
work, and he often has to grieve over the 
bad yam that keeps him from his books and 
flrom the violin, that is his great friend. 
Sam's impatience of his work sets him 
thinking and contriving, with his quiet 
calm insight into things; and so with wood 
and wire, and an occasional bit of iron 
shaped by the blacksmith, he begins to 
work out the machine of the future. He 
wants tools and many other things as the 
work goes on ; and here his fiddle comes 
to his aid. He gets a place in the orchestra 
of Bolton Theatre, and fiddles industriously 
at eighteenpence a night And by the 
time he is one-and-twenty the machine is 
periected — it works, it spins, that is ; not 
coarse stuff, like the jenny, nor fibrous un- 

certain twist, as the noisy throstle ; but he 
has combined the two and added his own 
beautiful invention, the crux of the mys- 
tery, itxe spindle-carriage, that keeps the 
strain off the yam till it is properly 

And now, in this bare tumbledown old 
mansion, Sam Crompton held a genie captive 
that he might have compelled to furnish 
him with all the riches of eartL Wealth 
beyond the dreams of avarice was in his 

frasp ; all the stories and fables of gardens 
ung with gems andleaves of gold — ul these 
might have seemed poor and trivial to the 
wonderful fortune that awaited him. He 
was half-conscious of this, and the people 
about him began to realise what he had 
done. The house was besieged with 
watchers ; people dimbed up to the upper 
windows to catch a glimpse of his con- 
trivances. He had only to hold his hand 
for a while, to keep his own counsel^ and 
the world was at his feet Burly Ark- 
wright — the portraits of them both are in 
the South Kensington Portrait Gallery, 
and you may read their histories in their 
faces: the thoughtful, patient, noble face 
of the creator and designer, the bold, 
brazen front of the grasper and adapter 
— Arkwright would have shared his 
millions and made still more millions to 
share with the great inventor. The Peels 
were there too, ready to take him by the 
hand — that hand with untold riches in 
its grasp — and with the smallest share of 
Crompton's wonderful invention they might 
have purchased a dukedom more wealthy 
than that of Lancashire. And then, with 
an abnegation sublime beyond anything 
recorded, if the man really knew the valuo 
of what he gave away, Samuel Crompton 
broke his Aladdin's lamp, released the 
genie to work for the whole world, to 
which he offered his invention, trusting to 
the gratitude of those who made use of it, 
a gratitude that was worth nearly a 
hundred pounds to him, all told — a 
sublime example and incentive to in- 
ventors ! 

Something shouldherebesaid of thePeels, 
who were of Blackburn. Old Robert Peel, 
a farmer in the Fish Lane, " a tall robust 
man, whose ordinary garb included a calf- 
skin waistcoat and wooden-soled clogs, hair 
grizzly, of a reddish colour." This at forty 
or so, when still obscure. In later and 
more prosperous days at Burton-on-Trent, 
where he had set up print works, he wore 
a bushy Johnsonian wig, and carried a 
gold-headed cane. The Peels had not so 




charice picteM.] OEtRONIOLES OP ENGLISH COUNTIES. [Jim« le, law.] 7 

much to do with spinnmg cotton and 
weaving, as with printmg caUcoe8--done 
in a roQgh way at first with wooden 
blocks ; Nancy Peel, the daughter, making 
aknost the first success with a sprig of 
parsley culled from the garden, the pattern 
rudely scratched on the back of an earthen- 
ware plate. A neighbour of old Robert 
was Yates of The Black BuU, and the two 
pat their heads and purses together and 
Btarted calico-printing. And at The Black 
Bull was a daughter named Ellen, a pretty 
little thing in those days, whom young 
Bobert Peel, a grave and persevering 
youth, would take on his knee and call his 
Httle wifa Years after, when Peels and 
Yateses were rich, and little Ellen a fine, 
dashing, accomplished girl, Bobert Peel 
csme iNkck to his first love as a wooer, and 
they were married, and a son of these two 
was the Sir Bobert Peel whom people 
know about 

There is an old Lancashire proverb, or 
prophecy perhaps it may be called, '' It's 
only three generations from clogs to dogs." 
And some have seen a kind of general 
application in the saying, foretolliug not 
only the fate of particular families, but the 
destiny of the very industry itsell And 
as yet scarcely three generations have 
passed away since the homely weaver in 
nis apron and clogs was driven out of the 
field, clogs superseiied by cranks, as the 
power-loom came into use — ^looms driven 
first of all by water-power, sometimes, 
mdeed, by horses, or even donkeys, and at 
first taken up not by practical men, but by 
snch unlikely people as Cave of the Gentle- 
xnan's Magazine, and Dr. James, the 
inventor of the fever-powders. A local 
bard alludes to these attempts : 

Conoeminff looms from Doncaster, 
And weyvm* done by wayter. 

Indeed, practical men were a little shy 
of beginning operations which were natu- 
rally viewed with intense disfavour by a 
large section of the populatioa One of 
the chief inventors of the power-loom, as 
practically adopted, was a clergyman, the 
Eev. Dr. Cartwright, who devoted a con- 
siderable fortune to the cause. In 1790 
one Grimshaw built a mill at Gorton near 
Manchester, with five hundred of Cart- 
wright's power-looms in it. In a few weeks 
the building was burnt down, perhaps 
accidentally ; but, anyhow, it was sixteen 
years before another attempt was made to 
introduce power-looms. But the machine 
rolled on at last, and the hand-loomers 
were crushed beneath it. 

Some of the regrets attending this in- 
dustrial revolution have come down to us, 
not musical, perhaps, but most melancholy. 
You have got to work in a factory now, 
says one bard in effect, and almost taunt- 
ingly, you can't walk in your garden for 
two or three hours a day. And another 
sings : 

If you go into a loom Bbop, whore there's three or 

four pairs of looms, 
They all are standing empty, incumbrances of the 

And if you ask the reason why, the old mother will 

tell you plain, 
My daughters have forsaken them, and gone to 

weave by steam. 

Which was all very well for the daughters, 
but for the elder people, and those who 
could not adopt new ways, the breaking 
up of homes, the wreck of family ties, the 
gradual sinking of wages to a starvation 
point, all this must have been very bitter 
in the bearing. 

Some traces of the primitive world thus 
passed away are still to be found in Man- 
chester, surviving here and there in the 
midst of the enormous growth of houses 
and buildings which have sprung up within 
the memory of living men. Narrow streets 
leading to a central market; the old church, 
now the cathedral, with the graveyard 
overlooking the river, once a bright 
stream sparkling beneath the red sand- 
stone rock ; the old inns where weavers, 
and spinners, and merchants met to quaff 
good old ale — even the modest brick ware- 
houses where the first pioneers of the Man- 
chester trade stored their miscellaneous 
wares — specimens of these may still be met 
with here and there, enabling us to realise 
the quiet market-town of other days; even 
as Leland describes it, " The fairest, best 
builded, quickliest, and most populous 
tounne of all Lancastreshire.'' 

The history of Manchester is curious, in 
that, although a rich and populous place, 
it seems to have had, till within recent 
days, no stirring towards municipal life, 
but remained content with the simple 
Saxon government of borough reeve and 
constables, under its Norman over-lord, 
who levied his tolls and taxes — after all, 
perhaps, with as much gentleness and 
consideration as the collectors of the 
present day. Thus the history of the 
manor is that of the town; held suc- 
cessively by the Greftlete, the De la 
Warres, the Wetts, in order of natural suc- 
cession, and finally sold in 1596, for three 
thousand ^ye hundred pounds, to Nicholas 
Moseley, citizen and alderman of London. 



rS — 


8 CJiuie 16, 1883.1 


[Oondiioted bf 

The descendant of the worthy alderman, 
Sir Oswald Moseley, sold the manor to the 
mayor and corporation — created as lately 
as 1838, under the new Act — for two 
hundred thousand pounds, a vast incre- 
ment surely, whether earned or unearned is 
' nothing to our purpose. In 1729, another 
Oswald Moseley had built the merchants an 
exchange, and the finest new street in the 
town was named after the ruling family, 
Moseley Street. 

But to hark back a little to earlier times, 
the days of the De la Warres and the 
fifteenth century, when the old churches of 
St. Mary and St. Michael had fallen to 
decay, and the then lord, Thomas, founded 
the collegiate church. Manchester was then 
in the diocese of distant Lichfield, and the 
dean or warden of Manchester was a person- 
age of great importance in the church of the 
west. And thus the church grew with ample 
contributions from the great families of 
Lancashire ; the arms of Stanley, Eadclifie; 
and Byron, still remaining in the painted 
windows richly dight, testify to the 
bene&ctions of these families. There is a 
Stanley Chapel too, founded by James 
Stanley, the first earl's sixth son, and 
brother to George, the hostage of Bosworth 
Field, he who so narrowly escaped the 
tusk of the boar — James, who was Bishop 
of Ely and Warden of Manchester, and 
here lies under his funeral hearse. It was 
a grand old parish church that of Man- 
chester — " th' oud church " as it was fondly 
called by all the people round — perhaps the 
grandest parish church in England, and 
some may think it hardly promotion to 
have become one of the small fry of cathe- 
drals. A later warden it will be remem- 
bered was Dr. Dee, the celebrated astrologer 
and magician, none the worse at that in 
popular estimation for his holy calling, for 
the priesthood have ever been esteemed as 
magicians in posse at all events, and even 
now in rural parts abroad the curb's charm 
is thought the most potent of alL 

Another Churchman and Lancashire 
man, though of Oldham, Bishop of Exeter, 
founded the free grammar-school in 1524. 
But the chief benefactor and worthiest 
to be remembered of the old days is 
Humphrey Chetham, of Clayton Hall and 
Turton Tower, worthiest of merchants and 
most enlightened of the age, who endowed 
the Blue Coat School, still large and flourish- 
ing, the blue-coats wisely suppressed ; and 
founded the Chetham Library, free and 
open to all students, the earliest free library 
in England. Humphrey Chetham died in 

1653, and, as a bridge over succeeding 
centuries, may be noticed the building of 
St Ann's Church, in a cornfield, now the 
heart of Manchester. A nice, ugly old 
Queen Ann church — an altogether Ann- 
like church, built by a Lady Ann in the 
reign of Ann — with a comfortable old- 
fashioned square about it; red-brick houses 
of the cosy Greorgian aspect, ancient dwell- 
ings of rich merchants; a place for the 
young bucks of the early century to sun 
themselves, and ogle the young women, 
now a good deal invaded by stirring com- 
merce, the Exchange at one end — a new 
Exchange owing nothing to lords of the 
manor — and then the bustling Market 
Street, which, in spite of modem shops, 
recalls in its steep pitch the old market- 
street lane where carts stuck fast, and pack- 
horses could hardly win their way. And 
then there is Fountain Street, with a curious 
memory enshrined in its name Uke that of 
its neighbour Moseley Street — the memory 
of a natural fountain or spring that rose 
near the top of the present King Street ; 
the water of which was conducted in pipes 
to the market, where a conduit with taps 
was erected ; tlds conduit supplied the town 
up to 1775. Curious it is to contrast 
with ,thi8 primitive arrangement the 
present enormous waterworks, in which a 
complete river, the Etherow, dividing Derby 
and Chester counties, is impounded and 
made to form a series of lakes in and about 
the beautiful valley of Longdendale, to 
say nothing of the still more grandiose pro- 
ject, for which an Act of Parliament has 
been obtained, of bringing the waters of 
Thirlmere all the way from Cumberland. 

Bat we must go back to the old Man- 
chester with streets of scattered houses 
leading to the cuinfiel.ds ; here and there a 
narrow wynd, inhabited by weavers, spin- 
ners, and other craftsmen ; but the streets of 
good solid houses with big gardens behind, 
bits of ground that womd now ensure a 
princely rental ; the old conduit with its 
many taps dripping chillily, for it is a 
November day in the year 1745. Enmours 
are in the air; the wealthy merchants are a 
good deal disquieted, and some of the well- 
known Jacobitesin the townopenly exultant 
In the midst of it all is heard the tap, tap, 
of a distant drum. It comes from the north, 
and at the sound the well affected, who 
bless King George, betake themselves to 
their homes, recognising the futility of 
resistance; and presently in marches a 
sergeant carrying his halbert proudly, a 
drammer behind him giving time to the 



i* >■ 


[June 16, 1883] 9 

march, and then a sprightly girl with an 
apronfol of white cockadea. And the 
dram, and the sergeant, and the 
sprightlj girl trip gailj through the town; 
and at eadi street-comer the sergeant doffs 
his hat and bids Qod bless Kmg James 
—and who will join his Majesty's Man- 
chester R^;iment ! Next day the Prince 
marches in with his Highlanders, "Bonnie 
Prince Charlie '' in a light-plaid belted with 
a blue sashy a blue bonnet over a light wig, 
a white rose in his cap. And when the 
prince marches out on his way southwards, 
the Manchester Begiment marches withhim, 
some three hundred strong, all raised in 
tbe town, with Francis Towneley as coloneL 
Old Dr. Deacon is among the crowd 
who cheer them out of the town — an old 
noDJuring divine — ^for his three sons are 
officers in the regiment. Jemmy Dawson, 
toO| is among them — the son of Apothecary 
Dawson — ^brave lads all of them, full of 
life and hope. 

In a week they are back again, the 
prince and all of them, not so hopeful now, 
and muttering curses against traitors — the 
Duke of Cumberland pressing on their 
tracks. Then a short stand at merry 
Carlide, and the dismal drama is played 
oat, and the drum beats that marshals 
them to the scaffold. As for Jemmy 
Dawson, he lives in the ballad that 
commemorates his fate. His sweetheart, 
Katharine Norton, accompanied him to the 
scaffold, and got a last glance from the 
faithfol dying eyes ; and then, as her coach 
drove away, she too gave up the ghost in 
one heart-broken sigh. At Manchester, too, 
as well as at Carlide, 

The aidd, auld men came out and wept. 

Bat there was one old man — the staunch 
old divine — ^Dr. Deacon, who wept not 
although he had lost his three sons ; with 
him the sources of tears were drieid up; 
and when the heads of the rebels were 
stack, a ghastly show, on the top of Man- 
chester Exchange, the old man did not 
flinch as he walked by. But he took off 
his hat and bowed his erey head reverently, 
each time as he passed, and that salutation 
became a custom among the Jacobites of 
the town. 

And thus the Manchester Begiment was 
wiped out, only to appear again in these 
latter days, with no record on its colours 
of those gloomy times of civil conflict, but 
with a good record to commence with ; the 
old Sixty-third, that we saw marching past 
the other day, with the crowds welcoming 

it home from Egypt, and the Ninety-sixthJ 
that has done plenty of good work in the 

There have been dark davs in Man- 
chester since then; in 1819, for instance,: 
when a public meeting was brutally dis- 
persed by the local yeomanry, and many 
killed and wounded ; the memory of the 
Manchester massacre, as it was called, 
rankling almost to this day. But darkest 
days of all, perhaps, were those of the Cotton 
Famine, with thousands on the brink of 
starvation — a proud and independent people 
Uving upon dkny alms ; a sharp and cruel 
experience that has left its traces upon the 
people, no longer perhaps so bright and 
light-hearted as of yore. WeU might they 
sing, these poor people, in the homely con. 
certs with which they kept up their spirits 
through that sad dull time, " Hard times 
come again no more." 



They tell us with the quiet voice 

Of perfect faith, and hope, and trust, 

That on the day when Christ shall come 

To bid his chosen ones rejoice, 

To breathe new life in death's dark dust, 

To give new speech where death struck dumb. 

From out the sad sea's restless bed, 

Shall rise once more the hidden dead. 

They teU us this with upraised eyes, 
That g^asEe beyond the present's woe. 
And whisper of a Heaven and God, 
Draw pictures of star-laden skies, 
Where angels wander to and fro. 
When those now 'neath the churchyard sod, 
Will rise from out their dreary bed, 
The day the sea gives up her dead. 

Yet will they raise once more the past. 
Or give me back the faith that died, 
Or breathe new breath in love's dead breast ? 
What for the love that did not lAst ? 
What for the days, when side by side 
We wandered on, nor thought of rest. 
Will these arise and leave their bed, 
The day the sea gives up her dead ? 

Ah, nevermore ! dead joy is dead. 
The sunshine dead ne'er smiles again. 
Tis evening gathers on the shore, 
Our kiss wajs kissed, our words were said. 
Naught lasts for e'er save sin and pain. 
Love deadj is dead for evermore. 
Silent he lies, in his cold bed, 
Though all life's seas gave up their dead ! 



The look of dejection on Linda's face 
deepened the moment she was left alone. 

*' A happy future ! " she murmured. 
" How can I conceive of a happy future 
in which Cecil will have no part 1 Can it 
be possible that I am in the wrong 1 Some- 
times I am beset by a horrible misgiving. 
Yet why should I be when even mamma 


10 [June 16, 1888.] 



admits that, after all Cecil has said and 
done, I am perfectlv justified in leaving 
him 1 " 

She rose and opened her simshade, 
and began to pace the lawn with restless 

" It is, and mast be, he who is to blame 
— not I. But even if he were ever so 
much in the right, it is his duty, as a 
husband, to acknowledge himself in the 
wrong and ask my forgiveness. How I 
wish he would 1" 

The west wing at Brookfield opened by 
means of a glass door on to a verandah. 
Three or four shallow steps led from the 
verandah to the terrace, and that, in turn, 
gave access to the lawn. Through the 
glass door presently came Cuthbert Naylor. 

Linda Dane had been gathering a few 
flowers here and there, and had now gone 
back to her seat under the elm, and was 
lisd^ly arranging them, evidently not 
heeding and scarcely knowing what she 
was about 

Cuthbert Naylor weilt slowly down the 
verandah steps and crossed the lawn in 
the direction of Mrs. Dane. His eyes 
were bent on the ground, and as he went 
he looked from side to side like one who 
has lost something. 

" Mrs. Dane 1 " he exclaimed with a well- 
assumed start " Pardon me, but do you 
happen to have seen a letter lying about t" 

"A letter 1 No." 

''My father lost one a little while ago. 
He fancied that he must have dropped it 

" Was it of much consequence 1 " 

" Yes and no. It was of no importance 
from a business point of view. It was a 
private communication, and the writer of it 
was a young lady — a young married lady." 

" Indeed 1 " 

The matter was one which evidently had 
no interest for Mrs. Dana 

" It was a sort of confession," resumed 
Cuthbert, whose eyes still wandered from 
side to side, " and was addressed to my 
father, who has known the writer since 
she was a child. The lady was married 
two years and a half ago, but not in accord- 
ance with the new Act Neither she nor 
her husband believed in it" 

Linda's fingers ceased from their occupa- 
tioxL Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she 
did not look at Cuthbert 

" They were united for life ) " she said 
in a low voice. 

" They were." 

''And she is happy j Her letter is a 
confession to that effect 1 " 

" Ou the contrary, she is miserable." 

Now she looked at him. 

" That is very sad," she said. 

"She regrets most bitterly not having 
taken my father's advice. She now finds 
herself tied for life to a man between 
whom and herself there is nothing in 

"I hope her husband does not treat 
her with cruelty 1 " 

Cuthbert drew up a chair and sat down 
a little distance from Linda. He had suc- 
ceeded in his object; he had interested her. 

" In married life, my dear Mrs. Dane, 
cruelty assumes many forms. It is the 
Proteus of the conjugal manage, hiding 
itself under ever fresh disguises. 

At this moment Cecil Dane came 
sauntering round a clump of evergieens a 
few yards away. He started at sight of his 
wife and Naylor. The soft tun hushed 
the sound of his footsteps ; they had not 
heard hiuL . 

" Mighty confidential, I must say/' he 
muttered to himself with a shrug. 

"What, for instance," continued Mr. 
Naylor, junior, "can be a greater refine- 
ment of cruelty than for a woman of 
elevated sentiments, of lofty ideals, of 
sympathies attuned by culture till, like an 
SBolian harp, they vibrate to the slightest 
breath of pleasure or pain, of love or 
neglect, to find herself tied to a being of 
coarser fibre, of ruder tastes, between 
whom and herself can never exist that 
exquisite chord of sensibility that ought 
ever to make the bliss of married life t Is 
there not something terrible to contemplate 
in such a fate ) " 

This was a very pretty litUe speech on 
the part of Mr. Naylor, only, as it hap- 
pened, it was not original. He had got it 
off by heart from some book he had once 
read ; but Mrs. Dane was not to know that. 

" Yes — oh, yes ! " she murmured with 
something like fervour. She began to feel 
more sure that she must be in the right 
and her husband in the wrong. 

" I am the being of coarse fibre, of ruder 
tastes," muttered Cecil He had drawn 
sufi&ciently near to overhear what was 
being said. It was wrong of him, but he 
did It 

Cuthbert drew his chair a little closer 
to that of Mrs. Dane. 

" And yet how many such unhappy cases 
come under our notice from time to tiqie I" 
continued Cuthbert 



Ghaita DifllMBi.] 


[JODA 16» 1888.] 11 

Lindft looked down and sighed, bat ssdd 

" Confound the fellow 1 What right has 
he to talk to mywife in that strain 1 *' said 
Cecil as he savagely gnawed the end of his 

" It seems ever women's misfortune to 
be misunderstood," went on Najlor. 

" My own case exactly/' said Linda with 
another sigh* 

"Of course she agrees with that," 
muttered Cecil between his teetL " It is I 
who am misunderstood if she only knew it" 

" It seems ever the fate of those whose 
sensibilities are keenest, whose souls stand 
most in need of sympathy and love, to 
pine in the cold shade of neglect, unappre- 
ciated and ofttimes all but forgotten." 

"I shall punch this fellow's head if I 
stay here much longer," growled Cecil With 
that he turned on his heel and sauntered 
off into the shrubbery, his hands buried 
deep in his pockets, and a dark frown on 
his usually good-tempered face. 

"I hope that is not the case with the 
lady who wrote the letter 1 '' said Linda. 

" I am sorry to say that it is." 

" She is not the only unhappy woman in 
the world." 

" Bat from her unhappiness she has no 

linda rose. It struck her that this con- 
versation Trith Cuthbert Naylor had gone 
quite far enough. 

*' You have not found the letter f " she 

"No; mj father most be mistaken in 
thinknig he Tost it here.^ I am going as far 
as the rosery. Will you not W^ that 
way 1 " 

* For a moment Linda hesitated ; then she 

" I dare say that way is as good as any 
other, and th^ flowers are exquisite just 
now." To herself she said : '' Anything to 
escape from my own thoughts for a little 

They moved away slowly, side by side, 
but were not yet out of sight when Lilian 
Bamsay and Captain Marmaduke emerged 
from the house and crossed the terrace. 

" Cuthbert and Idbs. Dane together ! " 
exclaimed LiUan with a little start 

"Why not, prayl" aske^ the captain 
quietly. '*A tew more hours and Mrs. 
Bane will be a free woman. Mr. Naylor 
made a free man of himself some days 

" What would you imply I " asked Lilian 
in a low voice. 

" Nothing ; I am merely dealing with 
facts, and Mr. Cuthbert Naylor is a great 
believer in facts. Your fortune was to 
him a very big fact indeed. That vanished, 
and you know what followed. Mrs. Dane 
is a rich woman, and in a few days she will 
be in a position to entertain a fresh offer of 

" This is terrible in the way you put it. 
But you are right ; Cuthbert is notUng to 
me now, nor I to him." 

'' Witli such an excellent example before 
your eyes, how can you do better than try 
to imitate it?" 

" I fail to understand you." 

'' An unkind fate has bereft you of your 
fortune; but it has left untouched those 
charms of mind and person which nearly 
all young ladies nowadays seem to appraise 
at a definite and marketable valua The 
path of duty lies clear before you. You 
must do as others do — ^marry for money." 

" And this is your advice." 

<^ Is it not most excellent advice 1 " 

^'In plain English, you advise me to 
marry myself to the highest bidder f " 

"'Tis the way of the world. Such 
bargains are going on around you every day. 
Why be different from other people f " 

''Why indeed 9 In such bargains as 
those you speak of does affection count for 
nothing?" - 

"One can't have ereiythinff m this 
world, and the majority of people seam to 
fincl affeiction one. of th^ jbrifles most easQy 
dispensed with<" . 

" And no dovibt •the:majority are right.'- 

There waa an unpniatakable ring of bitter- 
ness in Miss Ramsay's iroice as she spoke 
these words. < 

They crossed the lawn in silence, and so 
came tc> a little wicket that opened into 
the park beyond. Here they paused. 

Suddenly Marmaduke laid a hand lightly 
on his companion's arm. 

" Listen ! Do you not hear the lark 1 " 
he said. ''It is the first I have heard 
since my return. What memories its 
song recalls ! " 

"I love best to hear it at sunrise," 
responded Lilian. 

« When I was thousands of miles away, 
herding among savages, and haixUy daring 
to hope that I should ever see my native 
land again, I used sometimes to wake up 
from £reams of sweet English hayfields, 
and of hearing the lark singing in the blue 
English sky, and my mother calling to me 
across the orchard, and then — why then I 
used to wish that I could die." 




12 trane 16, 1888.] 



He spoke in a tone altogether unuBaal 
with him. Lilian began to suspect that in 
the natore of this quiet, self-contained, in- 
curious man, with his half-kindly, half- 
cynical speeches, there might be depths of 
feeling, hidden springs of emotion, of which 
as yet she knew^nothing. 

The lark was still singing far up in the 

'* See — there it is," said Marmaduke, 
pointing upward with his finger. 

Lilian shaded her eyes with her hands. 
" I cannot see it," she said. 

" Now it is dropping." 

" Dropping down to its nest in the grass. 
I see it now. 

'* It never flies far from home." 

" Why should it f Its happiness is there." 

" What gladness in its song ! " 

** Yet somewhere in that song there's one 
sad note." 

"It would sing just as gaily were it 

''Even though its heart might be 
breaking all the time." 

The bird ceased, and Marmaduke and his 
companion turned to retrace their steps. 
They walked in silence for a little while ; 
then, as if following out some thread 
of thought, Marmaduke said abruptly: 
"Broken hearts 1 Can such things be in 
this enlightened age Y " 

" I nerer met with one," answered Lilian 

** They are out of fashion nowadays. We 
patch the poor things up, and make believe 
that they go as well as ever." 

They had just reached the steps which led 
from tiie lawn to the terrace, when they 
were met by a servant Some poor woman 
had come up from the village, and was 
waiting to see Miss Bamsay. Lilian went 
at once. 

" It is, perhaps, just as well that she is 
gone," mused Marmaduke, when left to 
himself. '' Another minute and I might 
have said — I don't know what I might 
not have said. I think a quiet cheroot 
would not be amiss. 

Taking out his cigar-case he strolled 
leisurely along the terrace, and was pre- 
sently lost to view. 

A few minutes later the tall figure of 
Mr. Cecil Dane might have been seen 
making its way through the shrubbery at 
the opposite end of me lawn. His club 
friends would hardly have recognised him 
had they seen him just now, so perturbed 
did he look, so far did he seem to have 
strayed from those serene heights of 

Olympian indifference on which he habitu- 
ally took his stand. 

He sat down now where he had sat 
before, on the rustic seat under the elm. 
" What can Linda mean by philandering 
about with that noodle of a Cuthbert 
Naylor t " he grimly asked himsel£ " They 
are too confidential by hall And yet, what 
an ass I must be ! A few more hours and 
she will be at liberty to philander with 
whom she pleases. And so shall I, for the 
matter of that I wish there was some 
fighting going on somewhere. I wish some- 
one would give me the command of a forlorn 
hope or a cutting-out expedition. I'm just 
in the humour for killing somebody or 
being killed myself; I don't much care 
which. My poor, pretty Linda 1 How I 
loved that girl once I For the matter of 
that, how I love her still I Perhaps if I had 
been more patient with her — perhaps if I 
had humoured her whims more — perhaps 
— but that 'perhaps' is the fiend's own 
word, and I'll have no more to do with it By 
Jove 1 here they come, and still together 1 " 

In fact at this moment Mrs. Dane and 
Cutibbert Naylor made their appearance at 
the other end of the lawn. They must 
have walked completely round the house 
to get there. Cuthbert, as usual, seemed 
to be doing most of the talking. 

Linda started, and then came to a dead 

'' My husband 1 " she exclaimed. " I 
must go to him. You will excuse me, will 

The smirk vanished firom Mr. Naylor's 
face ; he. coughed behind Ids hand. 

'< Not a word, I beg. Some other time, 
perhaps ^" 

*' I shall be most happy." 

"Tour remarks on Japanese ceramic 
art were most interesting. Such originality 
of exposition 1 " 

"Oh, Mr. Naylor, you cannot con- 
scientiously say that" 

"Pardon me for differing from you. 
But I won't detain you longer." 

With that he ' raised Ms hat, bowed, 
turned on his heel, and marched slowly 

As he went up the terrace steps he shot 
a backward glance. 

" Her husband ! " he muttered to himself. 
" To-morrow she will have no husband." 


Linda advanced a few steps and then 
paused. She was gasing fixedly at her 



Gharlfls DIckeDB.] 


(June 16, 1888.] 13 

" He is making believe that he doesn't 
see me," she said to herself, " and yet they 
call our sex artfol I If he would bat ask 
me to forgive him t If he would but admit 
that it is he who has been in the wrong 1 " 

There was a flower-border close by ; she 
stooped and gathered a few blooms. 

Cecil was watching her out of a comer 
of his eye. 

''If she would but come and put her 
arms round my neck, and lay her cheek 
against mine, as she used to do, I believe 
I should be weak enough to forgive her ! " 

" He won't speak ; he won't look. How 
stupid of himl" Then she said aloud: 

<< I am here," he answered, but without 
taming his head. 

" That tone ! He might be speaking to 
his groom or his valet It is useless." 
Then aloud : ** Can you tell me whether 
the afternoon post has arrived f " 

He put his glass in his eye and turned 
half-way towards her. 

" I have no information on the point, 
reaUy," he said. " If you were to ask your 
uncle, now, or — or Mr. Cuthbert Naylor." 

She had drawn a little nearer to him, 
and was plucking nervously at the flowers 
she had gathered 

" Mr. Uuthbert Naylor is a most superior 
person," she replied in her iciest tonea 

''No one disputes Mr. Naylor's supe- 

" He gives his mind to something very 
different from horse-racing and betting." 
What happiness to hear this I " 
Sneer away, sir ; it is your sole accom- 
plishment" Cecil bowed gravely. "Mr. 
Naylor is a man of culture. His con- 
versation is most interesting and — and 

" A question of taste," responded Cecil 
with a shrug as he rose from his seat 
Then, looking her full in the face, he said, 
not without a touch of sternness : " Mr. 
Naylor is aware that you have a fortune 
in your own right. Before you are two 
months older, Mr. Naylor will make you 
an offer of marriage." 

"Oh, this is infamous!" cried Linda. 
Her cheeks flushed rosy red, tears of 
indignation sprang to her eyes, as, with a 
little passionate gesture, she flung away 
her flowers, and turning her back on her 
husband, she marched off with all the 
dignity that she was mistress of. 

For a moment or two the unhappy young 
husband stood looking after his unhappy 
young wife with a strange choking sensa- 



tion in his throat Then he turned and 
went slowly off in the opppsite direction. 

He had not proceedea far when, at a 
turn of the footpath, he encountered 
Elliott The latter seized him by the arm. 

"Why, man alive, what's amiss with 
you ] " he cried. " You look as if you were 
about to put an end to all your miseries." 

Stephen himself did not look the most 
cheerful of individuals. 

" Elliott, if those papers of mine don't 
come soon, I believe I diall go mad." 

" Oh, philosophy, of what avail are thy 
precepts 1 " cried the latter with a some- 
what forced air of gaiety. " But we are 
not without our consolations; the board 
of green doth is still left us. Come 
alone, old fellow; let us go and knock 
the balls about for half an hour. You 
shall give me twenty-five out of a hundred, 
and beat me at that" * 

Elliott linked his arm in Cecil's and led 
him back towards the house. 

Mrs. Wapshot had encountered Linda 
even as Stephen had encountered Cecil, 
and was coming back with her. The two 
men went up one flight of ste^ that led 
from the lawn to the terrace just as the 
two ladies were ascending the other flight 
On the terrace stood Mr. Naylor and his 
son, each of them with an open letter in 
his hand. At this moment the glass door 
was opened, and out came Mr. Jellicop 
with an open bag in his hand. Linda 
turned pale and began to tremble ; Elliott 
felt his arm tightly pressed by Cecil'& ^ 

" So that tiresome post-bag has arrived 
at last," said Mrs. Wapshot to Mr. Jellicop. 

" Yes, that tiresome post-bag has arrived 
at last, and a prettv dance IVe had after 
all you good peopla 

The old boy had a fancy for giving out 
the letters to his guests with his own hand. 

"Anything for me, sir?" asked Cecil 
in a voice which he strove to render as 
indifferent as possible. 

"Steady yourself, my love," whispered 
Mrs. Wapshot to Linda. 

Mr. Jellicop's hand was buried deep in 
the bag. " There's something here that 
feels like mischief," he said, and with that 
he produced two large-sealed, official-looking 
documents. He glanced at the addresses 
for a moment through his spectacles, and 
then in sOence he handed one to Cecil and 
the other to Linda. Then turning to 
Vere Naylor, he said with all the bitterness 
of which he was capable : " A pretty piece 
of work this is to be proud of 1 " 

The member for Fudgington shrugged 



14 [June It, 1888L] 


KOondiutsd hj 

his shoulders, but did not speak. It was 
a moment of triumph for the principles he 
had so much at heart 

'* Once more a single man ! " said Cecil 
Dane as he turned and grasped Elliott by 
the hand. 

'* Once more a free woman ! " exclaimed 
Linda in broken accents, as she turned and 
hid her face on Mrs. Wapshot's shoulder. 

One of the pleasantest rooms at Brook- 
field was that which was known as the 
Blue Parlour. It was an apartment of con- 
siderable size ; an archway at one end of 
the room, the curtains of which were now 
looped back, gave access to a small con- 
servatory; at the opposite end two French- 
windows opened on to the south terrace. 

In this apartment, on a certain afternoon, 
sat Mrs. Wapshot and Agnes Elliott A 
tiny jAble was between them on which 
stood a tiny tea equipage. Confidential 
talk and tea seem to go naturally together. 

" Most refreshing on a warm afternoon," 
remarked Mrs. Wapshot as she replaced 
her cup on the tray. 

" When is a cup of tea not refreshing ? " 
queried Agnes. "I think I understood 
you to say that Mr. Wapshot is not coming 
to Brookfield ?" 

** No. He is chipping rocks in the north 
of Ireland. He may possibly be away two 
months — or even longer. He is a man 
with a grand Platonic mind. By-the-bye, 
dear, when do you expect your child at 
Brookfield 1 " 

'' This afternoon. He and the nurse are 
coming down by train.*' 

" How comforting for you 1 Of course 
you saw what it said about your husband 
in yesterday's Tittle-tattle 1 " 

"A paper I never read. What did it say V* 

*'I think I can repeat the paragraph 
almost word for word — hem 1 ' We under- 
stand that Mdlle. Maurizio, the new 
prima donna, about whose beauty and 
talents everybody is raving just now* — 
note the * raving,' my dear — * has commis* 
sioned Mr. Stephen Elliott to paint her 
portrait. It will doubtless be another 
feather in the cap of one of the most 
promising of our younger artists.' What 
do you think of that, my dear f " 

For a moment or two Agnes did not 
reply. She was struggling with some 
hidaen emotion. Then she said : *'I know 
now why Stephen started for London this 
morning without saying why he was going. 
This woman was to sit to him to-day." 

"Most probably. There are some strange 

stories afloat concerning this Mdlle. 
Maurizio. Not that I make a point of 
always believing such things, but one can't 
help hearing them, you know. People do 
say that she — but it matters nothing to you, 
dear, what people say." 

''And it is for creatures such as this 
that my happiness has been wrecked ! Yet 
Stephen would have me believe that ha 
cares for nothing but his art ; that a beau- 
tiful woman is to him nothing more than 
an object to be transferred to canvas ; that 
he takes as much delight in painting a patch 
of sunny common, an old wall covered with 
mosses, or a. village pond rippled by a 

" Why excite yourself, my dear 1 " said 
Mrs. Wapshot soothingly. " In a day or 
two you and your husband will be 
separated, and what he may do, or whom 
he may see after that, can only be a 
matter of indifference to you." 

"A matter of indifference! And Stephen 
will then be at liberty to visit this Italian 
woman as often as he may choose ! " 

" What of that t You also will be free 
to do aa you may choose." 

''What will be the value of such freedom 

"You are in a somewhat unreasonable 
mood this afternoon. Suppose we take a * 
turn on the terrace." 

They both rose. 

At that moment Lilian Ramsay entered 
the room. 

"I have a few words to say to Miss 
Ramsay," whispered the elder lady. "I 
will follow you in two minutes." 

Mrs. Elliott crossed the room, and went 
out by way of the French-window. Just 
outside she encountered Captain Marma- 
duke. They stopped opposite each other. 
Agnes was waiting for Mrs. Wapshot; 
Marmaduke was in search of Lilian. The 
weather and other important topics en- 
gaged them in conversation for a minute 
or two. 

"I hope, my dear, that you have not 
forgotten what I said to you the other 
day f " thus spoke Mrs. Wapshot to Lilian. 

" I have not forgotten — I am not likely 
to forget" 

" What are you looking for 1 " 

"I have lost the third volume of my 

"My dear Lilian, you surprise me 1 
Don't you think that instead of novel- 
reading you would be much better em- 
ployed in rubbin^-up your French and 
I music, and in lookmg through your dresses 



^wrlff TBrlmiii ] 


(June 16, 1888.1 15 

to Bee which of them would torn and make 
up again I Bj-the-bje, have you advertised 

" Not yet," answered Lilian dejectedly. 

''Then why not do so at oncel Mr. 
Jellicop may be very kind, and Mrs. 
Jellicop may be very kind, but you are 
no relative of theirs, and no girl of spirit 
would condescend to keep on living here 
as a dependent on their charity." 

Havmff thus contrived to render Lilian 
thorougUy uncomfortable, Mrs. Wapshot 
with a serene conscience followed Mrs. 
Elliott out of the room. 

''A dep«ndent on their qharityl" ex- 
claimed Lilian sadly. "She is right; I 
have my living to earn, and the sooner I 
set about it the better." She was ^tting, 
buried in thought, with her eyes bent on 
the ground, and did not hear Marma- 
duke% footsteps on the carpet '' But what 
am I fit fori What is there that I can 
do f " she continued, asking the questions 
aIoud,.and little thinldng there was anyone 
to overhear her. 

'' There is one thing you can do. Miss 

Lilian started to her feet in some con- 
fusion. It took her a moment or two to 
recover herself. 

" And that is ) " she said enquiringly. 

''Gk> with me as far as the home- 
meadow, where the haymakers are at 
work. Let us go and help them — ^let us 
transform ourselves for a little whUe into 
a couple of rakes." 

Lilian shook her head, and looked 
seriously at him out of the depths of 
her brown eyes. 

"Why, what's amiss ? " queried Marma- 
duke. "A quarter of an hour ago you 
seemed as merry as a blackbird, and 
now " 

" I look as melancholy as an owl, and 
not half so wise." 

*' Mrs. Wapshot has been talking to you." 

"For my good." 

" I take the liberty of doubting that." 

"She has, at least, reminded me of my 

"People who make such a point of 
reminding others of their duty are pretty 
sure to neplect their own." 

" Captam Marmaduke, may I ask your 
advice 1 I want to advertise and I don't 
know how to set about it." 

" The easiest thing in the world. The 
difficulty nowadays is not to advertise." 

" I want to offer my services as governess, 
or as companion to a lady going abroad." 

Marmaduke's face took an extra shade 
of gravity. 

"Does Mr. Jellicop know of this sudden 
resolution on your part ) " 

" No." 

" Nor Mrs. Jellicop 1 " 

" No." 

"Do you feel justified in taking so 
serious a step without their knowledge 
or sanction 1 " 

" I don't know. I only want to act for 
the best I know that they would like 
me to st^ on with them here, but — but I 
feel that I cannot live as a dependent on 
their charity." 

"That sounds very much like one of 
Mrs. Wapshot's phrases. But you asked 
my advice, did you not 1 " 

"I did." 

" Will you promise to abide by it 1 " 

For a moment LUian hesitated, then in 
a low voice she said : * 

"I promise." 

"For the next month or two let the 
future take care of itself. Decide upon 
nothing without the full concurrence of Mr. 
Jellicop, Finally, attach no importance to 
anything Mrs. Wapshot may say to you." 

"I have promised to abide by your 
advice, and I will do so, but with every day 
that passes I grow more anxious not to be 
a burden to anybody." 

"As if you could be a burden to any- 
body. But enough of sermonising. You 
promised to visit the ruins of Dean Abbey 
with me. We shall have to fix an early 
day, as I leave here on Tuesday next." 

" You leave here on Tuesday ! " 

" I came for two days, and I have stayed 
a week." 

" We shall miss you very much." 

" If I dared to think that you would miss 
me, it would not matter greatly about any- 
one else." 

" Of course I shall miss you, as we all 
shall Why, you have not told me — told 
us, I mean — half your adventures. And 
we may never meet again 1 " 

" Why should we not meet again t " 

" I cannot stay here for ever. Even if 
you were to come to Brookfield again in 
six weeks' time I should be gone I " 

"Gone whither r' 

" I cannot telL" 

" Then why part at alii " 

He sat down by her side, and took one of 
her unresisting hands in his. The clear 
light of love glowed in his eyes. 

" liiian, listen to me," he said. 

But at that moment the door opened, 



16 [June 16, 1881L] 


[Conducted by 

and Mr. Jellicop came in fossily, after his 
wont. Lilian started to her feet, her 
cheeks all aflame. Marmadnke smothered 
an ejaculation of annoyance, 


Among the many marvels of the Fisheries 
Exhibition just opened, is an onassuming 
bat very interesting case, which gives what 
may be called the bill of fare of a family of 
the neolithic period. The menu is of a far 
more varied character than might have been 
expected from their resources in the way 
of took and weapons. For there were no 
trace of metals m the shell-mound from 
which these illustrations were taken — a 
shell-mound found on the old coast-line of 
the Island of Oransay in the Western 
Hebrides, and therefore of an age very far 
remote from any of which we have historic 
record. Their fish-spears, or harpoons, 
are of sharpened bone, and their kitchen 
utensils of flint or polished shell. And yet 
they must have contrived to capture the 
rorqual and the seal, the vety fishiest kind 
of flesh that this imperfectly-educated 
family may have eaten as fish without 
knowing any better ; then they had mullet 
and wrasse, dogfish and skate — these by 
way of delicacies, no doubt, while the 
regular homely fare of the period was made 
up principally of shell-fisL Altogether 
excellent living, if only there were enough 
of it, as to which the record is silent. 

Perhaps the example of these fish-eating 
people is hardly encouraging, seeing that 
probably they were wiped out of existence 
by a more hardy race who had discovered 
the use of metals, and acquired skill 
in the art of slaughter in hunting the 
wild beasts of the forest But we need 
not be prejudiced against a fish diet in con- 
sequence, or fancy that it entails any dis- 
advantage in the struggle for existence. 
What we may lose in sinew, physiologists 
tell us we shall make up in brain, and for 
people who have not to make a living by 
the spade or the pick, the brain is the 
chief power after all The theories of 
physiologists have not been largely verified 
by experience, indeed ; the learned pro- 
fessions are not carried by storm by the 
sons of fishermen, nor is any abnormal 
proportion of ' distinguished thinkers 
furnished by the fishing towns, where 
people live mostly on fish, and ought to 
have brains of extraordinary power. But 
then it can be shown that many highly 
successful races have been greatly given to 

fisL The Northmen, for example, a people 
who have made for themselves a ereat place 
in history, were always good fishermen as 
well as good fighters. It must be con- 
fessed, however, that the northern taste 
in the matter of fish was of a rather coarse 
and greasy nature. The whale, for in- 
stance, was so highly regarded as to be 
reserved for king or queen, and the 
porpoise and other cetacea, fish in general 
estimation, if not in the scientific sense, 
were always popular, and the Northman 
carried his tastes into warmer latitudes, so 
that the fishing for craspois, as it was 
called, a term explained a Uttle farther on, 
was much practised and highly encouraged 
on the coasts of England and Normandy. 
Thus ve are told by old Lambarde how 
the Conqueror granted to the monks of 
Battle, that if any fish called craspois, 
that is, gras poisson, a great or royal 
fish, as whales or such other, which by the 
law of Prerogative pertained to the king 
himself, came ashore upon Dengemarish — 
the marsh now protected by Dymchurch 
wall, and with Dungeness on its outlying 
promontory — the monks should have it, 
and if in any other man'^s land yet the 
monks should have the whole tongue and 
two-thirds of the body. There are similar 
grants to other monasteries in Normandy, 
and all this suggests the question, could a 
whale's tongue have ever been preserved 
and eaten as a delicacy 1 Certaimy not the 
tongue of the " right whale," a mere gela- 
tinous mass that the most robust appetite 
would refuse. But then there are whales 
and whales, and some of the species may 
possess a tongue which is reaUy a dainty. 

The taste for craspois came to an end 
in a rather dismal manner. The great 
pestilence of the fourteenth century, known 
in England as the Black Death, was said to 
have especially marked out the eaters of 
craspois sb victims. Anyhow, the phy- 
sicians of the period put their ban upon it, 
condemning at the same time many whole- 
some and splendid fishes. 

Chiens de mer niareouins saumons 
Congrea tourboz et leur semblables 
Qui sans escailles sont nuisables. 

Thus classing the lordly salmon and the 
luscious turbot with dogfish and porpoises, 
to say nothing of the conger, which has 
many warm adherents at the present day. 
Perhaps from this period may be dated the 
dislike of the Scotch to the eel, which they 
erroneously declare to be without scales. 
Some, indeed, aver that poipoise steaks 
are really good eating, and the dogfish is 



Gbttrtn DIoiEmi.] 


(Juno 10, 1888.] 17 

a popular article of diet among the Norman 
peasantry. Bat then the iformans may 
be Bopposed to have inherited the Scan- 
dinavian taste for gross and oily fishes — 
a taste which womd seem to be still 
rampant in Norway, if we may trust to 
the following extract from the Fisheries 
Exhibition catalogue, which has a charming 
*' once upon a time " flavour about it^ and 
a vagueness of local description which 
recalls the wonderful tales of childhood : 

" On a certain part of the western coast 
of Norway, whales pass through the narrow 
inlet of a fjord, and fail to find their way 
back again. When swimming around the 
bay, the whale would be observed at once, 
and the fishermen try to kill it by means 
of a single-pointed iron arrow only five or 
six inches long. The mode of proceeding 
was to shoot Irom the bow an arrow with 
a loose iron point up in the air in such a 
manner that it would fall down perpen- 
dicularly and strike the body of the whale. 
Iron points made of old ship-bolts, and 
rather rusty, would be preferred as the 
best for the purpose. When struck by 
the iron, the whale would swim about for 
twenty-fou^ or thirty hours, and then float 
up to the surface of the water, dead or 
poisoned, having a wound a foot or more 
in diameter around the place where the 
iron had struck. The iron point itself 
would be found worked down to the 
backbone or soi^e vital part. 

*' After having cut out the wounded part 
with a special mife, men and women from 
all the farms around the bav, being the 
whole hunting-time on the look-out, would 
meet with their whale-knives, and cut out 
of the whale their special and long pre- 
determined pieces, and bring them home 
for food. 

^ These implements are still in occasional 

To judge from this extract, there is still 
a taste for whale-flesh in Norway, just as 
among the Eskimo, where the capture of a 
whale is the occasion of a grand banquet 
The omnivorous Chinese mSke a dainty of 
the dried sinew of the whale, fiut, in a 
general way, we may assume that, as 
articles of food, the cetacea are quite out 
of fashion; and no doubt it was the 
herring that had the most to do with this 
change of dynasty — the herring that, 
swarming along the coasts in great shoals, 
creating a general excitement among all 
predatory creatures, whether they swim, fly, 
or crawl ; the herring that seems to invite 
the clumsiest attempt at a boat and net to 

circumvent him. The herring, by the way, 
according to flsher folk-lore, was chosen 
king over the other denizens of the deep — 
just as the tit among birds — not out of 
merit so much as from overweening jealousy 
of more formidable competitors. The plaice 
and the halibut made faces at their new 
king, and have had wry mouths ever since. 

A democratic king certainly is the 
herring, with his inexhaustible bounties 
to the poor ; and no fish is more 
delicious than a perfectly fresh herring, 
while of all others he bears with least 
detriment th^ processes of curing and 
salting. The Dutch lay claim to the 
invention of the art of pickling herrings ; 
but, whatever may have been the improve- 
ments they introduced, the art itself was 
known along the Channel coast from time 
immemorial — at Dieppe from the eighth 
century, anyhow. The red herring, how- 
ever, is of much more recent introduction 
— not spoken of before the sixteenth 
century — and is claimed by the Yarmouth 
fishermen as their peculiar invention. The 
red herring has suffered some eclipse at the 
hands — or the fins, rather — of the still 
more popular bloater, which is hardly 
more ancient than the eighteenth century. 

In the cold and strongly -aerated waters 
of the Northern Sea swarms, in exhaust- 
less numbers, the cod, and perhaps the 
constant aeration of the water by melted 
ice gives the North Sea its wonderiuUy 
stimulating properties of fish production. 
Who can watch the tide foaming in upon 
our northern coasts, with the sparkle and 
eflervescence of champagne, and the general 
stir of life it creates among all things that 
swim in the sea, a wealth of 11^ and 
fecundity and power, a great store-house 
that may be drawn upon indefinitely ; who 
can see this without feeling surprise that 
any in this land should be short of food 
when such unlimited supplies are within 
reach) In this matter of the cod, for 
instance, we are told by competent autho- 
rities that it could be sold at twopence a 
pound in the streets of London, if only 
the machinery of distribution were properly 
arranged, ^d with the cod, the difficulty 
of bnnging the fish fresh to market is 
reduced to a minimum. The herring, it is 
said, dies when it strikes the net; tliis is 
an exaggeration, but many are dead when 
the nets are hauled on board, and the rest 
die almost immediately after being taken 
from the water. But the cod is a hardy 
fellow, and will make the journey in tanks 
quite comfortably from the Faroe Isles or 




18 tJim« 16, 1888.] 


(OondOiOted by 

the banks of Newfoandland, and he can be 
kept in stock, too — is largely kept in per- 
forated boxes in the fish docks of Harwich 
and Great Grimsby, till he is wanted. 

As early as the reign of Elizabeth, 
English fishermen were in the habit of 
resorting to the coast of Iceland for cod- 
fishing, and there is a letter extant, dated 
1595, from the King of Denmark com- 
plaining of the trespasses of these English 
fishermen ; bat saying that they might fish 
on the coast of Iceland, except the island of 
Westmon, which was reserved for the court. 
Elizabeth took five years to answer this 
letter, and then 'Hhank yon for nothing" 
she writes in effect, and desires the king 
not to hinder the English from fishing in 
the high seas. In the Civil Wars the' 
English fishing-boats, making for the coast 
of Iceland, were set npon by Soyalist 
privateers, and many of. them captured, 
for which no redress cocdd be hao. All 
this fishins was for cod, ibr drying and 
salting, ana there is still a good deal done 
in that way, the French especially making 
a considerable consumption of the salt fish. 
They manage to make it palatable too, a 
feat which our English cooks rarely accom- 
plish, even when they smother it with 

The haddock is another fish that swarms 
in these northern waters, and, till the practice 
of smoking them began, more were caught 
than could be consumed. But now the 
smoked haddock is found everywhere, and 
is especially popular in poor neighbour- 
hoods. Very satisfactory, too, he is as a 
breakfast relish, but ought to be much 
cheaper. Then we have the turbot, that the 
trawl-net has made plentiful No finer fish 
than this is anywhere to be had, and cheap, 
too, at times, for people who have time to 
be continually skirmishing around for 
bargains, but when wanted on any parti- 
cular occasion, sure to be ruinously dear. 
Another fish has lately made its appearance 
on London fish-atalls, the salmon-shad, as 
the fishmongers call it. This is known 
to the more scientific Americans as the 
anadromous shad, and the French, who 
love it well, call it the alose; and as 
this fish runs up the rivers of the 
Atlantic seaboard in May, when the old- 
world peasantry are making pilgrimages to 
holy wells and such like, the alose is a 
favourite Friday dish for these, on the 
whole, rather jolly excursions. And an 
alose, perfectly broiled over a wood fire, 
with an accompanying of the cream sauce 
of High Normandy, is a dish that might 

make the most confirmed sceptic believe 
in the virtues of pilgrimages. But then, 
in the hands of an unskilful cook, the 
alose is apt to fall into a formless mass, a 
very unhandsome dish, although the flavour 
may be all right 

Most people have had experience, once 
or twice in their lives, of a regular fish 
dinner, say at Billingsgate, where sundry 
restaurants and taverns devote themselves 
to that kind of entertainment. The fish 
is generally good, but then these dinners 
are not particularly cheap. Then, in the 
poorer quarters of the town, the fried- 
fish shop supplies refreshment irhole- 
some and cheap. A slice of fried fisli, 
fried potatoes, and a slice of bread 
can be had for threepence, eveiything 
perhaps permeated with a fishy flavour, but 
still appetising enough for a hungry man. 
And these fried-fish men clear the market 
at BOlingsgate of anything that may be 
going cheap — plaice and skate — :the latter 
veiy good, but repugnant to many people, 
perhaps, on account of its appearance, with 
a fiendish grin in the middle of its stomach ; 
and to these experiences may be added the 
cheap fish-dinners at the ^uth Kensington 
Exhibition. The rush for these would 
seem to indicate a great undeveloped taste 
for fish on the part of the great British 
public Now, in a genenJ way, an 
increased demand for a commodity brings 
about increased prices, and this may very 
well be the effect at first of the general 
tendency to fish-eating. But the. supply 
being practically unlimited, the balance 
will soon be redressed in favour of the fish 
consumer. It would be a great gain if a 

Seneral demand for fish in the inland 
istricts gave opportunity for the opening 
out of independent sources of supply. Too 
much hangs upon Billingsgate — not only all 
London, but a vast number of other towns, 
even seaside places where the fish are 
actually caught, and sometimes make the 
double journey by rail before they appear 
in the local fish-market. 

Still, allowingfor well-founded complaints 
as to supply, we may survey the world 
from China to Peru and find no other 
nation able to give a better fish-dinner — 
no, nor one half as good — in a general way. 
Certainly not the nations whose shores 
border on the Mediterranean — Italy, for 
instance, whose commissioners report that 
the coast-fishing is mainly done in a 
desultory manner by old men, women, 
and children — with singular exceptions 
in the case of fishing communities in the 




[Jane 16, 1883.] 19 

Adriatic, with their curious and picturesque 
Bragasri, *' remarkable for the shape 
of the hoH and their strange sails coloured 
in brown or deep red, and covered with 

auaint figures and devices." Bat neither 
lie thunny nor the sword-fish are tempting 
as edible fishes, and the hake seems to be 
the best all-round^ fish in the Italian 
markets. Indeed, our Yarmouth and 
Scotch herring are largely imported, and 
form a considerable item in the diet of the 
working-classes. Nor is Spain in the van 
in the way of fishing, and may look back 
with regret to the piJmy days of Philip the 
Second, when two hundred vessels, manned 
by some six thousand sailors, left the 
CHmtabrian shore for the cod fisheries of 
Newfoundland. Now, along its Atlantic 
coast, there is no deep sea fishing to speak 
of, while the Mediterranean seaboard is 
almost a blank. Indeed, the Mediterranean 
may be said to be almost played out as a 
fish-pond, its hot sun and tepid waters do 
not supply the life-giving elements of the 
northern seas, and the absence of appre- 
ciable tides deprives the world of fishes of 
the zest and chang%that the rush of waters 
to and fro gives to the denizens of the great 

Nor has America the advantage of us 
in the way of 'fish, 'at feast of sea-fiah. Her 
great ^akes a^d connectiDg rivers yield a 
white fish, so called, that is well spoken 
of, and the black bass, a bold and hand- 
some fish, might perhaps be acclimatised 
to advantage in some of our rivera 
The Americans introduce a good deal of 
ingenuity into th^it fisheries. There is 
the purse seim^, for instance, which has 
quite revolutionised the fishery formackerel 
and menhaden; the American fishermen 
having entirely deserted the Gulf of Stw 
Lawrence, where they formerly resorted, 
and taken to fishing north of Cape Hat- 
teras. There are smart fisheries, too, on 
the Columbian shores; for the salmon 
almost what Chicago is for the pig ; and 
wonderful stories are told of the way in 
which' the salmon is caught and cooked 
and canned, the whole performed with 
the regularity and speed of steam. The 
Americans, too, have invented boneless 
herrings, an invention which, if it could be 
applied to fishes generally, would do much 
to popularise a fish diet, for people don't 
like a continual struggle with bones in the 
courbo of a meal, and those fishes are most 
popular, aa a general rule, in which the 
bone difficulty is the least felt; the herring, 
of course, being an exception, being both 

nice and cheap. Something in the way of 
this American process has been fore- 
shadowed in prophecy, for there exists a 
mystic mediaeval rhyme : 

Never a herring spoke but one, 
And he said, ** Roast my back, and not my bone." 

As much as to say — there are various inter- 
pretations, but this seems the most pro- 
bable — " Take out my bones before cooking 

Another novelty the American has intro- 
daced — a preparation called chowder, 
fearfully and wonderitdly composed of fish, 
pork, biscuit, and other light comestibles. 
There is clam chowder and fish chowder, 
both of which are canned for export, but 
they require a certain amount of education 
in the palate to appreciate. 

Passing over to the Pacific we find 
many varieties of fish unknown to Euro- 
pean markets, with some familiar friends, 
such as the ubiquitous eel and mackerel 
But the albicore, the bonito, and the flying- 
fish have a strange unfamiliar aspect. The 
coral reefs of the South Sea Islands abound 
with curious fish, balloon-shaped, with 
strange attachments, and an expression of 
pufiy amazement ; but some of these are poi- 
sonous, and none are 6qual to our northern 
fishes in the culinary scale. Nor has Japan 
any striking novelties to show us in the 
way of fish ; and when we come to China, 
we feel that we are in another and altogether 
stranger world, in which our experience is 
of little use to us, and ' vice-ver^l. Funny 
men and funny fishes seem on mutually 
good terms with each other, with a strange 
kind of family likeness between them. 
And people who eat whale sinew and dried 
shark's fins, and sea-slags — as for cuttle-fish, 
they seem tb be eaten all over the world — 
well, a people who will eat anything 
and everything, must be looked on with 
suspicion as gastronomic guidea 





Now at last in this final chapter has to be 
told the fate of Florence Mountjoy, — as 
far as it can be told in these pages. It 
was, at any rate, her pecaliarity to attach 
to herself, by bonds which could not easily 
be severed, thoee who had once thought 
that they might be able to win her lova 
An attempt has been made to bhow how 
firm and determined were the affections of 




20 [June 16, 188S.] 


[Ooadnotid bf 

Harry Annesley, and how absolutely he 
trusted in her word when once it had been 
given to him. He had seemed to think 
that when she had even nodded to him in 
answer to his assertion that he desired her 
to be his wife, all his trouble as regarded 
her heart had been ofif his mind. There 
might be infinite trouble as to time, — as to 
ten years, three years, or even one year ; 
trouble in inducing her to promise that she 
would become his wife in opposition to her 
mother ; but he had felt sure that she never 
would be the wife of any one else. How 
he had at last succeeded in mitigating the 
opposition of her mother, so as to make the 
three years, or even the one year, appear 
to himself an altogether impossible delay, 
the reader knows. How he at last con- 
trived to have his own way altogether, so 
that, as Florence told him, she was merely 
a ball in his hand, the reader will have to 
know very shortly. But not a shade of 
doubt had ever clouded Harry's mind as to 
his eventual success, since she had nodded 
to him at Mrs. Armitage's ball Though 
this girl's love had been so grand a thing 
to have achieved, he was quite sure from 
that moment that it would be his for ever. 
With Mountjoy Scarborough there had 
never come such a moment, — and never 
could, and yet he had been very confident^ 
so that he had lived on the assurance that 
such a moment would come. And the self- 
deportment natural to him had been such 
that he had shown his assuranca He never 
would have succeeded ; but he should not 
the less love her sincerely. And when the 
time came for him to thmk what he should 
do with himself, those few days after his 
father's death, he turned to her as his one 
prospect of salvation. If his cousin Florence 
would be eood to him, all might yet be 
welL He bad come by that time to lose 
his assurance. He had recognised Harry 
Annesley as his enemy, — as has been told 
often enough in these pages. Harry was to 
him a hatenil stumbling-block. And he had 
not been quite as sure of her fidelity to 
another as Harry had been sure of it to 
himself. Tretton might prevail Trettons 
do so often prevail And the girl's mother 
was all on his sida So he had eone fo 
Cheltenham, true as the needle to l£ie pole, 
to try his luck vet once again. He had 

fone to Cheltenham, — and there he found 
larry Annesley. All hopes for him were 
then over and he started at once for 
Monaco ; or, as he himself told himself, — 
for the deuce. 
Among the lovers of Florence ciome 

memory may attach itself to poor Hugh 
Anderson. He too had been absolutely 
true to Florence. From the hour in which 
he had first conceived the idea that she 
would make him happy as his wife, it had 
gone on growing upon him with all the 
weight of love. He did not quite under- 
stand why he should have loved her so 
dearly, — but thus it was. Such a Mrs. 
Hugh Anderson, with a pair of ponies on 
the boulevards, was to his imagination the 
most lovely sight which could be painted. 
Then Florence took the mode of disabusing 
him which has been told, and Hugh Ander- 
son gave the required promise. Alas ; — ^in 
what an unfortunate moment had he done 
sol Such was his own thought For 
though he was sure of his own attachment 
to her, he could not mount high enough to 
be as sure of hers to somebody else. It 
was a ''sort of thing a man oughtn't to 
have been asked to promise," he said to 
the third secretary. And having so deter- 
mined He made up his mind to follow her 
to England and to try his fortune once 

Florence had just wished Harry good- 
bye for the day,—- or rather for the week. 
She cared nothing now, in the way of 
protestations of affection. ** Come, Harrv ; 
there now;— don't be so unreasonable. 
Am not I just as impatient as you are % 
This day fortnight you will be back. And 
then I " 

" Then there will be some peace ; won't 
there) But mind you write every day." 
And so Harry was whisked away, as 
triumphant a man as ever left Chelteidiam 
by the London train. On the following 
morning Hugh Anderson reached Chelten- 
ham and appeared in Montpellier Placa 

"My daughter is at home certainly," 
said Mrs. Mountjoy. There was somethug 
in the tone which made the young man at 
once assure himself that he had better go 
back to Brussels. He had ever been a 
favourite with Mrs. Mountjoy. In his 
days of love-making poor Mountjoy had 
been absent, declared no longer to have a 
chance of Tretton, and Harry had been — 
the very Evil One himself. Mrs. Mountjoy 
had been assured by the Brussels Mount- 
joys that with the view of getting well rid 
of the Evil One, she had letter take poor 
Anderson to her bosomu She had opened 
her bosom accordingly, — but with very 

Kor results. And now he had come to 
)k after what result there might be, 
Mrs. Mountjoy felt that he had better go 
b«ck to Brussels. 



■*<>P ." >| 

■("■^J" I 

■ ^ ' ■ - ' 





[June 16, 1883.] 21 

" Could I not see herl" asked Anderson. 

"Well, yes; you coold see her." 

"Mn. Moontjoy, Til tell you every- 
thing, — ^jnst as though you were my own 
mother. I have loved your daughter, — 
oh, I don't know how it is 1 If she'd be 
my wife for two years, I don't think I'd 
mind dying afterwarda" 

" Oh, Mr. Anderson I " 

"I wouldn't I never heard of a case 
where a girl had got such a hold of a man 
as she has of me. 

"You don't mean to say that she has 
behaved badly." 

'' Oh no 1 She couldn't behave badly. 
It isn't in her. But she can bowl a fellow 
over in the most — well, most desperate 
manner. As for me, I'm not worth my 
salt since I first saw her. When I go to 
ride with the governor I haven't a word 
to say to him." But this ended in Mrs. 
Mountjoj going and promising that she 
would send Florence down in her place. 
She knew that it would be in vain ; but to 
a young man who had behaved so well as 
mr. Anderson so much could not be refused. 
"Here I am again," he said, very much 
like the clown in the pantomime. 

" Oh, Mr. Anderson, how do you do 1 " 

A lover who is anxious to prevail with 
a lady should always hold up his head. 
Where is the reader of novels, or of 
human nature, who does not know as much 
as that. And yet the mian who is in love, 
truly in love, never does hold up his head 
very higli. It is the man who is not in 
love who does so. Nevertheless it does 
sometimes happen that the true lover 
obtains his reward. In this case it was 
not observed to be so. But now Mr. 
Anderson was sure of his fate, so that 
there was no encouragement to him to 
make any attempt at holding up his head. 
" I have come once more to see you," he 

"I am sure it gives mamma so much 

"Mrs. Mountjoy is very kind. But it 
hasn't been for her. The truth is I couldn't 
settle down in this world witHout having 
another interview." 

" What am I to say, Mr. Anderson t " 

''111 just tell you how it all is. You 
know what my prospects ara" She did 
not quite remember, but she bowed to 
him. "You must know because I told 
you. There is nothing I kept concealed." 
Again she bowed. "There can be no 
possible family reason for my going to 

" Kamtschatka ! " 

"Yes, indeed. The F. 0. 

— " The 

F. O. always meant the Foreign Office. 
" The F. 0. wants a young man on whom 
it can thoroughly depend to go to Kamts- 
chatka. The allowances are handsome 
enough, but the allowances are nothing 
to me." 

" Why should you go 1 " 

" It is for you to decide. Yes, you can 
detain me. If I go to that bleie^ and 
barren desert it ^vdll merely be to court 
exile from that quarter of the globe in 
which you and I would have to live 
together and yet apart That I cannot 

stand In Kamtschatka Well, there is 

no knowing what may happen to me thera" 

" But I'm engaged to be married to Mr. 

" You told me something of that before." 

"But it's all fixed. Mamma will tell 
you. It's to be this day fortnight If 
you'd only stay and come as one of mj 
friends." Surely such a proposition as this 
is the unkindest that any young lady can 
make. But we believe that it is made not 
unfrequently. In the present case it 
received no reply. 

Mr. Anderson took up Mb hat and 
rushed to the door. Then he returned for 
a moment " God bless you. Miss Mount- 
joy," he said. " In spite of the cruelty of 
that suggestion I must bid God bless you." 
And then he was gone. 

About a week afterwards, M. Grascour 
appeared upon the scene with predsely the 
same intention. He, too, retained in his 
memory a most vivid recollection of the 
young lady and her charms. He had heard 
that Captain Scarborough had inherited 
Tretton, and had been informed that it was 
not probable that Miss Florence Mount- 
joy would marry her cousin. He was some- 
what confused in his ideas, and thought 
that, were he now to reappear on the scene, 
there might still be a chance for him. 
There was no lover more unlike Mr. An- 
derson than M Grascour. Not even for 
Florence Mountjoy, not even to own her, 
would he go to Kamtschatka ; and were he 
not to see her he would simply go back to 
Brussels. And yet he loved her as well as 
he knew how to love anyone, and, would 
she have become his wife, would have 
treated her admirably. He had looked at 
it all round, and comd see no reason why 
he should not many her. Like a persever- 
ing man, he persevered ; but as he did so 
no glimmering of an idea of Kamtschatka 
disturbed him. 


W't' !■ 



22 [June 16, 1888.] 


[Oondneted bj 

But from this further troable Mra 
Mountjoy was able to save her daughter. 
M. Grascour made his way into Mrs. 
Mountjoy's presence, and there declared 
his purpose. He had been sent over 
on some question connected with the 
liberation of commerce, and had ventured 
to take the opportunity of coming down 
to Cheltenham. He hoped the truth 
of his affection would be evinced by the 

i'oumey. Mrs. Mountjoy observed, while 
le was making his little speech, how 
extremely well brushed was his hat She 
had observed, also, that poor Mr. Ander- 
son's hat was in such a condition as almost 
to make her try to smooth it down for him. 
" If you make objection to my hat, you 
should brush it yourself," she had heard 
Harry say to Florence, and Florence had 
taken the hat, and had brushed it with 
fond lingering touches. 

" M Grascour, I can assure you that she 
is really engaged," Mrs. Mountjoy had 
said. M. Grascour bowed and siehed. 
" She is to be married this day week.' 

" Indeed 1 " 

" To Mr. Harry Annesley." 

" Oh — ^h — ^h 1 I remember the gentle- 
man's name. . I had thought " 

" Well, yes ; there were objections, but 
they have luckily disappeared." Though 
Mrs. Mountjoy was only as yet happy in a 
melancholy manner, rejoicing with but 
bated joy at her girl's joys, she was too 
loyal to say a word now against Harry 

"I should not have troubled you, 
but " 

'* I am sure of that, M. Grascour ; and 
we are both of us grateful to you for your 
good opinion. I know very well how 
high is the honour which you are doing 
Florence ; and she will quite understand it 
But you see the thing is fixed ; it's only a 
week." Florence was said, at the moment, 
to be not at home, though she was up- 
stairs, looking at four dozen new pocket- 
handkerchiefs which had just come from 
the pocket-handkerchief merchant, with the 
letters F. A. upon them. She had much 
more pleasure in looking at them than she 
would have had in listening to the con- 
gratulations of M. Grascour. 

''He's a very good man, no doubt, 
mamma; a deal better, perhaps, than 
Harry." That, however, was not her true 
opinion. "But one can't xoarry all the 
good men." 

There was almost more trouble taken 
down at Buston about Hany's marriage 

than his sister's, though Harry was to 
be married at Oheltenham, and only his 
father, and one of his sisters as a brides- 
maid, were to go down to assist upon the 
occasion. His father was to marry them, 
and his mother had at last consented to 
postpone the joy of seeing Florence till she 
was brought home from her travels, a bride 
three months old. Nevertheless, a ereat 
fuss was made, especially at Buston HalL 
Mr. Prosper had become comparatively 
light in heart since the duty of providing 
a wife for Buston and a future mother for 
Buston heirs had been taken off his shoul- 
ders and thrown upon those of his nephew. 
The more he looked back upon the days 
of his own courtship the more did his own 
deliverance appear to him to be almost the 
work of Heaven. Where would he have 
been had Miss Thoroughbung made good 
her footing in Buston Hall t He used to 
shut his eyes and gently raise his left hand 
towards the skies as he told himself that 
the evil thing had passed by him. 

But it had passed by, and it was 
essential that there should be a bride of some 
sort at Buston, and as, with all his diligent 
enquiry, he had heard nothing but good of 
Florence, she should be received with as 
hearty a welcome as he could eive her. 
There was one point which troubled lum 
more than all others. He was determined 
to refurnish the drawing-room and the bed- 
room in which Florence was destined to 
sleep. He told his sister in his most 
solemn manner that he had at last made 
up his mind thoroughly. The thing should 
be done. She understood how great a 
thing it was for him to dol " The two 
entire rooms 1 " he said with an almost 

• _ 

tragic air. Then he sent for her the next 
day and told her that, on further considera- 
tion, he had determined to add in the 

The whole parish felt the effect It was 
not so much that the parish was struck by 
the expenditure proposed, because the 
squire was known to be a man who had 
not for years spent all his income, but 
that he had given way so far on behalf of 
a nephew whom he had been so uixious to 
disinherit. Rumour had already reached 
Buntingford of what the souire had 
intended to do on the receipt of his own 
wife, — ^rumours which had of course since 
faded away into nothing. It had been 
positively notified to Buntingford that 
there should be really a new carpet and 
new curtains in the drawing-room. Miss 
Thoroughbung had been known to have 




[Jane 16, 188S.] 23 

declared at the brewery that the whole 
thing should be done before she had been 
there twelve months. 

" He shall go the whole hog/' she had 
said. And there had been a little bet 
between her and her brother, who enter- 
tained an idea that Mr. Prosper was an 
obstinate man. And Joe had brought 
tidings of the bet to the parsonage ; — so 
that there had been much commotion on 
the subject. When the bedroom had 
been included, and then the dressing-room, 
even Mathew had been alarmed. "It'U 
come to as much as five hundred pounds! " 
he had whispered -to Mrs. Annesley. 
Mathew seemed to diink that it was quite 
time there should be somebody to control 
his master. " Why, ma'am, it's only the 
other day, because I can remember it 
myself, when the loo-table came into the 
house new ! " Mathew had been in the 
place over twenty years. When Mrs. 
Annesley reminded him that fashions were 
changed, and that other kinds of tables 
were required, he only shook his head. 

But there was a question more vital 
than that of expense. How was the new 
furniture to be chosen t The first idea 
was that Florence should be invited to 
spend a week at her future home, and go 
up and down to London with either Mrs. 
Annesley or her brother, and select the 
furniture hersel£ But there were reasons 
against this. Mr. Prosper would like to 
surprise her by the munificence of what 
he did. And the suggestion of one day 
was sure to wane before the stronger 
lights of the next. Mr. Prosper, though 
he intended to be munificent^ was still a 
little afraid that it should be thrown 
away as a thing of course,-— or that it 
should appear to have been Harry's work. 
That would be manifestly unjust "I 
think I had better do it myself," he said to 
his sister. 

** Perhaps I could help you, Peter." 
He shuddered ; but it was at the memory 
of the sound of the word Peter, as it had 
been blurted out for his express annoyance 
by Miss Thoroi^hbung. "I wouldn't 
mind going up to London with you." He 
shook his head, demanding still more time 
for deliberation. Were he to accept his 
sister's offer he would be bound by his 
acceptance. ''It's the last drawing-room 
carpet I shall ever buy," he said to him- 
self, with true melancholy, as he walked 
back home across the park 

Then there had been the other grand 
question of the journey or not down to | 

Cheltenham. In a good-natured way Harry 
had told him that the wedding would be 
no wedding without his presence. That 
had moved him considerably. It was very 
desirable that the wedding should be. more 
than a merely legal wedmng. The world 
ought to be made aware that the heir to 
Buston had been married in the presence 
of the Squire of Buston. But the journey 
was a tremendous difficulty. If he could 
have gone from Buston durect to Chelten- 
ham it would have been comparatively 
easy. But he must pass through London, 
and to do this he must travel the whole 
way between the Northern and Western 
railway-stations. And the. trains would 
not fit. He studied his Bradshaw for an 
entire morning, and found that they would 
not fit *' Where am I to spend the hour 
and a quarter) " he asked his sister mourn- 
fully. " And there would be four journeys, 
g^ingand coming ; — fourseparate journeys ! " 
And these would be irrespective of nume- 
rous carriages and cabs. It was absolutely 
impossible that he should be present in 
the flesh on that happy day at Cheltenham. 
He was left at home for three months, 
July, August, and September, in which to 
buy the furniture, — which, however, was 
at last procured by Mrs. Annesley. 

The marriage, as far as the wedding was 
concerned, was not nearly as good fun as 
that of Joe and Molly. There was no 
Mr. Crabtree there, and no Miss Thorough- 
bung. And Mrs. Mountjoy, though she 
meant to do it all as well as it could be 
done, was still joyous only with bated joy. 
Some tinge of melancholy still clung to her. 
She had tor so many years thought of her 
nephew as the husband destined for her 
girl, that she could not be as yet demon- 
strative in her appreciation of Harry 
Annesley. " I have no doubt we shall 
come to be true friends, Mr. Annesley," 
she had said to him. 

« Don't call me Mr. Annesley." 

"No, I won't, when you come back 
again and I amused to you. But at present 
there — ^there is a something." 

" A regret, perhaps." 

" Well, not quite a regret I am an old- 
fashioned person, and I can't change my 
manners all at once. Yon know what it 
was that I used to hope." 

" Oh yes. But Florence was very stupid 
and would have a different opinion." 

" Of course I am happy now. Her 
happiness is all the world to me. And 
things have undergone a change." 

"That's true. Mr. Prosper has made 






over the mariyisg bnainess to me, and I 
mean to go through it like a man. Only 
you must call me Harry." This she 
promised to do, and did in the seclusion 
of her own room give him a kiss. But still 
her joy was not loud, and the hilarity of 
her guests was moderate. Mrs. Armitage 
did her best, and the bridesmaids' dresses 
were pretty, — ^which is all that is required 
of a bridesmaid. Then, at last, the fatal 
carriage came, and they were carried away 
to Gloucester, where they were committed 
to- the untender, commonplace, but much 
more comfortable mercies of the railway- 
carriage. There we will part with them, 
and encounter them again but for a few 
moments as after a long day's ramble they 
made their way back to a solitary but com- 
fortable hotel among the Bernese Alps. 
Florence was on a pony, which Harry had 
insisted on hiring for her, thoush Florence 
had declared herself able to warn the whole 
way. It had been very hot, and she was 
probably glad of the pony. They had both 
alpenstocks in their hands, and on the 
pommel of her saddle hung the light jacket 
with which he had started, and which had 
not been so light but that he had been glad 
to ease himself of the weight. The guide 
was lagging behind, and they two were 
close together. " Well, old girl," he said, 
" and now what do you think of it all t " 

" I'm not so very much older than I was 
when you took me, pet" 

" Oh yes, yon are. Half of your life has 
gone ; you have settled down into the cares 
and duties of married life, none of which 
had been thought of when I took you." 

"Not thought of! They have been on 
my mind ever since that night at Mrs. 

'*Only in a romantic and therefore 
untrue sort of manner. Since that time 
you have always thought of me with a 
white choker and dress boots." 

"Don't flatter yourself; I never looked 
at your boota" 

" You knew, that they were the boots 
and the clothes of a man making love, 
didn't you f I don't care personauy very 
mutfh about my own boots. I never shall 
care about another pair. But I should 
care about them. Anything that might 
give me the slightest assistance ! " 

" Nothing was wanted ; it had all been 
done, Harry." 

" My pet ! But still a pair of highlows 
heavy with naUs would not have been 

efficacious then. 'I did think I loved 
him,' you might have said to yourself, ' but 
he is such an awkward fellow.' " 

" It had ffone much beyond that at Mrs. 
Armitage's. ' 

" But now you have to take my highlows 
as part of your duty." 

"And your' 

" When a man loves a woman he falls in 
love with everything belonging to her. 
You don't wear highlows. Everything you 
possess as specially your own has to ad- 
minister to my sense of love and beauty." 

" I wish, I wish it might be so." 

" There is no danger about that at all 
But I have to come before you on an occa- 
sion such as this as a kind of navvy. And 
you must accept me." She glanced round 
furtively to see whether their guide was 
looking, but the guide had fallen back out 
of sight. So, sitting on her pony, she put 
her arm around his neck and kissed him. 
"And then there is ever so much more," 
he continued. " I don't think I snore." 

" Indeed, no 1 There isn't a sound comes 
from you. I sometimes look to see if I 
think you are alive." 

" But if I do, you'll have to put up with 
it. That would be one of your duties as a 
wifa You never could have thought of 
that when I had those dress boots on." 

" Of course I didn't How can you talk 
such rubbish)" 

" I don't know whether it is rubbisL 
Those are the kind of things that muat fall 
upon a woman so heavily. Suppose I were 
to beat you." 

"Beat me." 

" Yes, — hit you over the head with this 

" I am sure you wiU not do that." 

"So am I. But suppose I were to. 
Your mother used to teU of my leaving 
that poor man bloody and speechless. 
What if I were to carry out my usual 
habits as then shown 1 Take, care, my 
darling, or that brute'll throw you." This 
he said as the pony stumbled over a stone. 

" Almost as unlikely as you are. One 
has to risk dangers in the world, but one 
makes the risk as little as possible. I know 
they won't give me a pony that will tumble 
down. And I know that I've told you to 
look to see that they don't. You chose 
the pony, but I had to choose you. I don't 
know very much about ponies, but I do 
know something about a lover ; and I know 
that I have got one that will suit me." 

ns Bighi ofTramlaUng Artiele$ from Au. thx Tkab Bouhd is ruvrved by ih€ Auihan. 

1 ! ^ ' ={P 

PuUUhed nt qi^ 09oe. 26, WdOngton Slraett Stnnd. Printed bj (MAiuu nionm ^ SfAas, S«, OimI Kiiw B^iwli JL<^- 



26 [June 28, 1883.] 


[CSonductod bj 

Bay, smiling beamingly till all her glisten- 
iog little white teeth displayed themselves. 
" Why of course there's nothing in your 
coming over to talk to the £&mily lawyer ; 
the family lawyer has so much in his 
power, hasn't he, Flora ? " 

''How should I know, never haviilg 
heard of him before .today ) " said Mrs. 
Jervoise, for she felt her sister's insinua- 
tions to be indiscreet 

'' I thought I heard you say that Hubert 
had talked to you so much about Mr. 
Boldero's art-treasures,'' Jenifer put in 
with downright direct truthfulness. 

*' So I did. Miss Conscience, who is so 
ready to smite me. Hubert has spoken to 
me of the lawyer's pictures and bronzes ; 
never of the lawyer himself." 

" I am surprised at that. Hubert thinks 
so much more of Mr. Boldero than of 
what Mr. Boldero possesses," Jenifer said 
thoughtfully; and then, having by this 
time had quite enough of Mrs. Bay's con- 
versation, she let Witchcraft go, and drew 
a long breath of relief when she found that 
the pony-carriage was far behind her. 

"Failed, failed in the quarter where I 
looked for certain help," the girl said to 
herself as she went along. "Oh, Jack! 
poor boy, what can I do for you now) 
Hubert has drunk in his wife's opinions 
till they have intoxicated him; mother 
can't, or rather sha'n't, if I can help it, 
know what makes me want to set Jack 
away from Hillingsmoor ; and Jack himself 
is only too ready to stay where he can 
hunt, and shoot, and fish, and idle, 
and Poor Jack ! " 

The ladies had quite a vivacious little 
party that night at Moor BoyaL For 
Mr. Bay and Jack were two of the threegen- 
tlemen who were dining with Mr. Boldero, 
and Mr. Jervoise slept so peacefully that he 
was not counted or considered at alL 

Christmas was close upon them now, 
and Mr& Bay and her sister were busy 
devising various schemes for combining 
philanthropy with pleasure. ^ They had 
got the vicar's consent to train a chosen 
few of the village girls to act in a pretty 
little operetta for the good of the choir- 
fund. And they had arranged a number 
of tableaux vivants in which they and 
Hubert were to take part only. Jenifer 
had not been asked to aid them. They 
thought her too pretty for their purpose, 
and pretended to think that her grief for 
her father was ^o new for her to do more 
than watch their bright doings like any 
other guest. 

Old Mrs. Bay and Jenifer listened with 
sympathetic interest to aU the bright, 
clever suggestions which the enterprising 
sisters mtuie to one another. They carried 
their audience with them invariably, this 
pair, whether they were acting in public 
or in private only. And to-night Jenifer 
found herself helping to run up sssthetic 
calico dresses for the girls who were to take 
part in the operetta, with all her heart. 

In fact she had entirely dismissed the 
chagrined feeling of the morning, and 
under the influence of a new excitement 
she was allowing some of her doleful fore- 
bodings about her brother Jack to recede 
into the background. 

Presently Mrs. Jervoise said : 

" Effie, we colourless yellow - haired 
women can't do everything. I want a 
Nell Gwynn to pose with Captain Edge- 
cumbe's Charles the Second. Find a bonny 
brunette for me." 

"Devonshire women are lovely, as a 
rule," old Mrs. Bay put in; "brighter eyes, 
clearer complexions, more luxuriant hair 
I have never seen anywhere than in this 

" Mrs. Bay, you're the very friend we're 
in need of," Mrs. Jervoise cried, going up 
very gracefully and graciously to the 
widow s chair ; " find us a brunette beauty 
such as you describe. I feel sure you can 
lay your hands upon a dozen." 

''The girl I am thinking of is not a 
lady, but she's a good, sensiUe girl — a very 
good girl, I'm sure, and she'll not suffer 
her head to be turned by flatteiy," old 
Mrs. Bay said, drawing herself up ; *' it's 
Minnie Thurtle, our gamekeeper's daughter, 
whom I mean " 

'' Oh, mother," Jenifer interrupted 
hastily, with ill-concealed vexation, ''don't 
suggest taking a girl like Minnie so utterly 
out of her pli^" 

" Why not t we could put her back in 
her place easily enough when we had done 
with her," Mrs. Jervoise said, laughing. 
Then in defiant disregard of a few worajB 
of expostulation and reprobation from 
Jenifer, the two sisters went on planning 
how they would set about securing old 
Thurtle's consent to his daughter's acting 
with the gentry. 

" What is she like, Jenifer 1 " young Mrs. 
Bay asked. "I ought to have been shown 
all the beauties on my husband's estate.'' 

" She has fine dark eyes, a good figure, 
and a bold expression. Minnie Thurtle is 
no favourite of mine," Jenifer said im- 
patiently ; " if you get her up here to amuse 


V m^ m 


Chtfles DickeiiB.] 


[Jane 23, 1883.] 27 

your gaests she will be fancying herself one 
of them, and may give yon trouble, Efiie/' 

*'If she forgets how to behave I'll very 
quickly freshen up her memory ; but I*m 
not a bit afraid. From what you say she 
has the very face for Nell Gwynn, We'll 
go and see her to-morrow, Flora. By the 
way, where does Thurtle live 1 " 

"In a cottage close to the home farm- 

''Does he! I know it then. Jack 
pointed out the cottage to me the other 
day — such a pretty one, Flora ; a perfect 
little bower it must be in summer, all 
covered with honeysuckle and roses. Jack 
says he shall turn it into his bailiffs house 
when he settles at the home-farm." 

" Jack will have to be his own bailiff," 
his mother said seriously. " The home-farm 
must cease to be a toy to him now, if he 
wants to make a living out of it'^ 

Jenifer could bear it no longer. 

"You're all of you cruelly kind in 
wishing Jack to be at the home-farm. We 
shall all bitterly regret his taking it." 

" You're not at all anxious to keep your 
brother near you. Miss Ray," Mrs. Jervoise 
said, throwing back her head, and striving 
to make Jenifer understand how insigni- 
ficant she was, and how little her opinions 
were r^arded. 

" Not under such conditions ; but what 
I have to say about it I will say to Hubert 
and Jack." 

''Don't delude yourself with the idea 
that you can induce Hubert to alter any 
opinion I have taught him to form," Effie 
cried with aggravating assurance. "It's 
the best thing possible for Jack that he 
should remain down here near us all ; he 
has been brought up in the country, and 
knows nothing of a London life. If he 
were cast adrift in London without Hubert 
to look after him he would probably come 
to grief." 

Jenifer got up when her sister-in-law 
ceased speaking, and walked over to the 
piano. She had not been playing at all 
since the death of her father and the 
home<x>ming of the bride, and both Ef&e 
and Mrs. Jervoise looked at her with as 
much astonishment as admiration, when 
she had played a few bars in a masterly 

"Why, Jenifer, you play deliciously,'' 
Effie cried frankly; " if I could play like that 
I'd give lessons and be quite independent 
of everyone, wouldn't you, Flora ? " 

"Rather!" Mrs. Jervoise promptly 
responded. " Why, Miss Ray, if you were 

to go to London, where you are so anxious 
to send your brother Jack, you would soon 
make a fortune, by playing at concerts and 
that sort of thing." 

Jenifer bit her lips and constrained her- 
self not to speak. It was coming then, 
the attempt that she had foreseen would 
be made to oust her out of her old home. 

But though she kept silence and the 
peace, her mother was not able to follow 
her example. 

"It would break my heart to think that 
my daughter had to go out into the cold 
world to work for her daily bread," old Mrs. 
Ray said with unwise, heartfelt, passionate 

"Galling the world cold is a mere 
phrase, Mrs. Ray," Effie said incisively. 
" I always think it such nonsense to call 
the world names such as ' cold' and 'hard' 
and ' cruel ' if one doesn't happen to be as 
well off as one wishes to be. I never 
found the world anything but very plea- 
sant ; did you. Flora 1 " 

" It's quite good enough for me," Mrs. 
Jervoise said, walking up to the fire, her 
hands, sparkling with diamonds, clasped 
over her golden head. 

"You have been two very fortunate 
young ladies," old Mrs. Ray said with 
gentle bitterness. 

"Oh, I don't know about that," Effie 
said judicially, «" only we always make the 
best of things, and get as much pleasure 
as we can out of everything ; don't we, 
Flora 1 Why, some girls coming down as 
I did straight away from all the balls and 
theatricals and hunting that I'd been 
having at Flora's country place, would 
have moped themselves to deatL" 

"That they would," Mrs. Jervoise 
agreed ; " but we're neither of us great at 
making a moan. Miss Ray, why have you 
stopped playing 1 " 

" Effie and you were speaking so loud 
that I had to bang in order to hear my- 
self," Jenifer said good-temperedly. Then 
she added: "Besides, I got interested in 
listening to your happy philoso'phy." 

At tms moment Mr. Jervoise woke him- 
self up with a start. He looked at his 
wife curiously for a few moments, as she 
stood in all the glory of her rich lace and 
jewels fall in the blaze of lamp and fire- 
U^ht Then he said peevishly : 

" You wear too much jewellery, Flora ; 
there's no rest for the eye in looking at you ; 
you're too bright, my dear, too bright; 
you shine too much, you lack repose." 

" I shall think you lack common-sense. 




28 [June 23, 1883.] 


[Oondoctad by 

to say nothiDg of courtesy, if you go on in 
that strain/' Flora said carelessly. 

" Don't fidget about in that maddening 
manner/' he said more peevishly still; 
"you wear too many di'mons — ^you lack 
pos — you " 

His words ceased to flow, his head fell 
on one side, and his mouth remained open. 
Flora flew to the bell, which she rang 
liberally but without excited violence. 

" Send for the best doctor in Exeter at 
once," she said collectedly, " and tell the 
messenger to say that Mr. Jervoise has a 
stroke of paralysis, and that it has been ex- 
pected for some time. The doctor will have 
time to think of treatment as he comes 
over, if he knows a few facts beforehand." 

" How wonderfully you keep your head. 
Flora," Effie said admiringly. And Mrs, 
Jervoise lifted her shoulders lightly in 
acknowledgment of a compliment which she 
felt to be well-deserved. 

Then between them they superintended 
the removal of the stricken man to his own 
chamber, over the arrangements of which 
Mrs. Jervoise presided indefatigably for 
several days. 

She really was unwearied in herattention 
to her suffering husband, and only allowed 
herself a little relief from the depressing 
atmosphere and influence of the sick-room, 
when her sister could take her place. But 
at the time she showed no sign of anxiety; 
nervousness and fatigue appeared to be 
unknown, and never a cloud dimmed the 
brightness of her fair face, nor a thrill of 
alarm for the sufferer rendered the clear 
metallic voice tremulous. 

'* Your sister bears up in a wonderful 
way," old Mrs. Ray said to her daughter-in- 
law about a fortnight after the paralytic 
stroke had fallen on Mr. Jervoise. 

"Oh, Flora and I never feel tired or 
give up when there's anything to do," 
Effie answered gaily ; " we look slight and 
delicate, but in reality we can do twice as 
much as most big robust-looking women." 

** I wish Mrs. Jervoise would let me or 
Jenifer lighten her labours," old Mrs. Ray 
said earnestly. Her b«8t sympathies were 
aroused by the sight of the unflagging 
zeal with which the pretty young wife 
devoted herself to her helpless husband. 

^* Oh, thanks, but Flora isn't a bit tired, 
and Mr. Jervoise likes to see her about the 
room ; and do you know she has got on 
with those character-costumes twice as fast 
a3 if Mr. Jervoise had* kept well, and 
things had gone on as usual? Flora's 
cleverer with her needle than I am, and 

she has such perfect taste. You'll be sur- 
prised when you see the Marie Stuart and 
Nell Gwynn costumes, and you'll hardly 
know Minnie Thurtle in hers." 

"Do you still mean to have your 
dramatic entertainment, Effie?" Jenifer 

'* Yes, Jenifer ; the invitations are out, 
and we mean to make it a great success. 
Mr. Jervoise will be able to sit up and be 
moved into his dressing-room by that time, 
so that there will be nothing in Flora's 
leaving him for a few hours in the evening. 
You Imow he can always amuse himself 
with sleeping in the evening." 

'' Have you spoken to Thurtle about his 
daughter acting yet?" Jenifer asked 

*' Oh yes, and had her here two or three 
times, and drilled her into doing her part 
very fairly," Effie cried triumphantly. 

It was with difficulty that Jen^er re- 
pressed an exclamation of pain and dread. 



Thomas Atkins is a youth who has 
given a good deal of trouble to his friends 
— with all the goodwill on his part 
to save them any trouble at all — simply 
because he is of a tough and elastic com- 
position, which refuses to be squeezed 
into any of the holes, round or square, that 
happen to be open to him upon the shuffle- 
board of life. He is not at all an ill-condi- 
tioned or sulky young fellow; his faults 
are all the other way. If life were all beer 
and skittles, Tom would rise to a distin- 
guished position and become the ruler of 
men, for at skittles or anything else that 
can be done by manual skill or dexterity 
Tom is clever enough. He is by no means 
idle with his hands, it is his head that he 
cannot be got to usa AU the doings of 
men of science and so on from Galileo up- 
wards or downwards he regards with polite 
indifference ; but he has a real worship for 
a " best on record," and regards the cham- 
pions of the oar and the racing-path with 
a veneration he accords to no other digni- 
taries, whether of Church or State. Tom 
would make an excellent "squire of the 
parish," but, as such positions are not 
bestowed on the most worthy, he stands a 
fair chance of sinking down to something 
very like the pauper of the parish. So 
that coming to an old friend during one of 
bis periodic slides in the direction of the 
latter, the conscientious advice was given 


" ^ ' 1 — 




.«. ii.J^i" 



ChtflM DlekAoi.] 


[June 23, 1883.] 20 

him, "Go for a soldier." "I will," said 
Tom, and forthwith disappeared. 

Bemorse was at first the lot of his 
adviser. For Tom has a sister, with the 
same handsome face as her brother, but 
with a force of chara'^ter that would, had 
Tom possessed it, have landed him Lord 
Mayor of London at least In her case 
it brought her, combined with the hand- 
some face, a rich husband and a nice 
house in Bayswater. Now the immediate 
result of Tom's going and enlisting was, 
that Mrs. Greaker, his sister, drove at once 
to the barracks, whence Tom hud written 
a pathetic farewell, and paying down the 
sum of ten pounds smart money — at which 
moderate tariif for the first three months 
after enlistment the recruit is let off his 
bargain— carried him off triumphantly in 
her brougham. 

"If she had only forked out the ten 
pounds before I'd joined," said Tom^ue- 

But it is doubtful whether Mr. Creaker 
would have drawn that cheque, just for 
Tom's benefit Perhaps it was not Tom's 
fature career he was concerned about, so 
much as the family position. To think of 
Tom coming to see his relations in a scarlet 
shell with a cane and a small cap set 
jauntily on the side of his head, for all the 
world like one of Mary the housemaid's 
admirers — oh, it would be too much to 

Tom himself may have had something 
to bear, and likely enough found the com- 
fortable house in Bayswater anything but 
a bower of roses. Anyhow, one morning 
came an agitated note from Mrs. Creaker. 

"T. has disappeared, I fear to enlist 
again. C. wIU never pay another penny 
for him. But try and save him." 

A pleasant, lively scene this fine spring 
morning, the neighbourhood of Trafalgar 
Square, where the great world has just 
opened its eyes and begun to stir, a sunny 
haze over Whitehall, and the omnibuses 
and cabs quite transfigured in the bright- 
ness of it; the padded old generals ambUng 
to their clubs; ministers and M.Ps. hurry- 
ing to their offices or their committees; 
artists making for their easels, and mil- 
lionaires for the money-market ; a pleasant 
scene with the dignified buildings, and 
columns, and porticoes ; but a little out of 
keeping with a forlorn band of young fellows 
gathered near the ^teps of the National 
Gallerj. Peaked and hungry-looking are 
these young fellows, and rather shabby as 
to garments ; with red comforters making 

the most of themselves as chest-protectors ; 
with coats buttoned as tightly as a scarcity 
of buttons permits ; with dilapidated pan- 
taloons, and woeful boots. 

Every now and then a scarlet jacket 
appears upon the scene, and a stout and 
rosy sergeant looks critically over the little 
squid, and even enters condescendingly 
into conversation ; while the young fellows, 
pale and nervous-looking in prospect of 
the ordeal before them — they are not 
recruits yet, but only aspirants for the . 
position — brisk up and assume as best they 
can an air of ease and nonchalance. 

Among this band we might expect to 
see the familiar form of Tom ; but he is 
not here. He must have chosen some other 
aventle for entrance to the British Army. 
Perhaps he has gone to some district post- 
office, and posted himself to a distant 
battalion, or joined at some local centre. 

These local centres, by the way — the 
brigade dep6ts of the new system of linked 
battalions — hardly do what was expected of 
them in the way of furnishing local 
recruits — the sturdy country youth who are 
wanted hang back a good deal. If these 
enlist at all, they often have reasons of 
their own for leaving the neighbourhood 
where they are known; and then old 
soldiers say there is something very dis- 
couraging about the entourage of a depdt^ 
with its crusty sergeants, no military dis- 
play to stir the imagination, and nothing 
but everlasting recruit-drill going on. The 
large towns and their recruiting agencies 
still furnish the bulk of new enlistments ; 
and this especial one of West London sends 
perhaps the largest contingent of all. For 
this is no exceptional muster we are told, 
the same number of recruits come up day 
after day in an unceasing if not very 
powerful stream. 

By this the little group has marched off 
between the iron rails where placards 
hang, calling the attention of young men 
to the advantages of the army in general, 
and of the Boyal Bombardiers in particular, 
or whatever may be the corps in want of 
recruits, and under the archway into the 

Atthe entrance to the barrack-yarda little 
crowd has gathered, seemingly friends and 
acquaintances of the recruits, who gradually 
edge forward in their eagerness to get a 
view of them till the senti^ on duty pushes 
them back. And there in front of the dun- 
coloured barrack buildings. A, B, and C, 
are drawn up in line the squad of recruits, 
while more stout, well-fed sergeants 


■ w 



30 [Jane 23, 1883.1 


Oondootod tqr 

come up and look them over. A soldier's 
wife overhead tranquilly arranges a pot of 
mignonette, and hangs out a bird-cage in 
the sunshine — the sunshine that streams 
across the barrack-yard, in the full blaze of 
which a party of Guardsmen, in white 
fatigue-jackets, are going through a bit of 
pumshment-drill, marching here and there, 
now threatening to go right through the 
barrack wall, or again to transfix them- 
selves upon the iron railing, but pulled up 
alwajs at the right moment by the word of 
command, as if the sergeant had a string to 
them and pulled them hither and thither, 
like an Italian boy with his white mice. 

The crowd at the gate, however, have 
no eye except for their friends, the recruits. 
There is a general cry : '^ That's him ; that's 
the bloke as '11 nail 'em 1 " as a mOitary 
surgeon in plain clothes marches in at the 
barrack-door. Then the sergeant straightens 
up the little band, and dresses the line, 
while some of the lads — the most eccentric 
in the wayof apparel — cutcapers and indulge 
in grimaces expressive of intense enjoy- 
ment of such a happy farca A few more 
have joined the line, one with a decent 
great-coat and muffler about his neck, who 
might be a City clerk, veiy pale and 
anxious looking ; and another, a fine strap- 
ping young fellow, whose set and resolute 
face would become the leader of a forlorn 
hope — and that I yes ; surely that is Tom 

And so Tom marches in with the rest of 
the awkward squad, marches before the 
surgeon provided only with the free kit 
that Nature gave him on his entrance 
into the world. He is measured by the 
standard that resembles an enlarged copy 
of the machine that shoemakers use to take 
the length of their customers' feet Tom 
is five feet ten inches and a half, and 
will do for the foot-guards or heavy 
cavalry — if he chooses to go for them — 
while the little fellow who follows him 
barely passes the five feet four inches 
which is the minimum standard for any- 
thing. Then Tom is told to count ten 
while the tape is run round his chest. He 
counts slowly Enough, and with an accent 
of contempt in his voice, as if there could be 
any possible doubt of that well-developed 
chest of his being under the mark. But 
some of the slips of fellows manage to 
count ten and yet keep their chests full of 
wind ; after the manner of Boreas outside, 
who seems to go on blowing for ever with- 
out exhausting the supply ; and so just save 
their thirty-four inches. Some of the 

younger ones fail to pass at all, and are sent 
back to complete their growth. AH, with- 
out exception, give the age of nineteen 
years or a little over, though many of them 
are perhaps a year or two younger. But no 
proof is required as to age, only the physical 
equivalent of nineteen years is required 
in a recruit, and many a stout, forward 
young fellow of seventeen would pass for 
nineteen, where a weedy youth, who had 
really attained that age, might be sent back. 

Then there is the test of weight ; the 
recruit must scale at least one hundred 
and twenty pounds. Tom has at least a 
couple of stone to spare. There is no 
question about his being a likely recruit 
The only doubtful point now is as to Tom's 
sistor. Will she come down upon him 
again and insist on buying him out f The 
mattor is discussed quito dispassionately 
by the recruiting-sergeants. Ab far as they 
are concerned, so much the better for them 
if Tom is bought out every other day and 
enlists in the intervals. Already has 
Tom'a especial sergeant made two pounds 
by the transaction, as he is paid a pound 
for each recruit who passes the medical 
examination. Out of this he has generally 
to pay ten shillings to the bringer-in, or 
unofficial tout who secures the recruit, but 
in this case Tom has brought himself, and 
gets nothing — no, not even the Queen's 
shilling that formerly everyone got who 
'listed for the army, whether accepted or 
rejected; and all that dramatic business 
of slipping the shilling into the hand of 
the half-reluctantand half-inebriated recruit 
has come to an end. Secruiting is now 
conducted on temperance principles ; each 
man has a little pamphlet put into his 
hand, almost like a tract Tom has been 
studying this pamphlet attentively while 
sitting m the bare barrack-room waiting 
for further orders. 

It is well that Tom is prepared, for pre- 
sently he is sent for, and there in the cor- 
ridor is his sister with her husband, the 
latter lookingvery chilly and uncomfortable. 

Mrs. Creaker falls upon her brother's 
neck and weeps. 

" Dear Tom," she sobs, " Edward will 
give you another chance. I have got the 
ten pounds, and you must give me your 
word of honour that you'll never, never do'' 
it any more." 

But Tom holds firm. 

" Look here, Lucy," he says in a husky 
voice: "you mean it well, perhaps, but 
ou shouldn't tiy to drag me from a thing 
'm cut out for/ 




Charles Bickeiii.] 


EJane 23, 1888.] 31 

"We are not going to drag you, Tom," 
interposed Mr. Creaker authoritatively; 
" only we expect you to listen to reason. 
Now, tell us, in the first place, what are 
the terms of this absurd enlistment t " 

"For seven years," said Tom readily, 
"or eight if the time of service expires 
when abroad." 

" Exactly," replied Creaker. " The best 
years of your fife ; the years when you 
ought to be making a position for yourself 
in the world and laying the foundation of 
future competency. And at the end of 
this precious seven or eight years — ^there 
you. are, cast aside like an old shoe." 

"Not a bit of it,'' said Tom. "The 
soldier, when he leaves the colours, has five 
years, or four, as the case may be, in the 
reserve, for which time he gets sixpence a 
day for doing nothing." 

"With a UabiUty," adds Creaker, "to 
be called out at any time when he's 
wanted — when, if he should have had the 
lack to find a decent situation, he is sure 
to lose it And at the end of your twelve 
years, Tom, where will you be? A 
candidate for the workhouse." 

"Not a bit," answered Tom calmly. 
" I don't mean to leave the army for that. 
What I've been telling you about is the 
look-out of an illiterate man who doesn't 
care for anything better. And it isn't so 
bad for him. He draws his twenty o» 
perhaps thirty pounds of reserved pay 
when he leaves his regiment, and so, with 
his sixpence a day, he can set himself up 
in a little business if he likes. But as I 
can read and write and cypher, I shall be 
a sergeant, I'm told, before many years are 
over, and then I can stay on for my twenty- 
one years and a pension." 

" A sergeant ! " cried Creaker, turning to 
his wife. " Just fancy — a relative of mine 
with those horrid stripes on his arm ! " 

"I promise you this," cried Tom bit- 
terly : " I'll never come to your house to 
make you ashamed of me, anyhow." 

"Oh, Tom, we shall never be ashamed of 
you !" said his sister, beginning to sob again. 

But Creaker shook his head solemnly. 
As Tom was so obdurate, he must be left 
to his fate. For his own part, he should 
consider him as civilly dead. 

Tom looked a little awestruck at this 
phrase, not knowing exactly what it meant ; 
but anyhow he was not to be shaken in his 
purpose, and so his friends took their 
departure, leaving him a little sore at 
heart, but quite determined to make the 
best of his way as a soldier laddie. 

Of course Tom's sudden disappearance 
from the society of which he had been an 
ornament caused a good deal of specula- 
tion. People wanted to know where that 
nice young fellow had gone, and the young 
women — those Dash wood girls especially — 
with whom he had waltzed and played 
tennis, and generally made himself useful, 
were full of curiosity as to his fate. And 
at first the Creakers enveloped the matter 
in gloom and mystery. 

Tom kept up a correspondence with an 
old friend, who continued to keep Mrs. 
Creaker informed of his doings. On the 
whole he had no reason to complin of his 
treatment. He had soon passed his drills 
and joined the ranks, and now he had 
plenty of time to himself, and smoked and 
read the newspaper like any swell with six 
thousand a year. At first he had found 
the atmosphere of the barrack-room rather 
sulphurous. The army that swore horribly 
in Flanders has gone on swearing rather 
more than less ever since. And in this 
respect the army reorganised is about 
on a par with the old establishment, 
except perhaps that there is rather a 
wearisome sameness and reiteration of pro- 
fanity about the young soldiers. After all, 
To^m had come to the conclusion that all 
this was but an echo of the tone of the 
workshop and public-houses in civil life, 
and sprang more from a paucity of ideas 
and a yearning for forcible expression with 
a limited vocabulary than from any par- 
ticular inherent depravity. And taking 
them individually, the soldiers were not at 
all bad fellows, and would talk sensibly 
enough ; each man with his own history to 
himself, and some kind of plan for the 
future, generally blown to the winds at the 
first chance of a big drink. And as for 
that, after a dusty march out with a pack 
on your back and a heavy rifle in your fist, 
a can of beer at the canteen, very good and 
cheap, was something of a luxury. They 
had all plenty of money to spend, perhaps 
rather too much — four shillings a week on 
an average, clear of everything, which 
could be made ducks and drakes of at the 
canteen, or worse still, in the grogshops of 
the town. 

But as for social disadvantages, that the 

5rivate soldier may have to put up with, 
'om averred that he had not felt them as 
yet. Of course if he went into the town 
it was rather annoying to find that the red 
coat shut him out of most places of resort 
of the better class — ^to find that the soldier 
was welcomed only in low public-houses 




32 [June 23, 1888.] 


iCkndaotod bf 

and entertainments of the penny gaff styla 
But then he found sufficient amusement 
without going out of bounds. There was 
the gymnasium, where any odd time could 
be profitably employed ; and the reading- 
room, with a chance of. being quiet and 
undisturbed ; and then what with drills 
and fatigue duty and the rcbt, the young 
soldiers are always ready for a comfortable 
snooze. For they were turned out early 
in the morning and were kept at it pretty 
well till tea-time, about four. After that 
their time was their own in a general way, 
unless on guard that night. 

Of course all this had to go to Mrs. 
Creaker, who still had a kindly feeling for 
Tom, although she could not persuade her 
husband to share it. There were others, 
however, who did not require any per- 
suading to share in this regard. The 
young women before alluded to had been 
his friends in his hours of idleness. Some- 
how the secret had leaked out, and it had 
become generally known that Tom had 
gone for a soldier, and the result was an 
amount of sympathy and kindly feeling on 
his behalf that was really touching. The 
amount of latent military feeling that 
showed itself in female bosoms, if known 
to the authorities, would have justified 
them in proposing to raise a regiment of 
Amazons. It must be cavalry, by the way. 
The women to a man — if the phrase may 
be allowed — wfll go for horsemanship. The 
general outcry was : " Oh, why did Tom 
go into a stupid infantry regiment; he 
would have been so lovely as a dragoon ! '' 

As it happened Tom had taken advice 
upon this matter — the advice of a hard- 
headed Scotch sergeant, who had decidedly 
pronounced for the infantry of the line — 
that is, for a decent well-educated young 
man who meant to make the army his 
profession and hoped to rise in it. For 
one thing there are many more well- 
educated youn^ fellows in the ranks of the 
cavalry than in the infantry, and conse- 
quently the chance of rapidly rising 
to the non - commissioned rank so 
much the less. And then the duties 
are much more engrossing and afford less 
opportunity for self-improvement. But 
the main thing, perhaps, that influenced 
Tom, was a half-acknowledged hope that 
one day or other he might win his com- 
mission. Not one of those commissions 
granted exclusively to deserving soldiers ; 
for respectable as is the position of the 
regimental quartermaster or riding-master, 
it is not one that would tempt a young 

fellow of spirit and courage No, let me 
be a combatant officer, or leave me in the 
ranks, he would say. And this was just 
Tom's feeling, that if he had great good 
luck, and kept himself coached up so as to 
be qualified for the examination, he mieht 
some day, before he was too old, gain his 
commission as lieutenant. The Scotch 
sergeant shook his head over this, and 
when Tom triumphantly pointed out this 
passage in the little tract befofe alluded 
to, " A limited number of non-commissioned 
officers who are recommended by their 
commanding officers, and who are able 
to pass the qualifying examination, are 
annually selected for commissions as lieu- 
tenants," "A verra leemited number, in- 
deed ye'Il find it," rejoined the sergeant, 
and opined that this regulation was for 
the benefit of young men who were unable 
to pass for Sandhurst, but who had influence 
enough to get pushed through the ranks 
in this way. But then, said Tom hope- 
fully, perhaps therell be an improvement 
before long ; perhaps the example of the 
French will be followed, who give some- 
thing like a third of their commissions to 
men from the ranks. And Tom is sure 
that, if some such prospect as this were 
offered, there would be a regular rush to 
the ranks of decent well-educated young 
fellows, well-fed, well-grown, well-born 
taiany of them, if that is a consideration, 
ready to take their chance in the rough 
and tumble of a soldier's career, with the 
hope of this prize, which is valued at far 
more than its intrinsic worth. 

And in this way would be tapped a 
fresh source of supply. The fitful stream 
of needy lads, who take to the army as a 
last resource, would be supplemented by a 
more regular flow, the 6Ute, in many res- 
pects, of English youth. There is no want 
of martial ardour among them. The diffi- 
culty rather is to find anybody who in his 
youth has not been fired with the military 
aspiration. And now that for good or ill the 
whole constitution of the army is changed, 
why should you not offer the aspiring 
British youth the one thing that will tempt 
him to join the ranks f 

However, we are forgetting Tom and 
his female friends, who are pining with 
anxiety to see him. There is quite a 
conspiracy among them to induce Mrs. 
Creaker to have Tom home for his furlough. 
Creaker is to be got rid of for a time, and 
Tom to have the run of the house in his 
absence. Mrs. Creaker has half consented 
to join the plot, but then what is she to 



Gbarlai Dlekens.] 


[Jane 28, 1888.] 33 

do with Tom when she gets himi She 
can't take him about shopping with her in 
his scarlet tanic, and has he any private 
dothes, and wQl he come with his things 
in a kind of bolster, as she has seen 
soldiers sometimes at railway-stations 1 
And this private clothes difficulty turns 
oat a serious one. For we are told that it 
is a rank offence against the Mutiny Acts 
and the Articles of War, for a private 
soldier to appear in public out of uniform. 
He is liable to be treated as a deserter, and 
hauled off by the nearest policeman, and 
there would be a disgrace for the house ! 
And somebody who is well informed on 
the subject, informs us that any police- 
constable, or officer of the peace, can stop 
poor Tom and demand his furlough, and 
that this furlough is a most uncompromis- 
ing document, with a place in it for date 
of last offence, as if it were a ticket-of-leave 
for a convict The young women are quite 
ready to face the difficulty ; they pooh-pooh 
the Mutiny Act, and talk lightly of the 
Articles of War. Mr. Greaker must be 
got to sign a cheque before he leaves, that 
will provide Tom with a good outfit and 
pocket-money for his Plough. 

All these difficulties are, however, solved 
in a quite unforeseen way. Just as Tom 
is expecting his first furlough, and wonder- 
mg where he shall spend the time, the 
difficulty with Egypt comes to a crisis, and 
his battalion is ordered off to the East, and 
Tom sails away with the rest Almost 
before we have time to be uneasy about 
him, we hear that victory has crowned our 
arms, and that the soldiers are all coming 
back. Tom writes home a flaming account 
of Tel-el-Kebir, and Creaker, in spite of 
himself, is so elated, that he actually takes 
the letter into the City to read to some of 
his cronies. And when the troops are 
marched past the Queen, he spends a 
fabulous sum in 'hiring windows to see the 
procession. Tom is on the look-out for us, 
and waves his helmet, regardless of disci- 
pline; He flashes through the bright bronze 
of his sunburnt face, as he sees the young 
women who have come to welcome him 
home. None but the brave deserve the fair ! 

After this Tom gets a week's leave and 
spends it at Bayswater by special invitation 
from Creaker. Tom in his white helmet 
and serge-suit is quite tf lion in the neigh- 
bourhood. The small boys assemble and 
cheer him, and everybody calls to con- 
gratulate the iiero of Tel^el-Kebir. He is 
a corporal now, has fairly started on the 
upwfl^ path, and is vastly pleased with his 

first promotion. It means eightpence a 
day more pay too, and that gives him 
nearly nine shillings a week for pocket- 
money, with no trouble in making both 
ends meet 

One day, after dinner, Creaker passes 
the wine — Tom has not yet been affiliated 
to the blue ribbon, but threatens it, just to 
set an example to the privates, he says — 
however, Creaker looks over his wine-glass 
at Tom in a meaning way, and thus 
addresses him : 

" Tom, these few months have made a 
man of you; I fancied they would, and 
therefore I didn't much oppose your joining. 
Only I think you've had enough of it 
Come, I'll write you a cheque for ten 
pounds, and you shall buy yourself out, 
my boy, and take a seat in my office." 

"Ten pounds won't buy me now," said 
Tom. "I'm no longer a recruit; it will 
take thirty or forty pounds now. And I 
doubt whether the colonel would part with 
me ; and I assure you I don't feel inclined 
to part with him. I'm getting a position 
now in the regiment No, no ; you keep 
your money in your pocket, old fellow." 

"Oh, the money doesn't matter," said 
Creaker vaingloriously ; "if it were a 
hundred I'd buy you out, Tom, now I've 
taken a fancy to do it" 

Tom would give no immediate answer, 
although his sister urged him strongly to 
accept her husband's offer. 

" You don't know what he might not do 
for you, Tom," she urged. 

But Tom's notion was, now that he had 
begun it, to go through with it, and try to 
do something for himself. For what will 
he be in Creaker's office ? — a hireling who 
can be replaced at any moment — ^with a 
whole row of hungry fellows waiting 
to snatch the morsel out of his mouth. 
Now, as a soldier, he is a person sure 
to be in demand sooner or later; and 
the possibility of war and its perils 
gives an element of dignity to existence, 
and invests the coarse tunic of the soldier 
with a kind of classic grace. And so with 
many thanks to his brother-in-law, Tom 
declines his offer. 

" Ah," said Creaker maliciously, "it's all 
very well now, but before long you'll be 
wanting to marry somebody. And how 
then 1 Would you like to take your wife 
into barracks 1 " 

"Well," said Tom, "I don't think a 
soldier has any business to get married — 
not as a private, anyhow — and with short 
service there is no reason in it; time 




34 [June 23, 1888.] 


IGoodnctad bj 

enough for that when a man is passed into 
the reserve. But, mind you, a married 
sergeant is not so badly off. If he marries 
with permission — and as seventy-five per 
cent, of the sergeants are allowed to marry, 
there's practically no difGiculty — the ser- 
geant gets a room to himself, and his ration 
of bread and meat is pretty nearly enough 
for two. Then with his ration of fuel and 
light, and his half-a-crown a day or so, he 
isn't rich, indeed, but he needn't starve." 

"All very fine," cried Mrs. Creaker ; " but 
I should like to know what one of those 
Dashwood girls, that you were so sweet 
upon, Tom, would say to such a prospect" 

" Well," said Tom, flushing and laughing 
uneasily, *' I can't afford to buy hot-house 
grapes at ten shillings a pound," helping 
himself liberally to some very fine ones as 
he spoke ; " but I won't say they are sour 
for all that Look here, we'll have a big 
row before long, and then I'll come home 
a captain, and many Bella Dashwood." 

Just then came a letter for Tom, from 
the sergeant-major of his battalion, saying 
that they were ordered to Aldershot, and 
that Tom was to join there on the expira- 
tion of his leave. 

**Look atthat,"said Tom,"there'salways 
something stirrine in a soldier's Ufa" 

"Aldershot — eh," said Creaker, who 
was somewhat mellowed and softened with 
an after-dinner feeling of general bene- 
volence. "We'll come over and see you, 
Tom, as soon as you're settled, and I'll 
have a talk to your commanding officer." 

"Oh yes, tiiat will be famous," cried 
Mrs. Creaker ; " we'll come and see the 
soldier at home." 


Up and down the terrace pacing, where the winter 

sunlight glowed. 
And the sound of falling waters timed my footsteps 

as I trode, 
Pacing where the tall yew hedges kept the bitter 

blast away. 
And the noontide smiled like summer on the 

January day. 

Up and down the terrace pacing, for a musing hour 

While the river's music mingled with the baf&ed 

east wind's moan ; 
And a presence seemed beside me, very close and 

very dear, 
A strong hand my hand was clasping, a low voice 

was in my ear. 

Words of counsel, words of comfort, words of dear 

And the blue eyes spoke as softly as the mobile 

eager lip : 
Hope grew brighter, grief grew sweeter, doubt, 

ashamed, shrank quite away, 
As we two paced on together in the January 


Swift and sweet the moments passed me, as the sun- 
shine paled overhead. 

And to common life returning, fell the slow reluc- 
tant tread : 

Yet my hushed heart from its commune, patience 
strtno^h and courage drew ; 

And nortn skies with southern splendour gilded all 
the darkling yew. 



."Well, doctor, what's the verdict 1 
Am I condemned to death, or are you 
going to reprieve me 1 '' 

"I think I can reprieve yon. Bnt I 
can't promise to do mor&" 

"I never expected it I know my 
state quite as well as you — ^I haven't a 
year's life in ma. Now don't begin to 
talk the usual rubbish; you ought to 
know me well enough by this time. Can 
you give me six months ) " 

" Not in England." 

" Where 1 " 

" Somewhere in the south — say Nice or 
Cannes. Nice by preference." 

" All right, Nice by all means. When 
can I travel t " 

"Early next week, if you rest the 
remainder of this." 

Mr. Fletcher save a dissatisfied grunt as 
he turned himself in his bed. 

"Look here, Maitland," he said when 
he had settled himself into a new position; 
" if you think that at my time of life I'm 
going to gad about foreign countries by 
myself, you're mistaken. You'll have to 
come with me." 

The doctor smiled; he was pleasantly 
surprised to hear his patient make the 
suggestion, but he did not wish him to see 
how gratified he was. 

"What is to become of my practice 
meanwhile ) " he asked. 

"Oh, your practice must take care of 
itself ; look upon this journey as a holiday 
taken rather earlier than usual. See me 
safely to Nice, put me into the hands of a 
good doctor there, and then you can 
leave me to end my days in peace. I think 
you will do that for three hundred and 
expenses ) " 

" I would do it for less," was Maitland's 

" I don't want you to. Fm rich enough, 
as you well know, to pay well for what 
people do for me. What do you suppose 
I want to keep my money lor f I can't 
take it with me, can I — eh1 " 

" Not beyond Nice," replied the young 


ChKlM INeksiis.] 


[June S3, 1883.1 35 

doctor, using the freedom which his 
eccentric patron liked. 

" Oood, and I shaVt want much there ; 
I can't make much of a hole in my pro- 
perty in six months, howerer hard I try ; 
though I helieve that young scamp of a 
nephew of mine will grudge me my daily 

Maitland was silent; it was not his 
place to foster the hreach between uncle 
and nephew, whatever his private opinion 
of Fred Dexter's character might ba 

"You have a father, haven't you?" 
asked the old gentleman after a pause. 

" Yes ; he is still living." 

"Then treat him better than my son 
treated me ; it will make him happier, if 
it doesn't make you." 

'' I wish' you would let me speak to you 
about your son," said Maitland. 

"Thank you; I'd sooner hear you on 
any other subject" 

" I don't often trouble you with this on^." 

" No ; or I should change my doctor." 

"You have done him injustice, at all 
events,^ said Maitland rather warmly, 
" and I think you will live to repent it" 

" In that case you must make me live 
longer than you profess to be able to do," 
retorted the invalid. " Don't renew the 
subject, please, till I ask you. Come in 
to-morrow, and we will make final arrange- 
ments about the journey." 

Maitland knew Mr. Fletcher intimately 
enough to know that the interview was 
over. He left the room, and proceeded on 
his round of afternoon visits, reaching his 
small house about an hour before dinner. 

A letter was waiting for him; it was 
directed in a lady's hand, and bore the 
postmark of Nice. He read it through 
twice, apparently enjoying the perusal, then 
he lay back in his chair and thought 

"It's a stroke of ^ood fortune, most 
decidedly," he soliloquised. " Amy is at 
Nice, and now I shall be able to go and 
see her. That will be a pleasant surprise 
for her^ I hope. I'm afraid she doesn't 
get too many of them. Luckily Mr. 
Fletcher will never guess the reason of my 
recommending Nice; after all, it is just 
as good for him as any other place, and I 
may be doing him a greater service than 
he dreams of in taking him there, if things 
fall out as they should." 

lu the midst of his reverie the servant 
entered, brin^g him another letter. 

" Please, sir, this came this morning, but 
yon don't seem to have seen it" 

Maitland opened'it, not with the alacrity 

he had shown with the first It ran 
thus : 

"Dear Maitland, — How is the old 
boy 9 This question will savour of nepotic 
afiection or interested selfishness ; you may 
take your own meaning. I ask, because I 
am amongst the sharks again, and until I 
can pacify them with a feed on my uncle's 
accumulations, they are insatiable. I want 
to know, as a matter of business, how long 
he is likely to linger on this earth if he 
has made a will in my favour, as he knows 
very well I shall not be sorry to get it 
proved. Why should I hesitate to own as 
truth that which he taunts me with every 
time we meet 1 Gould you lend me fiif ty 
till the time comes 1 Charge fifty per cent 
if you like. Tell me truth about my 
uncle ; I can bear it even if you give him 
five years longer. I shall bear it still better 
if you confine him to five months. — Yours, 

"F. Dexter," 

" Heartless brute ! " thought Maitland 
on finishing, "though certainly he never 
makes a pretence of being anything else. 
It's fortunate for him that his uncle 
knows so little about him or his chances 
of succession would be considerably 

He scribbled a note in reply to the 
letter simply informing Dexter of his 
uncle'^ intended journey and of his state of 
health. He omitted to give any opinion as 
to the probable length of his tenure of life. 

Dr. Maitland was still a young man in 
his profession, though he was thirty-four 
years of age. He had entered it late ; his 
prospects were fairly good, but hitherto 
his practice had been restricted — ^in a 
country town it takes time for a new man 
to make a position, as every family of stand- 
ing already possesses a medical man and is 
unwilling to change. However, he did not 
despair of getting on. He had every reason 
for wishing to do so, for he was desirous of 
getting married. He was not yet even* 
engaged; he had secret reasons for not pro- ' 
posing at present to the girl he loved. 
Whether he would ever be in a position to 
do so was more than he could as yet 

Mr. Fletcher had been his patient during 
the last five years — ^in fact ever since he 
began practice. This was partly because 
he had quarrelled with all the other 
medical men of the town, but chiefly for 
a reason that he would never own. This 
was that Maitland had been a great friend 
many years before of his only son Charlie. 




36 [June 23, 188S.] 


[Oandaetad by 

Charles Fletcher was of a very different 
stamp from his father. The latter was aa a 
rule selfish and arrogant — diligent in busi- 
ness and economical in habits. He had 
bred his son up in his own footsteps, but 
had found that he could not mould his 
character as he wished. Charlie was 
inclined to extravagance, held the opinion 
that money was of no use unless spent, 
thought that life should be valued for its 
opportunities of pleasure rather than of 
gain, and in countless ways ran counter to 
his father's life-long maxima Quajrel 
followed quarrel; the fact that he loved his 
son so well only made the father more 
bitterly resent the want of affection and 
respect with which he was treated, till one 
day the crisis arrived. 

Mr. Fletcher had determined that his son 
should marry earlv, hoping by this means 
to make him settle down. He informed 
him of his wishes accordingly, pointing 
out that he intended to make his future 
prospects depend on the propriety of his 
selection. Charlie postponed the matter as 
long as possible, until at last a confession 
became inevitable. He was married already. 

This put a stop to all hope of reconcilia- 
tion ; there was a violent scene, during 
which the father refused to recognise 
the marriage, and told his son he must 
shift for himself. This Charlie said he was 
quite ready to do, and that his father need 
not fear any applications for assistance from 
him. If money made men behave like 
his father, the less he had of it the better. 

A year afterwards Charles Fletcher died 
in Paris. His father refused even to make 
enquiry as to his wife, but was informed 
shortly afterwards of her death also by a 
paper sent to him from some unknown 
quarter. He said nothing to any of his 
friends, but his health gradually broke 
down, and from being a robust, active man 
he became in the course of years an invalid. 
A second attack of paralysis was the 
immediate cause of Mr. Maitland's last 
visit, and no one knew better than the 
patient that his days were numbered. 

" Ah well I " he used sometimes to say, 
" I don't want to live and several people 
want me to die — the majority ought to 
have their wish." 


However, when Mr. Fletcher found 
himself at Nice, with its charming surround- 
ings and delightful climate, he amxost began 
to have regrets that he must so soon bid 
farewell to existence. 

<<I wish, Maitland, I had come here 
sooner," he said one day. " Why didn't 
you order me here long ago ) " 

"It wouldn't have done you any good, 
and I thought you preferred England." 

" So I do to live in, but this is the sort 
of place to die in." 

Maitland made no attempt to turn his 
thoughts ; his patient always resented it if 
he did. 

" I hope you are having a pleasant time 
here as well," continued Mr. Fletcher. " I 
don't want to monopolise you, you know." 

" Thanks, I think I've shown you I can 
leave you alone occasionally." 

"I didn't know you had friends here. 
Who are those people I saw you taUdng 
to this morning m the gardens 1 " 

" The Kestertons ; I only know them 

" H— m 1 " coughed Mr. Fletcher. " I 
should have thought you knew one of them 
rather well She^ a pleasant-looking giiL " 

Maitland tried his best to look uncon- 
scious, and flattered himself he succeeded. 

"Oh, I know the one you mean," he 
said, " but she isn't one of the Kestertons, 
she's a Miss Fletcher." 

" Same name as mine f Well, Fletchers 
are common enough." 

"Yes, but not such Fletchers aa she," 
remarked Maitland. 

The old eentleman did not reply; his 
thoughts had evidently wandered back to 
old times. Maitland was careful not to 
disturb him; he had noticed lately that 
his reveries had become more frequent, and 
that they seemed to soften the acerbity 
of his natura 

They were seated on the terrace, where 
they often came to watch the passers-by ; it 
seemed to please the invalid to see the gay 
lifeof which hecould no longer bea partaker. 

The young doctor was still sitting 
sUently when he was interrupted with: 
" Brin^ her here ; I want to speak to her." 

He looked up and saw the young lady 
of whom they had been speaking approach- 
ing them. By her side ran a little girl 
of seven or eight years old. 

"Do you wish to know herl" asked 

" Yes ; why should you be afraid of me t 
I'm not likely to be a rival" 

Maitland felt this was a home- thrust; 
the old man's eyes were keen enough yet 
He went forwiurd to meet Miss Fletcher, 
closely watched by his patient 

" Amy," he said, " I want to introduce 
you to a patient of mine. Oddly enough, 




Chaiki Dloksm.] 


[Jime28, 1888.] 37 

he has the same name as yours* You will 
do him and me a kindness if yon will talk 
to him a few minutes." 

" With pleasure," replied Amy, adding 
in a half- whisper : '' So it is a kindness to 
jou for me to talk to someone else, is it 1" 

"Sit down here, my dear," said the 
invalid, after a few minutes' general talk. 
" Maitland, you take little missy to see that 
wonderful cactus at the end of the terrace ; 
I want to talk to Miss Fletcher a little." 

Maidand obeyed, glad to find that lie 
had interested his patient in a new direc- 
tion. He took little Cissy's hand and 
marched her off towards the cactus, though 
she seemed scarcely to like leaving Miss 

She soon began talking about her, and 
found that her companion was an appre- 
ciative listener. Not only that, but he 
asked questions about her; a most unjusti- 
fiable proceeding, of course ; but he salved 
his conscience by arguing that nothing 
Cissy could say would alter his opinion of 
her governess, and it was very pleasant to 
hear her praises sounded by a disinterested 

At the end of a quarter of an hour they 
returned to the seat. Amy rose as they 

" Maitland," said Mr. Fletcher, '< I am 
going to stay out here for another hour 
or so; you had better accompany this 
young lady homa Tou will find me here 
when you return." 

Maitland did not make any very 
lengthened protest 

" How do you like my old friend 1 " he 
asked when they were out of hearing. 

"I think he is delightful," was Amy's 

" What did you talk about % " 

''All sorts of things. He asked me a 
lot of questions : how old I was — that was 
very rude, wasn't iti — and about my 
father and mother, and how it was I lived 
with the Kestertons." 

" And what did you say 1 " 

''I told him that you could tell him 
more about me than I could mysel£ He 
seemed rather surprised. I should not 
wonder if you came in for a cross-examina- 
tion this evening." 

'* Did he ask you to come and talk to 
him agam 1 " 

"Yea Whyl" 

"I suppose because he liked your 
society," replied Maitland, wilfully misin- 
terpreting her question. "Be sure you come 
to the terrace at the same time tomorrow." 

" Yes, I will make a point of it, so you 
can consider yourself relieved." 

" I may be relieved, but I don't intend 
to be dismissed again," replied Maitland 
with a laugh "I suppose I have no 
excuse good enough for coming in ? " he 
added as they reached the door of the 
villa hired by the Kestertona 

"I must leave you to settle that 

" I have no excuse at all, but I'm coming 
in all the same if you will let me." 

" It isn't my house," replied Amy. 

" That is a very ungracious invitation," 
said Maitland as he accompanied her into 
the halL 

When Maitland, half an hour later, 
returned to his patient, he found him 
talking with a man who was sitting next 
hioL "He is making acquaintances to- 
day," thought the young doctor. As he 
approached, however, he saw that the sup- 
posed stranger was Mr. Fletcher's nephew, 
Fred Dexter. 

" Ah, Maitland 1 " was his greeting, 
" here lam, you see." 

"Yes," put in the old gentleman, on 
whose nature his nephew always acted as 
an irritant; "'where the carcase is' you 
know, Maitland." 

" Oh, come, uncle, you're not a carcase 
yet," protested Dexter. " You might have 
blamed me with more reason if I'd waited 
till you were one before I came to see you." 

" He seems to be under the impression 
that I shall be able to blame him after I'm 
dead," remarked Mr. Fletcher sarcastically 
to ^^tland. 

" Oh, come, uncle, I don't see why you 
should always put the worst interpretation 
on all I say." 

"It won't bear any other," pettishly 
replied the old maa " Who told you I was 
here ? " 

"Maitland. I wrote and asked him 
about you." 

"Do you mind letting me see that 

Maitland here interposed, and said he 
believed he had not kept it 

" That's a pity," said Dexter ; " I should 
like to have shown it you that you might 
see what my letters about you are like." 

" Let us go in," said Mr. Fletcher ; " I'm 
getting tired. You will dine with us to- 
night 1 " 

" Many thanks, uncle, but I've promised 
to see some people to-night" 

" Who 1 " 

" They are called Kesterton." 




38 [Juno 28, 1888.] 


[Gondnoted by 

" Do you know them 1 " enquired Mait- 
land rather anxiously. 

" Oh yes, very welL Do you 1 " 

« SHghUy." 

" There's a very nice girl in the house, a 
sort of companion, or governess. She's 
called Fletcher, same name as uncle's. Odd 
coincidence, isn't it 1 " 

"Come !" said Mr. Fletcher peremptorily. 

After dinner, instead of tryug to get Ms 
usual nap, Mr. Fletcher sat in his easy- 
chair, evidently in a very excited frame of 
mind. He seemed undecided what to 
do ; he fidgeted about with one book and 
another till at last he threw them down, 
and called out ''Maidand 1" 


"Let me see the letter that precious 
nephew of mine wrote you. You haven't 
destroyed it. I could see well enough that 
you were only trying to screen him. He 
said I could have read it if it had not been 
torn up." 

" I have it, it's true," replied Maitland ; 
" but I can't show it you without his per- 

" He gave it" 

"But I told him I thought I had 
destroyed it." 

" Very well, if you don't show it me I 
shall conclude the worst; it's clear you 
would let me see it in a moment if it was 
fit to be seen. Fred had better take care ; 
he knows that he is my heir, but he doesn't 
know how near he is to having his 
expectations disappointed. I'm afraid he 
is a scamp, and it will be a bad job for 
him if he can't conceal the fact a few 
months longer." 

Maitland did not attempt to defend 
Dexter, both his conscience and inclination 
were against such a course. He knew that 
he was, in spite of his advantages, a 
loose, untrustworthy, and selfish fellow, 
and he had strong reasons for hoping 
that his succession to Mr. Fletcher's money 
might never become a fact. 

The old man seemed inclined to talk this 
evening. He turned himself round to face 
Maitland, and said : " Who is Amy 
Fletcher 1" 

" She is governess at the Kestertons'." 

« Why ? Who got her the place 1 " 

" I did," replied Maitland, looking rather 

" H — m ! you seem to take a considerable 
interest in this young lady. Has she any 
money 1" 

" None whatever." 

" Then who paid for her schooling % " 

" Her father left enough to cover most 
of the expense," 

" And you supplied the rest 1 " 

Maitland's look was sufficient to condemn 

" It's a nice romantic story," continued 
the old man; "when do you propose to 
marry her 1 " 

"I don't know," replied the young 
doctor ; " perhaps not at alL" 

" You mean she doesn't care for you t " 

"No, ^I don't mean that; but I am 
in a very peculiar position in regard to 

" What is the peculiarity 1 " 

" Do you ask me to tell you 1 *' 

" Yes ; why not 1 " 

"I didn't like to do so without your 
asking me directly. I have reason to 
believe that she may be an heiresa" 

" I don't see why that should stop you." 

" No, perhaps not ; though people woidd 
doubt my sincerity in proposmg to a girl 
so rich as she may become." 

" It's very odd that an heiress should be 
a governess." 

"She doesn't know who she is," ex- 
plained Maitland. " I am the only one in 
the world who does know. Suppose that 
I ask her hand — ^she may accept me; 
afterwards she discovers that she is very 
rich; what will she think of me then! 
She will judge me to be the most despicable 
man in the world." 

" Why not tell her she is an heires8,'and 
then propose 1 If she loves you, the fact 
that she is rich will only add to her willing- 
ness to accept you." 

"I cannot tell her, because she may 
never be so." 

Mr. Fletcher looked puzzled. " There is 
more in this than you tell me, Maitland," 
he said. " You've treated me very well ; 
I've taken a liking for you, and for the 
girl too, for that matter. I should like to 
help you if I can, and feel I have done one 
kindness before it is out of my power to do 
any. How did you come to have this girl 
on your hands 1" 

"I knew her father and mother very 
well They died abroad within a few 
months of each other. I was only a very 
young man then, as you may imagine ; but 
they left me in charge of their only 
daughter, then scarcely more than an 
infant. My mother brought her up ; when 
she was old enough she was sent to school 
as I told you." 

This simple recital interested the old 
man more than he cared to show. He 


Charles Dlckeu.] 


[June 28, 1888.] 89 

ooold not prevent his voice from trembling 
as he asked : 

" Is her grandfather alive ? '' 

" Yes," was the reply. 

" Why does he not support her 1 *' 

" He does not know of her existence. He 
quarrelled with his son, who went abroad 
and died there,^tellinff me never to let his 
father know that he left a child. I have 
kept the secret till now." 

" You may as well finish the story now 
yon have gone so far,'' said the invalid, 
falling back in his chair. *^ What was her 
fathePs name f ** 

"Charles Fletcher." 

"My son r' 

" Yes, your son,** 

" Then Amy is my grandchild 1 " 

Maitland assented. 

" She do^ not know it 1" 

" No j she is not aware of the existence 
of any relativa Your son made me promise 
she should be kept in imorance of her relfr- 
tionship to you. I shiJl never tell her.'' 

" That will do for to-night. I am tired 
and excited, my head aches abominably. I 
will go to bed.'* 

li&atland came downstairs so soon as he 
had seen his patient attended to. He too 
felt excited and feverish. He determined 
to take a stroll in the cool evening air. His 
object had been accomplished; he had 
made known to his patient the existence of 
his granddaughter. Would the result 
answer his expectations) If so, what 
would it be his duty to do 1 

Ha was still revolving the matter in his 
mind, trying to look at it dispassionately 
as an outsider and failing miserably, when 
he heard himself accosted. 

"Hullo, Maitland, I thought I recog- 
nised you. Gorgeous night, isn't it t Are 
you in a hurry 1 

" I must set back soon," was the reply. 

" m wali with you if you don't mind. 
The truth is I've something very important 
to tell you. I've made a terrific discovery." 

" Well 1 " queried Maitland. 

" You know that Miss Fletcher who is 
companion or something at the Kestertons 1 
I got talking to her to-night pretty con- 
fidentially, and somehow happened to ask 
her the name of her father. You might 
have knocked me down with a feather, as 
they say, when she told me it was Charles 
Fletcher. You knowwhohewas,Isupposer' 

" Mr. Fletcher's son 1 " 

" Just so. Sweet news for me, isn't it 1 
IVe always supposed myself the only relation 
the old boy has, and he has told me times | 

enough that I'm his heir. Now if he hasn't 
made his will I shall be in a hole, for 
everything will go to this girl" 

" She does not know about it, does she 1 " 

" No, thank goodness 1 No one knows 
it but ourselves. 

"Why have you confided in me?" 
asked Maitland. 

"There you are, you see," exclaimed 
Dexter. " I hadn't decided whether to tell 
you or not, when suddenly you appeared 
before me, and that settled it. It seemed 

" That's scarcely a sufficient reason for 
your action, I'm afraid." 

" No, by Jove ! you're right To tell the 
truth for once, I wanted to find out if the 
old boy has inade a will, and I thought you 
were the one most likely to know. Then 
it struck me it was quite possible you 
might discover the secret without my help^ 
as I know you are a friend of the Kester- 
tons and acquainted with this girL" 

" I've known it a long time." 

"Have you though 1 My instinct was 
right. Did my uncle know that Charlie 
left a child 1 " 

" No ; he wished it to be kept secret" 

"Well," said Dexter, after a few 
moments' deliberation, " I'm not so safe as 
I should like to be. It seems to me I've 
only one course open to me, which will 
ensure everything turning out right" 

" What is that 1 " 

" I must marry Amy." 

Maitland gave a start " Marry Amy I " 
he repeated. 

"Yes. Why not! I must get engaged 
as soon as possible. When my uncle dies, 
if he has left me his property, I can break 
off the engagement if I want to without 
much difficulty ; and if she gets it all for 
want of a will, I must press forward our 
marriage. You see I'm showing my con- 
fidence in you in telling you my plans 
beforehand, as I take it for granted you 
mean to let Amy know who she is after 
my uncle's death, unless he leaves every- 
tblng to me by wilL" 

" You are quite right," replied Maitland 
stiffly. »He had recovered his calmness now, 
and had need of it all to restrain himself. 
" It certainly was my intention to let her 
know. I do not promise you I shall not 
tell her at once, in order that she may 
have an opportunity of urging her claim." 

" Oh, confound it all, Maitland, what 
good will that dol Let it stand as it is 
for a time at any rata Give a fellow 
a chance. You see, as it is, I can 





40 [Jam It, 1888.] 


[Gondiiefeed bf 

make love to her as a man with good 
expectations, and she's only a poor gover- 
ness ; but reverse our positions, and where's 
my chance 1 No, you must let matters 
stand for a week or two.'' 

" I won't promise anything now," replied 
Maitland. ''I shall see you to-morrow, 
and will tell you my decision then." 

He turned away without even saying 
good-night Dexter was such a mixture 
of apparent good-nature and selfishness; 
he had such a way of taking him into his 
confidence and makmg lum a sort of 
partner in his disgraceful plans ; that 
Maitland was disgusted beyond measure. 
And this was the man who was his rival 
for Amy 1 And his own hands were tied ! 

He rose early, after an almost sleepless 
night He found that his patient was out 
of sorts, evidently the result of want of 
rest He made no allusion to the events of 
the previous day ; both of them seemed un- 
willing to start the subject However, in 
the afternoon, Fletcher abruptly said : 

" Maitland, I wish you would send to 
my nephew's hotel You know it, I 
suppose f " 

'^Yes. Are you going to the terrace 
this afternoon 1 " 

"Yes; the same time as yesterday. I 
want to see Amy." 

Half an hour afterwards, Dexter made 
his appearanca Mr. Fletcher asked 
Maitland to leave them and rejoin them 
on the terrace in an hour. As he went 
out, Dexter managed to whisper : 

" You won't teU her ? " 

" No," replied Maitland firmly. 

The interview between uncle and nephew 
was rather long. Mr. Fletcher told Dexter 
that he was not so ignorant of his doings 
as he supposed, and that he had for some 
time doubted whether he ought to let such 
a scapegrace be his heir. 

" I was once harsh to my son," said the 
old man, " and I lost him. I determined 
to make every allowance for you. I don't 
ask you if you deserve it, but I should 
like to know what your plans ara Do you 
intend to marry f " 

This sudden question took Dexter off 
his guard. Making up his mind on the 
spur of the moment^ he answered : 

" Yes, sir." 

" Whom ? " 

" Well, it isn't quite settled yet between 
us. I have not declared myself yet, but, if 
I obtain your consent, I wm do so at the 
earliest opportunity." 

"Who is she?" 

"She is the governess at the Kester- 
tons'," replied his nephew boldly. "You've 
never seen her, I suppose, but she is a very 
charming girl" 

" No fortune, I presume 1 " 

" I believe not" 

" Then you can't many unless with my 
money 1 " 

Dexter rather uneasily answered : 

"No, sir." 

" Very well," said his uncle, " I have no 
objection to yout making a love-match. I 
tell you what I will do. It would be 
unsatisfactory for both of you if you, a 
rich man, were to many her, a pauper. If 
you win her consent I will give mine, and 
make her heiress of half of what I have. 
You will then be on equal terms, as man 
and wife should be." 

Dexter was growing more and more 
uncomfortable. This was far from the 
state of things he wished for. 

" You are very thoughtful, uncle," he 

" I should like to see this young lady," 
continuedMr. Fletcher. " Ipresume that by 
birth and education she is fitted to be your 
wife ) You have made enquiries, I 
presume 1 " 

" Well, uncle, I thought that would be 
rather wanting in delicacy. She is evidently 
a lady." 

" Ygur sentiments do you honour, Fred 
It was quite right of you not to make im- 

Eertinent enquiries, especially considering 
er position." 

Dexter felt he had done it now. It was 
impossible for him to confess that he knew 
Amy's identity. After a little further 
conversation they started for the terrace, 
where Maitland was shortly to meet them 
Meanwhile, the young doctor had been 
spending an unhappy hour. He was sure 
that Dexter would take the opportunity of 
telling his uncle his intention to many 
Amy ; the probability was greatly in favour 
of the old man's approval of his nephew's 
suit rather than of his — Maitland's. One 
thing he was sure of : that he must keep 
silent till Dexter had either won or lost, and 
that, if he won, he must keep silent for ever. 
His only hope was that Amy loved him. 
Yet why should she) He had always 
been careful to treat her as a young sister, 
and if occasionally he had been conscious 
of saying somethmg which was not quite 
appropriate for a brother, she had never 
given him reason for believing that she 
had ever contemplated the possibility of a 
closer relationship between them than had 




Chailn DIoluBi.] 


[June 23, 1888.] 41 

always existed. Tet, if he lost her, and 
to sach a heartless scoundrel ! No ! he 
would never let her marry that other. Yet 
what could he do if she accepted him 7 

His mind was still full of the matter 
when he found himself on the terrace, near 
the usual seat of the invalid. Mr. fletcher 
and his nephew were already there, and 
dose by them stood Amy. She had evidently 
only thai moment arrived. Dexter rose, 
and with considerable eagerness offered her 
his seat, and began to introduce her to his 

" There is no necessity," interrupted Mr. 
Fletcher, " this young lady and I have met 

Dexter looked surprised and annoyed. 
He had made good use of his time during 
the morning, which he had spent in the 
company of Amy, doing all he could to 
compress a courtship into a couple of hours. 
Ho had told her he wanted to introduce 
her to his uncle, but had not mentioned 
his name, and Amy never imagined that 
the uncle was the same old gentleman 
whose acquaintance she had already made. 

At this moment Maitland came up. He 
took off his hat to Amy, and remained 
standing near. 

For some time the conversation was to 
the last degree commonplace ; not one of 
the men seemed inclined to be the first to 
broach the subject that each was thinking 
of At last Mr. Fletcher, after a painfcu 
cough, said : 

*' My dear, I want to speak to you 
seriously for a minute or two. You will 
excuse an old man, who has not many 
months to live, if he says things a little 
bluntly. Try and suppose that he is afraid 
he has not time to do otherwise." 

Amy looked surprised, but said nothing. 

" My nephew," continued Mr. Fletcher, 
" has told me that he wishes you to be 
his wife. He has not, I believe, confessed 
as much to you, knowing that the possi- 
bility of his marrying depends on me. I 
have told him that, if he gains your con- 
sent, he will not marry a penniless girl, for 
I shall give you the same as I shall give 
him. So you see, you may rely entirely 
on your feelings in giving your answer; 
it will not be a case of marrying for money, 
but only for love. What do you say ? " 

Amy said nothing. She turned her 
eyes on Maitland, who persistently kept 
his averted. 

''This is too sudden, uncle," pleaded 

"Perhaps it is,*' assented the old man. "I 

do not ask for a decisive answer now. Plead 
your own cause, my lad, during the next 
week, and then Amv shall give her reply." 

Amy turned her head. 

"There is no necessity to wait for a 
week," she said ; '' my mind is quite made 
up. I can never marry Mr. Dexter." 

" My dear girl," persisted Mr. Fletcher, 
" do not make up your mind so swiftly. 
No doubt my blunt way of putting the 
matter has pained you. I can see you are 
a^tated. Let me plead for my nephew. 
His love for you is disinterested, he knows 
you but as a charming young lady who is 
at present occupying a position unworthy 
of her. He knows nothing of you what- 
ever beyond that; judge then whether 
you are treating him quite fairly in refusing 
to listen to him. It is not so easy to find 
young men, nowadays, who are capable of 
displaying such disinterested earnestness 
and devotion in seeking for a wife. He 
tells me he is even ignorant of the name 
of your parents — does not that show he 
values you for yourself? " 

Dexter had tried once or twice to in- 
terrupt his uncle, but in vain. However, 
he now managed to interpose with : 

" Beally, uncle, you appear to imagine 
that " 

But he was intiemipted in his turn by 

" Did Mr. Dexter tell you he did not 
know who my father was 1 " she asked. 

"Yes," replied Mr. Fletcher, "and I 
applauded the delicacy of feeling he 

" I must tell you then that he did ask 
me, and seemed very surprised to hear his 
name. There seems to be some mystery 
about it, for its mention seems to have 
sufficed to turn Mr. Dexter from a casual 
acquaintance into an ardent admirer." 

Dexter stood abashed; he did not attempt 
to defend himself. 

"So, sir," said his uncle severely, "it 
seems that you do know who this young 
lady is. I nad my suspicions, and that is 
why I have said what I have, thinking I 
should catch you in your own trap." 

" I thought you would be pleased if I 
married her," pleaded Dexter. 

"Don't say another word, sir. Leave 
us now ; come to my rooms this evening, I 
shall have something to say to you then." 

Dexter walked away as carelessly as he 

"Come a little closer to me, my dear 
child," said Mr. Fletcher in a tender tone, 
as soon as his nephew was out of sight. 






42 [June 28, 188S.] 


[Coad n otedby 

*'I have some news for yoo. Ton most 
think me a very strange old man — so I am, 
perhaps. Yon think I have been very rade 
and unkind, but it was for your sake. No 
one is near us now ; put your arms round 
my neck and kiss me and call me grand- 

Amy looked at him in astonishment for 
a moment, and then glanced at Maitland. 
His look reassured her; she flung her 
arms round' the old man's neck and kissed 

'' Grandpapa ! " she exclaimed. " Is it 
true %" 

'< Yes, my darling. Ah, if I had only 
known it before! It's your fault, Mait- 

''Are you quite sure ? " he asked. 

'* Well, no ; I suppose it's chiefly mine. 
Do you think. Amy, you will be able to 
love me for the few months I have to 

'<0h, don't talk of dying, grandpapa; 
you mustn't." 

" Ask Maitland." 

" What must I ask him 1 " 

''If he can spare me a part of your 
affection for a time Y Ah, I know all about 
it, you see ; my eyes are not so dim yet, 
but that I have seen more than either of 
you imagine. Take her, Maitland." 

Maitland did not hesitate long, for Amy's 
glad look revealed to him that her grand- 
father had judged her truly. 


The time-honoured saying, " We know 
what we are, but we know not what 
we may be," has seldom been more 
strikingly ezemplifled than in the case of 
two youths, aged respectively fifteen and 
sixteen, who were seated together one 
summer morning in the early part of the 
last century on a stone bench by the side 
of a small chapel dedicated to the patron 
saint of a village near BiminL Their 
names were Lorenzo Ganganelli and Carlo 
Bertinazzi; the former destined in after 
years to exchange his baptismal appella- 
tion for that of Clement the Fourteenth, 
and the latter to become the idol of the 
Parisians as the popular harlequin of the 
Com6die Italienne. These metamorphoses, 
however, lay still hidden in the remote 
future, and their objects on the morning 
in question were profoundly occupied in 
solving a difficult puzzle, namely, now to 
obtain possession of the plentiful store of 

copper coins which had been deposited by 
the passing peasants as an offering to the 
saint, and were protected from sacrilegioos 
handB by strong iron bars, within which 
they reposed until removed on the next 
visit of uie authorised alma-eoUector. 

While the pair of scapegraces are con- 
cocting *Ib11 sorts of ingenious plans for the 
successful appropriation of the treasure, a 
few words respecting the origin and social 
position of each may not be out pt place. 

Lorenzo's parents were of the humbler 
class of cultivators so numerous in that 
part of Italy, and owners of half-a-dozen 
acres of land, which they tilled themselves; 
Carlo's father, on the contrary, who had 
enlisted early in life, and had been some 
years a widower, having nothing but his 
pay to depend upon, had gladly profited by 
the chance offered him of placing his only 
son in a seminary where the children of 
the poor intended for the clerical profes- 
sion received a gratuitous education, among 
his fellow-pupils being the young Ganga- 
nelli. There the boys grew up together 
and became fast friends, the studious 
Lorenzo devoting his leisure moments to 
the task of correctinff Carlo's ill-spelt 
themes and exercises, while the latter, who 
in modem parlance would have been 
termed the " cock of the school," requited 
this service by constituting himself on all 
occasions the champion and protector of 
his more delicately organised companion. 
Their holidays were passed at the Ganga- 
nelli farm, where they fared but sparingly, 
and, as may be imagined, they had not a 
farthing of pocket-money between them. 
It was with a view of supplying this 
last deficiency that we find them gazing 
with longing eyes at the tantalising heap of 
bajocchi almost within their reach. 

" I wonder how many there are," mused 
Carlo, while the other was mentally en- 
gaged in counting them. 

" More than a hundred," replied Lorenzo. 

" More than a hundred ! ' repeated his 
friend, who had never heard of such a 
sum ; '' how much cheese would that 
buy 1 " 

"Enough for all the holidays, and to 

" Would it be wrong to take them, do 
you think t " asked Carlo, after a moment's 

" Well, if we were not very hungry, I 
am afraid it would ; but as it is ' 

" But we are very hungry — at any rate I 


" So am I," gravely remarked Lorenzo. 



ChadM DkiDnis.] 


[June 28, 1883.] 43 

*^ In that case the end justifies the means, 
80 we must see what can be done." 

Thereupon, looking about for the longest 
stick he could find, he introduced it 
between the bars, and succeeded in slightly 
displacing one or two of the coins, but 
that was all; Carlo meanwhile watch- 
ing the proceedings with a disconsolate 

" It's no use," sighed the latter. " We 
had better be off before some one catches 
us here." 

"Wait a moment," objected his more 
inyentive ally, "there must be some 
means of fishing them out. I have it 1 " he 
added triumphantly ; " while I go to work, 
all you have to do is to stand on that 
rising ground yonder, and if you see any 
one coming, make the usual signal " (we had 
forgotten to mention that among other 
accomplishments Carlo imitated to perfec- 
tion tlie braying of a donkey, while his 
companion was equally renowned for crow- 
mg like a cock), " and I will answer with 
mine. If nobody disturbs me, the bajocchi 
are ours." 

What his friend purposed doin^ was 
not very dear to Master Bertinazzi, 
who nevertheless established himself 
obediently as sentinel on the prescribed 
eminence, which overlooked the adjoining 
fields ; while Lorenzo, taking a handful of 
moist earth from a ditch by the roadside, 
fixed it firmly to the end of his stick, and 
recommenced his piscatorial operations so 
successfidly that in a very few minutes the 
last remaining coin had found its way into 
his pocket. At that critical instant a 
warning bray resounded from the post of 
vantage ; having responded to which by an 
exulting " cock-a-doodle-do," the young 
marauder hastily rejoined his confederate, 
and both started on their homeward way, 
wisely deferring until a more favourable 
opportunity the equitable division of the 
spoil In his old age, when surrounded by 
a circle of intimates at Chaillot, Carlin 
frequently related the foregoing anecdote 
with great gusto, interlarding his imperfect 
French with Italian " patois," and empha- 
sising his words with the drollest and most 
expressive pantomimic gestures imaginabla 
On one occasion, when, inspired by the 
presence of Ooldoni, he had described this 
juvenile freak with more than usual 
vivacity, the dramatist quietly enquired if 
he never felt remorse for having robbed 
the poor. "Ah, caro mio," replied Carlin, 
" Lorenzo has no doubt long ago atoned for 
that trifling peccadillo. Consider the many 

opportunities he has since had of making 
restitution 1 " 

A year or two after this reprehensible 
exploit the two friends separated ; Ganga- 
nelli to continue his ecclesiastical studies 
at Urbino, and Carlo, whose father had in 
the meantime paid the debt of nature, 
leaving his son alone in the world, to gain 
his own livelihood as he best might 
Abandoning all idea of a clerical career, 
for which in truth he had no real vocation, 
he decided on utilising his natural talent 
for mimicry by joining one of the strolling 
companies of actors to be met with at that 
period in every province of Italy, wander- 
ing from place to place as in Scarron's 
Boman Comique, and earning a precarious 
subsistence, often barely sufficing to keep 
body and soul together. Inured as he was 
to privations, our hero cared little for the 
hardships he had voluntarily elected to 
encounter ; the adventurous, ever-changing 
life pleased him, and he waa soon perfectly 
reconciled to the habitual lot of Thespians, 
namely, to dine one day, and starve the 
next. The manager of this roving troop 
found m hun a willing and precious recruit, 
ready to undertake a part at a moment's 
notice, and invariably delighting his 
audience by some improvised bit of drollery 
calculated to put them in good humour, 
and dispose them to be liberal His 
favourite character was harlequin, in the 
personation of which he became so popular 
that the mere announcement of Carlino was 
sufficient to attract the inhabitants of 
vniages from many leagues round, thereby 
ensuring an abundant harvest of copper 
coins and — for nothing was refused — 
provisions of all kinds, including bread, 
meat, and even flour, as the case might be. 

Little by little, the reputation of the 
new "Arlecchino" spread from town to 
town; offers of engagement continually 
reached him from the proprietors of per- 
manently established theatres, and at length, 
tempted by the flattering prospects held 
out to him, he bade adieu not without 
regret to his less fortunate associates, and 
set out to give the public of Brescia a taste 
of his quality. The success of his first 
appearance was so decisive, that on the 
following day a contract for a term of years 
was proposed to him by the manager, 
which, however, Carlin, whose migratory 
habits had become a second nature to him, 
refused to sign ; and, at the expiration of 
the six months' stay previously agreed 
upon, quitted Brescia for the purpose of 
fulfilling a similar engagement at Parma. 






44 [June 23. 1883.] 


[Conducted by 

These peregrinations continued with little 
intermission for the next ten or twelve 
years, during which he visited almost every 
town of note in Italy ; reaping fresh laurels 
wherever he went, and universally acknow- 
ledged to be the best representative of the 
motley personage that had ever trod the 

Whether in the course of his wander- 
ings he chanced to meet his former school- 
fellow is not recorded, but it is certain that 
for some time after their separation they 
frequently corresponded with each other ; 
and, to the end of his life, Garlin was wont 
to affirm that, although to the rest of the 
world the friend of his youth might be 
known as the illustrious Clement the Four- 
teenth, he could never regard him in any 
other light than that of his old and dearly- 
loved playmate, Lorenzo. 

The retirement from the stage in 1741 
of Thomassin, successor of the famous 
Dominique, having left the Com^die 
Italienne and consequently Paris without 
a harlequin, Be^tinazzi, then in bis twenty- 
eighth year, was induced to repair thither, 
and was at once engaged to occupy the 
vacant post. His d6but was not en- 
couraging; the Parisians, creatures of 
habit, and accustomed to the broad humour 
and peculiar mannerisms of his prede- 
cessor, failed at first to appreciate the 
refined grace and vivacity of the new 
comer, whose conception of the character 
was strictly in^ accordance with the 
traditions of the Italian school. By degrees, 
however, the versatility of his talent and 
the expressive originality of his pantomime 
overcame the prejudices of the public, and 
before many weeks had elapsed, his 
quondam depredators had become his 
warmest admirers. During forty years, 
until his final retirement in 1781, his popu- 
larity remained unshaken, and his supre- 
macy unquestioned. Notwithstanding his 
advanced age and increasing corpulence, he 
still attracted crowds to the theatre by the 
magic of his name, and retained to the 
very last his marvellous activity and 
suppleness of limb. Madame Yig^e 
Le Brun, who saw him towards the close 
of his career, records her impressions of his 
acting in her entertaining EecoUections, as 
follows : " He played harlequin in mere 
outlines of pieces, the filling up of which 
required extreme cleverness ana ingenuity 
on the part of the performer ; his inex- 
haustible spirits and witty sallies, together 
with a never-failing fund of natural drol- 
lery, combined to distinguish him from the 

ordinary actor. Although excessively 
stout, he was singularly agile in every 
movement, and I have been told that he 
owed many of his most graceful gestures to 
his habit of watching kittens at play. 
When he left the stage, the reign of the 
Com^die Italienne was virtually at an 

Garlin was never more in his element 
than when he had established a sort of 
freemasonry with his audience, addressing 
himself familiarly to tjiose nekrest to him, 
and indulging in every variety of quip and 
crank more or less appropriate to the part 
he was playing. The actor Fleur relates 
that on one occasion, perceiving a party 
of children in a box near the stage, he 
entered into conversation with them, and 
so delighted the spectators present with his 
impromptu whimsicalities that they im- 
agined the scene in question to have been 
arranged beforehand, and, returning to the 
theatre on the following evening, with one 
accord demanded its repetition. 

From the same authority we learn that 
once during the dog-days the audience 
assembled to witness the performance only 
consisting of two individuals, one of whom, 
overcome by the intense heat, made his 
exit at the end of the first piece, Carlin 
came forward, and addressing the remain- 
ing occupant of the pit, besought him as a 
particular favour, in the event of his 
meeting anyone he knew as he went out, to 
inform him that Arlequin Ermite, having 
been received that evening with unboundea 
applause by a discerning public, would be 
repeated every night until further notice. 

It happened, however, that on another 
occasion, and from the same cause, one 
solitary spectator, a stout jovial personage 
fresh from the country, placidly awaited 
the rising of the curtain. What was to be 

"We had better give him back his 
money," grumbled the r^gisseur Oamerani. 

*' Let me speak first," said Carlin ; and, 
advancing to the front of the sti^e, made 
a grotesque bow to the astonished pro- 
vincial, and addressed him as follows: 
" Mr. All-alone, my comrades and I, as 
you may imagine, have no particular wish 
to exert ourselves in this sultry weather 
for one person's amusement; but if you 
insist upon it, of course we must" 

"Why, M. Carlin," replied the stout 
man, highly amused by this preamble, " I 
came here on purpose to see you act." 

" Very good," responded Harlequin with 
one of his most graceful pirouettes, " we 






[June 28, 1883.] 45 

will do our best to please you," and the 
piece began. 

Before it was over a heavy shower of 
rain came on, and in a few minutes every 
place in the theatre was occupied; the 
actors, enchanted at this unexpected good 
fortone, played with even more spirit than 
usual, and the second piece finished amid 
roars of laughter. Presently Carlin ap- 
peared before the curtain, and, looking 
round as if in search of someone, enquired 
if Mr. All-alone were still there 1 

"Certainly, M. GarUn," answered that 
individual, grinning from ear to ear ; " and 
many thanks to you for a pleasant evening. *' 

" It is I who ought to thank you, Mr. 
All-alone," replied Carlin, to the intense 
delight of the rest of the audience, " for 
without you we should have missed the 
nine hundred livres which our treasurer 
has just counted up. So good-night, Mr. 
All-aJone, and au revoir 1 " 

For a long time af ter, this remained a 
standing joke with the company; and 
whenever, either on account of the heat or 
any other cause, opinions were divided as 
to the advisability of announcing the 
evening's performance, Carlin invariably 
decided the question in the affirmative, 
by suggesting that perhaps Mr. All-alone 
would come again. 

From the date of his retirement in 1781 
to his death in 1783, the celebrated 
comedian continued to inhabit his suburban 
villa at Chaillot — ^unpleasantly situated, 
according to Fleury, between a smith's 
forge and a copper foundry — where he was 
wont to receive his intimates, and regale 
them with his favourite maraschino. On 
the wall of his usual sitting-room in this 
modest retreat hung the original painting 
by De Lorme of the best engraved portrait 
of the incomparable harlequin; and beneath 
it^ in the autograph of the poet Guichard, 
were inscribed the following lines : 

pmns M8 goBtes, sea tons, c'est la Nature mdme ; 
Sous le masque, on Padmire ; A d^ouvert, 
Taime ! 




" What— what ! telling fortunes— eh 1 " 
said Mr. Jellicop with a broad smile, as he 
came forward. '*Many's the pretty girl 
whose fortune I told when I was a young 
blade. And half of 'em took all I said for 
gospel truth." 

Miss Bamsay bad crossed to the window. 

" He called me Lilian ! " she whispered to 
herself. *' Would he have done that 
unless 1 " 

'^ Miss Kamsay and I were going as far 
as the hayfield," said Marmaduke with a 
fine assumption of indifference. 

" You'll get your jackets wet if you do.* 
There's a black cloud rolling up the valley 
that means to pepper us before long. You 
had better come with me, the pair of you, 
as far as the greenhouse and see how my 
cucumbers are getting on." 

'' Fine vegetable — cucumber," said Mar- 
maduke sententiously. 

" As I came through the drawing-room 
just now," continued Mr. Jellicop, *' who 
should I see there but those two young 

" Two young idiots, sir V 

''My niece Linda and young Dane, I 
mean. He was gaping out of the window 
at one end of me room, she out of the 
window at the other end; neither of them 
looking at each other, neither of them 
speaking to each other, and yet seeming 
as if the^ couldn't bear to be out of each 
other's sight Ugh ! it's my opinion that 
they are fonder of each other this minute 
than ever they were in their lives before." 

" Oh, uncle, do you really think so 1 " 
asked Lilian earnestly. She had come back 
from the window by this time, and was 
clasping one of his arms with bothher hands. 

" Hang me if I don't ! What a joke it 
would be if we could bring them together 
again — eh t " 

" How I wish we could ! " 

" Too late in the day, sir, to think of 
that," said Marmaduke. 

" I'm not so sure on that point There's 
nothing to hinder them from remarrying at 
the end of six months if they like to do so. 
Ha, ha ! Wouldn't Vere Naylor be wild 1 
But come alon^; let us have a peep at 
the cucumbers before the shower breaks." 

For a little while the Blue Parlour 
remained empty. By-and-by Cecil Dane 
lounged in, whistling in a minor key, his 
glass in his eye, his hands deep in his 
pockets, and looking anything rather than 
a happy man. 

" I wonder whether she will follow me," 
he muttered. "She wouldn't have done 
so a month ago, but nowadays nothing 
surprises me. What a bundle of contra- 
dictions a woman is ! There's someone 
coming. ByJeve! I durst wager anything 
it's Linda." 

He took a magasine off the table, and 




46 (J'ime 23, 1883.] 


[Conducted by 

sat down with his back to the door, but 
there was a large mirror opposite to him, 
and he had only to lift his eyes in order to 
see ererything that was going on. 

Mrs. Dane entered the room, and began 
at once to torn over the articles on the 
centre table as if in search of something. 

'* There he sits,'' she murmured under 
her breath. ''He is not going out as I 
was afraid he was. Although we are no 
longer husband and wife, that is no reason 
why he should not spedc to me. But he 
won't, and I can keep silent no longer." 
Then she said aloud : ** Mr. Dane, do you 
happen to have seen the last number of 
Blackwood 1 " 

" No, madam, I have not seen the last 
number of Blackwood." 

" Pardon me, but is not that it in your 
hand 1 " 

The glass dropped from Cecil's eye ; for 
once he changed colour. 

" Ah yes, by Jove 1 so it is. Beg pardon. 
Didn't know." 

He rose, crossed to where Linda was 
standing, bowed ceremoniously, and offered 
her the book. 

" Not unless you have quite done with 
it, Mr. Dane," said Linda in her most 
dulcet tones. 

"Thank you, but I have qjcute done 
with it, Mrs. Dane-Danson." 

Linda smiled her sweetest, and took the 
book. Then they bowed to each other; 
then Linda sat down and pretended to 
become immersed in her magazine; then 
Cecil went back to his tormer seat, 
stretched his long legs out, put his glass in 
his eye, clasped his hands behind his head, 
and began to contemplate the ceiling. 

" What a darling he looks ! " murmured 
Linda. " Can it be true that I have really 
lost him 1 " Her heart gave a great sigh as 
she asked herself the question. 

" It seems impossible to realise the fact 
that she's no longer my wife," mused Cecil 
" I can't keep away from her. I haven't 
smoked for two d^s. Bad sign, very." 

To Linda this suence was intolerable. 

" Mr. Dane, can you oblige me by telling 
me the time 1 My watch has stopped." 

Cecil rose from his half - recumbent 
position, and produced his watch. 

" The time, madam, is ten minutes and 
eighteen seconds past four." 

"Ten minutes and eighteen seconds — 
thank you very much, Mr. Dane." 

" You are quite welcome, madam." 

Then after a pause Linda repeated, this 
time with a little more emphasis : 

"I said 'Thank you very much, Mr. 
Dane.' " 

" And I said ' You are quite welcome, 
madam.' " 

" Oh dear I why won't he talk t " mur- 
mured Linda. "What stupid creatures 
men are ! " 

She turned over one or two leaves noisily. 
Cecil was contemplating the ceiling again. 

How long our two young and foolish 
separatists would have kept on sitting 
without speaking to each other, and 
apparently ignoring each other's existence, 
there is no Imowing, had they been allowed 
to do as they liked in the matter. Pre- 
sently, however. Captain Marmaduke and 
Lilian, on their way back from visiting 
the cucumbers, entered the conservatory, 
which opened by means of an archway 
into the parlour. Lilian was the first to 
perceive Cecil and Linda. 

" There they are 1 '^ she whispered to 
her companion. " If we could bat bring 
them together again 1" 

" You know what we have agreed upon," 
he replied, also in a whisper. " Why not 
make a beginning at once 1 " 

" But I don't know how to begin." 

^'IVust to your woman's wit to show 
you the way." 

" No, no ; pray don't leave me." 

"Bemember your promise to your 

" You don't know how nervous I am." 

"Mr. Dane is not at all ferocious ; the 
first plunge is everything. Come." 

With these words Marmaduke went 
forward from the conservatory into the 
parlour, and making his way to Linda, 
seated himself on the couch by her side. 
She was grateful for the interruption. 
Cecil should see that other people cared 
for her society, if he no longer aid. She 
greeted Marmaduke with a smile, and shut 
the magazine she was making a pretence 
of reading. 

" It is not often that ladies find much 
to interest them in Blackwood/' said 

"Don't you know that Blackwood has 
often some very nice love-stories T 

"And you are fond of love-stories 9" 

"Show me the woman who is not"- 

"You have studied the philosophy of 
the subject 1" asked Marmaduke with a 

" I may have skimmed the surface ; 
nothing more." 

"The traitor!" muttered Lilian when 
she found herself left alone in the conser- 




CbariM DIckanB.] 


[June 28, 1888.] 47 

vatory. She took off her hat, and stood 
for a few moments with a finger pressed 
to her lips, thinking. Then she went 
forward into the room to where an easel 
with a drawing-board on it stood in one 

<* Allow me, Miss Ramsay," said Cecil, 
coming to her assistance. *' Where shall I 
fix it for your' 

*' Just here, please. I want to finish 
this group of ferns which I began the 
other day. I hope, Mr. Dane, i£at you 
are not a very severe critia''- 

" How is it possible to criticise what 
one doesn't understand ) " 

" A great many people contrive to do so." 

^' I am not so presumptuous as a great 
many people." 

On a side table stood a basket of 
coloured wools belonging to Linda. Mar- 
maduke took it up. 

" What a charming assortment of colours 
you have here," he said. 

" But how tiresome that they all want 
winding before I can make use of them." 

"It takes two people to wind wools, 
does it not!" 

•* I believe so." 

'' Why should not you and I wind some 
together 1" 

<'Why not, indeed ]" She took the 
basket, and began to arrange some of the 
wools for winding, saying to herself : " I 
hope Cecil won't go away." Then she said 

aloud : " When I was married '* Then 

came a pausa Her heart fluttered for a 
moment or two ; then she went on more 
firmly: "When I was married I never 
could get my husband to help me to wind 
my woola He was rude enough to say 
that it was an occupation fit only for milk- 
sops and old women." 

** Not every one thinks so. I have been 
told that it was while kneeling on one 
knee, and holding a skein of wool, as I am 
holdmg yours, that my grandfather first 
told my grandmother diat he loved her. 
And he was no milksop. He died in 
battle, charging at the head of his 

''But he probably never helped your 
grandmother to wind wools again. They 
got married, you know, and that makes all 
Uie difference." Then to herself she said : 
" I do hope Cecil is looking I " 

Cecfl was looking. *' Little flirt 1" he 
muttered. Then to Liilian he said : " How 
the sketch grows under your fingers. It 
seems almost Uke magic to me, who cannot 

"And yet it is so very simple. There 
goes the point of my pencil" 

" Let me make you another point." 

" Thanks, but the pencil is too soft, and 
I have no harder one by me." 

There was a portfolio of drawings on a 
chair close by. Cecil took it up and 
opened it. " You have some more drawings 
here. May I be permitted to examine 
them 1 " Lilian smiled assent Cecil drew 
his chair a little nearer to her, and began 
to turn over the drawings. "You must 
tell me what each of them is as we go 
along," he said. 

Linda had eyes for Cecil as well as for 
her wools. "What can they be talking 
about 1 " she asked herself. " Who would 
have believed that innocent-looking young 
monkey was such an arrant flirt ? " Then 
she said aloud, with a touch of impatience : 
" There — now this tiresome skein is all in a 
tangle 1 " 

" Let me help you to unravel it." 

" life itself seems nothing but knots and 

"A little patience will ofteii work 

Linda's eyes had wandered across the 
room again. "Their heads are nearly 
touching each other," she said to herself. 

" By Jove I how their fingers seem to 
have got mixed up 1 " was Cecil's muttered 
ejacuktion. Then he said aloud: "And 
of whom may this be the portrait 9 " 

" It is merely a fancy sketch. I call it 
' Elaine,' " was Lilian's reply. 

" * Elaine V 1 never heard of her." Mr. 
Dane was probably on more familiar terms 
with the Bacing Calendar than with the 
writings of a certain great poet 

" Tennyson's Elaine, you know. 'Elaine, 
the fair ; Elaine, the loveable Elaine, the 
lily maid of Astolat' " 

"It ought to have been your own 
portrait. Miss Kamsay." Then to him- 
self : " Confound that fellow I Can it be 
Possible that he has fallen in love with 

'*i can bear this no longer !" was what 
Linda said to herself. Then aloud to Mar- 
maduke : " My patience is exhausted. 
There must be thunder in the air." With 
a little pout she crammed the wools into 
her basket 

"These sultry afternoons are trying 
to one's nerves," remarked Marmaduke. 
There was a fan on the table ; he took it 
up and opened it " May 11" he asked. 

Linda smiled a languid assent He began 
to fan her, slowly and gently. 







[June 23, 1888.] 

" Now he's fanning her. Deuced cool I" 
was Cecil's unspoken comment. 

No one would have thought, seeing 
Marmaduke's impassive face, how tho- 
roughly he was enjoying the scene. "I 
hope you feel a little refreshed," he said 
presently in his grave courteous tones. 

" Very much so indeed. . Thanks." 

"You would find it cooler on the 

" Ye — es, as you say, it would be cooler 
there." Then to herself : " Can I—dare I 
leave them together 1 I will, let what may 
come of it" 

She rose and moved slowly towards the 
open French window, Marmaduke by her 
side. At the window she turned and shot 
one backward glance. 

" To be triumphed over by a minx like 
ihatl" was the bitter thought at her 

** And this is where they bring Elaine's 
body to the king's palace after she has died 
of a broken heart,' resumed Lilian. 

''She died of a broken heart, did 

" So it is said." 

" But that happened long ago. Perhaps 
they believed in such things in those days." 

" Perhaps in those old times we have 
been speaking of the men were rather 
better worth Ajins for than they are now." 

"By Jove! I Siink that's very likely. 
I know that if you take us in the bunch 
we are not good for much nowadays." 
Then he added to himself : '*Gone 1 mt 
why — and where ]" 

'Linda and Marmaduke reappeared at 
the window. The former came quickly 
into the room. 

"My dear Lilian, do make haste out on 
to the terrace," she said; " there's the most 
lovely rainbow. I know you would not 
like to miss seeing it" 

Lilian rose from the low chair on which 
she had been sitting. 

"You will excuse me, will you noti" 
she said to Cecil. ^ 

Cecil rose and bowed. 

" I hope we shall be able to go on with 
our studies another time," he said as he 
closed and put away the portfolio. 

" I hope so, too," answered Lilian, with 
one of her sunniest smOes. 

" Do you 1 " muttered Linda vindictively 
between her teeth. Passions and feelings 

were at work in her heart this afternoon 
such as she had never more than dimly 
imagined before. 

"Our scheme is progressing admirably," 
whispered Marmaduke to Lilian at the 

" I was never so frightened in my life," 
was her low reply. 

Linda had lingered behind for a moment 

" I am sorry, Mr. Dane, to have be«i 
the means of depriving you of Miss Bajn- 
say's charming society^' she remarked with 
ironical politeness. 

" For a little while— only for a little 
while, madam. I have not examined the 
whole of Miss Eamsay's drawings yet" 

Linda turned on him with flashing eyes. 

" Wretch I " she cried, with a passionate 
stamp of her foot. 

Mr. Dane snapped his fingers lightly. 

" Flirt ! " was all that he condescended 
to reply. 

Linda flung him a glance of withering 
scorn, and turning haughtily, walked slowly 
out of the room. 

" Pleasant— very, this sort of thing," 
muttered Cecil, when he found himself 
alone. . " What a fool I was to stay here 
after I had got my papers ! And now the 
deuce of it is I can't bear the thought of 
going away. The Asylum for Imbeciles 
would be my proper hom& 111 go and 
have a quiet amoke in the shrubbery and 
try to diear my brain. Perhaps I shsdl see 
Linda on the terrace. Confound that 
fellow, Marmaddce, and his insinuating 
ways !" Stepping out on the terrace, he 
looked first to the right and then to the 
left "What can have become of themt 
Shall I go in search of them 1 No. That 
would indeed be a confession of weakness. 
Let them go to Jericho ! " 

He took out his tobacco-pouch, filled Us 
pipe, struck a match, drew a few whiffs, 
then pulling his hat further oyer his brows, 
and burying his hands deeply in his pockets, 
he plunged moodily into the shrubbery. 

Now Ready, 





ftQventy-two Pitg»s. Pripe HUKpeaoe. 

iblUh^ fit the Ofl)oe,|26, Wellington Streef , Strand Printe4 by CiiARLES Dic&K)ti> & Hyasb, 24, Great New Sif«et, E.c. 


60 (jroneSOiUSS.] 


[Condaefced by 

all my life, and now just bacauae my 
father is dead, and I'm no longer the young 
master here, you expect me to alter all my 

'* Dear, dear boy, I am the only one who 
will speak to you, warn you, speak harshly 
to you, perhap& I want to be proud of 
you. Jack — let me be. Gro and take this 
clerkship in London that has been offered 
you ; remember that you are a man now, 
not a boy any lonser. Shooting, and hunt- 
ing, and eternal mteroourse with keepers 
and grooms won't fit yon to be the help 
and stay and protection you ought to be 
to our poor mother." 

He leant forward suddenly and kissed 
her, and she saw the gleam of tears in his 
eyes. Then he seized his gun, whistled his 
dog, and walked away rapidly ; and Jenifer 
was left in doubt as to whetlier she had 
done well or not in letting him know the 
fuU extent of her feonk 

As for Jack, he went straight away to 
Thurtle's house, and the keeper not being 
there, and th^ keeper's dnighter not 
'' knowing for certain where faUier might 
be," Mr. Jack Bay waited there for an 

" What a bear your Mr. Boldero is after 
all," Effie said that night at dinner. '* Just 
think, Jenifer, he has actually refused my 
invitation for to-morrow, without having 
the courtesy- to assign any reason for doing 
so. If I were you, Hubert, I should take 
my affairs out of his hands immediately." 

'* That's more easily said than done/' 
Mr. Ray said ind^rently ; " the business 
management of a big property is not so 
easily transferred as you tlnnk, Effie." 

*' To hear Hubert talk, one would think 
that Moor Royal was the duly property I 
ever came in contact with or even heard 
of," Effie said to her sister, 

" 1 don't think yon lose much by the 
lawyer absenting himself," Mra Jervdse 
said contemptuously. ** I detest nothing 
much more than having social relations 
with people with whom I hove businees 
ones ; in fact you'll have to draw the line 
sharply here, Effie ; if you ask county pro- 
fessiobal people to your house^ youll soon 
find the county will hold aloof." 

" You both talk a lot of bosh," Hubert 
said, speaking a little haughtily but good- 
humouredly withal ; *^ county people don^ 
hold aloof from county people because of 
the presence of gentlemen and ladies in 
each other's houses who don't happen to 
own landed property." 

*' All the same, I shall always consider 
that Mi. Boldero has behaved very rudely 
to me, and shall treat him with great cool- 
ness for the future," Effie said, flinging up 
her head. Then the conversation drSted 
as usual into the theatrical channel, and 
from divers remarks Jenifer learnt to her 
horror that Captain Edgecumb had declined 
the part of Charles the Second in the 
tableau, and that Jack had been persuaded 
to fill it 

'' Jack, jou promised me you wouldn't 
act," his sister cried* 

'<It isn't acting, you goo^" Mrs. Bay 
said hilariously; ''he'll have to 4o the 
reverse ot act; he will have to remain 
motionless and inactive, and merely look 
adoration of Nell Owynn's charms." 

"I hope poor Minnie's head won't be 
turned," 6ld libs. Bay said, and they all 
lauehed with the exception of Jenifer and 

A little stage had been adroitly con- 
trived and fimiished at the end oi the 
long library, and cm this the performen 
had a full-dress rehearsal this night after 

Captain Edgeeamb came in rather late, 
bat as lio was not wanted till the faroe 
which brought the entertainment to a close» 
this was a matter of mmor moment Mean- 
time he stayed in the drawing-room with 
old Mrs. Bay and Jenifery and tried to 
draw the latter out on the subject of her 

"MrB« Hubert Bay baa a wonderful 
amount of energy and go about her, hasn't 
she 1 " he ask^ and Jenifer replied: 

" She has ; I can fan^y no more deUghV 
fol additioa to a happy, m^ry countiy- 
house party than she wc^d be." 

''You take no part in the entertain- 
ment tcHDorrow ni^t^ I uxxderstand. Miss 

She shook her head. 

*' Did you Ucpect that I should tell you 
I did?" 

" Indeed, no ; I knew that it was due to 
the geaios. of those two nfstlefls spirits that 
this afhir was coming off at Moor Royal, 
and if I:oo«kl have got out of having any 
hand in it I should have been glad ; but 
Mrs. Jenroise and her sister are old 
acquaintances of mine, and a man finds it 
difficult sometimes to resist any claim made 
upon him by such fair old acquaintances as 
they are." 

This was a speedbi that did not seem to 
Jenifer to demand any reply. Accordingly 
she made none, but we&t on with some 



Charles DickonA.] 


[June 30, 1888.] 51 

pretty work she had in hand, as if he 
were not present 

"I am snre neither my daughter nor I 
will question your kindly courtesy to my 
daaghter-in-law and her sister," old Mrs. 
Bay said cheerfully. " I am glad, even in 
the midst of my sorrow, that my son's wife 
should have plenty of amusement and 
yariety ; she is very youns and bright. I 
have no wish to overcloud her, and I am 
sure Jenifer shares my feeling." 

The mother spoke anxiously, with an 
evident desire to keep the peace. But 
Jenifer's mettle was up, and she could not 
trim her tongue to the utterance of sooth- 
ing nothings just now. 

" I don't wish to interfere with anyone's 
arrangements or amusements, but 1 wish 
you had kept your promise, and taken the 
part in the tableau which they have now 
persuaded Jack to fill," Jenifer said, allow- 
iDg anger to make itself manifest to her 
audience. "Captain Edgcumb, you've 
always professed willinmess — desire to 
please me. Will you do it now 1 " 

She had spoken much more vehemently 
than was usual with well-balanced self- 
possessed Jenifer, and now she rose and 
retreated to a place behind the piano which 
was out of earshot of her mother. 

For a moment Captain Edgecumb could 
not belieye his senses; they were surely lead- 
ing him a will-o'-the-wisp dance, and would 
beguile him into a quagmire of discomfiture 
if he presumed on this apparent desire of 
Jenifer's to establish a pnvate understand- 
ing with hiuL 

"Dear Miss Bay, the hope that is 
dearest to me in the world is to please 
you," the handsome young officer said 
earnestly. And really he more than half 
meant what he said. 

"Oh, don't talk nonsense I" Jenifer 
said entreatingly. " Don't think of me as 
a girl, please^ just treat me as you'd 
treat Jack. The favour I want you to do 
me is this — that youll claim your original 
part in the Nell Gwynn tableau, and make 
Jack resign it" 

"I wm," he said gallantly, without 
asking a question or offering a remark. 

" Thank you," she said simply, holding 
oat her hand to him as she passed out of 
her secluded nook back to her place at a 

" You're not trying to persuade Captain 
Edgecumb to throw cold water on Effie's 
theatricals, are you, Jenny ? " her mother 
asked anxiously. "Because I wouldn't 
have that done on any account However 

painful it may be for me to seem to coun- 
tenance mirth and gladness at Moor Royal 
now, I would rather do it and be mis- 
understood than I would throw the lightest 
shadow on Effie's patL She is young ; she 
came among us not comprehending our 
sorrow, in ignorance as to the very cause of 
it till she was encircled by it I love to 
think that she can be happy here, even in 
this house of mourning." 

** Mother darling, I've only been per- 
suading Captain Edgecumb to help Effie to 
the utmost," Jenifer said chokingly, and 
just then Effie's clear voice rang out in a 
call for "Captain Edgecumb to take his 
part in the farce." 

His young hostess stood in the hall 
when, in obedience to her summons, he 
was crossing it. 

" Well ! she said. And though she 
said nothing more, he felt himself chal- 

" Mrs.. Bay, I feel as much honoured as 
a man can feel in bein^ invited by you to 
your house. Be still more gracious to 
me; let me play the passive part you 
asked me to fill first — let me be Charles 
the Second. I shall do your taste and 
discrimination more credit than Jack Bay 

" As if I didn't know that this dramatic 
ardour has been put into you by my guile- 
less sister-in-law,' she answered mockmgly. 
"Jenifer hates Minnie Thurtle, and is 
awfully afraid of Minnie's getting anything 
like local recognition. Now 1 have no 
small feeling of that kind. If I owned 
serfs or slaves, I should like my serfs or 
slaves to distinguish themselves, because 
they'd redound to my credit But Jenifer 
has no broad feeling of that sort She 
hates Minnie ThurtJe because Minnie is 
pretty and is the keeper's daughter." 

Effie spoke very effectively; but the 
days were dead m which her effective 
rendering of wrong ideas could impress 


" If you really believe Miss Bay to be 
actuated by anything like petty jealousy, 
show yourself so much the nobler by not 
trying to thwart her," he said politely. 

She fiung her head up and looked at him 
in doubt 

"Tou are laughing at me, but your 
satire doesn't cut deeply enough to in- 
fluenca Please understand, if I let you 
have your own way in this, it is not because 
I want to please you, but because I want 
you to please Jenifer." 

" You are too good to me." 



52 I'lme 10, 1888.] 


[OOBnBflltd by 

" I don't pretend for a moment that my 
deaire is an amiable one ; but as I manage 
to get my own way in ererything at Moor 
Eoyal, I don't think you will be sorry to 
hear that I should really be very glad if 
Jenifer and you fell in love with each 

" I have no right to listen to the sugges- 
tion of there being even a possibility of 
Miss Eay's ever honouring me so far/' he 
said coldly. 

And then Effie laughed at him and told 
him he had "grown strangely humble." 

'' Will you make one tmy admission to 
me 1 " she asked as they walked along to 
the library, which had been transformed 
into a theatre; "it won't involve any loss 
of your dignity — ^in fact if any one will be 
humbled by it I shall be that person. 
Weren't you very much relieved when you 
heard I had married Hubert Bayt" 

" I was delighted to know that you had 
such a fair prospect of happinesa" 

"That's an evasion. Were you not 
relieved 1 Didn't you feel I had saved you 
a great deal of trouble 1 " 

" I thought you had acted very sensibly. 
Your husband is one of the best fellows I 
have ever known. Jack/' he continued, 
as they went behind the scenes, "Mrs. 
Hay has kindly permitted me to take my 
original part of Uharles the Second. You 
won't object ) you thought it a bore, you 
know 1 " 

" All right," Jack said, but he said it 
very grimly, and Captain Edgecumb saw 
lightning glances interchanged between 
Jack and a handsome dark-eyed eirl who 
stood a little apart from the lacQes and 
gentlemen assembled on the stage. 

" Jenifer doesn't mind putting me into 
a situation which she feels to be fraught 
with danger to her brother," he thought 
discontentedly ; but the next instant the 
better thought, " She knows too well what 
I feel about her to dread a low rival," 
moved him to a brighter tnme of mind. 

"The change is Miss Jenifer's work," 
Minnie Thurue took an opportunity of 
whispering to Jack, when stage business 
drove him into her vicinity. As much as 
he could he avoided speaking' to her before 
people. Not that he was " ashamed of his 
admiration for her," he told himself, but 
because he feared being forced into a 
premature declaration of love and war. 

" I don't think my sister has anything to 
do with it," he muttered in reply. 

"Oh, don't tell me," she said with a 
saucy toss of her handsome head. 

He had found similar tossings highly 
piquant and attractive when he nad 
witnessed them oftentimes in a half light 
in the keeper's cottage. 

But this one seemed glaring and out of 
place in the atmosphere of a room that he 
associated with the delicate and refined 
presence of the women who had habitually 
sat in it with b^wi, 

'< Oh, don't tell me ! Mrs. Hubert Bav 
is too much the lady to go and do an ill- 
natored thing ; but Miss Jenifer hates me, 
and will injure me if she can." 

This was very sad to hear, and hard to 
bear. But Jack knew that, by reason 
of certain foolish promises which he had 
made, he had brought it all upon himself 
And somehow or other the knowledge did 
not bring him any comfort 

Captam Edgecumb played his part with 
zeal and discretion, and Minnie Thurtle 
was speedily reconciled to the chan^ 
" The captam," as she loved to call lum 
for many a long d^ after these ill-timed 
theatricals at Moor Koyal, in his loyalty to 
the lightest wish of his heart's queen, for 
such he knew Jenifer to be to him, did his 
utmost to dazzle the vain rustic beauty 
away from Jack Bay. But though she 
loved the flattery which the handsome, dis- 
tinguished soldier lavished upon her freely, 
she was too shrewd and calculating a eirl 
to let it become a net to her feet He 
acted as a rod, however, with which to 
whip up Jack's jealousy into a show of 
more open allegiance to her. 

The majority of those who had received 
invitations to these festivities at Moor 
Boyal came, though they had declared 
themselves to be shocked and di^usted 
when they first heard of them. Yotmg 
Mrs. Bay and her sister were bom 
managers on a munificent scale, and no 
more perfect display of hospitality, well 
within the borders of good taste, had been 
witnessed in that neighbourhood. 

But when they came to count the cost 
of it all, which was not for some monAs 
after, they found the bills so heavy, that 
Effie broadly advised that no effort should 
be made to meet theuL 

"It will curtail our income quite too 
shockingly, if these wretched people are 
paid now," she said. And then she added 
that Hubert really should consider what 
exhaustive calls were made upon her 
housekeeping purse. " I have to provide 
for two families, you must remember, 
Hubert It would be very different if your 
mother and sister were not here." 







Thkrs are few more uninteresiing traetf 
of coontry than that throneh which nma 
the f atfaor of railwaya, the Immcheater and 
LiFeipool ; the line over which Stephenson 
drove his first looomotiye, the Rocket ; the 
line whose opening, a national fdte as it was 
very justly considered, was marked by the 
death of Hnskisson, as if the &tes had 
demanded some illostrioas victim as a 
sacrifice at the commencement of the new 
age — ^ihe age of steam and iron. It is a 
tract of mosses and wastes, widi mills and 
factories eropping np in all the habitable 
places. Cotton is no longer king, bnt 
instead there is a demooracy of misoel- 
Uneons mannfaotores — ^from engine^boQers 
to Epsom aaltSL 

But althoogh the railway system has im- 
mensely developed the industry of these 
regions, yet Manchester and Livecpool 
were, even before the railway age; they 
had SQcceeded in life, and had made their 
mark in the world, each giving a helping 
hand to the other across the mtervening 
moors and wilds ; and that they were able 
to do all this was very much the work of 
one man — ^not a beneficent person at all, 
bnt a stavdy, pig-headed lanaowner, think-, 
ing mostly of improving his own estate — 
Francisl^rton, third Dake of Bridgewater. 

If oar yoon^ duke had been fortunate 
in his love-affairs probably nothing wonld 
ever have been heard of the Bridgewater 
Canal Bat the beautifal Eliaabeth Can- 
ning — ^not long before wedded at dead 
of night, and with the ring of a bed- 
cortain, to the ^oang Duke of Hamilton ; 
bat now a bewitchii^ widow, taming the 
heads of all the world — ^this beautiful 
Elizabetti then, after turning the head of 
this second youns duke, a solid substan- 
tial head incapaUe of many such revolu- 
tions, quanelled with him on some point of 
behaviour, and then went and 'married 
another duke — a double duchess she had 
resolved to be — a duke of even greater 
pretensions ; and he of Bridgewater retired 
to his sednded seat at Worsl^ Old Hall 
near Manchester, to digest his pain and 
mortification. There was only one Eliza- 
beth he must have felt, none other so fair 
as she ; and he never sought otfiei consola- 
tion for his disappointment, except in the 
cares of business and the pursuit of a fixed 
idea. That fixed idea was canals. 

Close by Wordey Hall, beneath an 

abrupt diff of sandstone, ran a vein of coal, 
already worked to some profit^ and Man- 
chester near at hand to consume it all ; but 
between Manchester and the coal were miry 
road8andhilly,hardly worthy of the name. 
An ordinarv mind might have thought of 
improving the roads — might have hit upon 
the tramway, and even antedated the rail- 
way system But the duke's was not an 
orcunary mind. Something cranky and ori- 
ginal might be expected of him, and at 
this time he had the luck to meet with a 
congenial spirit — an almost illiterate mill- 
wright with a capacity for construction 
amounting even to genius. He could write 
a little, this James Brindley, ooidd make 
out an account or specification somehow, 
but his spelling was atrocious even in an 
age of doubtml spelling. Between the 
hard heads of the duke and the nullwright 
was struck out the luminous notion of a 
canal — ^a canal firom mid earth to Man- 
chester ; the coals to fioat from the parent 
vein to the wheelbarrow of the Mandiester 
weaver without breaking bulk. There was 
money in it^ the duke saw; but he had 
plenty of that already, and had no great 
use for it, heins parsimonious enougn in 
his habits, and living on four hundred a 
year while his great works were going oa 
Perhaps in the beginning he had some 
secret thought of showing beautiful Eliza- 
beth what she had lost» for he might have 
had a shrewd idea of what she had set most 
store by in her adorers. 

Well, an Act of Parliament was sot; 
the duke undertaking to sell his cou at 
fourpence the hundredweight — ^the big 
hundredweight^ one hundr^ and forty 
pounds, or mereabouts — on his wharf at 
Manchester; and the canal was made, 
Brindley, the guiding soul, fighting 
difficulties at every step, and meeting each 
perplexity with some new device. At 
nignt* there were consultations in the 
old hall, tobacco councils — a council of 
three, the duke, his fitbctor, and Brind- 
1^, with their long pines and mugs 
m ale, or perhaps it womd be at some 
tavern in the n^ibourhood, each man 
pa^g his score. When thisfirst canal was 
finisheil— ^a fine work stiU, even in this 
age of great works, with miles of under- 
ground tunnelling, crossing the Irwell 
by an aqueduct (then considered a mar- 
vellous work by connoisseurs), and ending 
at Knot Mill in Manchester— when the 
coal canal was finished ideas ^w into 
the shape of a new canal unitmg Man- 
chester and Liverpool Bnt here there were 










54 [laiMMiUn.l 


[QnilnfiM lit 

rivala to do with, the original Mersey and 
Irwell Navigation Company, who had to a 
certain extent oanalised the two streams, a 
navigation often interrupted by neap tides 
and times of drought, but which had 
already done much for tii6 commerce <rf the 
tvro rising towns. A great parliamentary 
battle followed-— Stanley against Egerton, 
the old navigation i^ainst the new — and 
the engineer iBrindley, looking on in awe, 
chronides the encounter in terms that recall 
the terse inscriptions on the Bayeuz 
tapestry : " The Toores mad had agane 
ye duk." But, if the Tories made head 
against the duke on this occasion, the 
duke was too many for them in the end. 
This Bill was passed, and the canal made, 
not following the direct line by which the 
railway now passes, for Chat-moss was in 
the way, but throogh the Cheshire flats, 
and joining the estuary of the Mersey at 
Buncom. This great work, undertaken 
at the sole charge of *the duke, was 
almost too much for his resources. The 
duke's Saturday night was frequently 
not so peaceful as the cottar's, for 
money to pay wages was often wanting. 
The duke at one time could not get a five 
hundred pound bill cashed either in Man- 
chester or Liverpool ; and if Childs, the 
bankers of Temple Bar, had not come to 
his aid, probably the works would have 
been stopped for want of money. But, once 
finished, tbe canal proved a great financial 
success, and is still a magnificent property, 
while it inaugurated a golden age of 
canals, which soon were planned and 
carried out in every direction. The influence 
of the duke's enterprise in developing the 
prosperity of Manchester and Liverpool 
may be judged from the fact that, before 
the days of the canal, the small quantity of 
goods exported fh>m Manchester to foreign 
markets was carried on horseback to 
Bewdley and Bridgenorth, and then 
floated down the Severn to Bristol 

Although Brindley and his patron were 
not ezacuy the originators of the canal 
in England — for cuts and navigations had 
fluently been made to improve the 
course of rivers, and in their immediate 
neighbourhood the Ssmkey Brook had been 
canalised — ^yet the canal, as an independent 
water-way, disregarding the courses of 
rivers, and carried by artificial works over 
hill and dale, is due to their initiation. And 
without canals it is doubtful whether we 
should have had railways The canal 
system trained up a race of engineers and 
others accustomed to great works. The 

gangs of men who had cut the navigations, 
and had got the name of navigators, took 
service under the new empire of railways, 
and retained their names and their rough 
and ready manners and organisation. 

Altogether a conspicuous figure thii 
great duke, and his name and fame are still 
freshly remembered about the scene of his 
great works. Still be seems to rale the 
great enterprisehe inanguratod; virtually he 
still rules by the truste^a^ who act under his 
original appointment. People talk st^ of 
the duke and the duke's intentions on this 
matter and the other, and '^ What does the 
duke say to thatl" is frequently heurd 
when any question is raised afTeetinff the 
interests of the Bridgewater Trust; and may 
be heard now in the crowded oommittee- 
room of the House of Commons, where 
the Manchester Ship .Canal is being dis- 
cussed — a canal which steps into the shoes 
of the '* old navkation/' and by which it 
is proposed to oring taU barques and 
ocean steamers into the very heart of 

A tribute to the fi^^ure made by the duke 
is the popular tradition concerning him. 
Some very old men still living might 
perhaps have seen him in the flesh; a 
figure of the period of the third of the 
(xeorges, with a profile like that of lus 
Majesty on the hatf-crowns, a heavy, bulky 
figiare*-^e had been slim enough when he 
courted fair Elizabeth Ghmning — ^a homely, 
substantial, yeoman-like figure in a brown 
suit^ with drab breeches all besprinkled 
with snufil And such a figure, it is said by 
old people about Worsley, may be seen, on 
one nijght in every year, sitting in a 
lumbering coach, which, drawn by six 
powerful black horses, timnders over the 
road towards Manchester. Or is it upon 
the black and gloomy waters of his own 
canal, where there is a stench as if from 
the pit of Acheron 9 The flying packet is 
passing, the horses are galloping along 
the track-way, the swell of Uadc water 
washes up the banks, the postillion in 
his scarlet jacket cracks his whip and 
shouts to dear the way. But the laaest 
baigeman need not bestir himself, the 
whole will pass swiftly and harmlessly like 
a vapour; only in a comer to himself the 
duke sits tallang earnestly with his two 
friends, and the smoke of their ghostly 
pipes curls harmlessly away. 

It is cheering to meet withatouch of super- 
stitious romance in the very heart of the 
manufacturing district Perhaps an ancient 
domain like that of Worsley, with its 




rhfwrlfft Wftlwuff,] 


ancient trees and grassy elades, keeps up 
a eertain freshness of feelmg as well as of 
vegetation in its immediate circoitw Any- 
how, there is Wardley Hall close by, where 
there is preserved a yeritable fetish, dating 
from nobody knows when, and preserved 
nobody knows why, except that some 
unheard-of misfortune would follow its 
removal A fine old Elizabethan hall is 
Wardley, with its timber-work, and over- 
hanging gables, and fine clustered chimney 
shafts — ^a hall that has come to the Eger^ 
tons; for the name of Egerton still survives 
at Worsley, although the male line has 
long since run out; but these hold by 
the distaff, as the old genealogists say, and 
were originally Growers of the ducal house 
of Sutherland. Well, at one time this 
lordly hall was the home of an ancient 
family named Downes, and the last of the 
race, the inevitable spendthrift who dissi- 
pates what it has cost generations of careful 
policy to amass and keep together, was, 
according to tradition, one Soger Downes, 
who forsook this fine old place for a 
lodging in Whitehall, and is said to have 
been one of the wildest rufflers at the 
court of Charles the Second. In a brawl 
he killed a tailor, and in his turn 
had his head chopped off (so the story 
goes) by a watchman with his bill. The 
headless trunk was thrown into the 
Thames, the head packed up in a box and 
sent to Wardley, where it still remains. 
Another account says the fray was at 
Epsom Wells, but agrees about the armi- 
potent watch^dan. And then, rather to the 
confusion of the legend, some chamally- 
minded antiquary of the last century 
explored the tombs of the Downes family 
in an adjoining church, and found the coffin 
of Roger, and, within, the skeleton with 
head and everything complete; and this 
inclines us to another tradition, or con- 
jecture, which attributes the skull to a 
Koman Catholic priest martyred in Queen 
Elizabeth's days, and deelares that it was 
here preserved as a relic Anyhow, there 
is the head still carefully preserved in a 
cupboard in the wall made purposely for 
its reception, and nobody ventures to 
disturb it for fear that worse might 

Leaving behind this nook of primitive 
freshness of verdure and faith, preserved 
by the territorial influence of the Bridge- 
water estates, we may make for Warring- 
ton, described by Leland more than three 
centuries ago as '^ a paved town of pretty 
bigness,'' a description that still holds good. 

It is certainly not of any big prettiness. 
But Warrington may be remembered as 
the seat of an ancient academy of Presby- 
terian origin ; with Dr. Enfield, the com- 
piler of the once familiar " Speaker," as one 
of its chiefs. Presbyterianism was once 
very strong in Lancashire, and Warrington 
was a sort of literary centre (as was 
Norwich, later on) of that particular 
cult, modified and brightened by French 
influence through the medium of the 
Huguenot immigration of the seventeenth 

Warrington Bridge, too, may deserve 
notice, once held to be the key of Lanca- 
shire. Built, or perhaps restored, by the 
first Earl of Derby, when his potent son- 
in-law. King Henry the Seventh, made his 
royal progress to Knowsley. This same 
eari left a good round sum in his will 
to free the bridge from toll, so that every- 
one might cross freely to and fro without 
hindranca The road from Warrington 
Bridge to Knowsley runs in a bold direct 
way ; the London road for the Liverpool 
people; turning sharply their way at Prescot, 
where is quite a little Switzerland, not in 
scenery, but in the devotion of the people 
to watchmaking. Here we are at the gates 
of the ancient seat of the Stanleys, with its 
noble park, jealously guarded f^om public 
gaze by a high wall enclosing its whole 
circuit. Perhaps the high waB, however, 
was designed not so much to keep out 
prying eyes as to keep in prowling wild 
beasts, for Knowsley, in the lifetime of the 
grandfather of the present earl, was a 
private " Zoo," where all kinds of wild 
animals were kept for the owner's delight 

The Stanleys began to rise from the ruck 
of fighting knights and captains, as the 
Percys — ^Hotspur and grey old Northum- 
berland — came to their downfall Proba- 
bly even then the Stanleys had some 
connection with Liverpool and the mari- 
ners who used that haven, and so had 
means of reaching the Isle of Man, and 
taking it from the Percys, who had held 
it for some few years. Anyhow, Stanley 
got the island and kept it, with the title 
of Lord of Man and of the Isles ; perhaps 
he called himself king on the iskmd, but 
would not venture to do so within hearing 
of the jealous court of his master. The 
Stanleys were zealous adherents of York 
during the Wars of the Boses, and gained 
considerably in fortune by the success of 
Edwdrd the Fourth; but their grand coup, 
as everybody knows, was at Bosworth Field, 
when, by a judicious abstention from the 





66 [JnnaSOblSSLl 


tOoBdnolid bf 

fight^ Thomas Stanley virtoally won the 
crown for Henry of Bichmond. There 
was nothing particularly treacherous in 
Stanley's deletion, whose son George was 
in the hands of Bichard as a hostile for 
his father's behaviour ; and to be suspected 
by such a vigorous ruler as Bichard was 
pretty well equivalent to a sentence of 
deatL But a long-headed and careful 
man was this first Earl of Derby*— not 
Earl of Derbyshire or of the town best 
known as Derby, but of the manor and 
hundred of West Derby in Lancashire — 
not taking it amiss when jealous King 
Henry the Seventh cut off his brother's 
head for a mere incautious saying about 
Perkin Warbeck. He had himself a kind of 
surety in his wife, the king's mother, the 
cold and stately Margaret, who lies buried 
in her son's chapel in Westminster Abbey. 
George Stanley, the hostage of Bosworih, 
did not live to be Earl of Derby, and it 
was his younger brother, Sir Edwwi, who 
led the Lancashire men to Flodden Field, 

A stock of striplingB stronff of hetft 
Brought up from babes with beef and bread, 

and to whom Lord Marmion's last words, 
'* On, Stanley, on ! " were presumably 
addressed. It was these Lancashire strip- 
lings whose keen showers of arrows drove 
the Scots from the hill on which they 
were entrenched ; and as Stanley had thus 
won the mount, and bore an eagle on his 
coat, the fanciful heraldry of the day 
decreed that he should be created Lord 

Perhaps the most interesting of these 
lords of Knowlesley was the third earl, 
Edward, the grandest and most stately of 
peers, but also a successful bone-setter — 
in a country where bone-setting is an here- 
ditary and secret craft — and a cunning 
leech, deh'ghting in doctoring and dosing 
the poor. In his time Lathom was the 
chief residence, and the neighbouring town 
of Ormskirk the burial-place of the mmily, 
and in Ormskirk church are still many 
memorials of the Stanleys. '' He has got 
Lathom and Knowlesley," is still a 
common saying in Lancashire when any- 
body has two houses, showing a strange 
tenacity and vitality in a popmar saying, 
for Lathom went away from the Stanleys 
in 1735, when the tenth earl died wiUiout 
issue, and the line ranbackto the descendant 
of the third son of George, the hostage of 
BoswortL But in the meantime Lamom 
had made its mark in the history of the 
Stanleys. We are now in the times of 
the Civil Wars between king and Parlia- 

ment^ and James, the seventh earl, a 
zealous king's man, and yet coldly and 
jealously regarded by the king, perhaps 
from being suspected of a ce^udn Puri- 
tanism in the matter of religion, his wife, 
Charlotte de Tremouilles, being of a distin- 
guished Huguenot family, her mother the 
daughter of William the First, Prince of 
Orange, and Charlotte Bourbon. 

The heroic defence of Lathom House by 
Countess Charlotte was once a favourite 
subject with our artists, and well known 
upon the walls of the Boyal Academy. The 
countess is at dinner with her daughters ; 
a bomb alights in the fireplace and explodes, 
setting the dogs barking and the maids 
shrielung; the gallant serving -man half 
draws hu sword ; but the buxom countess 
goes on with her dinner quite unmoved, 
and her two girls are rather excited than 
alarmed. The huge bombard which thus 
annoyed the garrison with its shells, was 
soon after captured in a sortie, and brought 
into the castle. And presently Prince 
Bupeit came along with Uie main body of 
the king's army and raised the siege ; and 
all ended happily for the time, the countess 
retiring in safety to the Isle of Man, where 
her husband soon after joined her, for, for 
some reason or other, Bupert would have 
no more of him than the king ; they took 
his men and his money greedily enough, 
but seemed to have an invincible dislike to 
his person. 

But before the earl reached the island 
he had shared in a deed of arms which cost 
him dear later on. 

The Boundheads, breaking up their 
leaguer before Lathom, had divided into 
two bands — one retreating to Bolton, at 
that time chiefly inhabited by Presbyterians, 
while the other made for Liverpool Bupert 
and the earl pursued the enemy to Bolton, 
which they carried by storm. The sack 
and slaughter that foUowed rankled deeply 
in the hearts of the rest of the Parlia- 
mentary army. Officers and men were, it 
is said, killed in cold blood after surrender, 
and the earl, if not actually concerned in 
the killing, made no effort to prevent it 
It is difficult to believe all this of a brave 
and amiable man, and the earl denied it 
with his dying breath. But the feeling in 
the army was strong against him, and the 
earl might be considered a doomed man if 
he fell mto the power of his enemies. But 
in his little island kingdom he seemed safe 
enough, even when the royal cause was 
altogether lost and the king had gone to 
the scaffold. But the earl was drawn from 





his retreat to share the fortunes of the 
second Charles, and the " crowning mercy " 
of Worcester fight lefb him a fugitive and a 
wanderer. Even then he seems to have taken 
more thought for the safety of his Prince 
than for ms own, little as the Stuarts 
had ever loved hhn or his; and leaving 
Charles in the safe retreat of Boscobel he 
made for his own island home where his 
wife still held out for the royal cause. In 
the attempt he was recognued and taken 
prisoner, and sentenced to be beheaded in 
the market-place of Bolton. In a manly 
and affectinff letter he takes leave of hu 
wife, with the last postscript, << Blessing to 
you, my dear Mall, and Ned, and Bifiy." 
niese last were the youneest of the flock, 

Kungest and most loved perhaps, for he 
d a son Charles old enough to ride to 
London, and beg for his father's Ufa But 
Cromwell, not personally vindictive, pro- 
bably felt that the feeling of the army 
demanded a sacrifice ; and so the earl met 
his doom — ^surrounded by stem Puritan 
soldiers grimly approving the deed, the 
little crowd of townsfolk silent and doubt- 
ful — upon the spot where now a statue is 
erected to his memory. 

As for poor little Ned and Billy, it is dis- 
appointing to learn that they both died in 
childhood. One might have hoped that a 
father's last blessing had better sped. But 
it is curious to note that in the general 
winding up and distribution that followed 
the extinction of the eldest branch of the 
house, when Lathom was lost to the 
Stanleys, the kingdom of Man fell to the 
Duke of Athole, a descendant of a daughter 
of the unfortunate James Stanley and Char- 
lotte de Tremouilies, one of tibe girls who 
shared in the dangers of the siege of 
Lathom House, and the dukedom of Athole 
was enriched with nearly half a million of 
money, which the English Government paid 
for the lordship of li^n. 

From this period the annals of the 
Stanleys record no very striking incidents, 
except in the way of Parliamentary war- 
fare, which is hardly within our limits. 
But seated in the midst of such a thriving 
and wealthy district, the fortunes of the 
Stanleys have kept pace with the growth 
of the great seaport so long connected with 
the family. 

We are now close to Liverpool, which 
throws out its arms in all directions, 
covering the county with mansions and 
villas, and with a cloud of outposts 
in the way of small houses and squalid 
suburbs. But to see Liverpool to advan- 

tage it should be approached from the sea, 
with its long lines of buildings glittering 
through the sea haze, and half veiled by a 
doud of clustering masts and spars. 

Few cities are more thoroughly modem 
than Liverpool The very pool, the 
creek or haven in the Mersey to which it 
owes its name and first beginning, has 
been filled up, and drays and waggons 
ramble over the spot where once the 

Edleys and fisher-boats of the old world 
y anchored. The original Liverpool 
b^B^an its career upon the peninsula 
formed by this creek, on the ness or nose 
of which was the town quay — ^now repre- 
sented by the open space in front of the 
heavy and gloomy-looking Custom House. 
On a knoU above the quay stood the ancient 
castie of King John, of which not a vestige 
is left, its site being now occupied by St. 
George's Church; but its memory is preserved 
in Castle Street Leaving the visionary 
castle gate represented by the north front 
of the classic church. Castle Street con- 
ducts us to a carrefour, where the Town 
Hall now stands, anciently known as the 
High Cross. Here abutted the main road 
from Presoot and London — ^from Knowsley, 
too, and Lathom ; and down this road, now 
Dale Street, often enough the Earl of 
Derby passed alone with his train to his 
fortified mansion, where are now big ware- 
houses overlooking St. Gborge's Dock. 

And here we have the nudeus of the old 
town : the castle, the High Cross, Lord 
Derby's Tower, and over against that the 
Chapel of Our Lady near the waterside — 
for Liverpool did not rise to the dignity of 
a church, being only part of. the parish of 
Walton-on-the-HUl, that was a village 
when Liverpool was but a marshy creek, 
and is only a village still, now that her 
ancient dependency is one of the chief 
cities of the world. All the rest of the town 
was just one long straggling street, with 
the white cross in the middle of it, and 
close by the cross was the old hall of the 
Moores. All this might be considered suburb 
even as late as the seventeenth century ; 
when the Parliamentarians held castle and 
town in force, and Prince Rupert laid siege 
to it The creek gave a certain strength to 
the position, and the old Norman castle, with 
its towers, and moats, and barbicans, was 
imposing in appearance, but commanded 
by a semicircle of loftier hiQs. Prince 
Rupert pronounced it a crow's-nest that 
schoolboys might capture ; but the crow's- 
nest cost him fifteen hundred men, sadly 
wanted at Marston Moor soon afterwards ; 




58 [Jiuie80,1888.] 


[Ooadnctod by 

and the captare of Liyerpool was the last 
solid sncoeas of the royal army. With 
the recapture of the town by the Parlia- 
mentary army the history of Liverpool 
militant comes to an end, except for some 
trifle in the wayof priyateeringintheFrench 
war. All the rest is an oninterrapted 
record of prosperity and deyel(4>menti 

Towards the end of the eighteenth 
century, taking the Liverpool - Guide of 
1797 as an authority, we find the port 
described as a ''vortex that has nearly 
swallowed up the foreign trade of Biistcd, 
Lancaster and Whitehaven." This swallow- 
ing up was no doubt due very much 
to the enterprising makers of canals ; of 
which a perfect network converged about 
Liverpool The cotton trade^ too, was 
developing, and Lish yams were kigely 
imported, and most of the passenger tnlffic 
to and from the sister island passed through 

'' Packets sail almost daily for Dublin, 
weather permitting." The ferry-houses 
on either side of the river are crowded 
with passengers, but the fares are un- 
certain, and daily impositions are prac- 
tised upon strangers. In connection with 
the feny there is daily communication by 
canal with Chester, by means of an " elegant 
packet.'' The passengers of both sexes are 
carried in and out by the boatmen with 
great ease and safety when the tide does 
not serve fbr the piers. Society is gay 
and pleasant, with a touch of the tone of 
Bath and Cheltenham — coaches and chairs 
in waiting to convey the fashionables to 
their varied sphere of amusements. The 
faresare one and sixpence amile; buta coach 
and pair may be hired for the whole day 
for twelve-and-six. 'Money comes in easily 
and pleasantly to these Liverpool traders, 
especially to those who deal in ''ebony," for 
that is the best trade now going. Slaves 
of the value of a million and upwards are 
yearly transported from the African coast 
to the West Indies, and one fourth of the 
ships that hail from Liverpool are engaged 
in that trade. 

In the immense extensions and recon- 
structions that have taken place since then, 
it seems a pity that the old pool should 
have disappeared, for a tidal basin leading 
into the heart of the city, mingling the 
masts of ships with spires and roofs, is 
the one thing wanting to the grace and 
picturesqueness of the city. Nature has so 
far been improved out of existence, and is 
revenged by the dampness of the site of 
the old pool, while the dwellings built upon 

it are more or less unhealthy. But 
wonderful is the long river front with its 
bewildering network of docks ; wonderful 
the great landing-stage where . all the 
nations of the es^h seem to meet for 
one brief moment and pass on their way 
— tenders taking off people for the steamers 
for America, or India, or the Antipode9, 
while others are landing them bronsed 
and baked from the tropics, or white and 
frosted from Greenland or Archangel— 
and wonderful the rush of everyday 
people for the ferries, where for a few 
pence you can enjoy all the excitenmit and 
charm of the departure f <Hr a voyage of in- 
definite duration. With a fresh broeze and 
a full tide, and the argosies floating proudly 
home, cables clanking, anchors rattling, 
seamen cheering, and expectant groups 
peering out from poop and forecastle, at 
the new world that hiuB risen for them over 
the seas, there is variety and pleasure 
enough in merely crossing the feny. And 
then we land as it were on a strange coast 
Lancashire is left behind, and we are within 
easy reach of the aiident city of the 
Legion, world-renowned Chester, a strong 
and living link with the faraway past. 



Who wouldn't live among these Surrey 
hills this pleasant spring morning — all 
rugged and broken, with the heather show- 
ing green on their brown sides, that some- 
times in the wreathing mists of morning 
assume quite the air of rugged primeval 
rocks, while you can fancy that grand 
Alpine summits lie hidden behind the 
clouds 1 A military feeling, too, is in the 
landscape — an artillery fourgon just dis- 
appearing behind the brow of a hill, and 
on some nearer point figures red and black, 
one of whom is waving energetically a 
white flag, signalling an approach, no 
doubt, to headquarters. Stray bugle- 
calls are heard intermittently between the 
puffs of the engine. And here is the 
Valley of Jehoshaphat, the quiet resting- 
place of the dead, with the white tombs 
shining among the blossoms of the gorse. 

And then the station for the camp, with 
a quiet kind of animation about it— a 
sprinkling of uniforms and of officers in 
mufti just back from leave, and driving off 
with sheaves of fishing-rods sticking out of 
the cab-windows. Oh yes, plenty of cabs — 
hansoms, too i But better to walk through 
Aldershot— the brisk little town that has 


i ^ 


[June 10, 1888.] 59 

apmng up from nothiiig, with nothing 
strikingly military In its general appear- 
ance, unless it be in the tailors' shops that 
bristle with uniforms, and the saddlers', 
with a leaning to military accoutrements. 
Just outside are the permanent barracks — 
buildings that are even impressive in their 
blank dead walls, with an. overpowering 
sense of bricks and mortar — cavalry- 
barracl» these, Hg enough for an army, 
with a squadron or two of dragoons almost 
lost in thrir recesses, and in contrast a 
quite pretty set of ii]jEMitry-barracksi like 
model lodging*houses, with balconies out- 
side, where soldiers are lolling in every 
degree of dress and undress, and a glass 
roof between the two blocks, making a 
eoveied parade-ground below. And then 
up the long straight road to the camp, 
meeting a spriiJde of military, traffic — an 
artiUery-waggon or two, an orderly jogging 
down the hm with much rattle and jingle 
of accoutrements, a small dog-cart with 
two or three smart young subs upon it, 
rejoicing in a dajr's emancipation — and 
then we cross the general piurade-ground 
that looks down the whole length of dusty 
white road, running straight as a carpen- 
ter^s rule right through the South Oamp and 
over the canal and through the North Camp, 
and so away into the wilderness^ The 
camp itself one might overlook altogether, 
so low and insisnificant-looking are the 
red-brown huts, aU symmetrically arranged 
in blocks like some toy viUage, each block 
being known as a line — ^Line A, Line B, 
and so on; and between each row of blocks 
a strip of parade-ground. Here and there 
is some more elal^rate reridence, the result 
of accretions at various times, after a 
pleasant *' booth-at4t-f air " fashion, with a 
green lawn, perhaps^ and something in the 
way of a garden about it 

Perhaps what strikes us most is the 
quietude of the place, in spite of some 
little military stir, a regimental band play- 
ing somewhere near, and bugles sounding, 
and the hoarse woids of command. But, 
notwithstanding all this, such tranquility ! 

"Is it possible,'' cries Mrs. Creaker, 
''that there are five or six thousand 
soldiers all about us, and everything so 

" You forget, my dear," replied Oreaker 
grimly, *'they are all men. With a 
female regiment or two you'd find a 

" Or if we'd a militia regiment or two 
inst come in," suggests a sergeant who 
has volunteered to show us the lines of 

the Cumbrian Fusiliers, "you wouldn't 
complain of the quiet then, mem." 

** I don't complain of it," rejoined Mrs. 
Creaker in an injured tone. '* I think it 
quite delightful." 

But in truth, the men are all furbishing 
up for parade, and presently bugles ring 
out and the lines are all alive with men 
Jiastening to the general muster. 

We shall. have to wait now before we 
can talk to Master Tom, for our iriend is 
with his regiment, undistingoishable among 
the mass of Olengarrys and gleaming 
rifles. And then the ranks fall in, the 
officers gather in groups, and the grey- 
headed colonel comes on the ground on his 
quiet old di^^ed steed, and the band 
strikes up with a crash, and bayonets 
glisten and swords are drawn, and markers 
run wildly hither and thither. 

There is a kind of fascination in watch- 
ing military drill that would keep us 
gazmg as long as it lasted ; but presently 
Oreaker espies a regiment of cavalry 
exerdsing in a big field between the two 
camps, and carries us off to look at them. 

We skirt the camp by a belt of silver 
birch — ^the birksof Aldershot are quite as 
pleasant in thek way as those of Aber- 
feldy — ^the trees just bursting into leaf of 
the tenderest, most hopeful green. The 
sun is warmi a kind of restful languor is in 
the air, pleasantly enlivened with distant 
martial music; and even the incessant 
bugling of aspirant buglers-— the somewhat 
discordant accompaniment of all military 
camps — comes with a softened, distant 
cadence, like some warlike Banz des 
Vaches. There is somebody on the top of 
a hill, of course, waving a flag with deter- 
mined energy; others are lying down a 
long way off against a sunny bank, and 
one of these replies lasily, just a flick of 
his flag at the end of each vigorous 
flourish from the hilL And this last is 
the work that would suit us best on this 
lasy day of spring, to lift that flag and let 
it drop every now and then, in placid 
assent to what the vigorous young fellow 
on the hill might be waving, a great deal 
too polite to disagree with any of his 
remarks, or to be led into controversy on 
any possible subject Then goes by a 
waggon with a team of mules — a team of 
indefinite length, a dozen, more or less — 
driven by a jolly young corporal, with an 
eighteen-foot sapline as a whip, that he 
waves as a giant mi^t wave his club. But 
with all this power of whip anything like a 
trot is only effected by all ttie soldiers in the 



so [JimeM,1888L] 



sf aggon, as many men as mules, jumping 
dff and ptmchinff each a mole. Then there 
is something like a g^op, and the men 
jump in again helter-skelter; the mules 
hxve a feelmg that this is being done, and 
shut up with a snap like a new three-and- 
dxpenny clasp-knife; and then the jumping 
out and punching b^;ins agaiui everybody 
^eiy jolly and pleasant over it, and even 
bhe mules seeming to see the joka ''And 
they get extra pay for that, do they t " 
isks Creaker in a sarcastic tbne. " Yes, 
ur," replies the friendly sergeant ; '< work- 
ing pay at rates varying from f ourpenoe to 
9ne-and-fouipenoe a day." But it must be 
said that the work about the camp, dear- 
ing-up, digging, and so on, is done in a 
sareful, thorough way. 

And then we come to the cavalry drill — 
I thorough ffrind in its way, giving the 
impression of a vast gathering of mounted 
lunatics amusing themselves with their 
favourite crazes. There, in one comer, a 
iolitary horseman is riding round and 
round in circles, while another is poppins 
}ver an imitation hedge, backwards and 
forwards ; there a line of men, their horses 
immovable as so man^ statues, while the 
men are whirling their arms about like 
mill-sails. Another lot are jumping into 
iheir saddles, and then jumping back to 
»rra firma without apparent motive ; and 
igain a different set are walking their 
lorses sideways^ while others seem to be 
>laying at foUow-m^-leader. Altogether 
me realises the temUe labour and cost of 
raining and mounting that splendid but 
lasily-damaged machine, a crack cavalry 
iorps, with its associations rather of a 
lead and gone ohivalrv than of the stem 
fork of modem war. Tom was a dte right 
Lot to join the cavalry ; it is like learning a 
lead language for a man who has got his 
rork cut out in the living world. 

But the horsemen file away, and the 
Jace is left solitary; the tradesmen's carts, 
rhoae occupants have stopped to gase, 
ow drive on* A pony-carriage comes 
ingling along with tne colonel's wife and 
er pretty little girls; an officer's wife in a 
edl hat canters past with a great following 
f dogs. Just hereabouts runs the Basing- 
toke Canal, a quiet and restful piece of 
rater, that from long experience of country 
fe has got rid of all business-like primness, 
nd with brambles along its banks and a 
uiet foot-path by the side — ^it is called the 
>w>path, but nobody ever saw anything 
>wed from it — seems to have been pro- 
loted by Nature on its retirement from 

active service to the honorary rank of a 
river. Bythe bridge over the CMial IB aboat- 
letting establishment, and a young fellow 
in mmti, with his wife, embarks in asmsU 
skiff, and paddles away, down or up, it is 
all the same; there is no fear of brotaL bar- 
geeswitih their crushing vesaelsof wrath, but 
at most a friendly boat>load of turnips, or a 
small consignment of oil-cake, draped by 
the fitfmer's boy, to vary the quiet retire- 
ment of the scene. 

But by this timeTom will be released from 
his duties perhaps, and we stroll back 
throuffh the camp. The small of dinner is 
now distinctly in the air. At the doois 
of the huts sergeants' wives are looking out 
for their husbudsi while the domestic cat 
robs herself in expectant >velcome at the 
door-post; but the reriment is still under 
arms, each captain with his company work- 
ing it about independently, while the grey- 
headed colonel watches the whole calmly 
from his saddl& In one comer of the 
parade-ground a squad of recruits are bemg 
drilled by a smart young sergeant who 
whisks Us rifle about as if it were a 
bamboo-cane. The sergeant-major watches 
the proceedings with an observant eye, and 
the colonel rides up now and then to see 
how they are getting on. Altogether there 
seems to be a great deal more pains taken 
with young soldiers than used to be the 
case, and ihey are less subject to the petty 
tyranny«-of their immediate superiors. 

But soon Uie last bugle-call is blown, 
and the serried lines of scarlet and steel 
resolve themselves into their elements; 
buglers, bandsmen, privates, officers, 
all disappear, and the parade - ground 
resumes its dusty and deserted aspect^ 
relieved only by the tripods and dummy 
targets which are used in teaching theyoung 
ideas how to shoot 

By this time Tom, hospitably intent 
to do the full honours of Aldershot, 
has found us out The male section 
of the party must come and join the mess 
— the sergeants' mess — ^f or Tom announces 
with pride that he has already gained 
the third stripe and is now a sergeant 
For his suter, there is a staff-sergeant a 
great friend of his, who occupies a hut to 
himself with his wife and daughter, and 
will MrSb Creaker join them at their meal? 
The pure air of the Surrey hills has 
made everybody hungry, and the prospect 
of something to eat is hailed with joy. 

^' I was going to propose," said Creaker, 
" that you should come and lunch with us 
at the hotel." 

> ; 




(June 80, 1888.] 61 

Tom ahook his head. 

" My soldier's coat/' he said, " isn't good 
aioogb for an hotel-bar. The pubucan 
looks down upon me, the barmaid reserves 
her smiles for the conmiissioned officer. I 
shouldn't be allowed in the coffee-room." 

Creaker admits that this is a great 
shjutne. Not so long ago he himself would 
have been equally intolerant; but the 
process of conrersion has been rapid. We 
ait down with the sergeants in their mess- 
hut, where everything is as well served as 
in A private house of the better class. The 
meat — an excellent joint, for the united 
rations of the mess are taken in this form 
— ^the meat and bread cost them nothing. 
The yegetables and groceries are extras; 
but a small weekly subscription defrays all 
dargea. The dmner is got over with 
military promptitude, and then Creaker 
producesdgars which are generally approved 
of, and a game of billiards is proposed, 
Tom having got bis liberty for the after- 
noon. The sereeant-major joins in the 
game, a fine stuwart man who is still in 
the prime of life. Indeed, he has been 
only nine years in the service, and his 
record is an example of what a steady 
aealous man may get out of the service. 

''In four montl^," says the sergeant- 
major, " I was made lance-corporal, in about 
twelve months full corporal; then it was 
two years before I was made a sergeant; 
our mend here," pointing to Tom, " has 
beat me at that In another year I was 
made colour-sergeant, and then two years 
after that sergeant-major." 

Now our sergeant-major looks forward 
some day to be made quartermaster, with 

Sy rangins from nine to fifteen shillings a 
y, and, alter hanging on to this as long 
as he can, he will retire on a pension with 
the honorary rank of captam, and with 
a good chance of an appointment in civil 
life. He would prefer a civil appointment 
to one under Government, because in the 
latter case they have a pernicious habit of 
docking the amount of pension from the 
salary pertaining to the appointment Being 
asked if he would take a commission as lieu- 
tenant if it were offered him, the sergeant- 
major shakes his head. He would feel it 
as a come-down to be a subaltom, and 
dod^g about from one wing to another 
of his company ; he who now feels himself 
of as much real authority as his colonel 
But ho thinks Tom has a good chance of a 

As we are playing billiards in this 
comfortable, .well-fumished room, a few 

sergeants drop in to glance at the news- 
papers — ^the table is well covered with 
newspapers and periodicak of all kinds— 
and Creaker, with his enquiring disposition 
and well-filled cigar-case, which seems, like 
Fortunatus's purse, to have always a 
certain quantity left in it — Creaker 
manages to elicit the opinion of these 
gallant fellows on the status of the service ; 
and the general agreement is to the effect 
that sergeants are very fairly off, but that 
there is a want of security about the 
position. They are reduced for trifling 
offences in many cases, and then fareweU 
to their prospects for the future. In times 
past there might have been considerable 
tyranny of sergeants over privates, but now 
perhaps the tyranny is the other way, for 
the private is virtually irresponsible, and 
if he is unruly and insubordinate the 
sergeant is obliged to smooth it over, as 
complaints, however decided, are sure to 
tell against the man who makes them. In 
fact, the sergeant is the elastic buffer who 
gets all the bumps from both sides. 
Creaker, however, who knows so much 
about business life, afterwards, when alone 
with Tom, makes light of this complaint. 
'*It's the same everywhere," he said. 
" Overseers, foremen, head-derks, all make 
the same complaint It's jast the test of 
their fitness for higher things that they 
should be able to mana^ both inferiors 
and superiors." But having been cordially 
received and hospitebly entertained by the 
^;allant sergeants of the Cumbrian Fusiliers, 
It would not become us to make light of 
their grievances. 

' Tom had been a little uneasy all the 
time we had been playing billiards, want- 
ing to see how his sbter was getting on. 
"Oh, she'll do very well," said Cr^er, 
who was showing off his cannons upon the 
billiard-teble, speaking with the calm 
indifference of a husband. But Tom said 
if we didn't mind he'd run on and see, 
and as he failed to come back again, we 
went after him to the staff-sergeant's 
hut It was a pretty little place, with a 
little porch, and creepers about it, and 
inside quite a cosy little cottage, with 
engravings and flowers to brighten the 
room, and a pleasant house-mother to bid 
us welcome. Besides the sergeant's wife 
there was a daughter, a nice refined- 
looking girl, who was washing the plates 
in a Uttle lean-to attached to the hut, 
while Tom, leaning against the doorpost, 
watehed her movements with considerable 
interest, and every now and then threw in 




62 [Jane 30, I88S.] 


[Conducted by 

a word. The sergeant evidently took 
great pride in his daughter ; he showed us 
her drawings, her certificates. She was 
quite a learned young lady — as well 
educated as if she had been the colonel's 
daughter. "I should like her to be a 
governess in some good family, and not to 
marry a soldier/' says her mother confi- 
dentially to Mrs. Creaker ; but Tom over- 
hears it, and gives a start as if this disposal 
of the young woman's future affected him 

And now we take a turn among the huts, 
looking in upon one here and there. The 
men are lodged comfortably enough, their 
beds ranged^on each side, nine of a side, 
the mattresses and bedding neatly rolled 
np as if ready for a start, whether to the 
Kile or Ganges matters not. 

The Queen commandB, and we obey, 
'Over the hiUs and far away. 

Dinner is over, and the mess-tins are 
packed up and arranged on a shelf over 
the door at either end — in some cases 
bright and gleaming like the vessels at 
Belshazzar's feast, in others dull and 
leaden like mere earthly pannikins. Two 
rough tables accommodate the two messes, 
each with two rougher forms to sit upon. 
The soldiers' kits and accoutrements hide 
the bareness of the wooden walls. It is 
the niche where the soldier sleeps and eats 
— that is all. His leisure moments are spent 
elsewhere, and the place where the soldier 
finds himself most at home, truth compels 
us to say, is the canteen, 

A cheerful-looking place, too, is the regi- 
mental canteen with its verandah, and in 
fine weather tables outside and seats, where 
the soldiers sit and drink their beer and 
smoke, and indulge in soldier's talk to their 
hearts' content. A good sprinkling of men 
are abont this afternoon, but the majority 
are^ on duty of some kind — ^musketry, 
fatigue parties, and so on. After tea, which 
the soldier ^ts about four o'clock, as a rule, 
the soldier is free for the rest of the day. 
Only on grand field-days is the soldier often 
kept under arms till long past teatime. 
There is a pretty good hubbub now about 
the canteen ; about the bar where beer is 
served ; about the long, low room which 
is the festal hall of the establishment. At 
one end of the hall stands the piano, and 
above it are a gaily painted proscenium and 
a miniature stage, where performers of the 
music-hall variety appear in costume, and 
sing the songs and dance the break-downs 
of the day. Every night this amusement 
is provided by the profits of the canteen, 

the performance costing, perhaps, thirty 
shiUin^s or so a week, and the performers 
appearing on seven or eight different stages 
in the course of the evening, just as in the 
metropolis. The room is well-provided 
with seats, but these are never used unless 
to stand upon. At night the room is 
thronged in a general shoulder to shoulder 
movement Shouting, cheering, load 
laughter, clinking of cans accompany the 
tinkling of the old piano and the strident 
notes of the vocalist, while a thick pall of 
tobacco-smoke from hundreds of pipes 
almost obscures the b'ght of the paraffin 

In a general way the canteen is en- 
couraged by the authorities, and, indeed, 
it is much better for the soldier to spend 
his evenings here — ^where, if he muddles 
himself at times it is with good honest beer 
which does him no harm — rather than that 
he should seek the allurements of the town, 
the poisoned spirits of the grog-shops, with 
other enticements of a destructive and 
degrading kind. But as far as drunken- 
ness is concerned the army is neither much 
better nor much worse under the new 
system. Still, a total of twenty-three thou- 
sand men annually fined for drunkenness, 
shows the besetting sin of drunkenness 
to be a real and terrible evil for the 
army. Peihaps, however, it is not worse 
in the army than among the classes 
from which the army is recruited. 
Labourers, colliers, miners, puddlers, 
costermongers — drunkenness we know 
flourishes among such men, and it is 
not to be hoped that army service, with 
its many temptations, should have very 
much reclaiming influence, especially^ as 
it muist be remembered that it is certainly 
not the cream of such classes that the 
army secures. The one chance of raising 
the general condition of the army is to 
attract a better class of recruits. 

But there are other places of resort for 
the private. In each cluster of huts there 
is a reading-room, and here the private will 
find the day's papers, and the illustrated 
weeklies, with a good supply of general 
literature. Attached to the reading-room 
is a recreation-room, and at one of these 
we find a couple of drummer-boys zealously 
engaged at a game of bagatelle, their rosy 
faces hardly on a level with the board, 
while a corporal and private, with long clay 
pipes in their mouths, are having a keen 
encounter of wits over the cribbage-board. 
And then the clank of scythes and the re- 
verberation of a big iron roller, call otur 



CharlM Dickens. 1 


[Jose 30, 188S.] 63 

attention to a capital crickQt-field. All 
athletic sporta indeed are encouraged, as 
tending to make men of the striplings who 
swell the ranks, and to keep up the condition 
of the older men. 

One of the most pleasant and attractive 
places about the camp is the hospital — the 
Cambridge Hospital — a handsome building 
It has a long corridor, with a clear run of air 
right through, and wards leading out, very 
COTifortable and cosy-looking, a pleasant 
landscape seen through the windows The 
patients, in their blue seige and night- 
capsy look thorou^y comfortable and well- 
cared for, resting in easy-chaira reading or 
talking, and aome taking the air upon the 
balconies above. Altogether such comfort 
and attendance aa a rich man hardly gets 
in his own house, or a poor man in the 
district hospital 

Then we are taken to see the butcheries 
and thebakeries ; everything dean and neat ; 
with the carcases of many oxen hanging up 
to be cut up into rations on the morrow ; 
good wholesome food for everybody, with no 
butchers' bUl and bakers' bill at Uie end of 
the week. 

After this Tom takes us back to his hut 
which he shares with three other sergeants. 
They have made themselves quite com- 
fortable,Bupplementing the furniture drawn 
from the camp stores by little etceteras of 
Uieir own, and sundry ornaments in the 
way of Elgyptian relics and curiosities. In 
his r^ment Tom decliures with pride the 
non-coms are mostly decent fellows, and 
know how to keep up their position. It is 
not so with all, and Tom recounts how he 
spied from ihe window of his hut a ser- 
geant of the Bough and Keady Bangers 
playing pitch-and-toss — not an absolutely 
immond amusement in itself, perhaps — 
with a private; yes, actually with a 
private, recounts Tom in virtuous indig- 
nation, to the utter destruction of discipline 
and the proper observance of rank and 
positioa In the end they quarrelled, 
they foneht^ the sergeant was knocked 
down. Was the man hauled away to 
the main-guard« brought before a 
court-martial, sentenced — shoti Not at 
all; the sergeant picked himself up, shook 
handsi and went away as if nothing had 

" Why, that was a noble sergeant," cried 
Mrs. Creaker. '< You would have done the 
same, Tom, I know." 

"Not to play pitch-and-toss with a 
private," rejoined Tom, shaking his head 

gravely. "And I think I should have 
Ucked him too.'' 

Perhaps Tom is so far right, that^ as the 
army is at present composed, such general 
comradeship is impracticable, as one 
would like to see existing among all ranks, 
and as an infasion of better educated, 
steadier young fellows would render pos- 
sible by giving a better tone to the rank 
and file. There are plenty of such waitiog 
outside — the best possible material for 
soldiers, well-grown, well»nurtured, ready 
to take the ups and downs of life with a 
cheeriuL heart. Plenty of such there are 
who drift into clerkships, perhaps into 
shops and warehouses, and overcrowded 
callings, where they will never do any 
good; all the time that they would give 
their ears to be aoldiers. 

Now, for the youth of this kind, fairly 
educated and intelligent, the army seems to 
afford at thispresent moment unprecedented 
advantages. All is in a state of change, and 
that is precisely the state in which the 
aspirant has the best chance. Let the 
novice disregard the growl general which 
goes up from all ranks of the army. The 
army is changed from its very foundations, 
whether for good or ill who can say 1 The 
next big war will decide that question. But 
the change is indubitably and very wonder- 
fully for good, as far as concerns the advan- 
tages offered to the man who enters theranks. 
Against this are to be set the prejudices of 
themore solidand respectable classesagainst 
army servica Still, these prejudices are fast 
dissolving, a fact due very much to the influ- 
ence of volunteering. The volunteer's atti- 
tude towards theregular is one of respect and 
emulation, and where there is a volunteer in 
the family, the army may be said to have 
made a friendship with a whole household. 

Still, it is a matter of regret that the 
respectable and honourable position of a 
soldier is not recognised as it should be. 
In theatres and places of public amusement, 
in steamboats, and so on, he is often not 
permitted to take the place for which he can 
pay. At the same time as long as these 
prejudices exist, and they chiefly affect 
non-commissioned officers — a disagreeable, 
awkward title that "non-commissioned/' 
with something derogatory, about as much 
as to say, " Please take notice that I am 
an inferior being," while sub-officer would 
be much more appropriate — as long as 
these prejudices exist, the authorities may 
obviate their effects by granting "plain- 
clothes leave " to idl well-conducted soldiers 
who may desire it 




64 [June 80, 1888.1 



That is Tom's great desire at this present 
moment He has saved enough money to 
provide himself with plain clothes, wiUiout 
troubling Creaker's mmking-accomit, and 
he wishes to be present at a dance that 
Mrs. Greaker gives shortly. 

To lead but one meMure, drink but one cup of 

and then to bid adieu to Bella Dashwood. 
For Tom has come to the conclusion that 
it is rather long to wait till he is a captain, 
and that somebody else — ^I should not 
wonder if it were the staff-sergeant's 
daughter--has more of the stuff about her 
for a soldier's wifa And she won't mind 
marrving a sergeant, Tom opines; though, 
for that matter, she is worthy to be Uie 
colonel's wife. " And perhaps will be if I 
have luck," says Tom bravely. 


In the parliament of man and federation 
of the world dreamed of by Tennyson, 
what part will beplayed by our Austral- 
asian Colonies 1 TfTho shall dip into the 
future and see " the vision of the world and 
all the wonder that will be 1 " We can onljr 
endeavour to form some faint idea of possi- 

And first let us look at the past and 
present It is lust one hundred and thirteen 
years since the first annexation on the 
Australian continent was made by Captain 
Cook, and just ninety-five years since the 
first settlement was effected at Botanv Bay, 
with a company of seven hundred and fifty- 
seven convicts, some two hundred marines 
in charge of them, and a few women. 
From tms germ of about a thousand souls 
have developed the busy and fiourishing 
communities of to-day. Between 1788 
and 1801 the settlement in New South 
Wales had increased to some five thousand 
five hundred persons. After the latter 
year convicts were sent out in large 
numbers, until in 1849 the colonists refused 
to allow any more to be landed. By 1851 
the population of the colony exceeded one 
hundred and eighty-seven thousand, and, in 
that year, a hScge territory in the western 
portion was separated to found the colony of 
Victoria. In this year, also, gold was dis- 
covered, and progress became rapid. Mean- 
while, in 1825, what is now the colony of 
Queensland was settled ; it was separated 
from New South Wales in 1859. Western 
Australia — at first called the Swan 
River Settlement — was formed in 1829; 

Tasmania, at first a sub-settlement of 
New South Wales, was formed into a 
separate colony in 1S51 ; South Australia 
was colonised by emigrants in 1836; 
New Zealand was separated from New 
South Wales, and formed into a colony, 
in 1840. From 1851 may be said to 
date the prosperity of those colonies, and 
from 1859 their existence as entirely 
separate self-supporting members of the 
family. To this group Fiji was added 
in 1874. Between 1825 and 1881 the 
number of souls added to the population of 
the whole group by emigration was one 
million, time hundred and twenty-five 
thousand, six hundred and twenly-two. In 
1788 the entire population barely exceeded 
one thousand Europeans; in 1881 the 
^gregate population of Australia and New 
Z^and was two millions, seven hundred 
and ninety-seven thousand, six hundred 
and twenty-nine. In 1882 the entire popu- 
lation, including Fiji, was close upon three 
million souls. 

Now this total seems nothing in com- 
parison with our own dense mass of thirty- 
five millions ; it is less than the population 
of London, less than the population of 
Scotland. But consider that it has srown 
practically within a generation, and con- 
sider further what it luui done and is doin^, 
and will do. It has brought under culti- 
vation six million, eight hundred and sixty- 
two thousand, seven hundred and fifty 
acres of land previouslv profitiess, and it 
has occupied, or sold tor occupation for 
agricultural, pastoral, and mining purposes, 
more than eighty million, two hundred and 
sixty-eight thousand, one hundred and 
sixty-one acres. This at least was the total 
in 1880, and it has been augmented since. 
It has still before it one billion, eight 
hundred million acres to occupy and put 
to use. It has built over six thousand 
miles of railway, over two thousand eight 
hundred miles of telegraphs, and owns 
some two thousand five hundred vessela 
Its pastoral wealth in 1880 consisted of one 
million, two hundred and six thousand, 
one hundred horses; one million, twenty- 
six thousand, eight hundred and ninety- 
eight pigs ; eight million, one hundred and 
four thousand, nine hundred and eighteen 
cattle; andseventy-two million, two hundred 
and thirty-nine thousand, three hundred 
and fifty-nine sheep. It has established 
twenty-two banking corporations, whose 
assets amounted last year to ninety-six 
million, six hundred and eighty -eight 
thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight 




[Jime S0| 1888.] 65 

pounds, and it owes collectiyely to British 
capitalists about ninety-six million pounds 
sterling. Its total trading with the outer 
worldinl881, amounted toover onehundred 
million pounds sterling. Since gold was dis- 
covered, it hasyieldedover two hundred and 
seTenty-seyen million pounds' worth of the 
metal to enrich the world. 

This small collection of three millions of 
people is distributed thinly over an area 
more than twenty-six times that of the 
United Kingdom, and nearly six times that 
of India. It has barely one person for 
every square mile. And these three mil- 
lions of people do not consist of such a 
mixture of races as is to be found in 
America. With the exception of a few 
Chinese (principally in Queensland), and a 
few Germans (principally in South Aus- 
tralia and Queensland), the population is 
composed of the bone of our bone and 
the flesh of our flesL It is an Enelish- 
speakbg, English-thinking, and England- 
loving population, with m the traditions 
of an old world and all the energy and 
breadth of a new one. It is placed in 
lands almost more bountifully endowed by 
Nature than can be found elsewhere on the 
globa It has acquired wealth, it is making 
fame, it possesses an unoccupied area more 
than twenty times larser than it has had 
timeto occupy yet, and it presents a future 
whose boundaries seem practically illimit- 

Politically speaking, we may say these 
colonies are self-governing. With the ex- 
ception of Western Australia and Fiji, which 
are still under Crown management, they 
dect their own parliamentary representa- 
tives, frame and alter their own laws, just 
as the Home Parliament does, and with the 
Bame right of veto reserved to the Sovereign. 
At the same time they have a lower franchise 
than we have. They are linked together 
hy electric wires, and soon vrill be by iron 
roada Already the capitals of New South 
Wales and Victoria have direct railway 
communication; veiy little extension is 
needed to bring Adelaide and Brisbane into 
the circuit; and a line is already in course 
of construction which will unite the northern 
with the southern coasts of the vast territory 
of South Australia. 

But the progress of this wonderful gjroup 
has been the progress of each individuiu 
member of it There has been no unity of 
action, and on the contrary, a good deid of 
jealousy and competition. Until quite 
recent years there was never any thought 
of union, and in consequence each colony 

has prosecuted its own schemes without 
reference to its neighbours. Hence we see 
railways built on di£Perent gauges as if 
purposely to prevent connexion with the 
bordering state*, and customs'-tariffs each 
on a plan of its own. The difference in 
the railway |^auges has long been an 
obstacle to mterchange of traffic and 
society; it is bein^ overcome. The dif- 
ference in fiscal policy is the ibain obstacle 
to a political union ; and it vrill, in time 
but not easily, be overcome also. 

As the years pass over, the neces- 
sity for such a union becomes more and 
more pressing. The larger these colonies 
grow the weuer will become the political 
hold of the mother-country, yet their 
separate existence in independence of each 
other would be fraught with danger and 
disadvantage to the whole. Seemg the 
rapidity of development in one generation, 
it is no exaggeration of prescience to say 
that in another generation they must be 
too big to hold in leading-strings. While 
separately they will be weak, confederated 
they will at once take rank among the first 
ten or twelve powers of the world. 

In this respect the original separation 
of these Australasian settlements has been 
a mistake, because now when the neces- 
sity arises it is all the more difficult to 
bring them together again. Their main- 
tenance as separate states has involved a 
large annual outlay which might have 
been devoted to lucrative works or ex- 
plorations. The residence of a governor 
and suite in each is a heavy charge which, 
under a confederation such as the 
Dominion of Canada, would be saved in 
the future. The adininistrative expenses 
of each of the provinces could also be 
thereby largely reduced, and at present it 
must be admitted they are a great deal 
too onerous. These new communities pay 
their public servants more liberally than 
do the United States of America and 
many of the older nations of Europe, 
while their expenditure on public buildinss 
and other works is on a correspondingly 
magnificent scale. Extravagance in these 
matters accounts for a considerable propor- 
tion of the heavy indebtedness of the 
colonies, and even if a political confedera- 
tion did not include a common purse, it 
would at least have a wholesome effect 
in checking the extravagance of the 
sections, for the element of rivalry would 
be removed. 

But of larger benefits than economy 
in this direction would be the adoption of 






66 [June SO, 1883.] 


(Coodiiotod Iqr 

one common fiscal policy^ and iho abolition 
of the restrictions which at present rest 
on the commerce of each. The majority 
of the colonies adhere to the sentiments 
of Free-trade. Victoria, one might say, 
ii the sole exception, wero it not that 
New Zealand has of late years shown de- 
cided signs of hankering after Protection. 
Between Victoria and New South Wales 
exists a jealousy of long standing. Victoria 
aspires to be regarded as the metropolitan, 
which Ne^ South Wales claims in right of 
seniority. New South Wales has nailed 
its colours to Free-trade and Victoria to 
Protection. The protective policy of Victoria 
is at present die greatest hindrance in the 
way of a federal union. A federal union of 
the other colonies, leaving out Victoria, is 
quite practicable, and a confederation with 
differential tariffs is abo quite practicabla 
Neither, however, is desirable, and on the 
whole we should prefer to see the colonies 
retain their present independence to any 
show of union which did not tend to make 
them one people — one in commerce, in 
social arrangements, in religion, in aim 
and destiny. To a certain extent, then, it 
may be said that the beginning of the 
organisation rests with Victoria. A year 
ago there existed no sign of any such 
beginning being probable, but now poli- 
tical affairs in Victoria wear a more 
hopeful aspect, and the desire for federa- 
tion is rapidly becoming articulate there 
as in New South Wales. Where these 
two lead it may be assumed the others 
will follow, although New Zealand has a 
pride and a way of her own and may not 
come over at the first beck. 

The advantages to commerce of a 
common tariff are as obvious as the advan- 
tages to the social system of common lands, 
and of a common prosecution of all public 
works, such as railways, telegraphs, postal 
service, irrigation, harbours, and national 
defences. While each state would legislate 
for its own local affairs, a common parlia- 
ment would legislate for the whole with 
regard to external policy, and also with 
regard to the relations of each with each. 
The question of the national capital would 
be a knotty one to solve in the face of 
existing jealousies, but it might find its 
solution in the creation of a neutral terri- 
tory, and the erection of a capital, as was 
done in the United States. 

We have spoken, so far, as if all our 
Australasian colonies were on the same 
political level, which, in point of fact, they 
are not. The differences which exist, 

however, have little bearing on the general 
principle involved. No scheme of confede- 
ration would be complete, for instance, 
which did not embrace the Grown colony 
of FiK and for two reasons. Fiji, from 
its situation and the character of its 
resources, will never attract large settle- 
ments of Europeans. It will exist as 
a garden to be cultivated by English or 
Australian capital, the produce or which 
will be transported to Australia for con- 
sumption. Ajs a field for Australian enter- 
prise, and as a feeder for Australian 
markets, it must be retained in the pro- 
jected union. Geographically, also, it 
claims a right to such a position, although 
in saying so we do not by any means 
adopt the views of Sir Julius Vogel and 
others, who hold that all Polynesia should 
be included in Australasia, and that the 
South Pacific generally is the reserved 
ground of the British flag, even as^ the 
whole American continent is claimed 
by the Monroeists for the Stars and 

But the largest and most serious aspect 
of the question of federation exists with 
regard to external policy. Hitherto, or 
until quite recently, Australia has pro- 
gressed in happy isolation frotn the 
turmoils of the rest of the civilised world. 
The boom of Antipodean warfare could not 
reach her, and even had the mother country 
been engaged in warlike contests, her own 
distance from the antagonists was her 
security. But in her s|ze and her rapid 
growth now rests her weakness. Her 
enormous lines of defenceless coasts offer 
tempting points of attack, and attractive 
booty to a naval antagonist Should any- 
thing so horrible ever happen as a war 
between England and the United States, 
the privateers of America could devastate 
our colonies before we could stretch a hand 
to help. From European nations there 
was for a long time little cause to fear 
anything, but now France has a dep6t at 
New Csdedonia, and Sermany a footing at 
Tonga, which, without being actually 
threatening, have enough potential evil 
about them to emphasise the need of con- 
sidering and settling the question of Austol- 
asian defences. That question promises 
to be brought into prominence by the 
movement to annex New Guinea. This 
island, as we have recently shown,* offers 
attractions in itself, but its principal attrac- 

♦ All the Year Round, New Seriea, Vol. 51> 
p. 534, " New Guinea." 


[JiUie80,lS88.] 67 

tion for coloniaiiig is of a negative character, 
Tiz. to prevent any other nation ac<][airing it. 
With New Oninea under British care, 
whether in the form of a settiement or a 
protectorate, there would be comparative 
safety, bat the occupation and management 
of New Guinea are matters which can only 
be satisfactorily managed under combined 
action of the communities chiefly interested. 
In other words, only to Federal Australasia, 
and not to Queensland or* to any single 
colony, could this service be adequately 

Broadly, then, the things which " make 
for" Australasian federation are : Domestic 
conv^ence in the assimilation of laws and 
of jurisdiction, and in facilitation of inter- 
communication j commercial advantage in 
economy of administration and uniformity 
of customs -tariffs on an enlightened basis ; 
and national security in tiie presentation 
of a solid front to the outer world. Neces- 
sarily, within the limits of an article of 
this land, we can only present the general 
ouUina There are many questions of 
detail which cannot be discussed here, and 
which unquestionably involve many diffi- 
culties. There are none, however, which 
are insurmountable, and the signs of the 
times are thus flgmmtively described in a 
recent Australian paper : " There has of 
late been a shaking of the dry bones of 
federation among the Australian colonies. 
The bones have not yet come together, nor 
the flesh come up upon them. There is as 
yet no breath in them, but the breath of 
pablic opinion is upon them, and federa- 
tion promises ere long to become a living 
thing. On the advantages of federation 
there is a general concensus of opinioa 
All would be glad to see these colonies a 
grand confederated British possession. *' 

The Premier of Victoria has publicly 
pronounced in favour of federation, and as 
a leading Melbourne paper puts it^ "to 
declare in favour of federation is to declare 
in favour of uniformity of tariffs.^' We 
are uiclined to think that the New Guinea 
affair will precipitate this question, and 
produce that breath which the writer above- 
quoted says is yet wanting to make the 
oiy bones liv& 

Could we peer down the vistas of time 
we might see beyond the period when 
these colonies become " a grand confede- 
rated British possession." We might see 
continent and islands teeming with a dense 
industrious people, flying their own flag, 
&Qd working out the destinies of the race 
in the lower world, as a new and greater 

Britam of lareer growth, and pursuing a 
career and making a history even greater 
than those of its progenitor. When we 
see the grandeur of tiie development of 
the United States of America, who shall 
circumscribe the future of that other section 
of the Anglo-Saxon race in the United 
States of Australasia 1 


There are few things more curious in 
literary history than the almost universal 
opposition the Italian opera met with 
from men of > etters on its introduction 
into this country. "The taste for Italian 
music," says Mr. Elwin, whose knowledge 
of thel iterature of the eighteenth century 
is surpassed by no Uvin^ writer, '<was a 
standing theme for ridicule among the 
authors of the time, who ignorantiy judged 
the musical by the rules of the literary 
drama." One of the earliest opponents of 
the opera was Steele. We read in the 
Tatier of April 18th, 1709,. that three 
days earlier the opera of Pyrrhus and 
Demetrius had been performed with great 
success, a piece of news which Steele, as a 
lover of the theatre, deplores with ener^. 
The stage, he observes, is " an entertain- 
ment of the reason, and all our faculties ; " 
while at the opera, everything is sacrificed 
'*to the shallow satisfaction of the eyes and 
ears only;" and he adds, by way of proving 
that the understanding could have no 
share in the pleasure, that a ^eat part 
of the performance was done m Italian. 
About the same time Swift proposed 
setting up a party among the wits to 
run down the entertainment '' The 
town," he wrote to Philips, ''is goine mad 
after a new opera. Poetry and good sense 
are dwindling like'echo with repetition and 
voica A good old lady, five miles out of 
town, asked me t'other day wl\at these 
uproars were that her daughter was always 
going to r' 

It was natural that Golley Gibber 
should view this foreign raid upon his ter- 
ritory with disgust. The understanding 
that appreciated the Nonjuror and the 
Careless Husband was, he thought^ likely 
to be depraved '' by these poetical drams, 
these gin-shops of the stage that intoxi- 
cate its auditors.^' A man of a very 
diflerent order, and a shrewd critic 
also, held a similar opinion. After 
saying that operas are too absurd and 
extravagant to be worthy of mention, Lord 




68 IJimt 80, 1888.] 



Chesterfield adds : " I look upon them as 
a magic scene contrived to please the eves 
and the ears at the expense of the unaer- 
standing. Whenever I go to the opera I 
leave my sense and reason at the door with 
my half-gninea, and deliver myself up 
to my eyes and ears." The Spectator, 
it is almost needless to say, takes up the 
subject in a simUar spirit, observing that an 
opera " may be allowed to be extravagantly 
lavish in ito decorations, as its onlylesig^ 
is to gratify the senses and keep up an 
indolent attention in the audience." 

In another paper on the subject the writer 
professes to give a history of the Italian 
opera from its introduction into England, 
and an amusing history it is. The 
poetasters of the town, he says, began by 
laying down the principle '' that nothing 
is capable of being well set to music that 
is not nonsense," and so well was this 
maxim received that Italian operas were 
immediately translated, and as there was 
no danger of hurting the sense of these 
pieces, the translators often made words of 
their own in order to fit them to the tune, 
with a total disregard of meaning. After 
this, Italian actors were brought on the 
stage, who sang their parts in their own 
language, while the English singers replied 
in English. This plan soon tired the 
audience, and it was then resolved to 
produce the whole opera in an unknown 
tongue, which, says the essayist, will make 
future historians suppose that Italian was 
well understood in England at the benn- 
ning of the eighteenth century. " One 
scarce knows," he adds, " how to be serious 
in the confutation of an absurdity that 
shows itself at the first sight. It does 
not want any great measure of sense to see 
the ridicule of this monstrous practice ; but 
what makes it the more astonishing, it is 
not the taste of the rabble, but of per- 
sons of the greatest politenesSi which nas 
established if 

When Gkty wrote his Beegar's Opera, 
in which his object was to laugh at the 
importation from Italy, he tells Swift 
that Lord Cobham said he " should have 
printed it in Italian over against the English 
that the ladies might have understood what 
they read ;" a sarcasm directed, of course, 
against the prepossession in favour of a 
foreign tongue. No oneprobablyever didthe 
musical drama more harm than Gay, who 
called it the outlandish opera, and is said 
to have destroyed its success for a season, 
to the great detriment of HandeL Indeed, 
despite the marvellous genius of that com- 

poser, who, in Mr. Sutherland Edwards's 
judgment, raised the opera to a pitch of 
excellence unequalled elsewhere, that 
entertainment was then in the lowest con- 
dition possible — a proof, according to Dr. 
Arbuthnot, of the fickle temper of the English 

Seople. Mrs. Delany was aware of this 
ecune, for while expressing her delight at 
"Mr. Handel's new opera called Richard 
the First," which was performed in the 
same year as Gky's burlesque, she 
observes : '* I doubt operas will not survive 
longer than this winter, they are now at 
their last gasp ; the subscription has 
expired, and nobody will renew it" In 
another letter she writes: *'The Sugar's 
Opera entirely triumphs over the Italian 
one; I have not yet seen it, but every- 
body that has seen it says it is very 
comical and full of humour." 

In 1745, that is to say, eighteen years 
after Mrs. Delany's jeremiad, Mies Talbot, 
writing to Mrs. Carter, mi^ea a similar 
statement. We glean from it that what- 
ever success the opera had previously 
obtained was due to ballet dancing. " I 
am sure," she says, "> one lives to no one 
purpose of a rational beine all those hours 
that are spent at the modem assemblies ; 
yet to these all conversation is sacrificed ; 
friendly visits and private parties are 
things gone out of the worid ; and Handel, 
once so crowded, plays to empty walls in 
that opera-house where there used to be a 
constant audience as long as there were 
any dancers to be seen." These remarks 
on the opera in England a^ree with Dr. 
Barney's judgment in Pans, where, he 
says, the sole attractions of the amuse- 
ment were the dancing and decorations. 

In 1709, thirty-two years after Gay's 
success, Goldsmith terms the opera, as con- 
ducted in London, ''a very humdrum 
amusement," and observes that the per- 
formers sin^ to empty benches. ''I 
know not," he writes, "whether operas 
can be kept up in England ; they seem to 
be entirely exotic ;" but he will not take 
upon himaelf to determine " whether a 
discontinuance of such entertainments 
would be more to the loss or the advuitage 
of the nation." HLi blame, it will be 
seen, unlike that of most of his prede- 
cessors, is confined to the management of 
the opera in his day, and is not directed 
against the art itself ; but Fielding adopts 
the view of Chesterfield, and in describing 
a woman incapable of rational convena- 
tion, calls her " a little female thing with 
a mind as empty of ideas as an opera." 


CkailH Dlfllnos.] 


[Jim« 80, 1888.] 69 

Ab time wore on the opera Beema to 
have gained ground, and in Fanny Barney's 
Cedluk, tiiat heroine is represented as 
amazed and charmed by the voice, 
always either sweet or impassioned, of 
Signor Pacchierotti, an opera-singer who 
was a friend of Dr. Barney, and took 
lessons in English from his daughter. " I 
like him of lul things," she wntes in her 
Diary; "he is perfectly modest, humble, 
well-bred, and unassuming .... his 
countenance is extremely benevolent, and 
his manners infinitely interesting." Her 
flattering estimate of the singer in the 
novel was not above his worth, if we may 
jadge from a letter written in 1780 by the 
Rev. Thomas Twining, whose correspon- 
dence has been recently published. 
Twining had not expected to be pleased, 
having received an unfavourable impression 
from the friend to whom the letter was 
written. ** I began to hear," he says, "as 
Descarteswouldhaveonebegintoreaaon. In 
Ms (not Descartes') first line of recitative his 
voice and manner got immediate hold of 
me. I shuffled forward on my seat, and 
said to myself, 'This is superior singing.' 
I heard him six times, one of which was at 
Dr. Burners, in a snug way. I liked him 
better and better, and do think that for taste, 
spontaneous variation, delicacy, and expres- 
sion he is far beyond any singer I have 
heard." This is but a brief extract from the 
Country Clergyman's eulorium on Pacchie- 
rotti, with whom he was also much pleased 
'*as a man and a, conversable creature." 
He loves XhigUsh, Twining writes, and has 
read Pope. Better still, he was, in Dr. 
Barney's judgment^ as superior in courage 
as in talent, and showed no want of 
nerve at the time of the Lord Grordon 
Riots, when the rest of the performers 
danced '*with the utmost fear and 
trembUne." Nine years later, when the 
Opera House was entirely destroyed by 
fire, we see a revival of the old prejudice 
in Horace Walpole, who says, in writing 
to Miss Berry : " Have you shed a tear 
over the Opera House, or do you agree 
with me that there is no occasion to 
rebuild iti The nation has long been 
tired of operas, and has now a good 
opportunity of dropping them." This 
opinion, however, might have been the 
prejudice of old age. At seventy-two the 
voices of singing men and singing women 
cease to chaim 

With the present ace the Italian opera 
entered on a new li&, but the literary 
iUustrationa we have given will probably 

suffice to show how imperfectly it was 
appreciated, and how strong was the oppo- 
sition it encountered during the greater 
part of the eighteenth century. 



For a little while the two gaudy parra- 
keets in their gilt cage had the l)lue parlour 
all to themselves. 

By-and-by in came Mrs. Elliott. There 
were dark circles round her eyes ; she had 
been crying. She looked nervous and 

" Nearly five o'clock, and Stephen not 
back yet," she said to herself as she stood 
by one of the windows, gazing sadly out, 
and slowly turning herwedding-rin^ round 
and round on her finger. "In all proba- 
bility this is the last day of our married 
life. It may be better that we should part 
— it must be better ; but to-day of all days 
it was cruel of him to leave me. At a 
time like this to go away and paint the 
portrait of another woman ! Oh, Stephen, 
Stephen, is this what your love has 
come to 9" 

A minute later one of the doors opened. 
She turned her head quickly, and there stood 
her husband, holding his soft felt hat in 
one hand. 

"You have been asking for mel" he 
said enquiringly. 

" It was nothing," she answered coldly. 
" So you have got back from London ! " 

" Tes, I have got back from London." 

" I hope that your interview with Mdlle. 
Maurizio was a pleasant one 1 " 

His eyebrows went up a little, as though 
asking how she had become acquainted 
with the object of his journey. 

"A most pleasant one," he answerecL 
" Mdlle. Maurizio is a charming woman." 

" Doubtless, in your estimation," was the 
bitter reply. " It is for the sake of her, and 
of others like her, that you are so anxious 
for the moment to arrive that will separate 
you from your wife for ever ! " 

"The old insinuations, the old foolish 
jealousy without a cause ! I have heard 
the same sort of thing from you a thousand 
times already ; it is too late to tell it me 

"Too late! Yes, when the next post may 
bring that which will make a free man of 

" And of you a free woman ; don't forget 
that part of the affair. The moment you 
have longed for will soon be hera" 



70 [Jun« SO, 1883.] 


[Gondacted by 

" I have longed for it — ^why not 1 And 

yet — and yet " She turned from him, 

80 that he could not see her face. 

"And yet what 1" 

"You maybe able to paint a woman's 
portrait, Stephen Elliott, bat you cannot 
read a woman's heart" 

''More enigmas. Cannot yon under- 
stand that this Mdlle. Maurizio, or any 
other woman who may commission me to 
paint her portrait, is no more to me than 
a customer who buys my wares for a greater 
or a lesser number of guineas 1 " 

" No wife can understand that who " 

<»Who 1" 

" Loves her husband." 

** A wife's love for her husband should 
teach her to have perfect trust and faith in 
him, should teach her to sympathise in his 
aims, and to share in his ambition." 

** Has love, then, no torments t " 

** None that marriage should not cure." 

" What cold-blooded creatures men are 1 
It even you were compelled to earn your 
living with your brush — but you are not." 

** As I have told you a hundred times 
already, I do not chose to be a dependent 
on my wife's bounty. I choose to earn my 
bread my own way — in the way that has 
been taught me, and which I love." 

" Tou would rather lose your wife ^than 
give up your art." 

*'You would rather lose your husband 
than forego a single prejudice." 

" Gruel I cruel ! " exclaimed Agnes. She 
sat down, and pressed her handkerchief to 
her eyes for a moment. She was at once 
angry and most miserable. She was, per- 
haps, none the less angry because conscious 
in her heart that her husband was more in 
the right than she was. 

At this juncture the inner door was 
noiselessly opened, and Mr. Vere Naylor and 
Mrs. Wapshot entered the room, radiant 
with smiles, each of them carrying a blue 
official-looking document sealed with a 
portentouB seal 

" Ah, here you both are I " exclaimed 
Naylor with much unction. 

" Couldn't tbink where you had hidden 
yourselves," said Mrs. Wapshot 

** Breakdown on the rdlway." 

" Letter-bag two hours late." 

" Jellicop out" 

" Bag opened by Miss Kamsay." 

"And here's the prize it has brought 
you,", said Naylor with a complacent 
smirk, offering the sealed document to 
Stephen, who had come slowly forward. 

"And here's the prize it has brought 

you," echoed Mrs. Wapshot^ making a 
similar o£fer to Agnes. 

They each took the proffered document 
without a word. The supreme moment 
had come at last They stood for a Httle 
while like two people utterly stupefied. 

Then Elliott turned to hia wife, and 
held out his hand. 

"Farewell, Agnes," he said in a voice 
that trembled with suppressed emotion. 

"Farewell, Stephen," came the almost 
inaudible reply. One word more and she 
would have broken down utterly. 

A last fond lingering clasp, then thdir 
hands fell apart, and they turned away 
with a strange sense upon them that some- 
thing had gone out 6t the life of each of 
them which nothing could ever repkce. 

"A telegram for Mr. Elliott" 

They had all been so absorbed that no 
one had heard Binks enter the room. 

Stephen took the telegram like a man 
who scarcely knows what he is doin^, and 
tore open ^the envelope. He had not 
read more than a few words when a look 
of horror came into his eyes, and all the 
colour suddenly left his faca 

Agnes went a step or two nearer him 
with clasped hands. 

" You have heard bad news ? " she cried. 

"A terrible accident on the railway " 

He could say no more. 

He crushed the telegram with one hand; 
the other hand went up quickly to his eyea 

" An accident ! Not — not Oh, 

Stephen ! Our child 1 " ^he flung up her 
arms with an agonised cry, made a step 
or two blindly forward, and would have 
fallen insensible to the ground had not her 
husband caught her in ms arms. 

We are once more on the pleasant lawn 
at Brookfield. It is the forenoon of the day 
following that on which Stephen Elliott 
and his wife received their Letters of 
Separation. Lounging on rustic chairs in 
the welcome shadow of the elma are Vere 
Naylor, Cuthbert Naylor, and Captain 
Marmaduke, each of them intent on his 
letters or newspapers. Under a small 
umbrella-tent Mrs. Naylor Wapshot is 
writing busily. 

Cuthbert Naylor was the first to break 
a silence which had lasted longer than 

" Is it a fact. Captain Marmaduke, that 
you are going to bid us good-bye on 
Tuesday next 1 " he asked. 

" Tuesday will bring my wmt at Brook- 
field to a close." 


n ^ w^i^ fM^ff^ff ia, ] 


[June so, 1888.] 71 

"And your flirtation with Mra. Dane- 
Daoson into the bargain/' marmared 
Cathbert under his breath. Then aloud 
with a sneer: ** We shall miss you very 
mach indeed.'' 

Vere. Naylor glanced at Marmaduke 
oyer his glasses. 

'' Before yoa go you must allow me to 
present you with a copy of my pamphlet, 
On the Elimination of Sentiment from the 
Concerns of Daily Lifa" 

" Thanks. On so congenial a topic you 
ooght to be thoroughly at home." 

Mr& Wapshot laid down her pen, and 
tamed to Marmaduke. 

" And you never attempted any classi- 
fication of the beetles^ moths, or butter- 
flies indigenous to that strange country in 
which you lived for so many years V 

" Never, madam." 

"Beaily now 1 One of my first objects 
in landing in a fresh country would be to 
set about the study of its lepidoptera." 

" Had you been in my case your fimt 
object would probably have been the same 
as mine — ^to find something to eat; and 
your next to save yourseu from being 
eaten by somebody else." 

''If f had only had your opportunities, 
Captain Marmaduke ! If I had only been 
there with you 1 " 

Mr. Naylor coughed behind his news- 

'*In that case, madam," responded 
Marmaduke gallantly. "I should never 
bsTe wanted to come back." 

Mrs. Wapshdt shook her head. " I trust 
yoQ are not frivolous, Captain Marmaduke; 
bat really you men scarcely ever avail your- 
selves of your opportunities as our sex da" 

Cuthbert thojoght it time to create a 
diversion. ** Another paragraph in to- 
ixfs paper about Elliotv' he said. 

"Ah! And what do they say about 
him this time 1 " queried the Member for 

"Why, that a certain illustrious per- 
sonage visited his studio yesterday, in 
order to inspect his latest picture." 

" Rising man that Stephen Elliott." 

" Where is Stephen Elliott } Where is 
my husband 1 " 

They all started and turned. Agnes was 
standing behind them on the verandah. 
None of them had seen or heard her 
approach. She was dressed in black, and 
the pallor of her face was intensified by 
the black lace veil which she had tied 
loosely round her head and throat Her 
lips were parched ; a feverish fire burnt in 

her hollow eyes. She looked from one to 
the other, as though expecting an answer to 
the question which had so startled them all. 

Mr. Naylor was the first to recover his 
presence of mind. 

"Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Elliott- 
Temple," he said in Ms most soothing 
tones, " but you appear to have forgotten 
the fact that you have no husband." 

'' No husband 1" She pressed her hands 
to her temples, and stood for a moment or 
two like a woman dased. "You are 
right — ^you are right," she said with a 
weary sigh. "I remember everything 
now. My darling Freddy is safe ; thank 
Heaven for that I " Then advancing a 
step or two she said with a sudden change 
of voice and manner : "But surely Stephen 
has not gone awayt He will see me 
again before he goes 1" 

" Mr. Elliott left by the six o'clock train 
this morning," answered Vere Naylor. 
" Mr. Dane will join him at CulUngton by 
the noon train. This evening they start 
together for the Continent" 

" And it is I who have driven him to 
this 1 " said Agnes with a low wail of 

Mr. Naylor looked meaningly at Mrs. 
Wapshot The latter rose from her seat, 
and went up to Agnes. " My dear child, 
do let me persuade yon to go indoors," 
she urged. 

Agnes seemed scarcely to have heard 
what she said. "I was very ill last 
evening, was I not t " she asked. 

" You were delirious for several hours." 

"When I partially came to myself, 
Stephen was by my side. Then something 
was put to my lips, which Idrank. After that 
I remember nothing more till I awoke an 
hour ago and found this under my pillow." 

She produced a note from the folds of 
her dress. 

Mrs. Wapshot took it from her un- 
resisting fingenL 

"May I?" she asked. 

" Oh yes ; any one may read it," 
answered Agnes in the tone of one to 
whom everything in life was a matter of 

Mrs. Wapshot opened the note and read : 

" Your child is safe. He was not in the 
train. The telegram was a blunder. 

" Then he is really gone ! " said Agnes 
pitifully as she took back the note and 
pressed it fondly to her lips. 

Before any one could answer, Mr. Jellicop 
came round a corner of the shrubbery. 




[Jim« 80.1881] 

On his face^ ufliially so jovial and sunny, 
sat an unwonted look of oalre and anxiety. 
Agnea tnmed to him instinetiyely, as 
eveiyone turned to him when in distress. 

'' Oh, Uncle Frank, if I could but have 
seen hhn once again to ask him to forffive 

She put her arms round him and laid 
her cheek against his shoulder. 
Uncle Frank shook Ids head sadly. 
" You should hare thought of that before 
it was too late," he said. 

"She must reidly go indoors," urged 
Mrs. Wapshot. 

*< Yes, yes ; go to your room like a good 
girl If you had but taken your old 
uncle's advice things would never have 
come to this pass.'' 

He kissed her and gave her into Mrs. 
Wapshot's hands. Then the two ladies 
went indoors. 

"This is a pretty kettle o' fish, Vere 
Naylor, isn't it f " asked Mr. Jellicop with 
more temper than he usually displayed. 

" Pooh ! pooh 1 my dear squire, she will 
soon calm down. Women always do. Before 
a month is over she will be as merry as a 
thrush and revelling in her freedouL" 

" Freedom be hanged 1 Hasn't a married 
woman twice as much freedom as a single 

He turned away, and as he did so, he 
muttered to himself : 

"Though whether a married man has 
twice as much freedom as a bachelor may 
be open to doubt" 

He was moving off, when he stopped 
suddenly, and began to scratch his head. 

''Marmaduke, a word with you," he 
said a moment or two later. 

" Obsolete old rUnoceros 1 " muttered 
Guthbert under his breath. 
Said Jellicop to Marmaduke in a low voice: 
"I want you to telegraph to ElHott. 
He's at Culltngton, ten miles off, waiting 
the arrival of Dana There seems to me just 
a faint chance that this poor misRUided 
couple may be brought together agam." 

"But what can I say to ElIioU that 

would be likely to induce him to return 1 " 

" Say anytlung you Uke. * Wife very 

ill, come back at once.' Say anything that 

will bring him. Will you do this 1 " 


The two men shook hands. Marmaduke 
hurried off to the railway station. JelUcop 
went indoors. 

" Marmaduke gone, the course will be 

clear before'you," said Vere Naylor to his 

" I shall not fail to make the best of the 
opportunitv. Ton think Mrs. Blliott- 
l^mple wul soon come round f " 

" Of course she will The more fuss she 
makes about her loss now, the sooner she 
will be wflling to be consoled by some one 
dsa The way of the sex." 

" I must go to my letters." 

" And I to mine.^' 

They rose and folded up their news- 
papers. Just as they reached the verandah, 
Binks, coming round the comer with a 
portmanteau and hat-box in his hands, 
nearly stumbled against them. 

" Whose lugei^e have you there, Binks ! " 
asked Mr. Naylor. 

"Mr. Dane's, sir. He leaves by the 
noon train." 

Father and son exchanged an acid smile 
as they went indoors. 

At this moment Oecil Dane made his 

"Here are your traps, sir. The dog- 
cart will be round in five minutes." 

" All riffht, Binks. Here you are." 

A slow bixMid smile overspread Binks'a 
face. He carried a fat finger to his fore- 
head, widied Mr. Dane a pleasant journey, 
and the latter was then left alone. 

" Apleasant journey, forsooth 1" muttered 
Cecil " The train will start in half an 
hour, I shall pick up Elliott at Oullington, 
and to-morrow morning we shall be in 
Paris. I f eel as dieerf ul as if I were a mute 
about to attend mv own funeraL I don't 
like going without bidding Linda good-bye, 
and yet it were wiser, perhaps, to do sa 
Poor Linda, will she miss me, I wonder t 
Will she cry when she finds that I'm gonet 
Not sha She has begun to flirt already. 
In a month she will have forgotten me 
altogether. And so the world eoes round." 

He paced the verandah slowly, whistling 
a few bars dinuidly. Presently he said : 
"111 go and see whether the dog-cart's 
ready. Then one grip of Jellicop's honest 
fist, and after that— au diable ! " With 
these words he stalked gloomily-away. 

Kow Beady, 





Berentyi^wo Pages. Frloe Slzponoe. 

The Siaki ofTranOaUna ArUeUa tram Aix rm Vkar Rninm ^ 

hu Am. Atilhmrm, 



Jack made Moor Boyal his "head- 
goarters," as he termed it, until March. If 
he used the wotda in the Benae of meaning 
ihat he honoured Moor Koyal with hta 
presence more frequently than hs did any 
other place, or that, when he did so honour 
it, he gave hie folleat head-power to the 
forvrarding of anything like intellectual 
life there, the designation was certainly a 

These first three months of the first new 
year which had witnessed the dethrone- 
ment of old Mrs. Ray, were unquestion- 
ably not happy ones to either the widow 
or her children. Old Mrs. Ray and 
-Jenifer lived apart to themselves a great 
deal, and this not through any sulky 
desire to hold aloof from or seem to dis- 
approve of Effie and her doings, but really 
becaose Effiemade it practically impossible 
tiiat their daily life should harmonise. 

It was difficult to say when the diver- 
gence began with Jenifer, for Jenifer was 
equally at home in the saddle, and was 
always as safe to be there or tjiereabouts 
in the field as her sister-in-law, when she 
rode to hounds. Bat with Miss Ray, 
riding to hounds was not a weekly luxury. 
With young Mrs. Bay it was more than 
this — it was, she declared, a necessity. 
Accordingly, as the hounds met three 
times a week near Moor Royal, the pick of 
the Moor Boyal stables were pretty hardly 
pressed to keep pace with the needs of 
their young mistress, who soon manifested 
her determination to be in the first fiight 
in the field as well as in society. Conse- 
quently the mare that had hi&erto been 
at Jenifer's disposal on the days when she 

Toi. xxxn. 

" I wouldn't ride the bay mare if you 
really cared for hunting, for the world," 
Effie gravely assured Jenifer, "but yon 
don't care for it ; you wouldn't give up 
all consideration for other people, and go 
out, ' weather or not ' permitting, as I do, 
now would you I " 

This she said one day when she knew, 
from various signs and indications, that 
Jenifer had resolved to go to the meet at 
least In fact, Jenifer had made up her 
mind very lovingly and carefully to make 
one appeal on behalf of her brother Jack 
to Mr. Boldero, and she knew that she 

" I feel inclined to give up considera- 
tion for you anyway to-day, Effie," Jenifer 
said fraiikly. " I've made up my mind to 
ride, and to ride Shooting Star. You 
have the choice of so many. I'm not really 
depriving yon of an atom of pleasure. " 

" That's as one looks at it," Mrs. Ray 
aaid fretfully. "I wanted to spare my 
Reine till there really was a chance of a 
good run. Shooting Star potters about i 
so well — she's not my form for galloping 
or fencing, but she potters deliciously." 

"I am afrtud you must potter about 
on something else to-day, Effie, however 
admirably Shooting Star may snit yoo." 

"Jenny, you're going out with an 
object; oh, and your l)rotheT8 quote yoaas 
bemg BO gnileleBB and superior I Jenifer, 
take the advice of a woman of the world. 
A banting woman, especially one who has 
to make an effort to be one, won't attract 
Captain Edgecumb." 

She said it with a little spitefully sarcastic 
laugh, and an indescribable assumption 
of being more conversant with Captain 
Edgecumb's motives than anyone else, 





74 [July 7, 1888.J 


IConduded bj 

that would have been fanny had it not 
been insulting. 

"Be quite sure that when I want to 
attract Captain Edgecumb, I will come to 
you for instruction; to-dayl won't tax either 
your patience or good-nature/' Jenifer 
said temperately, but Mrs. Bay knew from 
her sister-in-law*s averted face and mea- 
sured tones that her shot ht^l gone home. 

"IVe no time to ai^e tibe question 
now, the horses will be round in a minute 
or two/' Effie said, walking round Jenifer 
in order to get a straight look into the 
girl's eyes; "but I'U just offer you one 
hint, though you're sure to take it un- 
gracefully and misunderstand my motive 
in giving it. Don't think to win Captain 
Edgecumb by any pretence of indifference; 
he's very honest and straightlorward him- 
self, and has a horror of anything like 
finesse in a girl." 

"Here are the horses," was the only 
reply Jenifer vouchsafed to Mrs. Bay. 

Jack had come up from the home-farm to 
join the Moor Boyal party ; and, as Jenifer 
came out, both her brothers greeted her 

" Glad to see you out with us again, 
Jenny dear," Jack cried heartily, and 
Jenifer felt self-reproachful for a moment, 
as she thought of how she was going to 
try and upset what Jack was foolish enough 
to fancy was his happiness. 

'' It will be like old times to see you in 
the field again, dear," Hubert said Mndly, 
for this was the first time that Jenifer had 
attempted to hunt since her father's 

" I don't think I shall follow," Jenifer 

" I shouldn't on Shooting Star," Mrs. Bay 
cried contemptuously; " she's so uncertain." 

"I never found her that, Effie." 

"Perhaps you've never ridden her at a 
big thing ; now I have, and it hasn't been 
her fatdt that she has got well over. 
You mustn't rely on Hubert to look after 
you to-day, please. I won't have his run 
spoilt if we do get a decent one." 

Jenifer laughed. 

"Don't be afraid, Effie; I won't spoil 
the look of the paragraph in which it will 
be told that Mr. and Mrs. Bay, of Moor 
Boyal, were as usual in the first flight." 

" I can't imagine what you come for if 
you don't care to ride," Effie ezclaimedi 
discontentedly, "the off days would surely 
do as well for you if you only want to 
potter about the roads; it would have 
spared Beine if I could have sent her on, 

and ridden Shooting Star to the meet. I 
hate selfishness." 

"You must remember, darling, that 
Shooting Star is Jenny's own mare," 
Hubert took an opportunity of sayine to 
his wife when Jenifer and Jack trotted on 
a little. 

" Her own 1 Who pays for the mare's 
keep, I askf You know that you do, 
Hugh. I really don't think that a rirl 
without a penny is justified in running her 
brother into such unnecessary expense. 
She's not wrapped up heart and soul in 
riding as I am ; indeed, I'm sure she only 
came out to-day to spite me, because she 
knew I'd made up my mind to ride Shooting 

Hubert idolised his wife, and always acted 
as if he fully believed her false utterances, 
but he did not like to hear Jenifer called 

" We mustremember that only the other 
day Jenifer ruled absolutely at Moor BoyaL" 

"Sometimes you tell me that your 
mother's was the absolute rule." 

"So it was; don't you see my father 
gave up everything to mother, wliose 
delight it was to give up everything to 
Jenny. You don't know what a dear 
sister she has always been to me. I owe 
most of the privUeges and pleasures of my 
young manhood to Jenny." 

"Pray don't be sentimental, Hugh. 
Jenifer seems to have transferred her in- 
terest to Jack now ; she's miserable because 
he's only a tenant-farmer, and because he 
is happy in the society of keepers." 

"I can't quite make Jack out, Effie,'' 
her husband said thoughtfully; "that 
he wishes to settle down in the country 
is natural enough, but that he should be 
contented to settle down in such a very 
small and mild way is startling." 

" I never perplex myself by oonjectoring 
why so-and-so does such and such a thing, ' 
Effie said scornfully; then she added: 
" Jack will be happy enough in his own 
way, if he is let alone and not worried. 
His tastes are not extremely refined, and 
he'll be more at ease among the people he 
has known all his life here, than he would 
among your friends in town." 

" Jenny has been speaking to me about 
his going to Thurtle's house so much, but 
I don't see anything in it, do you, Effie t" 

" Certaiidy not,'^ young Mra Bay said 
with suspicion. "Jenifer overrates her 
own judgment dreadfully, and as she really 
knows nothing of the world beyond the 
boundaries of Exeter, she makes herself 



Charles Dickens.] 


iJvdj 7, 1883.] 75 

ridicaIoii&" Then they irode throagh the 
lodge^tes into the grounds of Hallow- 
mxx% and Mrs. Bay was soon suirounded 
by the members of the hunt who had the 
honour of being on speaking terms with 
its most distingoished wearer of a habit 

Meanwhile Jenifer had ridden on with 
Jack, and they had been joined by Mr. 

"Yon mean riding to-day 1" Jack ques- 
tioned, for the lawyer was mounted on his 
fayoutite hunter. 

''I mean following, Jack, but I won't 
say what place I shall be in at the finish, 
for I'm going to ask you to allow me to 
haye the honour of taking the charge of 
your sister off your hands." Now Jenifer 
had written to ask him to do this, for she 
felt the time was ripe for her again to 
speak for Jack's social salyation. But Jack 
himself had no fancy for leaying her in the 
company of the " family lawyer," whom his 
sister-in-law was teaching him to distrust 

"I think I'll look after Jenifer myself 
to-day, thank you," Jack said with nig- 
gardly eoartesy. 

"No, no, Jack," Jenifer put in hastily, 
"it's so long since I've ridden to hounds 
that rd rather take it quietly to-day, and 
I know you will go straight Don't let me 
stop yoa I'll stay quite contentedly with 
Mr. Boldero." 

Bat Jack, though he knew that his soul 
would yearn to be off when once they 
found, would not give in his adhesion to 
Jenifer's proposal yet 

"Perhaps Edgecumb will turn up pre- 
sently ; hu mare overreached herself and 
goes tenderly, so he won't be able to ride 
hard. But you mustn't keep Mr. Boldero 
out of it, Jenny ; he won't thank you for 
doing that," the young brother said, and 
then in his desire to secure Captain 
Edgecumb as an escort for his sister, he 
rode off, leaving her alone with Mr. Boldera 

" Yoa know why I want to see you," she 
be|;an, without any idle preface. " He is 
going to ruin. Once more I ask you to 
speak to him, to stop him." 

" I cannot ! This is final. With all my 
heart would I add my entreaties and 
warnings to yours, but the power to do so 
has been taken out of my hands. I know 
that he has been offered good appointments 
at high salaries. I know that an agency 
to large estates — a post for which ne is 
exactly fitted — is open to him now, but I 
can't press him to accept it" 

" Mr. Boldero, what is the secret power 
which holds you back; you surely don't 

want to see us Rays ruined)" she asked 
simply, leaning forward on Shooting Star's 
neck to gain a clearer view of his face. 

" Heaven forbid 1 " 

" But it is evident that man or woman 
has constrained you to stand by supinely 
and see one of us going down. Oh, do, do ! 
if you cared for my father as we all believe 
you did, save his soil" 

'' If the sacrifice of all my worldly goods 
would do it, I would do it," he said 

" You say that ; it*s easy ; but you won't 
speak the word that might do it I wish I 
had not come out, you have disappointed 
me this time more cruelly than before, for 
you must have felt that I was in extremity 
before I wrote to you." 

She turned her horse's head and rode 
sharply away, to the wonderment of so 
much of the field as had leisure to observe 
her. And Mr. Boldero did not venture to 
follow her. 

Meantime old Mrs. Bay, having nothing 
else to do in Jenifer's absence, had gone 
down to the home-farm to see what arrange- 
ments had been made in the house for 
Jack's comfort 

She was quite alive now to the right 
which was hers of taking away any furni- 
ture that she desired from Moor SoyaL 
And she was quite resolved that if she 
found the farmhouse rooms inadequately 
furnished, she would exert that right, and 
have her son's new home fitted up with 
some of his customary surroundings. 

It was a bright, keen March morning, 
and without going into eloquent descrip- 
tions of the state and appearance of each 
young blade of corn and grass, and the 
accurate colour or tint of every cloud and 
rivulet, it may be mentioned that the 
atmosphere was bright and invigorating, 
the aspect of the fields and hedgerows, the 
meadows and cornfields, very fair. Alto- 
gether it was an atmosphere that braced 
the nerves, and set one's standpoint in life 
in the brightest and best light 

" Poor dear boy 1 I dare say it's all bare 
and ugly enough after what he has been 
accustomed to at Moor Boyal," the mother 
thought, as she walked down to inspect her 
son's house for the first time since he had 
occupied it 

In days not long gone by, she had been 
in the habit of driving down to the home- 
farm every week to see what poultry, 
butter, and eggs Mrs. Cowley could supply 
to Moor Royal 

But since the general break-up the 



76 [July 7, 1883.] 


[Oondacted Isy 

widow had not felt moved to tread the well- 
known round to which her feet had become 
well habituated while she was in power. 

It pleased her well as she approached the 
house to see the old-fashioned looking garden 
neater and trimmer than it had ever been 
even under the Cowley rule. Long borders 
of primroses, cowslips, and snowdrops 
wound ribbon-like round every bed. And 
all the windows were bright with hyacinths 
of every shade, from creamy white to 
darkest blue and red, in glasses, and with 
gaudy but beautiful double tulips in pots. 

''Dear Jenny has taken care that he shall 
have flowers to remind him of home," the 
mother thought tenderly, as she marked 
with pleasure that the flowers were softly 
framed by white muslin curtains as weUas 
by the heavy dark ones that she herself 
had sent down from Moor BoyaL Then 
she opened the hall-door, and went into the 
wide red-brick passage, calling as she entered 
for Elsie, the girl who had been scullery- 
maid for some time at Moor Royal, and 
who had now come " to do " for Mr, Jack, 
as she herself expressed it 

The kitchen-door stood open, and a fine 
appetising odour of bread-baking streamed 
forth. Something else streamed forth also, 
and that was a dialogue carried on by two 
highly-pitched femaJe voices. The first 
words that fell on old Mrs. Ray's astounded 
ears were spoken by Elsie. 

"I don't care nor know what you're 
a-goin' to be, Minnie Thurtle ; you knows 
best about that yourself, I s'pose ; but I 
know you're not a-goin' to come here now 
and order me about as if you was my 
missus. Ill take orders from none but 
master, and the ladies up to Moor Royal; 
and if you choose to come a-poking, 
and prying, and ordering in my kitchen, 
you'll have to hear what I've got to say — 
there 1 " 

"You'll find yourself walked out of this 
house before you're many days older. Miss 
Impudence," were the next words that 
quivered forth in accents of fuiy, and then 
both speakers became aware of old Mra 
Ray's presence, and silence reigned. 



On the first Monday in every month 
there was always an unusual air of life and 
motion in ShiUingbury market-place as the 
hours drew on to eleven o'clock in the fore- 
noon, for that was the time when our 


magutrates met to administer justice in 
the club-room of The Black Bull Our 
eople seemed to be a very well-conducted 
ot, judged by the usual character of the 
charge-sheet. The justices rarely had cases 
to deal with more serious than those 
which arose from surreptitious onslaughts 
upon Squire Winsor's preserves, or from a 
difference of opinion culminating in the 
"argumentum ad bacnlum" between two 
village mothers, or from the effects of that 
" one more glass " swallowed on a market- 
day. Some there were, of that class which 
takes delight in picking holes everywhere, 
who used to affirm that the lightness of 
the calendar was due to the leniency or in- 
competency of the new rural police, rather 
than to any superior standard of morality 
in ShiUingbury and its neighbourhood. 

But on a certain Monday morning there 
were signs that a case of more than ordi- 
nary weight was coming on for investiga- 
tion. The magistrates^ room was filled 
as soon as the doors were opened, and after 
a little preliminary business had been 
disposed of, one Miles Lockwood was 
brought into the room and charged with 
the wilful murder of Timothy Deane, a 

The circumstances of the case were 
simple enough, 'but the police and the 
solicitor from Martlebury who defended 
the prisoner managed to muddle them^so 
efficiently that it was evening before Lock- 
wood was committed for tnaL Then he 
was not committed on the capital charge, 
but for manslaughter. 

The story was simply this : Lockwood 
and Deane were both of them stonemasons 
in the employ of a London contractor who 
was building a new wing to Mr. Winsor's 
mansion. On the Saturday evening these 
two, in company with half-a-dozen others, 
were sitting in the village public-house, 
and Deane, a quarrelsome fellow, disliked 
by everybody, and feared as weU for his 
heavy fist and sharp tongue, was doing his 
best to make Lockwood the butt of the 
company by foul-mouthed jests and brutal 
horse-play. At last the latter, flushed with 
drink and provoked beyond endurance, 
stood up and struck his persecutor a blow 
on the head with a heavy pewter measure. 
Deane fell heavily to the floor, and Lock- 
wood, sobered in a moment, stood staring 
with the flattened pot in his hand, while 
the others picked up the senseless form of 
Deane. They laid him on a bench and 
sent for a doctor; but they needed no 
doctor to tell them that he was a dead 



Charkf Dlekeni.] 


[July 7, 1883.] 77 

man. The landlord, fearing for the 
character of his house, was more anxious 
to see the policeman than Dr. Qoldingham, 
and sent privately for the minion of the 
kw, who yeiy soon arrived and carried 
Miles Lockwood off to the Shillingburj 

The case came on for trial at the next 
assizes. The prisoner pleaded guilty, and 
was sentenced to one year's imprisonment. 
When the first excitement of the tragedy 
had subsided, we ceased to think much of 
Miles Lockwood and his misfortunes, and 
never dreamed of seeing him again ; so it 
came somewhat as a surprise when we 
discovered that he was the tenant of a 
tumble-down cottage standing upon the 
confines of Pudsey Heath, but within 
the boundary of Shillingbury, whither 
he had likewise brought his wife and two 

People were a little curious about him at 
first, and the boys he might meet on the 
heaUi wonld look with wide-mouthed awe at 
the man who had actually spilt another man's 
blood ; but there was no especial enmity 
towards Mfles on account of that hasty 
blow of his. He had always passed for a 
quiet, inoffensive man, while Deane had 
been universally hated as a riotous bully. 
In a very short time, however, all curiosity 
abated, and we thought no more of Miles 
Lockwood than of any other cottager in the 

Lockwood was a weak-looking man with 
narrow chest and stooping shoulders. In 
hiB everyday work he had no part in the 
hewing and sawing and the other hard 
work of a stonemason's calling. His eye 
was correct, and his hand delicate enough 
to work at the finest details of any plan or 
drawing ; but his powers were not limited 
by the mere faculty of imitation. Out of 
the bits of refuse stone and marble which 
lay about in the work-sheds he would 
fashion little busts and heads, and quaintly 
grotesque faces, perfectly correct in form, 
and f dl of such life and spirit as could 
only be bom from the touch of a true artist. 
No one knew anything about his early his- 
tory ; but it was commonly believed that 
he tras a man who had known better days, 
and that he had not been brought up in 
his present calling. He certainly was well 
acquainted with books and men of whom 
the average stonemason knows nothing. 
He was moody in humour, rarely fore- 
gathering with his fellow-workmen either 
m their recreations or their debaucheries ; 
but when he did join them in a drinking 

bout he would generally swallow two or 
three pints of strong beer, and then either 
drop off to sleep or sit silent and bemused 
in a corner. As a workman his employers 
had nothing but what was good to say of 
him, and when he came out of prison the 
Oovemor handed him a note from his late 
master offering him work at once. But 
Miles would have no more of it As he 
walked forth into freedom he knew that he 
must set to work at once to earn bread for 
himself and his family ; but that inclination 
for solitude which had always possessed 
him had grown stronger during his impri- 
sonment, and he determined that for the 
future he would work, as he lived, alone. 
The cottage on Pudsey Heath was vacant, 
and a more solitary abode it would have 
been hard to find; so he hired it, and, 
having got together a few sticks of furni- 
ture, he sent for his wife and children, 
and set to work to earn a livelihood after 
his own fashioa 

The cottase was a miserable dwelling, 
thatched, and only habitable on the ground- 
floor; but it was not without its advan- 
tages. The rent was very low, there was 
a large garden attached to it, and a roomy 
shed in which Miles could work at his 
handicraft when he could get anything to 
do, or when it was too wet to dig the 
garden. It stood a stone's-throw from the 
roadside, with the ground sloping rapidly 
downwards in the rear until the heath 
became lost in the swampy meadows which 
fringed the banks of our river. About 
half-way down the slope a seam of chalk 
cropped up to the surface, and for some 
distance the hill had been cut away, and 
the chalk burnt into lime in a kiln which 
was now deserted and in ruins. The chalk 
was very hard and might be detached from 
the quarry in large masses. Miles had often 
cut faces and heads in Pudsey chalk when 
he had been at work at Mr. Winsor's, and 
perhaps he may have had his eye upon the 
disused chalk-pit, as a sort of Carrara, 
when he fixed his abode at the cottage on 
the heath. 

Miles and his wife were not much 
troubled with neighbours. Two or three 
small farmhouses stood on the other side 
of the heath; and down by the river one 
could see the tannery and cottages of 
Brooksbank End; but if the Lockwood 
family had lived in the midst of us they 
would probably have been just as much 
isolated as they were on Pudsey Heath. 
Miles, as I have before said, was a recluse 
by disposition, and he was» besides this, a 



78 (JQly 7, 1883.] 


[Conducted bj 

Londoner. Oar people looked very much 
askance at all strangers, and at Londoners 
in particular, and, to make matters worse, 
Mrs. Lockwood was an Irishwoman and a 
Boman Catholic. 

She was a tall, handsome woman, some 
ten jears younger than her husband, with 
regular features, soft grey eyes, and black 
hair which always hung in heavy undis- 
ciplined hanks around her face. Her smile 
was bright and her yoice soft, and those 
few people who ever exchanged a word 
with her would declare that she was a 
pleasant-spoken woman, though she did 
worship the Virgin Mary. Lonely as she 
was, the life upon the wide heath was a 
sort of paradise after the horrors of the 
London court where Miles had met and 
married her. It was something like the 
hillside in Roscommon, where she was 
bom ; but the place she lived in mattered 
little to Nora so long as she had her 
husband near her, for she loved Miles with 
all the fervour, and with something more 
than the ordinary constancy, of the Celtic 

Miles had a voracious appetite for 
reading of all sorts, and would almost 
always have some bit of printed matter 
before him when he was not at work. 
Mr. Winsor used to lend and even to 
give him books, but these were generally 
of a sort Miles did not much appreciate. 
They dealt too much with the conversion 
of the Irish dock-labourer, and of the 
upward struggle of the sceptical working- 
man towards respectability and a seat in 
the side aisle of the parish church. Like 
most town-bred men. Miles was a great 
lover of plants and flowers. In those days 
people were much more given to the study 
of herbs than they are now, and one of 
the first reports circulated concerning Miles 
was that he was a " rare claver man about 
yarbs," some going so far as to declare 
that he knew as much about them as old 
Mrs. Jillings, of Blanham, herself ; but, 
whether he did or not, everybody knew that 
he gave Peggy Lawson's girl a drink which 
stilled her pulse and threw her into a 
gentle sleep, after she had been three days 
in a raging fever. And Lockwood had 
mastered other branches of the healing art 
as well. He had an old book on Fameiy, 
and he could cure the strangles, and milk- 
fever, and quarter evil, as well as, or better 
than, the cow-leech at Offbury. Once, too, 
when Farmer Docking's ewes were doing 
badly at the beginning of lambing, Miles 
met him on the road and wrote a few 

words on a bit of paper, which he bade 
the farmer take to the druggist at Maitle- 
bury, and to give all his flock a teaspoonfal 
of the powder thereon mentioned once a 
day for three days. Mr. Docking was in 
despair, so he followed Miles's advice, 
though the latter was a Londoner. The 
powder worked wonders. The plague was 
stayed, and Farmer Docking had a fine 
crop of lambs after alL 

Miles set to work with a will to bring 
his wilderness of a garden into order. As 
spring came on tha path leading up to the 
door was gay with crocus and snowdrop, 
and in less than a year honeysuckle and 
the wild hop had clothed the ragged walls, 
and were crawling up over the grey 
straw thatch. Miles did odd jobs of work 
for a stonemason in the town and for Mr. 
Winsor as welL The latter had all alone 
shown a thoughtful kindness for Miles, and 
had assisted him materially at a crisb 
when a little help was worth a great deal 
of pity ; but he worked harder and more 
constantly at his chalk images in his own 
workshop than at anything else, for this 
was labour after his own heart. Up to this 
time he had always worked by rule of 
thumb, inventing his de^i as he wept 
along ; but one day Mr. Winsor gave him 
some illustrations, loose leaves from some 
book on ancient art^ and, as he turned 
them over, a new world of wonder and 
delight was revealed to him ; such a one as 
Keats was aware of when he read for the 
first time the stately lines of Chapman's 
Homer. Then he began to copy them; 
first the more simple designs — ^tragic and 
comic masks, and such like-; then busts 
and torsos; and finally, the full-length 
figures. Whatever he did, he did with the 
most accurate conscientious fidelity to the 
model before him ; but, in spite of himself, 
he gave it a separate individuality, a touch 
of character imprinted by the unseen 
spirit of the artist which guided uncon- 
sciously his tool as he worked at the block 
of chalk. Week by week he toiled more 
and more at his busts and fauns, and less 
and less at the mechanical drudgery of the 
stonemason's yard, and he did not grow 
much the richer for this. The garden 
certainly was planted, but bread was neces- 
sary while the potatoes were growing ; and 
it was only when the cupboard was nearly 
bare that Miles would forego his art and 
take a spell at carving cherubs on grave- 
stones in Mr. Toomer's yard. His wife 
would be a little querulous at times, not 
unreasonably so, seeing that she often had 




CbailH DIoiEeiiB.] 


[July 7, 1S88.] 79 

to go to bed hungry. At last one of the 
chUdren fell ill, and she had not a penny 
to bay a little meat for broth ; so she went 
to her husband with more of an^er in her 
Toice than she had ever yet shown, and 
asked him why he didn't sell some of those 
things he wasted so much time over, if he 
wouldn't work to get his children their 

But Miles could not bear the thought of 
parting with any of his creatures. He 
laughed uneasily at his wife's suggestion, 
and said nobody was likely to care lor any- 
thing of his workmanship ; he meant to go 
down to the stone-yard to-morrow, and 
perhaps the day after. Mr. Toomer owed 
for a job or two of work, so there would 
be money to take, and meanwhile there 
was a shilliDg to go and buy a bit of 

The next morning Miles went off to 
make a long day's work amongst Mr. 
Toomer's mortuary emblems; and almost 
as soon as he was gone Nora began to con- 
sider whether, in spite of her husband's 
modesty, some of the little images mi^ht 
not be saleabla She made up her mmd 
that she would try at any rate ; and, having 
packed six of what she considered the best 
in a basket, she set off to Martlebury. As 
she tramped the long seven miles of road 
she pictured Miles's delight when she 
should return with a sovereign or perhaps 
with two ; for poor Nora never guessed the 
reason of her husband's unwillingness to 
hawk about his cherished works. 

She had lived in Martlebury while Miles 
was in prison, and by Mr. Winsor's kind- 
ness she had got work as a sempstress, 
and it was to the ladies who had then given 
her work that she first exhibited her 
wares; but she rather scandalised one 
lady of a serious turn by bringing out for 
approval, the Venus of Capua, a subject 
which the lady described as unfit for any 
Christian household. The lady, who had 
a kind heart in spite of her puritanism, as 
soon as she saw the look of disappoint- 
ment which came over the poor woman's 
face, made amends by buying a bust of 
Lucius Yerus, which she pronounced very 
cheap at five shillings. She advised Nora 
to take the others to a Mr. Kerrich, a 
printseller in the town, who dealt in such 
things, and Mr. Kerrich, who had a prettv 
keen eye, at once saw traces of the artist s 
hand, and took the lot for a sovereign. 
Norah went home rejoicing. 

Miles came back late that night from 
Shillingbury, and before he had time to 

note the loss of his treasures his wife had 
told him all, and with joyous eyes put the 
money intoius hand. 

At first he did feel a twinge of regret as 
he thought of his empty shelf; but when 
he saw the pride and pleasure in Nora's 
eyes, he had not the heart to say a cross 
word. After all she was right It was 
nothing better than silly selfismiess to keep 
the thmgs on the shelf while the children 
wanted proper food. He could make plenty 
more, and at five shillings each they would 
bring in money enough for their needs, and 
he would not want to carve any more of 
those hideous cherubs in Mr. Toomer's 

About a week after this there came a 
letter from Mr. Kerrich asking Miles to 
call upon him about some more work, and 
Miles came back from Martlebury with a 
happy look in his eyes and a bundle of 
drawings under his arm. 

The next day a heavy waggon drew up at 
the cottage, and the men unloaded a lot of 
blocks and slabs of the finest marble, upon 
which Miles was now to work instead of 
common chalk. 

The Marquis of Folkshire had gone into 
Mr. Kerrich s shop and had been greatly 
struck with the grace of the little statuettes. 
He at once determined that the man who 
had wrought these was the man he wanted 
to work upon the mantelpiece of his library, 
and for three months Miles was hard at work 
on sculptured figures and delicate design. 
The chimney-piece when it was finished 
was pronounced a masterpiece. Miles's 
fortune was as good as mada The principal 
stonemason in Martlebury offered him a 
permanent berth with good wages, but 
Miles declined. He knew that he would 
have nothing else to do except to carve 
ineffectual cmerary urns and stock tomb- 
stones all his life ; and besides this he had 
grown strongly attached to his home, 
which he had patched up here and added 
to there, till it had become a seemly 
dwelling. Then he could not bear to 
leave the chalk-pit and the free work at 
his beloved images, work which was ten 
times more fascinating to him th^n even 
the marble magnificence of the Marquis of 
Folkshire's mantelpiece ; so he stuck to the 
cottage on the heath, managing to make a 
good living by the sale of his images, for 
which Mr. Kerrich found a ready market, 
and from the produce of his garden, which 
he cultivated with an assiduity worthy of 

But Miles Lockwood,^though people had 



80 [July 7, 1883.1 


tCaodQcled by 

long forgiven him the death of Timothy 
Deane, thoagh he was a sober inoffensive 
man, was not favoorably looked npou. At 
the time of which I am writing the belief 
in occult agencies and witchcraft was active 
amongst the common people. All that 
lay outside the narrow circle of their own 
experience was vague and mysterious, and 
all who came from this dim and mysterious 
region were glanced at suspiciously in any 
case ; but if they happened to be called in 
handiwork or book-learning, then would 
arise at once a belief that they did not get 
their cleverness without some schooling 
from the Prince of Darkness. The gods of 
rude people are always malevolent spirits, 
whom it is well to conciliate by offerings 
of some kind or another; and it is a 
survival of this belief which would make 
old Peggy Lawson walk ten miles with a 
new five-shilling piece in her pocket, to 
consult a wise woman, after churning for 
three weeks and getting no butter. To 
the people who uved round about him 
Miles was an alien in every respect, and 
this alone was enough to kindle suspicion. 
Sometimes, in the dusk of a spring evening, 
some bird's-nesting urchins would meet 
Miles staggering home over the heath, with 
a great block of chalk on his shoulder, and 
would run away quickly from the glance 
of his keen black eyes. Again, his work- 
shop was always closely barred to every 
one except his wife. The window was 
blocked, too, as some venturesome ex- 
plorers one day discovered, and this 
circumstance went far to establish the 
belief that Lockwood must be after some 
very queer work, and, perhaps, have some 
very queer helpers, since he was afraid to 
be overlooked by his fellows. Mr. Wilcox, 
the parish clerk, said that no good was to be 
expected of a man who had married a 
Papist ; and that though, for all they knew, 
Miles didn't worship the Virgin Mary, he 
certainly made graven images, which was 
almost as bad, as anybody who read the 
prayer-book would see. 

After Miles had lived about six years in 
the cottage, it happened that Farmer 
Dredge, of White OUand, hired of the poor's 
trustees the right of pasture on the heath, 
and, being a man who never lost a right 
for want of claiming it, he gave notice to 
Miles that, from henceforth, all people who 
took chalk from the pit would have to pay 
for it, offering, at the same time, to let him 
help himself on a payment of five pounds 
a year. Now Mr. Dredge had about as 
much right to charge Miles for the chalk 

from the pit as he had to put a price on 
the air which blew over the heath| and 
Miles was lawyer enough to know this. 
So he went on helping nimself, and took 
no heed of Mr. Dredge's considerate offer. 
But one day there came for him a summons 
to present himself before the Shillingbury 
justices, and ansi^er a charge of having 
stolen two blocks of chalk, value sixpence, 
the property of Thomas Dredge, on a 
certain given date. 

The summons was dismissed, and Mr. 
Dredge, having had to pay all costs, went 
out of court with a hearty contempt for 
the law, and a resolution to do Miles an 
ill-turn whenever he could ; but he was not 
able to do much, except to drop suggestive 
hints that he meant to have his own, how- 
ever anxious other folks might be to speak 
the devil fair, and perhaps them as was in 
the devil's pay might have to swim for 
their lives in the mill-dam, as they used in 
the days he had heard his grandfather 
talk of. 

The following summer was very wet, 
and the autumn was little less tiian a 
continuous deluge. There was much 
sickness about, and Mrs. Dredge was taken 
with pains in the back and limbs, disin- 
clination for food, and other symptoms ot 
low fever, but Mr. Dredge and other wise 
people took another view of the case; 
and, shaking their heads, affirmed that she 
was "under bad hands," and let it be 
seen that they had little doubt who was 
the person who had cast the spell upon 
her. Then Farmer Dredge's best cow died, 
and soon after the rot broke out amongst 
his sheep. Our people ignored the wet 
season as the cause of these misfortunes, 
and traced them all to that quarrel 
between the farmer and Miles. The 
latter was shunned more than ever, and 
those who were perforce brought near him 
were cringingly polite, as it was wise to 
be towards a man who had such potent 
spells at his fingers'-ends. 

But when the low fever spread rapidly, 
when there was some one sick in every 
other cottage down at Brooksbank End ; 
when the sheep-rot began to spread, and 
three cows died of lung disease in one 
week, there arose a cry that something 
must be done, and hints were dropped 
that the expedition to the mill-dam, 
which Farmer Dredge had talked about, 
had better be undertaken at once. One 
Saturday evening there was a meeting of 
the more bloody-minded of the con- 
spirators, and then began the talk of 




[July 7, 1888.] 81 

deciding who should hell the cat, and the 
nsnal backwardness in coming forward 
manifested itself. No one seemed to like 
the task of laying hands on the wizard. 
The counsels of the party became less 
tmcnlent, and finally it was resolred to 
treat Miles to a bit of " rough music " that 
yeiy same evening. 

In our country " rough music " was used 
to express public disapproval of the person 
serenaded. If a man brutally ill-used his 
wifiB or children, or was a bad neighbour, 
or made himself generally obnoxious, 
certain of the villagers would appoint 
themselves guardians of the public weal, 
and set forth by night armed with kettles, 
and horns, and bells, and other instru- 
ments of hideous clamour, to let the 
ofifender know that he must mend his 
ways. Such was the remedy now proposed 
for the havoc wrought to Farmer Ure^ge's 
stock. The serenadera picked their way 
in silence over the heath, and when the 
feeble light, shining in Lockwood's window, 
came in sight, Farmer Dredge ordered a 
halt to discuss the final disposition of the 
attack. The advance was then ordered, 
and soon the fearsome uproar began. 
Never before had such a devil's tattoo been 
heard on the lonely heath ; but bad as it 
was, there must have been a feeling 
amongst some of the more ardent 
serenaders that rough music was a very 
milk-and-watery sort of way of dealing 
with a case of right-down witchcraft 
However, it will never be known how the 
catastrophe of that night really did take its 

Everyone knows how easily mischief is 
b^gan and how rapidly it gathers strength 
in its progress. While the bells were 
clangins and the bellow of the horns was 
frightfiu to hear, a little speck of light 
shone upon the eaves of the thatch. It 
was not a candle surely, for there was no 
window on that side. No. It spread and 
spread. Suddenly the clamour ceased. 
Slid something very much like terror over- 
spread the faces of the mischief-makers, 
for the fire ran rapidly along the dry 
straw at the eaves, and in a minute every- 
body knew Miles Lockwood's cottage was 
on fire. Then a sudden shriek. The door 
was thrown open, showing the inside full 
of smoke, and a woman in her night- 
dothes rushed out . The next moment 
Miles burst forth from the shed where he 
had been at work and dragged his wife 
into his workshop, while the courageous 
troop, aghast at the unlooked-for mischief. 

slunk rapidly away into the darkness out 
of the ever widening circle of light which 
spread from the flames darting and 
creeping round the thatch and the wooden 
gables of the cottage. 

When morning broke there was nothing 
left of Miles Lockwood's home but heaps 
of ashes and blackened walls. His work- 
shed had fortunately escaped, as the wind 
had carried the flames in the opposite 
direction ; and there, upon his bench with 
no other covering than a sack and his own 
coat, lay his wife raving in an access of 
the fever from which she had been su£fering 
for* some days past Early in the day 
Dr. Groldingham was there with a close 
carriage and a nurse, and took the poor 
suffisrer back to his own house. If 
good nursing and medical skill could have 
saved her she might have recovered ; but 
the shock had been too severe, and in less 
than a week she was dead. 

She was buried in the churchyard, and 
after a little Miles, with the rector's 
consent, placed a plain slab of stone with- 
out word or date over the grave. He 
refused to leave his work-shed. He had 
fixed up some rough beds for his children ; 
and there he now ate and slept as well as 
laboured. By degrees the story of the 
rough music leaked out, and there was 
some talk of police interference; but 
probably no one but the guilty person 
knew whose hand had put fire to the thatch 
that night Miles was resolutely silent 
on the subject. He shut himself up in the 
shed working, so some people said, day and 
night, week-days and Sundays all the same. 
Dr. Goldingham tried to see him, for he 
was a little fearful for the poor fellow's 
reason; but when he went to the heath 
Miles would remark in a quiet tone, holding 
the shed-door half-open, that he was 
grateful to the doctor for all his kindness, 
but he wanted for nothing now. He did not 
say that he only wanted to be let alone, 
but the doctor knew what he meant, and 
took his leave. 

Simon Deverel, of Cobb Hall, however, 
did get speech at Miles now and then. 
These two had always been good friends, 
and Simon had always laughed at the silly 
stories about witchcraft and the like. ^ 

Simon had had no trouble that winter 
with his flocks and herds, and our wise- 
acres declared that this good luck came 
from speaking the devil fair, for had not 
Simon lent Miles Lockwood a horse and 
cart times out of number, and didn't he let 
the Irishwoman have milk for her stir- 

82 (July 7, 1S8S.I 



tOoodacM lif 

about as often as she liked to go np to the 
farm for it) Some, however, were far- 
sighted enough to maintain that old Mrs. 
Deverel knew as much about the black art 
as Miles himself^ and that she could beat 
back any spell he might cast oyer Cobb 
Hall and its belongings. These good people 
none of them remembered that Simon had 
kept his cows well sheltered all through 
the wet weather, and had moved his sheep 
off the soddened pastures in good time. 

One Saturday afternoon Simon was busy 
in his stable, when he heard a footstep out- 
side, and, looking up, he saw Miles standing 
in the doorway. He had come to ask for 
the loan of a horse and cart, he said, to 
fetch some bits of marble which were lying 
at a canal wharf a few miles distant 
There was a look of unusual excitement on 
his face, and his eye flashed and his hand 
trembled nervously as he spoke. Simon 
asked him how he was in a kindly tone, 
and wanted to know whether he couldn't 
be of help in any other way ; but Mfles 
answered shortly though courteously that 
he needed nothing but what he asked for, 
so Simon at once told him that he could 
have the same horse and cart that he had 
had before. 

It was bright moonlight that night, 
and old Jennings, Dr. Unwinds factotum, 
when he took the keys into the rectory 
kitchen, declared that, though he didn't 
believe in ghosts himself, he had a sister 
who did, and that he was ready to swear 
that he had seen something white under 
the elms at the farther comer of the church- 
yard. The cook, an orthodox Ptotestant, 
remarked that she shouldn't be surprised 
at anything that might happen, seeing that 
^ood-for-nothing Irish were buried there 
just as if they had been decent Christians ; 
but no one hsA the curiosity to go out and 
test the truth of Mr. Jennings's assertion. 

But the next morning, Sunday, there was 
a crowd of people in the churchyard, for 
fuUy an hour before the service began, 
passing and repassing to and from the 
comer where the body of poor Nora Lock- 
wood had been laid. Upon ike stone 
which had hitherto marked ner grave there 
stood the fairest monument in pure white 
marble that the brain of an artist could 
have planned. Though no one knew it, 
it was the facsimile of one erected to 
the memory of a noble lady in florence 
hundreds of years ago. Miles had found 
the design amongst the drawings Mr. 

finished it he carried it in Simon Deverel's 
cart down to the churchyard that Satur- 
day night, and fixed it by the light of the 
moon. On the Sunday morning Simon 
found his horse and cart brought back, and 
as he had nothing particular to do, he 
strolled over the heath to Lockwood's 
place, for he could not forget that strange 
look in Miles's eye the afternoon before. 
Half dreading, he knocked at the door of 
the shed, but no one answered.. He lifted 
the latch, and to his surprise found the 
door unfastened. He went in and found 
the place deserted. Dust and marble-chips 
covered everything. Miles Lockwood had 
done his last work at ^lillingbury, and 
had vanished from our world. Nobody 
ever heard of him again, but it will be loog 
before his tragic story is forgotten. The 
lovely monument is a witness of this, and 
it still stands white and pure as ever, for 
every spring and autumn Simon Deverel 
cleans it with his own handa 


SnriNO under the bircfa-treefl, in th&beautiful April 

Watching the gleam throogh the branches stream, 

watching the snnlighVe play ; 
Hearing the birds' gay carol, seeing each glancing 

Wishing them mute, lest the coming foot, were un* 

heaurd mid the sounds of Spring. 

Sitting under the birch-trees, where the thickeniDg 

Of wliite, purple, and green, a graceful screen, her 

acs made, 

_ 5, and gree: 
lonely'head to shade ; 
Her book of the favourite poet, unheeded at ber 

She saw the bright noon pale to twilight soon, she 
saw the gloaming glide, 

Glide from its couch of violets, with its sad strange 

lovely eyes, 
With its soft cool touch that says so much, with its 

voice like our happy si^hs ; 
With its sweet and soothmg magic, for the tired 

heart and frame, 
That had throbbed so strong, had tarried so long, 

for the footstep that never came. 

Never ! The evening darkened, the night fell soft 
o'er all, 

Each bird in its nest had found its rest ; the flowe!h 
heard sleep's low call ; 

She passed by the screen of lilacs, she passed to her 
silent home, 

The sweet sad pain had been all in vain ; the foot- 
step had never come. 

_ _ „ towards the window and put out her 

Winsor had given him, and when he had I hands with an eloquent impmsive gesture. 




^ *'Then you do really like San Bemo, 
signorina 1 " 

'' Like it ! ^ the girl exclaimed, her 
speaking face aU aglow as she turned 


GhAries Dickens.] 


[Julj 7, 18S8.] 83 

'[It is bejond liking. It is the very love- 
liest place in all the world. I wish I need 
never, never leave it" 

" Oh, Myrtle," sighed her mother from 
the sofa, where she lay wrapped in count- 
less shawls and coverlets, despite the 
warm soft air stealing in throngh the open 
window, " will you never learn to be less 
extravagantly impetnons ) " 

"Never," answered Myrtle. "I can't 
do anything by halves. I must feel with 
my whole soul or not at all It's my way. 
Besides, Signer Benoni is used to my 
ecstasies by this time. You understand 
me now, do you not, signorel " 

She threw a swift glance up at her com- 
panion, moving imperceptibly nearer to 
him as she spoke. 

"Yes," he answered simply, but with a 
look in his eyes that made words needless. 
" I think I always do." 

"That's more than I do, then," said 
a young blue-eyed fellow, unmistakably 
Ei^lish from the crown of his fair hair to 
the soles of his serviceable boots, as he 
strolled lazily towards the couple in the 
window. "Aunt Mary is right. Myrtle. 
You are certainly the oddest bundle of 
raptures and enthusiasms that I ever 
came across." 

Myrtle shrugged her shoulders without 
looking round at him. 

" Oh, you ! I don't expect you to under- 
stand me, Arthur ; you're too different. I 
never expect you to sympathise with me in 

"I don't know about that," returned 
Arthur, a little nettled. " I can sympa- 
thise well enough when there's any call to 
do it But why you should want to spend 
your days in this little, queer, dull hole, 
where here's nothins in the world ever 
goin^ on, and only a handful of coughing 
English consumptives by way of society — 
I bi^ your pardon, signers, but how my 
couedn canpreferSanBemo to England " 

" Myrtle doesn't prefer it," interrupted 
Mrs. Ellis a^ little tartly from her sofa. 
"She is talking at random, as her way is. 
No Englishwoman would ever be content 
to live out of England." 

" I am not talking at all at random," 
cried Myrtle, colouring. " But what do I 
know of England outside of papa's parish, 
and what spot on all the earth could be 
drearier and sadder than poor little 
Kersley, with its eternal fogs, and rains, 
and coal-dust, and its dismal, dirty sur- 
roundings) I am not bound to love 
England for Kersley's sake, or to love 

Kersley, just because I have been doomed 
to live there all my life and have known 
nothing better till now. And I don't love it 
— ^I hate it — and to be transported suddenly 
into this land of perpetual summer; to 
^wake up in the morning and know that 
the sun is shining, and will shine on and 
on just as brightly the whole day through ; 
and to breathe tUs fresh, pure, sweet air ; 
and gather these glorious outdoor roses, 
and know that more will bloom when 
these are done — why, it is all a dream of 
peirfect delight to me» How can I but 
wish I need never waken from ft ? " 

Arthur looked at his cousin with admi- 
ration and perplexity mingled on his 
boyish face. She was so handsome ; and 
so dreadfully, so uncomfortably enthu- 

The Italian looked at her too, and it 
was to him, rather than to Arthur, that 
Myrtle turned for the mute response of 
his smile — a gentle, kindly smile that lit 
up his dark thin face wondrously, and 
seemed to linger on in his eyes long after 
it had left his lips. 

Yes, he always understood her, down to 
her least and most vaguely expressed 

"There is Corsica at last!" exclaimed 
Myrtle, clasping her hands. "Look, 
signore ; look,. Arthur ! Quick — ^it will be 
gone so soon." 

. Arthur craned forward his neck to see. 
Sure enough, the famous, faraway island 
that was beyond human reach of vision in 
the noonday now stood out against the 
horizon, clearly and boldly defined, as if 
within an easy sail 

"What, that stupid little bit of rock 
and hill over there 1 " said the young Briton 
scornfully. "I don't see anything won- 
derful in thai" 

" Ah, but it is so seldom seen from here, 
you know," explained Myrtle; "never, 
except just before sunrise or sunset, and 
then only under certain conditions of the 
atmosphere. It is eighty miles off, 
remember. I am always watching for it. 
I have grown superstitious about it. It 
is a sort of vision of the Holy Grail to me. 
I feel as if it were only when I was very 
good, or going to be very happy, that the 
sight of it was vouchsafed me." 

" So have I always felt," murmured the 
Italian in his own musical tongue, gazing 
wistfully out towards the far-off isle. " To 
me it has always seemed like heaven, which 
the eye of faith sees clearest in the morn- 
ing and the evening of our lives, and which 



■wt W 

84 [July 7, 1883.1 


[Ooodiictad >y 

in the busy care-troabled noon becomes 
only a dream, or a longing, or perhaps just 
a memory of something beautiful that we 
have lost, but may find again. To me, 
too, it is always an omen of good when it 
so reveals itself against the sl^." 

"It is the first time we ever saw it 
together," said Myrtle softly. " The omen 
is for us botL" 

** Heaven grant it be so,"saidBenoniwith 
an earnestness that made, the words a 

frayer. " But no, signorina. The heaven 
dream of is too fair and too far to be ever 
more than a fading vision in my Ufa" 

The lady on the sofa was watching the 
little group keenly. For some reason, the 
relapse into Italian displeased her. 

"Myrtle," she interposed, " you are not 
aware, perhaps,. that your hour has been 
over for some time, and that you are 
detaining the professor." 

" The signore has no other pupil imme- 
diately after me to-day, and I am not 
detaining him," answered Myrtle with a 
sudden httle antagonistic ring in her voice. 
"He stays because he likes, and I like, 
and we all like. I learn vastly more Italian 
out of my lessons than in." 

" Especially when you talk English half 
the time," said Arthur. 

" Ah, that is out of sheer politeness to 
stupid old you, who don't speak anything 
else. For me, I would always rather speak 
Italian than English. It suits the place, 
it suits the climate, it suits me." 

' "Myrtle," said Mrs. Ellis again, "you 
are talking yourself hoarse. Do you forget 
Lady Dunmore's party to-night, and that 
she asked you to sing 1 '' 

" Oh," exclaimed the girl, " I'm so glad 
you reminded me I I must run over my 
song again. Signore, you will stay, please, 
to hear 1 It is an Italian ballad. I want 
you to correct me if I mispronounce." 

And without waiting his reply she 
abruptly began her song, in a full, rich, 
delicious contralto voice, which, wild and 
untutored as it was, might have charmed 
even the birds into listening, such a voice 
as one seldom hears in an amateur, %nd 
that having once heard one never forgets. 

Mrs. Ellis's severe face softened as the 
song went on. Was it possible, at the 
moment, not to be proud to own the 
young singer for her daughter? Arthur 
thrust his hands in his pockets, and stood 
leaning stolidly against the wall, starine 
fixedly at the girl's head. Benoni seemed 
scarcely to breathe. 

"There!" said Myrtle, springing suddenly 

up and confronting the Italian with her 
bright, animated face ; " was that right f 
Shall you be content to know I am singing 
it so to-night 1" 

"It was perfect," answered the pro- 
fessor in a tone that left no doubt of his 
sincerity. "I cannot say more. It was 

Myrtle gave a little laugh, full of genuine 
childlike delight in her own rare gift and 
his keen appreciation of it, and clasped her 
hands together above her head. 

"Oh, how happy I ami" she cried. 
"What a world this is to live in ! A walk 
by the sea in the morning, a ramble 
through the old city and a visit to the 
orange-groves in the afternoon, Corsica 
and a song in the sunset, and a dance in 
the dead of tiie night Oh, what a joy it 
is just to live I Arthur, I won't have you 
look so phlegmatic and indifferent Yon 
look like a bit of a London fog dropped 
down by mistake in Italy. You don't 
know how out of place you are. Do wake 
up and be happy too." 

" I'm awake enough," answered Arthur 
curtiy, with a curious flush mounting to 
his cheeks ; " it's the professor who is 
asleep. At least he looks as if he were in 
a dream." 

Benoni started. 

"Mr. Templeton is right The music 
has carried me out of myself," he said in 
his strongly accented yet perfect English. 
"Signorina, I hope you will enjoy your 
dance. A rivederla." 

" Wait one instant, signore ; you shall 
have a reward for listening so patiently to 
my song. There, do you want it ? It is my 

And the girl drew a sprig of myrtle from 
a vase upon the table and held it out to 
him smilingly, but without a shadow of 
coquetry in her manner. 

"It is the colour of heaven at twilight," 
the Italian said as he took it from her. 
"Yes, it is your flower indeed. But to 
receive a reward for a pleasure, that is 
filling my life over full with blessings." 

" Who is the fellow ? " asked Arthur, 
hardly waiting till the door had closed 
upon the tall, slight figure. "Precious 
intimate here he seema Quite a friend of 
the family, I should say." 

" He's Professor Francesco Benoni, head 
of the San Bemo Lyceum, and a remarkably 
learned and clever man," said Myrtie 

" He is only Myrtie's Italian teacher," 
supplemented Mrs. Ellis with a frigid 




Chadai IHckaoi.] 


[July 7, 1888.] 85 

intonatioii of yoice. " Saving that, there 
is no question of intimacy or mendahip, of 

''Starred-looking fellow, isn't he, with 
his long thin figure, and those monstrons 
blade eyesl" continued Arthur with a 
eomplao^t look down at his own firmly- 
faiit figura " Just one's idea of an Italian : 
a man without any musde, and only back- 
bone enough to stand up on. The climate 
doesn't have the effect on him that it has 
on you, Myrtla These five months have 
made a full-blown rose of you" > 

'' Have they 1" said Mjrrtle nonchalantly, 
and walked to the wmdow and stood 
tiiere humming softly to herself, utterly un- 
mindful of the admiring eyes which followed 
her every movement 

It was impossible not to watch Myrtle, 
for she had that free, easy grace of motion 
consequent upon perfect health and utter 
lack of self-consciousness, which is in itself 
as attractive as beauty. Whatever she did, 
she seemed moving to musia She was 
scarcely nineteen, but so tall, so graceful, 
so admirably proportioned firom nead to 
foot, and, despite ner impulsiveness, with 
such a proud dignity of carriage, as to give 
the impression of maturer years. Her 
fiice was by no means so faultless as her 
figure. Even her best friends admitted that 
her nose would not bear criticism a 
minute (though, to be sure, not one nose in 
a hundred will), and her mouth was still 
altogether too large, even under the allevi- 
ating drcumstanoes of absolutely perfect 
teeth, brilliant red lips, and a frank sweet 
smile that brought two charming dimples 
with it. Tet in spiteofits prominent defects, 
her face was unlike all others, and^ singu- 
hffly attractive. No girls wore their hair, 
for instance, as she did hers, without a wave 
or a crinkle in it, the shining black locks 
brought smoothly down either side of the 
low forehead, and coiled loosely in at the 
neck; but it was the one way of ways 
for Myrtla And then her eyes. It is 
quite positive that nobody ever had just 
sach eyes before, for they were neither grey, 
nor green, nor brown, but bronze — real 
bronze eyos, looking out from their black 
fringe of lashes with an inliense earnest- 
ness and truthfulness that seemed to lay 
her whole soul bare. It was impossible to 
look her in the eyes and not put implicit 
fidth in every word that she said ; impos- 
sible, too, to look there long and not grow 
to love her — particularly if you were a 
young man, and from your privileged 
position as cousin and Jately-arrived guest, 

had distinguishing claims upon her atten- 

Mrs. Ellis noted and approved. Arthur 
Templeton, at twenty-two, with his 
smooth, obstinate, sulky face, was far 
younger than Myrtle at nineteen, and he 
was not remarkable in any way save for 
that spoiled-child look But he was an 
only son and heir to great wealth, and 
his father was positively known to have 

Mrs. Ellis was the wife of a clergyman 
to be sure, but had she been the spouse 
of St. Paul himself she could not have 
overlooked such manifest qualifications for 
a son-in-law as these. He seemed created 
for the office, so to speak She had decided 
so upon the occasion of his first visit to 
them in their dreary little country home. 
And when he developed sufficient of a 
cough in the rude English winter for his 
parents to deem it advisable for him to 
join his uncle at San Eemo, a few months 
after Mr. Ellis (anxious to try a southern 
climate for his wife's failing health), had 
gotten himself appointed chaplain to the 
newly -built English church there, the 
fact seemed like Heaven's direct and un- 
equivocal benediction upon her schemea 
But how was it that this Italian master 
had obtained quite his present footing in 
the family f Five months of lessons — ^yes, 
they had been there five months, and 
Myrtle had studied assiduously, and had 
met the professor repeatedly besides at a 
number of the best houses in the place, 
for he was of a good old family in spite of 
his calling, and certainly perfectly gentle- 
manly and well-bred — ^well, it was high 
time the lessons came to an end. Myrtle 
had learned all the Italian she needed, and 
perhaps a little more. If only on the 
excellent ground of economy, she must 
give up her teacher. It should be done 

Later in the evening, coming from her 
room ready dressed for the party. Myrtle 
entered the tiny drawing-room, and found 
Benoni waiting there alone. 

** I only ran in as I was passing to leave 
this book with you," he said apologetically, 
as he came forward to meet her. " We 
were speaking of it this afternoon, you 

"I am so glad you came," replied 
Myrtle, giving him her hand in her frank, 
English fashion. " I want you to see my 
dress. I chose it myself. Do I look nice 1 " 

It was some floating gauzy fabric of a 
pale amber tint, that no girl with a less 



86 [Joly 7, U8S.] 


(Condmetod Iqr 

clear complexion or less rich colouring 
could have dared to wear, but it set off 
Myrtle's young glowing beauty to perfec- 
tion. Her companion stood silently looking 
down at her with an expression almost of 
pain upon his refined, intellectual faca 

«' WeU t " asked Myrtle agam, in Englhh 
this time. " How do I look, signore 1 '' 

" Like a star in an unattainable hearen," 
he answered at last, slowly as if the words: 
were wrung from him. " Why do yoa ask 
me, signorina 1 What right have I to find 
you beautiful 1 

Myrtle came a step nearer. There was 
a flush on her soft cheek. 

'< And why not you ! " she asked gently. 

'' Because," he answered bitterly, ''I am 
nothing but your Italian teacher. I may 
not aspire to be even a friend. I should 
be blind and deaf too." 

The flush on Myrtle's cheek deepened to 
a swift indignant scarlet Then he had 
'overheard her mother's cruel speech. 

'' Signore," she said in her clear, fresh, 
true young voice, " I am nothing but the 
daughter of a poor English chaplain. In 
rank and poverty at least we are equals — 
vou and I — though in all other things I 
Know myself beneath you, not above you, 
and am proud to count you as my friend." 

The Italian held out both his hands. A 
wild joy leaped up in his eyes. 

" Myrtle — ^Myrtle, do. you mean ' it 1 
May I dare speak ) May I dare ask more 
— ask if you could be content, not as my 
friend, but as my wife-r-content only with 
me and my love 1 " 

Myrtle looked him full in the face, with 
her head thrown back and her steady eyes 
fiftstened fearlessly on his. 

"I should be more than content^" she 
said simply ; " I should be very proud." 

The door opened as she said the last 
words and Arthur came ia He too was 
dressed for the evening's gaiety, and in his 
hand he held an exquisite bouquet of pink 

He came up and eyed his cousin con- 
templatively an instant ; then walked 
critically around her with distinct appro- 
bation of expression. 

*' You look awfully jolly," he commented, 
takmg a fold of her dress clumsily between 
his finger and thumb. <* This is just the 
go. I never saw you show up better. 
And here, take this — ^I got it for you;" 
and he thrust the flowers awkwardly into 
her hand. 

"Oh, how lovely they are!" said 
Myrtle, plunging her flushed face among 

the cool, sweet petals. "It was ever bo 
kind of you, Arthur, but " 

" But what ! " 

Myrtle held off the bouquet at ana's- 
length with a gay laugh. 

" Don't be angry, please, but I cannot 
carry it Don't you see 1 It would be 

•' And why, pray 1 " 

" Oh, don't you see ) These pink roses 
with tibia yellow dress — the colours are 
both lovely ; but together ! Oh, it spoils 
both I I just couldiTt 1 " 

Arthur looked very crestfallen. 

" How was a fellow to know you were 
going to wear a yellow dress, I'd like to 
know 1 Nobody ever wears yellow ; every- 
body always wears pink or blua" 

"Of course they do. That's why I 
didn't," laughed Myrtle. "But I'm so 
sorry it happened, and I love pink roses; 
they are beautiful. However, they sha'n't 
be lost; Signer Benoni shall take them 
home to his sister — didn't you tell me she 
was not so well asain to-day, signore 1 — 
and so they will give even more pleasure, 
perhaps, than if I carried them." 

She held out the bouquet to the professor 
with one of her charming smiles; but 
Arthur instantly sprang forward and 
snatched it rudely from her hand. 

" No one shall have the flowers if yon 
won't," he said with the utmost irritation of 
voice and manner, and turning to the open 
window, he threw the unfortunate bunch 
with all his strength far out into the 

In the awkward silence that followed his 
words they could hear it crash down 
among the shrubs and bushes of a neigh- 
bouring garden. 

"Oh, Arthur I" Myrtle exclaimed re- 

" Well," he retorted crossly, " I got 
them for vou, and you won't have them. 
What I do with them afterwards is no 
look-out of yours." And he turned on his 
heel and went and sat down at the table 
with a book, turning the lamp viciously up 
till it smoked furiously, "beastly Italian 
lights I " he muttered as4ie turned it back 
again lower than before. " How is anyone 
ever to read by them 9 " 

" A dimani," said Benoni in a low voice 
as he held Myrtle's hand in a grasp that 
nearly crushed it^ firm and substantial 
though it was. " A flower has bloomed 
in my life to-night sweeter than imy 
blossom your hand can ever bestow again. 
Addio, a dimani 1 " 



Charles Dickens.) 


[July 7, 1883.1 87 

"To-morrow," repeated Myrtle; ."only 
nntil to-morrow." 

The morrow came, one of the few dull, 
drizzly mornings that ever dawn on 
San Bemo. There was no faintest sugges- 
tion of Corsica behind the clouds that lay 
heavy and grey along thfi horizon, when 
Myrtle glanced from her window. 

^ Heaven is all in my hearty" she said to 
herself, turning away. " All in my heart 
and his. We need no outward symbol" 

She kept aloof from the rest dil the 
morning. She could not bring herself to 

r: and act in her everyday manner with 
sweet secret brimming over in her 
heart, and she felt safer out of sight Most 
girls would have fled at once to their 
mothers to whisper it all out with happy 
blushes and broken, eager words; out 
Mrs. Ellis was not one of the parents who 
invite confidences. It was a strange little 
family altogether, and Myrtle seemed 
always a third in it ; not the uniting link 
between the other two as an only child 
should have been. So now she kept apart 
and waited. Her lover must speak first to 
her father, and then — ^then she could step 
proudly forward and claim him before them 


When he came and she heard him shown 
into her father's study, she fled into her 
own little room and shut the door. She 
coidd hear nothing there. She could 
only wait. Her heart was beating high, 
but not with fear. Oh no. Only with 
dadness — only with gladness, she told 
herself. What was there to fear f She sat 
at her window looking out towards in- 
visible Corsica. The dull cloud had not 
lifted from it, not even when the sun, re- 
lenting, shot out a flickering beam across 
the waters, that turned their ereyness 
blue, and lit up the long line of breakers 
with silver touches here and there among 

She could see nothing else from the 
window but the sea and the sloping, 
curving shore ; but ever and anon she 
^anced lovingly towards the further end 
of her room, piercing the wall with her 
mind's eye, and seeing in fancy the quaint 
dd city of San Bemo, that crept straightly 
up the hill at their backs, as if it had wanted 
to get among the olive-sroves without any 
loss of time, and had chosen the shortest 
and steepest way. 

" Dear old San Bemo," she murmured 
lovingly to herself. "Dear, beautiful 
Summerland. Now I shall never, never 
leave you again i " 

How long she waited in the window she 
did not know, though the changing lights 
and shadows wrote out the hours on the 
blue face of the Mediterranean as on a 
turquoise dial; but at last a summons 
came for her to go to the drawing- 
room. On her way she passed Arthur, 
who looked at her with a very humble, 
almost a pleadine look, which she an- 
swered with one of faint, fleeting surprise. 
How could she stop to think of Arthur 

Only her parents were in the drawing- 
room when sue entered, Mrs. Ellis not on 
the sofa as was her wont, but seated up- 
right, stiff and unbending, with a very 
stern look on her thin, marked faca Mr. 
Ellis, a short, thick-set man, with a large 
head and bushy grey eyebrows that seemed 
in some way to give an utterly uncom- 
promising look to his whole face, that upon 
further scrutiny his close-set lips and sharp 
grey eyes did not belie, was walking 
slowly up and down the room with his 
hands behind him. 

He stopped short as Myrtle entered and 
turned to face her. She felt instinctively 
that it was an atmosphere of war to the 
death, and paused near the door, slightly 
throwing back her head. 

" Myrtle,'' said her father, looking keenly 
up at her from under his ovemanging 
brows — the girl was if anything taller than 
he, " I sent for you merely to say that I 
have dismissed your Italian teacher. He 
will not come again." 

Myrtle looked steadily back at him, 
never flinching. 

" Why, papa ? " 

"Because," said Mr. Ellis slowly and 
distinctly, as if each word were sharpened 
on a grindstone before he spoke it ; " be- 
cause I find he has dared to take advantage 
of your innocence, your unsophisticated- 
ncss, and your, perhaps, too great freedom 
of manner, to speak of feelings that he has 
had the effrontery to allow himself to 
entertain for you." 

Myrtle drew a quick breatL 

" You mean, papa, that Sisnor Benoni 
has told you he loves me, and has asked 
me for his wife. 

" My words are plain enough and better 
chosen," said Mr. Ellis dryly. "I hope 
you understand that you will never see the 
fellow again." 

S^^^le did not move. 

" Father," she began— her lips were very 
dnr, and she stopped to moisten them — 
" father, I love him." 



88 [July 7. iSBt.] 



Mr. Ellis laughed — a short sneering laugh 
that cut through to the girl's heart 

''You loye himi the man whom you 
pay four francs an hour to teach you 
Italian grammar f Upon my word, Myrtle, 
if you have lowered yourself to such an 
extent, at least I wonder that you confess 

Myrtle reddened to her brows, but not 
with shame. 

" I am willing to confess it before all the 
world, papa I am proud of his love, and he 
is more than worthy of the best I have to 
give in return. Who am I to have the 
right to more than he can offer me 1 Am 
I rich 1 Am I noble 1 How is he beneath 
me f And papa, oh, papa," she broke down 
just a little, and stretched out her hands 
towards him imploringly, " is it nothing to 
you that I love him 1 

" Loye him ! " repeated Mr. Ellis con- 
temptuously. " Every girl fancies she loves 
the first man who courts her, whoever he 
is, and is quite as ready to break her 
heart again over the second as over the 
first Anything to get married, anything 
not to be an old maid. But look here. 
Myrtle, once for all. I'll not have you 
name this fellow to me again, and you may 
spare me any heroics on the subject I'll 
not have it I hope that is distinct 

Myrtle turned very white, and did not 

"We understand each other now, I 
believe," continued Mr. Ellis, "and wiU 
never refer to this topic again, if you please. 
Now one word more on a pleasanter sub- 
ject, and I must so to my study. Your 
cousin Arthur has done you the honour to 
ask you of me in marriage, and I have 
given him my full and free consent to 
address you." 

" Arthur!" the girl cried in blankest 
amazement " Arthur I " 

"I do not wonder you are surprised," 
said Mr. Ellis, his cold, keen eyes watching 
her closely. " It is such a marriage as you 
could hardly have dreamed of making, you 
who were willing to throw away all your 
life to the first bidder. It is a match in 
every way desirable, and enviable, and 
proper, and when I have told you that I 
not only approve of it, but wish it^ I need 
say nothing more." 

" Never, never ! " cried Myrtle wildly. 
" I will not, father, I will not 1 " 

"I have nothing more to say to you 
now, Myrtle. You know perfectly what I 
desire and expect of you. I am demanding 

no manner of sacrifice. From beginning, 
to end I am consulting but your own best 
interests. But remember, I will have no 
more scenes — no more disgraceful folly. 
That is all." 

Myrtle stood motionless an instant after 
her father left the room, then turned in 
heart-broken appeal to the silent figure in 
the easy-chair, who had never once spoken, 
or moved her grave eyes from her daughter's 

"Oh, mamma," she cried, "have you, 
too, no pity for me ? Do you, too, care 
nothing for my happiness 1 You, too, 
mamma 7 Oh, cannot you understand 1 " 

" I do understand, far better than you, 
chad," replied the mother. " What do you 
know about life, you who have just b^un 
to live 1 I have learned what life really i& 
I have measured its experiences, and its 
emotions, and its miseries. I know what 
is best worth having in it, and can choose 
for you better than you can choose for 

" Oh no, no, you cannot, mamma I You 
would choose Ajthur — that is, you choose 
riches for me, wealth and ease, a grand 
home, servants, rich gowns, and the things 
that money gives. But I care nothing for 
these, mamma. I only want happiness— I 
only want happiness 1 " 

"You only want the impossible!" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Ellis with sudden fire. "Child, 
you are crying for the moon. There is no 
happiness on earth." 

" There is 1 " answered Myrtle. " And 
I want it Do not make me miss it, 
mamma, as you have done. Let me be 
happier than you have been. Mamma, 
manmia, did you never love 1 " 

" Hush ! " said Mrs. Ellis almost fiercely, 
and then she suddenly broke into a bitter 
laugh of scorn. " What is love % Ah, you 
have got that yet to learn. You think it 
is something as lasting as life, strong as 
death, perfect as heaven. You would 
sacrifice everything for it, and what is it 1 
The most unreal, the most unthankful, 
the most frail — most evanescent of human 
passions 1 " 

" Mamma," interrupted Myrtle, " I do 
not know what love was to you, but I have 
not needed to learn first what love is — to 
understand as clearly as had you told me, 
that whatever influenced yon to marry 
papa, it was not love. You could never 
have loved him, and you have loved me, 
too, less because I am his child. ' But I am 
not like you, mamma. Love is a real thing 
and a holy thin«: to me. It is life itself. 


Ghailii SiflkMu.) 


[July 7, 1883.) 89 

And where I have once given my love, I 
have RTven it wholly, without reserve and 
beyond change. You may force me to give 
np Francesco Benoni, since I would never 
marry against vour consent. You may 
even force me to marry Arthur ; but you 
can never, never, never reach my heart to 
alter it There is truth in my love if in no 
other love in the world, and though I 
should never see Francesco again, I will 
love him tm I die." 

"Death is a long way off," said Mrs. 
Ellis with a grim smile. *' Your love will 
be very weary before it has held so far ; 
and in the meantime Arthur will make you 
a veiy excellent, a very sensible, and a 
very comfortable husband." 

Ahs, poor Myrtle I Her will, though 
80 strong and brave, was at war with two 
older and stronger wills, before which in 
the end hers could but yield, weary, 
wounded, and defeated, though still 

It 'was a long and unintermittent 
struggle, through which, to all outward 
eyes, life went on the same as ever in the 
little. parsonage, save that Signer Benoni 
came no more, and that Myrtle went 
nowhere unless accompanied by either 
father or mother, under that system of un- 
obtrusive but relentless espionage which is 
so infinitely harder to bear up against than 
the most open warfare. 

Meanwhile Arthur waited very patiently. 
Those can always brook delay who are 
confident of ultimate success, and certainly 
marriage itself could give him but little 
more of Myrtle's companionship than he 
enjoyed now. He never spoke to her of 
love. He was shy at it^ and was quite 
willing to leave his uncle to speak for him. 
Only once when Myrtle in desperation 
turned suddenly upon him, appealing to 
him to be generous, to give her up and go 
away, he looked at her silently a moment, 
flushing scarlet, and, as he looked, an 
obstinate, determined, unyielding expres- 
sion grew into his boyish face and filled 
Myrtle with despair. 

" I won't," he said doggedly, after that 
moment's silenca 

And so the struggle went on day after 
day through all life's commonplaceness, 
until at last out of sheer weariness Myrtle 
gave it up. 

" Papa," she said, ** Arthur only wants 
me, not my heart, and if you think 
it right for me to marry one man, 
loving another, then I will marry Arthur 
Templeton, solely because he is rich and 

will make your old age comfortable, and 
because, since I may not marry the man I 
love, it matters nothing to me whether it is 
Arthur or another to whom you bind my 
Ufa But understand this : While I live 
I shall love Francesco Benoni and him 
only. If there be sin in this marriage you 
are forcing upon me, the sin lies at your 
door, not mina" 

''I accept the melodramatic situation 
without a scruple," said Mr. ElUs calmly. 
" You will be thoroughly happy as Arthur's 
wife after you have outlived this present 

" I shall never outlive it 1 " cried Myrtle 
passionately. ''Father, do not make that 
mistaka I shall never outlive it ! " 

Mr. Ellis smiled the cruel smile of 
superior unbelief. 

" Love is merely the passion of an hour," 
he said quietly. " And the hotter it is at 
the beginning the colder is the end. 
I will not have you wreck your whole life 
for a moment's fancy." 

"You have taken my life into your own 
hands," answered Myrtle, controlling her- 
self to speak with a calm equal to his, but 
with a sudden lightning flash of her eyes. 
" If it must be a wreck, so be it Bat 
whether it be better to wreck it for money 
or for love, let Heaven judge." 

Mr Ellis only drew his bushy brows 
together in reply to this tragic appeal to a 
higher court In his heart was the thorough 
conviction that though Grod governed the 
universe. He delegated the ruling of 
children entirely to the able judgment of 
their fathers, and never interfered in the 
matter at alL 

And so Myrtle's engagement to Arthur 
became a settled and announced fact, and 
the wedding-day was fixed for no very 
distant date. 

Only once before her marriage did 
Myrtle see Benoni again. It was m^ the 
evening, and a party of English visitors 
had been exploring San Kemo by moon- 
light, under the chaperonage of Mr. Ellis 
and a native guide. 

They were on foot, the steep, closely- 
crowded old city being altogether im- 
Eassable to carriages, and it seemed to 
[yrtle that they had been wandering 
about for hours through the nairow, 
crooked, twisting streets which ran hither 
and thither just where they would without 
any plan or reason, here running up a 
few zigzag stairs as if with burglarious 
intent to get in a second-storey window, 
there diving unexpectedly down under an 




90 [July 7, 1888.] 



archway, and here again making a bolt at 
a house and actually going clean through 
it withoat any ceremony whatever, and 
continuing its wild flight on the other side 
as if nothing had happened. Qoaint and 
strange as it all was by daylight, by moon- 
light it was weirdly beautifm. The tall, 
ugly, fantastic old houses hustled so thickly 
together, and here and there bound to oppo- 
site neighbours with springing archways as 
if they had suddenly clasped hands across 
the narrow streets, stood out now all 
transfigured in the radiance of the un- 
earthly silver glow, its brilliance made the 
more intense by the deep black of the 
contrasting shadows. The little party 
slowly wound its way homeward at last, 
with many a gay laugh and jest among 
themselves, that occasionally brought a 
dark-locked head to the window to gaze 
wonderingly after them, or momentarily 
checked the song of a troop of picturesquely- 
clad boys shouting out an operatic air as 
they rushed down the empty limes. 

Myrtle had been over every step of the 
way time and timb before, and engrossed 
in her own thoughts, she was lagging 
wearily behind the rest, when as she was 
crossing a little patch of bright light, that 
lay upon the pavement like a fallen jewel, 
she found herself face to face with Benom. 
They both stopped involuntarily. Myrtle 
gave a faint cry, and instantly her father 
was by her side and drew her liand through 
his arm. 

<< Come on immediately. Myrtle. Why 
are you standing here 1 " he said sharply. 

With a rapid movement the Italian 
threw himself in their way. 

''Nay," he exclaimed, ''I will speak 
with her this once. You shall not prevent 
me from only speaking with her this 
one time more. Signorina'' — ^his voice 
dropped into low, rapid Italian — " tell me 
— only tell me — was it so 1 Did you think 
it presumptuous, my darling, to love you, 
and to claim you) Was it false, that 
hope you gave me % " 

Myrtle twisted her hand out of her 
father's arm, and stood looking in her 
lover's face with eyes full of hopeless 

" It was not false, signore," she replied 
in English, very low but very distinctly. 
« Do you not know that I am true to my 
heart's core f" 

"But this marriage that they tell of, 
signorina — Myrtle 1 " 

"It is so," answered Myrtle, still iit 
EnglisL " They force me to it. I shall 

never see you again, but I shall never 
forget — never change. Good-bye." 

" Heaven help us both ! " said Benoni in 
a suffocated voica " I will be bithfhl till 
I die." 

And then Myrtle was hurried away by 
her angry father, and a sudden dond 
caught the moon in its dusky meshes, and 
darkness fell upon all San Remo. 



Scarcely had Cecil disappeared, when 
Linda popped her head from behind a 
near-at-hand clump of evergreens. 

" He did not Imow that I was so near 
him," she said as she came forward. 
"That look on his face— how well I 
remember it. It never comes but when 
he is in troubl& What troubles him now 1 
Can it be the thought of leaving met 
No, no ! I dare not think so, tot is he 
not about to leave me for ever t Oh, my 
darling, come back to me — come back 1 " 

Her heart gave a great sob. She dashed 
the tears from her. eyes with a passionate 

'' This is the portmanteau, marked wiA 
his initiids, that he took with him on his 
wedding-tour. Oh, happy days ! " From 
the folds of her dress she brought out a 
small morocco-covered case. "Here is 
something for him to remember his lost 
Unda by." She laid the case on the top 
of the portmanteau. "My last gift. 
Sarely he will not refuse it His foot- 
step! He must not see me hera 
Yet how can I bear to let him go withoat 
a word 1 " 

A sudden thought struck her. She 
sprang back through the open French 
window, and wrapped one of tiie long lace 
curtains loosely round her. From this 
coign of vantage she could see withoat 
being seen. Cecil came swinging slowly 
round the comer. He glanced round with 
an air of disappointment. 

" I half hoped she would be somewhere 
about to say one last word. Bat she is 
wiser than I, and there will be one regret 
the fewer in time to come. What is 
thisf Who has been here?" he asked 
as the case, lying on the portmanteau, 
caught his eye. He took it up and opened 
it. Inside it was a meerschaum-pipe and 
a card. On the latter was some writing 
which he read aloud. " ' A' farewell gift 
from Linda, with her undying love.' She 


CharXet Dicknia.] 


[July 7, 1883.] 91 

has been here and left me this — she, who 
always held smokine in such utter abhor- 
rence ! And with her undying love ! I 
must see her now, if it be only to say the 
one word — ^fiffewelL" 

He replaced the pipe in the case, pressed 
the latter to his lips, and put it away. 

"Where can she bel Where shall I 
find herf He put his head into the 
room and glanced round; ''Not here. 
And yet she cannot be far away. Ah ! " 
A Mat sound h%d caught his ear. He 
tore the curtain aside. There stood Linda, 
" You — and here ! " he said, not without 
a touch of coldness in his tone. 

Her bosom heaved, her eyes were suf- 
fused, a delicate colour tinged her cheeks : 
to Cecil she had never looked more lovely 
than at that moment. She stepped from 
behind the curtain. 

^ " I thought you might refuse my little 
gift, and, in fact, I wanted to see " 

" What I should do with it 1 " 

"Yes — what you would do with it," 

'*! will take the pipe, Linda, and smoke 
it when I am far away." 

" So long as you keep it, I shall not be 
quite forgotten." 

''A strange present for you to make." 

"You won't be near me when you 
smoke it" 

"I had forgotten that The hidden 
irony of your gift had escaped ma" 

IJnda bit her lip and turned away. 
Cecil had yet to learn that it comes 
natural to women to sometimes sting even 
those they love best 

A discreet cough, and Binks appeared 
on the scene. 

"Dog-cart ready, sir." 

"Eh— yeih-aU right, Binks." Then 
taming to Linda he held out his hand. 
"The moment for saying good-bye has 
come." His voice trembled a little. 
Linda took his hand, but did not speak. 

At this instant, through the open 
windows of one of the rooms, the pleasant 
strains of music came floating on the 
Bommer breeze. Someone was playing a 
waltz-tune on the piano. Linda and Cecil 
both started — involuntarily their eyes 

"Thatairl Why— is it— can it be 1 " 

" Oh, Cecil ; don't you remember 1 " 

"It is the tune we danced to that 
night " 

" When you first told me that you loved 


" And I did love you then, by Jove ! " 
"'One more turn,' you said when I 

wanted to sit down ; and just as the music 
was dying away you whispered, 'Be my 
wife.'" Sivoluntarily she crept a little 
closer to his sida " I was too bewildered 
to answer you. Then, somehow, we found 
ourselves in the conservatory — ^we two, 
and no one elsa You have not for- 
gotten 1 " 

"Why should a man be supposed to 
forget such moments any more than a 
woman 9 " 

" Dear Cecil ! " The words came like a 
whispered sigh. She was very close to him 
by this time. And still the sweet strains of 
the music rose and fell lightly on the summer 
air. " Then you wrapped a shawl roundme," 
went on Innda in a low, dreamy voice, 
looking straight before her with eyes that 
saw once more the pictures of the past 
which the music had called up; "and 
then we stole out like two guilty things 
into the Lime-tree Walk, and then — and 
then " 

" I told you all the nonsense there was 
in my heart" 

"And made me the happiest girl in 
England. But you did not thmk it 
nonsense then, Cecil" 

" No, by Jove 1 I was awfully in 

He never could afterwards tell how it 
came to pass that at this juncture he found 
himself with his arm round her waist 
The music must have been to blame in the 
matter. Now high, now low, its cadences 
rose and fell, an idyl of love translated 
into harmonious sounda 

'* Suppose I had said ' No ' to you instead 
of ' Yes 1 ' " suggested Linda. 

Her heart was beating against his arm 
like some frightened creature that had 
been caught against its will. 

" That would have made me more des- 
perate still," answered Cecil 

"I'm glad I did not quite drive you to des- 
peration." They went forward a few steps, 
his arm still round her waist. "How 
horrified my aunt was when I told her," 
continued Linda. 

" She wanted you reserved for her friend, 
the rector." 

" Poor Mr. Glossop 1 How freckled he 
was, and what very large hands he had !" 

" And then those terrible goloshes that 
he used to wear ! " 

They both laughed a little at the re- 
collection of " poor Mr. Glossop." 

They were still strolling along like a 
new Itomeo and Juliet, when Binks, the 
discreet, once more put in an appearance. 




92 [JToly 7, IfiM.] 




Whatever the message he was about to 
deliver the words died on his lips, as his 
eyes fell on the retreating couple. 

"Well, I'm Mowed!" he whispered 
softly to himself, after a moment or two. 
" It seems to me that Mr. Dane's train will 
have to go without Mr. Dane." 

A moment later the music ceased, and 
Lilian, all aglow with excitement, rushed 
out on to the verandah. Clapping her 
hands gleefully, she cried aloud : 

" They have actually gone off together 
for all the world like a pair of sweet- 

"Eh, what's that you sayf" queried 
Mr. Jellicop, who at that moment put in 
an appearance. 

Luian took him by the arm and pointed 
along the terrace. 

" Do look, uncle," she said ; " there go 
Cecil and Linda, his arm round her waist, 
and neither of them seeming to care a 
bit And now — yes — he's actually kissing 
her 1 " 

" What magic has done this Y" 

" I know no more than you." 

" Well, it's never too late to mend, and 
I hope with all my heart the old adage may 

5 rove true in their case. Who niowsl 
'here may be happiness in store for them 
yet." He tucked Lilian's hand under one 
of his arms, and patted it fondly. "It 
will be your turn some day, Lily." 

*' My turn, uncle ! " She spoke as de- 
murely as you please, but for all that her 
cheeks flushed suddenly. 

" For a husband, I mean* When that 
time does come, little one, bear in mind 
this — that all married people, however fond 
they may be of each other, can't expect to 
get through life without having their little 
tiffs now and then. We have all got 
tempers of our own, and we can't help 
showing 'em off at times. When my 
Moggy and I were first married, many's 
the little rumpus we used to have, and I 
dare say I often wished myself a bachelor 
again, while it's just as likely that she 
sometimes said to herself, ' I wish Frank 
and I had never met' But, by-and-by, 
we got to know each other better; then 
one would give way a bit, and the other 
would give way a bit, till now there's 
hardly a sharp word passes between us 
from January to December, and I'm sure 
we love each other better every year we 
live together." 

"Who could help loving dear Aunt 
Jellicop t" 

" Ha, ha ! I drew a pri^e, that's certain." 

He stooped and kissed her, then he con- 
sulted huB watch, and then he said a little 
anxiously: "I wonder whether Manna- 
duke sent that tdegram 1 I had better go 
and hunt him up." With which words ne 
went quickly back indoora 

" How it thrills me to hear that name 
spoken by another ! " said Lilian to her- 
seU " When I was engaged to Cuthbert I 
never had the same feeling that I have 
now. I don't know what it is, only 
that it is something very strange and 

She was pacing the verandah slowly 
backwards and forwards, her hands inter- 
twined in iront of her ; her eyes suffused 
with tender light ; a smile, evanescent as 
April sunshine, playing round the coral 
curves of her lip& 

"He has another name — ^Alan," she 
murmured under her breath. "I never 
thought Alan a nice name till now. Will 
he finish telling me to-day what he left un- 
told yesterday? What if he has changed his 
mindl Men do sometimes change their 
minds, I suppose." 

This thought was almost more than she 
could bear. The April sunshine vanished 
from her lips, and April tears came into 
her eyes. " I — ^I think I had better go 
and look at the Times, and see whether 
anybody is in want of a governess." 

She was going back dejectedly, her eyes 
bent on the ground, when just as she 
reached the outside of the French window 
the object of her thoughts appeared on the 
inner side. 

" Lilian ! " he exclaimed, and there was 
no mistaking the eagerness of his tona 

"Alan!" she cried, startled into a 
momentary f orgetfulness of what she ought 
to have said. 

He sprang forward, and seized both her 
hands in his. " My own ! " 

" What have I said ! " she cried in a 
lovely confusion. "Do please let me go, 
Captain Marmaduke; " and she tried to take 
back her captive hands. 

"Not tiU you have said that name 
again." His long brown fingers stiU held 
her fast 

" It was a mistake. I did not know what 
I was saying. Indeed I must go. I — I am 
wanted indoors." 

" You must not go till I have told you 
all I want to say. Lilian, I love you! 
Will you be mine ? " 

It would appear that Captain Marma- 
duke had the faculty of stating a case 
clearly, and in the fewest possible words. 



CSiailM DtdkflDi.] 


[Jaly 7, 1888.] 93 

No beating about the bush with him 

Lilian was all in a tremble. Her face was 
white enough now. 

" Yours I " xshe contrived to stammer 
oat after a moment or two of silence. 
« Your " 

"My wife." 

Again silence. Then in a whisper so 
faint that he could scarcely hear the 

" Can you be in earnest Y " 

"Never more so in my life." 

"It seems like a dream." 

" Say yes^ and make it a reality." 

She did not speak ; her eyes were bent 
on the ground; her heart was beating 
painfully; her hands were still in bondage. 

"Lily, look into my eyes and answer 
m& Will yoa have me for your husband 1" 

Timidly, yet gladly, came the low- 
breathed answer : " Yes — ^yes." But there 
was a little sob in her voice for all that 

"My own darling 1" The flame of 
love alight in his dark eyes leapt yet 
higher. He drew her fondly to him. 
"No three years' marriage system for 
us,'' continued Marmaduke. " Our union 
most be for life or not at alL" Tenderly 
between his hands he took the sweet 
young face that was turned up so lovingly 
to his own. He kissed the softly trusuul 
eyes, he kissed the glowing cheeks, he 
kissed her lips. Evidently he was a greedy 
man, this Alan Marmaduke. It is saa 
to be compelled to write that he was not 

'* The old she-dragon, as I live ! " ex- 
claimed Marmaduke suddenly, as Mrs. 
Wapshot came round the comer. And 
incontinently he fled. All men are cowards, 
it is said, and apparently he was no excep- 
tion to the rule. 

" I hope I am not interrupting," said Mrs. 
Wapehot grimly. 

" Not at all," answered Lilian hurriedly ; 
bat in truth she was too confused to know 
what she said. 

"Beware, my dear, beware 1 All men 
are libertines at heart, and this straneer 
from over the seas — what do we reidly 
know about him) For your own sake 
you must be got out of harm's way." 

Here Mrs. Wapshot coughed and began 
to fumble in a voluminous pocket. 

"I have not been unmindful of your 
interests. I have here a note from Lady 
Criendower. Her invalid daughter is in 
want of a companion. Just the sort of 
situation you are fitted for. I have already 

replied to her ladyship, and accepted it in 
your name." 

By this time Lilian had recovered from 
her confusion. Her spirit was up in arms. 

"A thousand thanks, my dear Mrs. 
Wapshot^" she replied in her most dulcet 
tones. "I hope her ladyship won't be 
disappointed when she hears that I have 
already accepted another situatiout" 

" Another situation, child ! " 

"Yes, that of Captain Marmaduke's 
promised wife." 

« What I You don't mean to teU me you 
are going to marry that man ? " 

"indeed, but I hope I am going to marry 
that man." 

For a moment or two Mrs. Wapshot was 
speechlesa Then she said, shaking her 
lean forefinger in the girl's face : 

"Lilian Eamsay, you will repent this 
rash and ill-advised step to your dying day. 
You may depend upon it, that man left 
four or five black wives behind him among 
the savagea" 

"Poor things! How I pity them I" 
answered Lilian sweetly. "They will 
never — never see him again." And making 
Mrs. Wapshot one of her most demure 
curtsies, she turned, without another word, 
and fled indoors. 

" Well, of all the artful young minxes ! " 
muttered the discomfited matron to herself 
when she found herself thus unceremoniously 
left alone. "The world is coming to a 
pretty pass when I'm to be talked to in 
that style. I must go and tell Vere and 
Cuthbert the news." 


The verandah and the terrace in front 
of it had not been left to solitude more 
than a few minutes when Linda and Cecil 
came strolling back cosily arm-in-arm. 

*' You shall smoke as much as you like 
and as often as you like," Linda was 

'* Just as I was thinking of cutting down 
my smoke one-half ! " 

" You must not do anything of the kind, 
dear, because — because " — this, in a con- 
fidential whisper — "I am learning to smoke 

CecO turned and faced his wife in sheec 
astonishment " The deuce you are 1 " he 
said slowly. 

"Only the most tiny, delicious, per- 
fumed cigarettes imaginable. From Spain, 
you know. All Spanish ladyies smoke, don't 

"But you are an English lady." 




94- [/Illy 7, 1883.] 


[Oondiieted 1)7 



*' There, now, I believe you are angry. 
When I thought I was doing my best to 
please you ! " 

" Lmtation the sincerest form of flattery 
— ehf Do yon happen to have any of 
those tiny, delicious, perfumed trifles about 

" Here are all I have/' answered Linda, 
putting into his hand an embroidered 

" Allow me to take charge of them," he 
said as he dropped the case into his pocket 
''And I think, if I were you, I wouldn't 
smoke any more of them till I found 
myself in Spain." 

« Very well, Cecil But you will kiss me 
to show you are not angry." 

His answer was, not one kiss but two. 

"I have something here that I am posi- 
tive will please you," resumed Linda, when 
that little ceremony iiad been satisfactorily 
gone through. 

" Eh f " asked Cecil a little dubiously. 

''A silver latch-key, dear. I had it 
made six months ago, but we had one or 
two little tiffs about that time, and I didn't 
give it you. But now that my own one is 
coming back to me, here it is." 

Cecil took the key, turned it over in his 
hand, and looked at it doubtfully. 

''No, Linda, you sha'n't put such a 
teni^tation into my pocket," he said. 
" Take it back and keep it tQl I ask you 
for it" 

" Yes, Cecil, of course, if you wish it ; 
but it seems as if I had no confidence in 
you, when I have." 

" More, perhaps, than I have in myselE 
But these concessions must not be all on 
your side. I'll — ^yes, I'll go with you to a 
classical concert, now and then, and try 
my hardest to like it." 

" You dear, darling old boy i " 

" And if, sometimes, when they are deep 
in a symphony, or far gone in a sonata, you 
see my eyes gradually close, and my head 
begin to nod, a pinch in the soft part of the 
arm will never iaSl to bring me round." 

" As if I could bear to hurt my pet ! " 

" And — ^yes, by Jove ! you shall buy as 
much old crockery as you lika" 

" Old crockery, dear ! " 

" Ceramic stuff, you know— hideous cups 
and saucers, cracked plates, idiotic teapots, 
monsters from Japan. You shall fill the 
house with them 1 ' 

" How kind of you— how noble ! " 

While talking, they had strolled a little 
way down the lawn. They now sat down 
side by side on a rustic seat. 

"For all the world like our courting 
days over again," murmured Linda in a 
tone of perfect contentment 

" There they are," whispered Cuthbert 
to his father, as the two emerged from one 
of the winding walks. " I've been watch- 
ing them for we last half -hour. I saw him 
put his arm round her waist and kiss her, 
and look how they are sitting now. They 
— ^they can't have made it up again — ehl" 

The two men stared blanUy at each 
other for a few moments. 

" We will soon find out," said the elder 
one. " You remain here." 

With that, he advanced across the grass 
and touched Dane lightly on the shoulder. 

" Ha, ha, not gone yet t " he said plea- 
santly. " I thought you were miles away 
by this time. Your friend Elliott will 
wonder what has become of you." 

" I've changed my mind ; I'm not going," 
answered Cecil "By Jove! though, I 
had forgotten about Elliott I must send 
him a telegram." 

" Not going!" exclaimed Naylor, aghast 

Mr..Dane &o6k his head. 

"And there is something else that you 
will be still morei pleased to hear," 
remarked Linda with a saucy triumph in 
her eyes. 

"What may that be, madam I— what 
may that be I " 

"That I have just had an offer of 

" An offer ! You ! " 

"Why not I as well as anyone elset 
And what is more, I've not said 'no.' 
Don't blush, dear," she added, turning to 

Not that there was the remotest proba- 
bility of that cool individual doing anything 
of the kind. 

Mr. Naylor stared from one to the 

" You.don't mean to say that you are 
going to re-marry each other t " he gasped 

" That is precisely what we are going to 
do," responded Dane, gazing at him blandly 
through his ey^lass. 

Tears had not been so close to Mr. 
Naylor's eyes since the days when he was 
birched at school as they were at the 
present moment 

" My dear madam, my dear Dane," he 
exclaimed with a sort of comic pathos, 
" let me beg of you to pause, to— to hesi- 
tate, to reconsider your decision, before 
niiaking up your minds to do anything so 
utterly rash and ill-advised. If you must 


Gfauta MckwiB.] 


[Jalj 7, 1883.] 95 

marry agam, marry somebody else. There 
are plenty of other people in the world. 
It wul be wrons, it will be revolutionary, 
it will be * bad form.' Think what the 
verdict of society will be. Above all, why 
deliberately make yourselves unhappy 
again r' 

Linda shook her pretty head, utterly 

"We haye decided that it is better to 
be unhappy together than miserable apart.'' 

Mr. fTaylor could oi;ly throw up his 
bands, give utterance to a groan, and go 
back disconsolately to his son. 

*'A brace of arrant fools," was his 
remuk to the latter. "Nothing to be 
done in that quarter. Your only chance 
18 with the other one." 

*< I am not sorry. If I have a preference 
in the matter it is for Mrs. Elliott- 

" And her fortune is not much less than 
that of Mrs. Dane. Suppose we go and 
consult your mother. She has a fine fund 
of common-fiense when one can get her 
away from that entomological hobby of 

^ '* And can't we re-marry till the end of 
six months 1 " asked Linda with a little 
quaver in her voice. 

" The law says we cannot." 

''Then the law's a great stupid." 

"Other people have had reason to make 
the same remark." 

''Why can't all the months be as short 
as February f " sighed Linda. 

lir. JeUicop and Marmaduke came 
strolling across the grass together. 

" There's no one, Marknaduke, to whom I 
would give my Lily sooner than to you," 
said the former. 

" The future will prove that your con- 
fidence has not been misplaced." 

Linda and Cecil had risen, and Uie four 
now met face to face. 

" So,^ so," said Jallicop, " these are the 
yoong idiots, are they, who have had sense 
enough, at the last moment, to see the 
folly of their ways 1 " 

" Tes, uncle, we have come to our senses 
at last" 

"And is it really true that you have 
fallen in love with each other over a^lEon ) " 

" Quite true— isn't it, Cis % " 

"Dreadful case of spoons, really," re- 
sponded Cecil the serene. 

" Are you not glad, uncle I " 

"Very glad indeed, my dear." And 
with that he gave her one of his hearty 
old-fashioned Ssses. "I only hope the 

lesson won't be thrown away on either of 
you. If only Elliott and Agnes would 
follow suit^ I should be one of the happiest 
fellows in Christendom." 

It almost seemed as if Agnes might have 
overheard his words, for next moment she 
emerged from the house, and came down 
the verandah steps arm-in-arm with Lilian, 
Mrs. Wapshot following closely behind. 

" Why, little white-face, I thought you 
were told that you had no business out of 
your room)" said her uncle with an 
unwonted tenderness in his voice. 

" She is so headstrong, that there is no 
doing anything with her," interpolated Mrs. 
Wapshot in her most acidulated tones. 

" When I heard of Lilian's happiness, it 
brought back my loss so keenly, that I felt 
I must see her and talk to her," said 
Agnes, as she gazed with wistful sorrow- 
charged eyes into her uncle's face. " And 
Linda and Cecil too. Oh, uncle, why did 
you let Stephen go before I could ask him 
to forgive me, before I could tell him " 

Suddenly she stopped. She had heard 
a sound unheard by any of the others. 
Her face changed on the instant It was 
as though another woman had stepped 
suddenly into her place. Her eyes went 
out to meet the coming footsteps, and the 
eyes of all there, magnetised by hers, 
followed the same direction. 

A moment later, and Stephen Elliott, 
his travelling cape thrown over his arm, 
appeared round the left wing of the house. 
He had driven from the station, and had 
been told that he would find Mr. Jellicop 
on the lawn. 

At sight of him Agnes took a step or 
two forward with outstretched arms. 

" Stephen I Husband 1 " she cried. 

Only those two words ; but there was a 
world of pathetic meaning in the way they 
were uttered. 

Mrs. Wapshot laid a hand lightly on her 

" You forget yourself, child ; you have 
no husband.' 

"And Elliott no wife," added Mr. 
Naylor, who had appeared as if by magic 
on the scene. 

Elliott came forward, and turning to 
Jellicop, not without a certain sternness, 

"What trickery is this, sirt I was 
telegraphed for; told that she," pointing 
to Agnes, /' was ill — ^perhaps dying. I am 
at a loss to know why I have been fetched 

"There is no trickery in the affair at 




(July 7, Un.) 

all," answered the squire with a red spot 
burning in each cheek '* That's a kina of 
commodity I'm not in the habit of dealing 
in. It was I who sent for you. If your 
wife is not dying, she is breaking her 
heart, and that comes to pretty much the 
same thing." 

*^ Breaking her heart I " said Stephen 

Agnes drew a step or two nearer to 

" Stephen 1 " 

Truly it sounded like the cry of one 
whose heart was breaking. 

But he only drew back a little and said 
coldly : 

"I am here." 

Agnes shivered slightly, as if suddenly 
smitten by an icy wind. Controlling 
herself by a supreme effort, she said : 

" Will you not listen to what I have to 
say 1 I will not detain you long." 

Stephen bowed a grave assent, but did 
not speak. 

<< When, this morning, my senses came 
back to me," said Agnes, "and I found 
that you had gone, and when I thought 
that I might never see you again, the 
scales seemed to fall from my eyes. I saw 
things as I had never seen them before. I 
saw what aweak, wicked, and selfish creature 
I had been — I say this openly before all 
now present I saw how I had ruined my 
home, wrecked my happiness, and changed 
my husband's love to gall. Aiid all because 
I was tormented by a foolish jealousy 
which I knew in my heart to have no 
foundation in fact Then I felt that it 
would kill me if you left me for ever with- 
out saying that you forgave me. Leave 
me, if it must be so, but do not go 
till you have said: 'Agnes, you are 
forgiven 1 ' " 

All Stephen Elliott's sternness, which 
was far more assumed than real, had 
vanished long before Agnes ended her 
appeal Various conflict^:!^ emotions — 
surprise, pity, love, joy — vibrated in his 
heart and dione out of his eyes as he 

"If I dared but believe " he said, 

and then he hesitated and was silent 

Again the appealing arms went out 
towuxls hiuL 

" You may believe 1 " 

Her voice thrilled the hearts of her 
hearers strangely. Linda clung in tears 
to her husband's ann. Lilian was crying 
silently. Jellicop's hand had found the 
hand of Marmaduke and grasped it tightly. 
Even Yere Naylor fumbled for his hand- 

" Is there no such thing as repentance! 
Oh, Stephen, believe me that I do repent 
with all my heart 1 " 

The words were scarcely out of her 
mouth before Stephen's arms were romid 
her and his lips pressed fondly to hers. 

" Let all the unhappy past be forgotten 
and as though it had never been," he 

"And am I to be yours again, never to 
part from you 9 " she asked, a great wonder 
and gladness shining out of her face. 

Solenmly yet tenderly he gazed upon 

"Mine, never to part from me again." 

" The lesson they have learned to-day 
will not readily be forgotten," said Jellicop 
to Marmaduka 

" If this sort of thing becomes common, 
my Marriage Act will turn out to be a 
dead letter," remarked Naylor grimly. 

"They can't re-marry for six months— 
that's one comfort," said Cuthbert 

Mrs. Wapshot nodded her head as one 
who know& 

" Let them bide a wee," she said. " They 
will be tired of each other again long 
before then." 

Jellicop slapped the Member for Fud- 
gington on the shoulder. 

" Naylor," said he, in his bluff hearty 
voice, " we'll have up a magnum of 'fifty* 
eight port to drink health and happing to 
the young folk and confusion to your New 
Mairiage Act ! " 




Seveaty-two FagM. Ptloo SIxp«b*^ 

The Eighi of TranskOing A Hklea firom All thb Ybab Round w reterved hy <A0 Auth4fr$* 

PublUhed at the Office, 20 WeUington Street, Stnind. Printed by Charles Diomhs A StA2IS, 24, QreaX ^•^ ^^^^ 





For a moment or two Elsie looked crest- 
fallen ; habit is potent with us all, and for a 
hw years she had been in the habit of 
spealong in lowered tones whenerer she 
• ^ knew that '* the nussos" was within ear-shot 
Now she could not help feeling a little 
shocked that her jeremiad against the bold 
invader, Minnie Thurtle, should hare been 
overheard by her former mistresa But after 
a moment or two this feelii^ of shook 
passed off, and she felt grim^ exultant 
that her burst of eloquence in aid of the 
proprieties had fallen upon ears that surely 
would be sympathetic 

But ii Msie deemed that her former play 
and school fellow, Minnie Thurtle, would 

' now wittiout fiEul meet with well-deserved 
punishment and downfall, she was bitterly 
mistakea Minnie might have failed to 
extricate herself from the difficult situation 

, had Joiifer's eyes been upon her. But under 
old Mrs. B;ay's affrighted and perplexed 
gaze she speedily recovered from the severe 
but momentary shock. 

'* I've just come up with a message from 
father to Mr. Jack, mum," she said glibly, 
dropping an almost imperceptible curtsy 
as she spoke ; " father's xnad almost, he's so 
vexed about it, and he thought Mr. Jack 
ought to know of it at onca" 

"What is it^ MinnieT' old Mrs. Bay 
asked, accepting Minnie's insinuating ex- 
planation of her presence in the farmhouse 
kitchen with a readiness that made Elsie 
morally grind her teeth. 

*'It^s those ipoaching chaps, the Mitchells, 
mum I father is always coming across them 
and Aeir lurdiers m the woods, and he 

says they're a bad lot, and the sooner 
they're out of the parish the better.^" 

'* You weren't so ready to tell on them 
when you and Bill Mitchell kept company," 
Elsie said savagely, for she saw that justice 
was being averted from the offender, on 
whom she did virtuously desire to see 
condign punishment fall 

"Hush! Elsie," old Mrs. Bay said 
gently ; '' how often have I asked you not 
to inddge in a quarrelsome spirit ? Well, 
Miniue, I will tell Mr. Jack what your 
father says, though I am very sorry to 
hear it I always thought the Mitchells 
such a nice, WBll-conducted family." 

*' They're bad root and branch, mum, 
father wys" Minnie answered with suave 
spleea JFor Elsie was generally understood 
to have tender yearnings towards that very 
Bill Mitdiell whom Miniue had thrown 
over. Then feding that she no longer had 
any fair excuse for staying, Minnie picked 
up a little basket which always accom- 
panied her, and took a self-possessed, 
respectful leave of Mr. Jack's mother. 

But for all her outward self-possession, 
Minnie's soul quailed as she went away 
leaving her former friend, and now bitterest 
foe, in possession. She knew if the flood- 


gates of Elsie's speech were once opened, 
and her praiseworthy awe of old Mrs. Bay 
once overcome, that ''black" would not be a 
colour dark enough in which to delineate 
her (Miniue's) delinquencies. Neverthe- 
less, though this knowledge pressed sore 
upon her, she managed to walk away with 
a firm step and a h^ erect, for she had a 
yery sustaining secret 

''It don't matter much," Minnie said, 
tossing her head contemptuously to the 
surrounding scenery, as she made her way 
out from the farmhouse, ignominiously, by 
the back-door ; " Jack says hell have them 
behave as if they thought me as good as 



98 [Jnlj 14, 188S.] 



themselves, and if that proad minx Jenifer 
gives herself any airs, her brother won't 
speak to her, that's all. Mrs. Hubert's the 
only one I care tuppence for, and she's a 
real lady, and her and I'll be great friends." 

So Miss Minnie Thurtle carried her 
basket of eggs jauntily enough. 

Meantime old Mrs. Ray nearly caused 
Elsie to die of stifled fury by refraining 
from asking a single question or offering a 
single remark relative to Minnie Thurtle's 
visit to the home -farm. To Elsie's 
righteous indignation old Mrs. Ray merely 
cheerfully announced her intention of 
looking over the house without asking 
Elsie to accompany her. 

"I thought missus would ha' plucked 
up spirit to say suthing when she saw that 
thing here," the aggrieved serving-maid 
said to herself as she plunged into her 
bread again, and kneaded it with a vigour 
that almost awoke consciousness in the 
dough. But as "missus" declined the 
combat, Elsie had no appeal, and Minnie's 
shortcomings were not dragged into the 
fierce light which shines upon everyone 
who is suspected by an anxious mother. 

Old Mrs. Ray took her way hopefully 
into the dining-room first. She expected 
to find it insufficiently furnished with old- 
fashioned, genuine, good odd tables and 
chairs which had been sent down from 
Moor Royal. To her surprise — to her 
anything but pleased surprises-she found 
the room gleaming with new,.8hiny, Totten- 
ham Court Road polished oak of a mis- 
guided early English order. Antimacassars 
of white cotton, crocheted into various 
inartistic but elaborate designs, decorated 
the backs of the sofa and armchairs. The 
mantelpiece was adorned with a brace of 
big Birmingham Bohemian glass vases, an 
intensely yellow gilt clock, and — ^the pho- 
tograph of Minnie Thurtle framed in old- 
gold plush. 

'. In a minute all the fell possibilities of 
the case flashed upon the mother. The 
dining-room was decorated by the taste of 
the keeper's^^dflfnghter, and the youngest 
son of Ray of Moor Royal was going to 
disgraoe^his] faniSly by marrying beneath 
him! ** 

Old Mrs. Ray was a very loving mother, 
but she was also a proud woman. It had 
never occurred to her as being within the 
bounds of possibility that either one of 
her ohildren could possibly do anytiiing at 
which the most rigorous stickler for social 
status oould look askance. And now, all 
in a moment, the fell truth was flashed in 

upon her mind that Jack was going to 
link himself with the lower classes, and 
that his children would be as closely 
related by the ties of blood to the game- 
keeper Thurtle as they would be to herself. 

Sadden as the revelation was, it was 
very complete. She remembered Jenifer's 
strong but. hitherto inexplicable aversion 
to Minnie, and acknowledged that Jenifer 
had good cause for disliking the dri and 
wishing to separate Jack from 2^1 Thurtle 

In her misery, Old Mrs. Ray thought, 
as her daughter had thought before her, 
that if anyone could pluck Jack back from 
the edge of. this precipice, it would be that 
good, true, wise friend, on whom her 
husband had always so greatly relied— 
Mr. Boldero. 

She would get herself driven over to see 
him this very day, she resolved ; and then 
she made a sorrowful progress over the 
rest of the house, and found it to be fully 
furnished in the flashiest styl& 

She could not trust herself to see Elsie 
and say any word to her after thia It 
was aU too painfully, horribly evident. 
The house had been vulgarly prepared for 
a vulgar woman, and this woman was going 
to be her son's wife, and might be the 
mother of her son's children. 

It nearly broke her heart 

The way back to Moor Royal, though 
the distance was in reality short, seemed 
endless to old Mrs. Ray this day. Her feet 
seemed weighted by the sorrow at her 
heart. This miserable marrii^e would be 
the cause of estrangement between the boy 
who was dear as only a son can be to his 
mother, and all his kith and kin. And 
the evil might not even end here. The 
misalliance might, probably would — ^nay, 
certainly would injure Jenifer's prospects. 

The mother's heart beat qaicker than 
ever with indignation against Minnie and 
her wiles, Ieis this view of the case presented 
itself before her. 

She had reached the plantation that 
skirted the Moor Royal gardens as her 
reflections reached this point, and taking 
a. narrow path that ran through it, and 
was a short cut to the house, she came fall 
upon Thurtle, the keeper. 

For an instant she thongbt of taming 
sharply aside, and of letting him pass 
unnoticed. Bat her spirit rose and her 
determination changed when she marked the 
jaunty air of assurance which the hitherto 
subservient keeper put on at sight of her. 

"Thurtle," she said, speaking in her 




diailM DtekMM.] 


(July 14, 1888.] 99 

ordinary gentle, gracioas, gentlewoman's 
accents, bat with the light of recently 
aroused wrathful pride in her eyes — 
"Thurtle, I have just discovered some- 
thing which has distressed and angered 
me more than any other circumstance of 
my life." 

"Sorry to hear it, ma'am ; but I know 
of nothing that need give you uneasiness. 
I always gave great satisfaction to the late 
master, and if there's any fault to be found 
with ^e dooty done in my department^ 
Mr. Hubert — ^leastways, Mr. Ray — is my 
master now." 

"I never interfered with my husband's 
seryants, and I should never dream of 
doing so with my son's," .she said, still 
speaking very quietly, but with just a 
touch of hauteur creeping into her tones, 
as she felt the man was going to trade 
over the power wielded by his daughter. 
"What has distressed and angered me is 
a concern of yours as well as of mine. I 
have been down to the home-farm to Mr. 
Jack's honse, and I found your daughter 
there wrangling with the servant and 
striving to exercise authority. I found her 
likeness framed in a prominent place. 
Sorely you, as her father, must know that 
either this will tend to her disgrace or 


"Minnie isn't one ever to disgrace her- 
self, Mrs. Eay — don't you go and imply 
that, if you please," he replied with a 
tinge more insolence in his manner. 
" Whatever is between them — and I'm not 
going to deny that there is something — is 
all fair and above-board. Mr. Jack is 
courting my Minnie to make her his wife, 
and he might have looked far and near 
for a handsomer one and not have found 

"And you, her father, justify this 
coarse t It seems incredible that you 
should support her in a course that will 
bring misery upon both of them. Do you 
realise that this marriage, if it does un- 
fortunately ever take place, will separate 
my son from his family and from friends 
of his own class 1 What can she give him 
that will compensate for this sociaJ degra- 
dation 1 " 

" She've given him her love. I fancy he 
thinks that enough." 

She was nearly breaking forth into a 
tempest of tears, but she restrained herself, 
and spoke with sorrowful dignity to the 

" I did hope that regard for a master 
whom you served for so many years would 

have stopped you from giving a helping 
hand to the downfall of his son. This is 
very bitter to me, Thurtle. I believed 
that you would have used your influence 
with your daughter to spare them both the 
certain misery which must ensue from such 
a wretchedly unequal marriaga" 

" Minnie's of age, Mrs. Bay, and I can't 
lock her up, and it's no use my trying to 
thwart'lier. Perhaps Tm no more anxious 
that she should marry a gentleman and be 
looked down on by aU his folks than you 
are that your son should marry my girl ; 
but that's neither here nor there. Jack " 
— old Mrs. Bay shrank as if from a blow 
at the ruthless familiarity — ''Jack and 
Minnie have made up their minds they'll 
get married. They will, whether all the 
rest go down on their bended knees to stop 
it or not And she won't be beholden to 
any one but her own father for comforts in 
her house, for I've saved a tidv bit of 
money, and Minnie has had what she wants 
of it to furnish the home-farmhouse. So 
she won't be beholden to any one what 
looks down on her for a bit of tidy comfort 
in her house." 

Mrs, Bay bent her head in token that 
she dismissed him and his subject from her 
path for the present, and passed on. 

And Thurtle, a little discomfited by the 
silent reception his last vaunt had met 
with, went on his way, shaking his head 
knowingly at intervals, but in reality 
feeling rather at sea 

''If his ma gets hold of him before 
Minnie sees him to-day. Jack may be 
worked on to behave dishonourable; but 
if he do, I'll take the law of him — I'll take 
the law of him," Thurtle repeated again 
and again to himself, thinking the while 
with grim satisfaction that he could do 
so with impunity, as Minnie had been 
discreet enough to lodge all Mr. Jack's 
impassioned written protestations in his 
paternal hands. 

It was terrible to old Mrs. Bay as she 
went into the house, to think of the long 
solitary day that was before her. She 
could not reasonably expect Jenifer back 
till late, though Jenifer had expressed a 
doubt as to her following the hounds. Still, 
the t^nptation would be strong upon the 
girl to do so when once she faced the 
old familiar sights and sounds of the field. 

And even k she did come home before 
the others, what would it avail) The 
miserable, disappointed, heart-sore mother 
would only hear from Jenifer that which 
her own motherly heart knew already, 



100 [July 14, 1888.] 



namely, that Jack was about to destroy 
himself in the world. 

Not that old Mrs. Ray feared for a 
moment that there would be any harshness 
in the words which her daugnter would 
use about her son. Jenifer, like herself, 
would love Jack to the last, but there 
would be shame and sorrow mingled with 
the lova 

As she sat alone brooding over this 
new trouble, a dozen unpleasant pictures 
painted and protruded themselves vividly 
before her. Jack, with his half-cultured 
mind and buoyant spirit, would take to 
lower forms of excitement than those to 
which he had been accustomed under the 
home-rule. Jack's wife would be a Ray, 
and would fight for the recognition and 
status that had always been accorded to 
the Rays. Jack's children, if he had any, 
would probably inherit quite as much of 
the bold, dark, unrefined beauty of their 
mother, as of the blonde, aristocratic, good 
looks of their father. They would be her 
grandchildren, too, whatisver else they 
might be, and she would love them, and 
pity them, and not be able to pleasantly 
deceive them into thinking that she loved 
their mother. 

Ah, to which of her sons, to which of 
her daughters-in-law should she turn for 
help, comfort, and loving sympathy in the 
days of old age which were coming ) It 
was beginning to be clear even to her love- 
blinded eyes, that not only was Effie 
careless of the happiness and comfort of 
others, but that she was weaning Hubert to 
her ways, and making him indifferent to 
his mother and sister. But this, though 
hard to bear, was not so grievous to old 
Mrs. Ray, as was the prospect of Minnie 
Thurtle for a daughter-in-law. Effie was a 
gentlewoman, and a very fascinating one, 
too ; the sort of woman, in fact, who, if 
she murdered one, would do it with a 
highly-polished rapier. But Minnie, with 
her unrefined good looks and florid, gaudy 
mien, her plebeian self-complacency and 
uncultured mind and tastes, would always 
be a source of heart-burning and bitter 
mortification to the mother of the man 
who married her. 

After sitting with her usually busy hands 
idle before her for some time, the resolu- 
tion she had come to while walking home 
returned in full force, namely, to go 
without delay and plead for Mr. Boldero's 

It was long since she had ordered a 
carriage round for her own use. In these 

latter days, whenever she could be induced 
to go out, Jenifer had driven her in the 
pony-trap with fat little Nettle between 
the shi^ But this day she thought she 
would go in greater state, and so have a 
better effect on the man whom she desired 
to gain to her cause, than if she went to 
him in a little insignificant village-cart 
Accordingly she ordered the landau, and 
soon learnt to her suiprise that ''Mrs. Bay 
had given express orders that the carriage- 
horses should only be exercised, not used, 
during any of her absences ! " 

It was hard, but of course the horses 
were Hubert's now, and Hubert's wife had 
an undeniable right to do as she pleased 
with them. It was a slight to her, the 
widowed mother, that such an order should 
have been given, but it was well she should 
learn to endure slights patiently. After 
all, she could drive Nettle, and be indepen- 
dent ! So thinking, she ordered the pony- 
trap, and was told that the coachman had 
driven Mrs. Ray's maid into Exeter to do 
some shopping for her mistress. 

It was luirdl But she must get 
used to hardships t Fortunately before 
she had time to brood over this reflection, 
Jenifer came home, and old Mrs. Ray felt 
strengthened to bear whatever might be 
before her, as in response to her pitiful 
stoiy of the discovery she had this 
momine made, Jenifer gave her heartfelt 



With all its wealth and prosperity there 
is perhaps something stem and sad — or if 
not sad, anyhow anxious and carewom--in 
the genius of Lancashire ; but in Cheshire 
we have something quite different With 
fat pastures and green meadows, the kine 
meaitating in luxurious idleness, the smell 
of hay, the aroma of the rich milk-pails ; a 
land of summer and sunshine, fertile, bounti- 
ful, a veiy land of promise ; while beyond 
are the blue distant mountains of Wales, 
beautiful blue mountains that inspire an 
indefinite longing for pilgrimage, and 
distant mountains supply an element of 
contrast that corrects the almost oppressive- 
ness of all this exuberant fertility. A little 
slice this still left of old and merry Eng- 
land, with its stout yeomen and fanners 
and long descended' squires ; with a good 
deal of the old intimate bond of lords and 
homagers still in force ; and many of the 



duoiM Dtokem.] CHRONICLES OF ENGLISH COUNTIES. tJuiy u, lass.) 101 

gay cuBtoms of former times, if not actually 
existing, yet only jost now passed away. 
Nowhere else in England are feasts and 
wakes kept np with as much of primitive 
spirit. May-poles have been heard of 
within memory of man, objected to by 
divines not long deceased as savouring too 
mnch. of the heathen worship of the 
goddess Flora, while mummers and morris- 
dancers linger perhaps still in nooks and 
comers. Here, too, the poor so ''a souling," 
that is, begging, at Hallowtide — ^a curious 
relic of the old faith — ^for money for 
masses for the dead on the eve of All 
Soifls Day, the French " jour des morts," 
when in the old days we were wont to 
visit the graveyards and carry wreaths and 
posies to deck the tombs of our dead. 
We can't spare the dead one day a year 
now; and yet curiously enough the custom 
has sprung up again in America — a new 
growdi not connected with the ancient 
faith, but arising from the custom of 
decorating the graves of the soldiers who 
fell in the war of secession. This souling 
is jost a pretext for begging now, but 
is carried on by people who would be 
ashamed td beg at other times. Formerly 
the Welsh used to cross the borders in 
great numbers begging at Christmas and 
Hallowtide^ and perhaps the practice is 
not entirely discontinued even now. This 
practice is connected with the ancient 
belief that a mass paid for by charity is 
much more efficacious than any other ; a 
belief still current in Normandy, where 
quite well-to-do people are often to be 
found begging for money to pay for a 
mass for a sick child, perhaps. 

A certain robust faith, indeed, seems 
always to have characterised the Cheshire 
folk, with many other amiable qualities. 
"The people of nature very gentle and 
courteous," writes the historian of Vale 
Royal in the middle of the sixteenth cen- 
tury; "In religion very zealous, howbeit 
addicted to superstition which cometh 
throughwant of preaching." Thereisnowant 
of preaching in the present day, and yet, 
perhaps, superstition is not entirely eradi- 
cated. ** Of stomach, stout, bold, andhardy," 
goes on our writer, while to complete the 
picture and make his readers envious of 
the stout men of Cheshire, he adds, *' Like- 
wise be the women very friendly and 
loving," of a rich and fruitful nature like 
their soil, indeed, both men and women. 

But^ in adopting modern usages, the 
Cheshire people have always been behind- 
hand. << In building, till of late years,'' to 

quote from the same author, "they used 
the old manner of the Saxons. For they 
had the fire in the middle of the house 
against a hob of clay, and their oxen sJso 
under the same, roof, but within these forty 
years it is altogether altered, for that they 
have builded chinmeys," eta At that 
date, and, indeed, till recent times, all the 
labour on the farms was done with oxen : 
great, wide -homed, patient, stubborn 
creatures, of which, perhaps, a team here 
and there may still be met with in the 
Cheshire lanes. These oxen, as we see 
above, were formerly literally housed with 
the farmer and lua family durine the 
winter ; but now the kine were left m the 
fields, the farms being mostly pasture, and 
the great result of farming, then as now, 
being milk and cheesa They had no 
notion of cheese factories in those days, 
such as are now springing up in Cheshire, 
after American models, where the milk of 
many farms is collected and manufactured 
into cheese. But in their cool old-fashioned 
dairies the Cheshire house-wives could turn 
out splendid golden butter, and cheese of 
that ruddy hue and rich fiavour which 
have made the county famous, without the 
aid of anatto or other pigments. " They 
make great store of butter and cheese, so 
that no other country in the realm may 
compare therewith, nor yet beyond the 
seas ; no, not Holland in goodness, although 
in quantity it far exceed," again to quote 
our seventeenth century author, and he 
notes how Cheshire shares in the great 
wave of wealth and prosperity that, in spite 
of civil wars and the embroilment of the 
ruling classes, transformed the face of 
England during the seventeenth century. 
"Divers men which are but farmers, in 
their housekeeping may compare" — ^like the 
yeoman of Kent — " with a lord or baron 
in some countreys beyond the seas. Yea, 
although I named a higher degree, I were 
able to justifie it." 

But in entering this promised land of 
Cheshire from the Mersey ferry, we first 
encounter a kind of rival Liverpool, with 
docks and tramways, with the rattle of 
thousands of hanmiers in the ship-building 
yards. Hence sailed out the Alabama on 
her trial trip, the custom-house authorities 
calling out in vain " Come back," as her 
trial trip lengthened out into that adven- 
turous cruise that cost us such a nice little 
sum in millions later on. But Chester is 
our aim, ancient Chester, and to reach it, 
the peninsula of Wirall must be traversed 
from end to. end, with passing glimpses on 



102 (Jnly 14, 188S.] 



our waj of the great basin of the Mersey 
on one hand, its slopes covered with villaa 
andmansions, and the water sprinkledfar and 
near with white sails^ while steamers leave 
a continnoas trail of smoke. On the other 
hand lies the great sandy estuary of the 
Dee, stretching away towards Flint, with 
something of a haven, though a sandy one, 
at Park^te, where the good citizens of 
Chester resort to eat shnmps and inhale 
the sea breezes. Here and there some 
trading brig or stone-laden barge may be 
seen working its way along the winding 
channel ; but the Dee, although finer as a 
river than the Mersey (which is but a two- 
penny affair when it ceases to be tidal), 
has had its good times in the past, and, 
in spite of cuts and navigations, plays but 
an insignificant part in the commerce of 

The peninsula of Wirall, that divides 
Dee from Mersey — at one time, it is sur- 
mised that a channel connected the two 
rivers — is compared by our old friend above 
quoted, in shape to " the sole of a lady's 
left foot pantofle," a comparison that 
shows how very much more on Nature's 
lines was the pantofle of our old writer's 
days than the lady's slipper of the present ; 
resembling, indeed, rather the Indian 
moccasin than the sharp-toed variety now 
knowa But taking the natural shape of 
the foot, undistorted by the shoemaJcer's 
art, the comparison is not a bad one. New 
Brighton is at the big toe and Chester 
at the heel, while the inward sweep of the 
instep — it is a left foot pantofle, mark you, 
a right one would have made all the 
difference in the world, would have left 
Liverpool a village, and made Chester an 
imperial port, for this inward sweep on 
the Liverpool side of the pantofle goes to 
form the vast basin whose pent-up waters, 
rushing out with each ebb-tide, scour the 
narrow neck of the Mersey better than a 
whole fleet of dredges, while for want of this 
continual scour, having only the straight out- 
ward edge of the pantofle, again following 
Nature's lines and not the shoemaker's art, 
poor Chester and its river have been hope- 
lessly drifted up. 

We may be gratefol that Chester has 
continued in its modest estate of county 
town, confined pretty much within its 
ancient limits, within the compass of its 
fine old walls. Walls and gates, and 
general aspect, perhaps, not far different 
from the scene that the sentinel looked 
upon — Syrian, perhaps, or Phoenician — as 
he watched over Deva and its twentieth 

legion, and tiie little fleet of galleys that 
lay anchored in the port, the river wind- 
ing at its will, in the distance the soft 
profiles of iixe hills of wild Dimetift, 
that might remind him, perhaps, of. the 
purple peaks of his own Lebanon, while 
the peaceful city slept securely within its 
walls. On these walls, too, what a gather- 
ing of British wives and maidens, as they 
watched their men marching tumultuooBly 
out to fight the hated Saxon, when as Baeda 
tells us, "The warlike king of the Angles^ 
Ethelfrith, having raised a mighty army, 
made a very great daught^ of that 
perfidious nation, the Britons, at the City 
of Legions, which by the English is called 
Legacester, but by the Britons, more 
rightly, Carlegion," a slaughter, . too, not 
only of the ^hting. men, but of priests 
ana monks, who had come in swarms from 
their great monastery of Bangor, a now 
unimportant village a dozen miles or so 
higher up the river, to pray for the- success 
of their countrymen. 

Whether, liter this terrible defeat, 
Chester was again occupied by the Welsh 
is an uncertain point in its history. 
Certainly the tide of conquest swept back- 
wards and forwards many times before the 
aggressive and progressive Angles fairly 
established themselves in the fat plains of 
Cheshire, giving the land their own names, 
with their " hcons " and " tons," replacmg 
the graceful Celtic nomenclature, and only 
ancient Dee retaining its Celtic and classic 
title. The city is described as waste by 
the Saxon chronicler at the time an army 
of marauding Danes took possession of it 
in the ninth century, although it is difficult 
to believe that the site was ever entirely 
deserted, admirably situated as it is for a 
meeting-place and market for the people 
of the hills and the plains. But, anyhow, 
Chester may look reverently back to Ethel- 
fleda, the daughter of Alfred the Qreat, as 
its practical founder and regenerator, "made 
it nigh two such as it was oefore," says the 
old historian of Chester, although ta»ces of 
Boman foundations here and uiere in the 
walls tend to negative this statement Bat 
a marvellous sight must have been that 
procession of the royal barge — the famous 
eight-oared barge of which King Edgar 
was coxswain, with a tributary prince at 
each oar — ^starting from Edgar's Field, as it 
is still called, where the ancient palace 
stood beneath the castle walls, and landing 
by the monasteryof St. John's outside the 
city. This is a course that no man can 
row at this day ] for, when the Normans 


Ghtttai Dlflkm.] 


conqaered Chester, William's nephew, 
Hugh of Avranchea, was made earl over the 
county, and built the weir between the two 
points whose waters make such a pleasant 
rushing soand--a thirst-inducing murmur 
— a thirst there are innumerable means of 
quenching in the form of little ale-houses, 
the more primitive with a chequered board 
on each side of the doorway. Hugh, too, 
was a thirsty soul and a jolly — ^not a 
monkish man at all, except in as far as 
monks are of the quaffing and laughing 
order, although he founded here a Bene- 
dictine monastery in the old Saxon secular 
foundation of St Werburgh, bringing the 
monks over from Bee HeUouin, in the 
pleasant valley of the Bille in Normandy. 
Very fat and jolly was this Hugh Lupus, 
wolfish perhaps in getting was the great 
earl, who was almost an independent prince, 
with his little court of exchequer and his 
subject barons, and holding a tight hand 
on this refractory city of Chester. Perhaps 
Hugh was the original Miller of the Dee, 
if he were really the founder of the earl's 
mills, that are still grinding on with thun- 
derous murmur, as the cool waters dash 
mto their cavernous recesse& A pleasant 
view it is from the old Dee bridge, with its 
projecting piers dividing the Bwiit current 
and its cool-looking, old-fashioned arches, 
and the great dusty miUs thundering away 
at one end ; a pleasant sight, too, is the 
rush of waters over the weir — a foaming 
cataract at times when the river is in 
flood and tide at ebb, while at very 
hi^h tides again there is.only a bar of 
agitated water to show that the weir exists. 
In quiet times, in the pool below, there 
18 often a congress of silvery salmon waiting 
for the first flood through which they may 
cleave their way over the weir, and away 
to Uieir haunts in quiet pools among the 
Welsh hiUs,. and here there is a famous 
fishery producing a large annual revenue 
—practically the same fishery which was 
mentioned in Doifiesday, that HUgh, the 
earl, had, but higher up the river then, 
the weir being not perhaps then made, at 
Etone, where the Duke of Westminster 
lives now, and which brought the earl a 
thousand salmon yearly. 

Overlooking old Dee bridge is the castle, 
though of the strons castle of Hugh Lupus, 
as of the mediaeval buildings ui general, 
hardly a stone remains in its place. Modem 
gaol, law courts, barracks, occupy the site, 
with an armoury that had once a narrow 
escape of being seized by the Fenians, who 
arrived in considerable numbers in the 

guise of excursionists come to see the 
town. Once possessed of arms and ammu- 
nition, they were to have seized the rail- 
wav to Holyhead, and the steamers there, 
and then sailed off to capture Dublin and 
the Lord Lieutenant by a coup de main. 
The scheme was clever, but somebody went 
and told, as usual, at the last moment, the 
authorities were on the alert, and the 
Fenian excursiomsts went back as they 

Bevond the castle the walls look down 
on the green Roodee, about which the 
silver Dee takes a wide sweep, where a few 
cattle are now grazing, but which at race 
times — at least on the Cup Day — is 
crowded with booths and vehicles, and a 
dense human swarm — not so great a racing 
event as of old, this Chester Cup, but still 
with wide local celebrity. In old times no 
doubt the river ran close under the city 
walls, as the names Watergate and Water- 
tower still testify. The present racecourse 
was then a green island between two 
channels of the stream — a little chapel or 
oratory in the middle, with a celebrated 
rood or holy cross, the resort of pilgrims. 
Then, when Hugh Lupus made the weir 
and the miUs, the course of the river 
changed, no doubt, by degrees, and the 
island was left high and dry — ^the rood, it 
seems, was transferred to St John's — and 
presently the green meadows, which still 
retained the name of the Rood Eye, or 
Island, was found a convenient spot for 
races. It must be said, however, that there 
are Welshmen who will have none of this 
Saxon etymology, but declare that the 
place was known as Bhydd-ddu — ^the black 
or unlucky ford — and diat the story about 
the rood and the island grewout of the name. 
Anyhow, of the crowds who throng to 
the races, few are likely to trouble them- 
selves about the matter, or, indeed, as to 
the historjr of the races themselves, although 
their origm is very ancient and respectable. 
For races here can be traced back to 
A.D. 1512, and the bell and the bowl, to be 
run for on St. George's Day, were. long 
carried in procession to the course with 
civic pomp. 

Another interesting point on the walls is 
the Phoenix Tower — Phoenix from the 
device of some trade guild to which it had 
been assigned for defence, perhaps, and 
also, no doubt, for summer afternoon pipes 
and potations — looking over the somewhat 
Dutcn landscape below, canal and red 
roofs, and a sleepy kind of activity. From 
this tower, as an inscription records, 




104 (July 14, 1888.] 


[Condacted by 

Charles the First watched the fight on 
Rowton Moor, the Royalists trying to 
break through the besieging troops and 
relieve the city, while the Parliamentanr 
army were resolate to prevent them, and, 
as the battle died away in the distance, 
the Royalists retiring defeated, so must 
the king's heart have sunk within him. 

Upon the old cathedral, too, the walls 
look down, not long since threatening to 
tumble to pieces from sheer age and decay, 
bnt now quite renovated and renewed, with 
fragments of architecture dating from the 
time of Hugh Lupus, who, it will be 
remembered, was the founder of the 
abbey, and who, it Is said, died within its 
walls in monkish habit^ trusting to~ the 
cowl to cover all his sins and iniquities. A 
wealthy and powerful foundation this, whose 
last abbot at the time of dissolution, taking 
things in a calm and prudent way, became 
the dean of the new cathedral establish- 
ment. The abbot's lodging thus became 
the deanery by natural transition, and the 
conventual buildings were utilised for 
various ecclesiastical purposes — the custody 
of wills among others — and have survivea 
in a more perfect state than most of 
the old abbey buildings throughout the 

A postern-gate in the city walls near the 
abbey recalls the memory of the monks, 
for this postern was opened in the reign of 
Edward the First, to give the brediren 
access to their garden, the site of which is 
still known as the ''Kale Yards." 

Outside the walls stands another in- 
teresting church on a pleasant site over- 
lookuig the river — ^the old collegiate church 
of St. John, which might almost claim the 
dignity of a. cathedral For soon after 
the Conquest the Bishop of Lichfield 
migrated to Chester with his chapter, and 
established himself there for Ufe. His 
successor, however, went back to the Mid- 
lands, and after that there was no other 
Bishop of Chester till Henry the Eighth's 
time. St John's was formerly a church 
of much magnificence, but is now only 
partially restored from its ruins ; the great 
central tower having shared the fate of so 
many of its brethren and come down with 
a crash in the sixteenth century. And so 
the chancel remains in ruins, while the 
nave has been restored, and ia used as a 
parish church. But, for all its incomplete- 
ness, few churches can compare with it in 
historic interest One of the earliest 
churches founded in England, it was a 
flourishing seat of religious Ufe long before 

the Conquest Here landed Eaog Edgar 
from his renowned excursion on the Dee 
with his crew of princes, and a goodly 
offering, no doubt, was laid upon the altar. 
And there is a tradition which tells how 
Harold, the last of the Saxon kings, escaping 
from the fatal fight at Senlac, made Us way 
to Chester, and assuming the character of an 
anchorite, there ended his days in a little 
hermitage in the churchyard of St John's. 
The story is of undoubted antiquity. 
Oerald, the Welsh priest, heard it in this 
very Chester, and repeats it, barely a 
century after the Con<^uest, when the 
event was still fresh in men's minds, 
although the actors in it had passed away; 

1'ust as the French Bevolution is to us now. 
t is the story repeated in so many forms 
about every hero of a lost cause. Popular 
affection will not let its heroes die, tam- 
ing away from the plain truth as too 

Another and still more fanciful tradition 
assigns the hermitage — an ancient build- 
ing, without doubt, and likely enough the 
abode of an anchorite of old — to the 
Emperor Henry the Fifth, though what 
his majesty should be about in Chester 
does not appear. We may believe, both 
stories if we like. Harold might have lived 
long enough to hand over &e keys to his 
imperial successor. 

But the great charm of Chester, after 
all, is its Bows, of wiiich there is not the 
like in the civilised or uncivilised world. 
We may have piazzas, ten^aces, arcades, 
and old houses storey over storey over- 
shadowing ancient streets, but in none of 
these shaU we find quite the equivalent of 
the Chester Bow. Perhaps Albert Smith's 
description of the rows is most under- 
standable by the people who have not 
seen them: houses with a thoroughfare 
through the first-pair front : " Thy very 
streets are gallenea" Then there are 
quaint staircases where other streets 
cross, and down to the street below— 
along which street a stranger might walk 
without noticing the curious pathway 
above — a pathway so cool and shaded, 
with quaint glimpses into the sunlit world 
outside, picturesque curved ^bles ^ and 
twisted balustrades, that it is quite a 
disenchantment to come out into full day- 
light again. There are little bits and 
fragments of rows anywhere about the 
city, but they are only seen to perfection 
in the chief thoroughfare that no doabt 
follows the line of me Boman main street 
from Eastgate to Watergate — ^where the 




ObaclM DlakMu.] 


rows are occupied by some of the best shops 
in the city, with a general feeling of hoar 
antiquity, combined with modem plate- 
glass, and bright displays of trinkets and 
merceries; with bright eyes, too, and 
complexions of milk and roses, very 
friendly and loving, too, we will hope, as 
of old, to say nothing of the pretty children 
who run about and in and out, quite at 
home in all these passages and galleries. 

Early in the century, before the age of 
railwaysi when Chester was a centre of 
provincial fieishion (the magnates of North 
Wales holding their town houses in 
Chester as now^in Tybumia or Belgravia, 
with a great store of dowagers and 
spinsters of the chief families of Wales 
and Cheshire), these old rows would be 
alive at night with a press of sedan-chairs 
passing along to card-parties and assemblies. 
A great amusement of the mischievous boy- 
hood of the period — described to the writer 
by an old boy who was then a young one — 
was to roam about at night armed with a 
stout pin set in a stick with which to prod 
the calves of the chairmen, the cream of 
the fun being the alarm of the dame 
within at the unlooked-for prancing of her 
human steeds, and their involuntary bad 
language. Retribution rarely followed, 
for it required a common consent between 
the two bearers of the chair to set it down, 
and by the time this was done, and their 
shoulders unyoked, their tormentors were 
far away, lost to sight in the deep shadows 
of ancient Chester. 

But if in the later centuries Chester has 
been socially and politically the capital, of 
North Wales, as well as the chief town of 
its own county, for long ages before a fierce 
irregular warfare had gone on between the 
citizens of Chester and the hardy warriors 
from those fastnesses among the blue 
hills. Like the Highlanders the Welsh 
were magnificent at a rush; like them, 
too, when they had made their pile of 
booty the war was over for them, and 
anybody else might fight it out Thus, 
though at times they overran the country 
and reached up to the veir walls of 
Chester, they never succeeded in pene- 
trating to the guarded town within. And 
English domination crept gradually along 
the coast — a process indicated by English 
names of places interspersed with the 
Welsh — and wherever knights and men- 
at-arms could freely ride, and wherever a 
strong castle of stone could be built, to that 
extent the Welsh were curbed and driven 
back. Of these strong castles Hawarden 

is the first on the line from Chester, with 
Bhuddlan in advance, the latter a grand 
fortress whose ruddy towers still rise 
magnificently over the little town. 

It was early in. the thirteenth century 
that Banulph, Earl of Chester, a descen- 
dant of the Wolf of Avranches, but of 
quite a different temper from that disso- 
lute old patriarch — a man indeed whom 
people called " the good," who had fought 
valiantly for Christ's sepulchre, and had 
come home to fight the Welsh ; well, this 
Earl Banulph, lying in his castle of 
Bhuddlan, then the advanced post of his 
earldom, was almost surprised by a sudden 
flood of Welsh, who carried fire and sword 
into the little town and surged against the 
strong walls of the castle; but failing in 
their rush, sitting patiently down to starve 
their enemy out News of this was some- 
how brought to the citizens of Chester and 
their neighbours, then assembled at their 
great annual fair on John the Baptist's Day, 
at Midsummer. The earl was popular and 
well-beloved, and one Balph Dutton, son-in- 
law of the constable of the castle, called 
upon the people assembled at the fair to go 
out with him and fight against the Welsh. 
A motley crowd answered the appeal. 
Troubadours, jongleurs, mountebanks, all 
marched off tumtdtuously to the war, with 
Dutton at their head, and perhaps with some 
solid backbone of stout men-at-arms, and 
followed the road to Bhuddlan. Already 
the place had musical associations, for that 
sweet melancholy Welsh air " Morfa 
Bhuddlan" commemorates a defeat by 
Offa, the dyke-builder, of the Welsh, on 
that very spot. The tumult of the ap- 
proaching host seems to have created a 
panic among the Welsh, who drew off 
without showing fight; and the popular 
earl was brought back to Chester in 
triumph, accompanied, no doubt, with 
musical honours. It is certain that the 
family of Dutton from that time forth had 
the privilege of granting licences to all 
wandering minstrels in the county, who 
long pursued their calling under the pro- 
tection of the Duttons without fear of 
molestation by tything men or constables. 

The Welsh have another story to tell, 
perhaps not without secret pride, a story 
which was long a source of bad blood 
between townsfolk and hill-men. The 
Mayor of Chester, the story goes, went 
to the fair at Mold with his friends, and 
quarrelled with one Beinallt, the fierce lord 
of a neighbouring tower — ^it was during 
the Wars of the Boses, when law and jastice 





106 [July U, 1888.] 


lOondiulsd liy 

were in abeyance. Reinallt thereupon seized 
the Mayor of Chester, and dragging him 
to his hold, hang him to a staple in the 
hall — the staple being still in evidence. 
The enraged Gestrians, two hundred strong, 
sallied oat to avenge their mayor. Bat 
the canning Reinallt was not at home to 
receive them, and the men of Chester took 
possession of his tower without resistance. 
Once inside, however, they found themselves 
in a trap, the entrance made fast upon them, 
and flames bursting out in all directions 
from combustibles cunningly stored away 
by the chief, while, outside, the wild chief 
and his men formed a ring of steel, and 
thrust back upon the flames any who tried 
to escape. No man, it is said, returned to 
Chester to tell the tale, and wives and 
sweethearts watched and waited long in 
vain for those who would never come back 
to the town. 


Well I know a haunted chamber, where the 
tapestry is hanging 
In tatters on the dusty waU, and trails upon the 
Where dusky shadows glide and dance, the midnight 
hours chasing, 
Where moonbeams are like spirit forms, that wait 
around the door. 

When round the house, the vrild north wind with 
all its strength in moaning, 
I hear soft footsteps gliding up the wide and 
polished stair, 
And a 6gure of a lady, clad in raiment grey and 
Seems to pass into the silence that reigns for ever 

Then I take my darling's hand in mine, and a« the 
shadow passes 
The memory of a bygone crime doth rise from out 
the gloom, 
Though so long ago that lady lived, yet stiU her 
weird she's areeins[, 
Still she walks, unrestmg, up and down that sad 
old haunted room. 

None can lay the poor pale spirit to the rest that 
she is seeking. 
None restore her to the quiet tomb, where still 
her ashes lie, 
She must wander ever restlesa, ever moaning in the 
Dead to all she loved and worshipped, yet her sins 
can never die ! 

Ah ! my sweetheart, you are happy, and I take your 
hand and clasp it, 
You hear no ghosts go walking in the stillness of 
the night ; 
And your pure young life, unsoiled by sin, flows in 
an even cadence, 
Your lovely soul lies open 'neath love's calm and 
tranquil light. 

If I have a haunted chamber, where remorse and 
dread are walking, 
Never ceasing with their footfalls that echo 
through my brain, 
I will keep it closely locked, my sweet, and go there 
very seldom, 
Nay ! if thus you love me evermore, I need not go 
again 1 

Yet ghosts can "laugh at locksmiths,** and when 
we sit in silence, 
My ghost in long grey garments ever stands my 
coMr beside, 
And she wliispers, ''Thas I haimt you, thus I dog 
you while you're living, 
A sin once sinned must live for e'er. I never really 

I may shun my haunted chamber ; but the wind that 

aye moans through it, 
~ Breathes upon our lives and chills our blood, aye, 

even at the feast, 
Per if we once possess a ghost, 'twill haunt us to 

our dying. 
And none can lay it to its rest, until our life has 




Upon the esplanade at Weymouth — 
the old-fashioned esplanade, with the stone 
posts and chains, the red-brick, comfortable- 
looking houses, with their round bow- 
vrindows. Royal George on his pedestal in 
glowing gold, with the lion and unicorn 
equally resplendent, casting a gleam of 
sunshine in a shady place. Weymouth is 
exceedingly shady at this moment The 
sea, murmuring below, is hardly^ to be 
distinguished ftt>m the drifting mist and 
rain — ^a soft kindly rain, however, with a 
suggestion of light behind that may 
presently break through — and there is 
a gloom which a breath of air might 
change to fair weather. And the state of 
the weather is reflected in my mind as I 
look out seawards, trying to make out 
through the haze each once-familiar head: 
land and sea-mark. 

Seven years ago, and on just such 
another soft and misty day, I was pacing 
up and down the esplanade — ^not alone^ 
now, but with a sweet companion, y ® 
were both in grief-nahe, that I was going 
away, and I, that I was compelled to leave 
her ; for we ha4 been friends from child- 
hood, and had just discovered that we had 
frown into lovers. We were in the full 
elight of this discovery— a delight that was 
rather enhanced than marred by the strong 
objection of everybody in authority to the 
arrangement. Her father, Hilda's father, 
was especially indignant, for, althougn 
a squire of degree— the Chudleighs, ot 
Combe Chudleigh, having long been held 
as among the best in Devon — yet he was 
poor, with an extravagant son in *^^ 
Guards, who was doing his best to ioa.Ke 
away with the family acres ; and old Squire 
Chudleigh had looked upon his darkened, 
beautiful daughter to make a g^^^ 
muriage, and thus keep up the family 




Cbulfli DiekMU.] 


[July 14, 1888.1 107 

dignity, which was now a good deal on the 

However, here we were on the espla- 
nade of Weymouth on this wet sloppy 
day, pacing up an^ down, while Miss Ghud- 
leigh, the squire's eldest sister : a well- 
endowed old lady, who kept a comfortable 
house looking out on the esplanade : 
watched us discreetly from behind the 
parlour blinds. She had promised her 
brother that she would never lose sight of 
Hilda for a moment, and thus she kept her 
promise. But for one brief moment (the 
fog being somewhat thick, and we the only 
living creatures present) our faces met 
under the grey capote that Hilda wore, 
and we exchangea a parting kiss, the 
sweetness of wmch has lingered on my 
hps all these long years. It has brought 
me back, indeed, over seas and continents, 
to this old-fasldoned esplanade at Wey- 
mouth. All the time I had been away, 
good old Miss Chudleigh had kept me 
informed of eveiything connected with 
Hflda — ^how she had come out, had two 
seasons in London, had received several 
excellent offers, and still remained faithful 
Now and then came a tender little note 
from Hilda, written at the expense of her 
conscience, she said, for her father had for- 
bidden her to write to ma And then, just 
six months ago, had c<Hne a hurried agitated 
letter, to bid me think no more of her, for 
circumstances were too strong for her, and 
with that a letter, too, from Miss Chudleigh, 
bidding me come back if I cared anything 
for Hilda, but to come to Weymouth first 
of all, as she had much to tell that she 
dared not write. And here I am at 
Weymouth, to find that poor Miss Chud- 
leigh has been de&d for three months, and 
the house shut up and deserted. 

I am staying at the hotel where Miss 
Chudleigh used to hire her flys and post- 
horses — she always posted to Combe Chud- 
leigh, which is only forty miles from point 
to point, but an interminable distance by 
raiL Hilda and her brother generally 
came by sea in a little twenty-ton yacht 
they kept in a charming cove by the house, 
for they were an almost amphibious family 
with a good deal of the adventurous west- 
country blood in their veins, and in that 
way they were well-known among all the 
boatmen and fishermen. Well, talking 
with my landlord I got from him all he 
knew, which was not very much, about the 
family. He had understood that Miss 
Chudleigh had died worth a good deal of 
money, which had all gone to the squire's 


daughter, and in consequence of this death 
in the family, the wedding which was to 
come off was postponed for three months 
or so. On this point my host was hazy ; 
whose wedding it was to be he didn't 
quite know, though he thought it must 
be the squire's daughter who was going 
to be married. Then I made my way 
to the harbour; with the quaint old 
town with its little houses and cottages 
in tiers one above the other looking 
down upon the port, with two or three 
steamers loading, and the steam -crane 
noisily discordant and a few yachts and 
fishing-boats lying tranquilly in the stream. 
And here I found an old siJt who remem- 
bered the little Foam, the squire's old 
yacht She had been sold, and he had 
heard that the estate of Combe Chudleigh 
was likely to be sold too ; only he had 
seen some of the family not long ago, he 
was sure, on board a fine new steam-yacht 
belonging to some London gentleman — a 
yacht cafied the Sea Mew, which had been 
lyin^ here not long ago. All this was 
bafflmg and disappointing, and I made up 
my mind to start at once for Combe 
Chudleigh, and know the worst, or the 
best, as it might happen to be, and beard 
the old squire in his den. 

It was evening when I reached Combe 
Chudleigh, and saw the grey old mansion 
set in most lovely verdure of woods and 
lawns ; the house all solemn and still in the 
glow of the sunset; the grounds sloping 
down to the secluded bay, and the little 
creek with its landing-place, where was now 
no tapering mast to be seen. AU seemed 
solitary and deserted. There was nobody 
at the lodge ; the big gate was thrown wide 
open ; and the shabby old fly I had hired at 
the station drove through unquestioned and 
unwelcomed by anybody. What a clamour, 
too, the bell made as the driver pulled it 
lustily, waking up some old hound who 
began to bay in response ; but there was 
no other sound or movement in the house, 
and it was not till the flyman had made 
his way to a side door, disregarding the 
dignity of his fare, and had hammered lustily 
there for some time, that an old dame 
made her appearance hastily wiping her 
hands upon her apron, and with many 
curtsies informed me that the squire and 
all the family were away in London, or 
parts equally remote. The old lady did 
not recognise me, but I knew her well 
enough — once the children's nurse and 
known by that name, and afterwards a 
, loved and trusted dependent, and known 



108 [JolyU, U8S.] 



as Mrs. March ; and whatever she might 
pretendi^ quite sure to know all about the 
squire's affairs, and still more the squire's 
daughter, if only she could be got to telL 

Could I see the house 1 WeU, the house 
wasn't shown, demurred Mrs. Murch; still, 
to a respectable gentleman, who perhaps was 

a friend of the family This was a point 

I evaded, not being quite sure of her senti- 
ments in my regard. But I proved my 
respectability by pressing half-a-sovereign 
into her palm, at which she began afresh 
to curtsey, and then hurried away to open 
the big aoor& 

We went slowly through the once familiar 
rooms, in which everything was now 
shrouded up in brown holland, but still 
with a worn and faded appearance of old- 
fashioned dignity. PresenUy we came to a 
door openins out of the corridor, disclosing 
a lawn and little flower-garden beyond ; a 
door which Mrs. Murch hastily closed with 
a muttered apology. 

** There be nothing there, sir," she said 
as I came to a stand before the door; 
" that be only Miss Hilda's room, and I do 
be thinking how she would like me to show 
it to a genUeman." 

'* But I particularly want to see the view 
into the garden." 

" Oh, u it be only the garden you want 
to see, sir," replied Mrs. Murch, who had 
been eyidently distressed at refusing any- 
thing to a gentleman of such a Ubend 
disposition, "I'm sure Miss Hilda would 
be pleased you should see her garden." 

And Mrs. Murch threw open the door, 
and I was admitted into this paradise. 

Certainly it was the most cheerful room 
in the house, with the pleasant flower- 
garden beyond its low French-window, and 
a comer view of the placid bay and the 
little winding river. The room was just 
as its mistress had left it, with a litter 
of books and music, and a glove lying 
upon the table which I furtively took 
possession of. 

Mrs. Murch began mechanically to dust 
some of the things with a little feather 

*' I should like to have things a bit 
tidier here," she began, almost in soliloquy; 
"but she can't bear anybody to' touch her 
writings and things." 

"Her writings 1" I repeated in some 
surprise, for Hilda, as I had known her, 
had not been addicted to anything of the 

" Why yes, sir ; you speak as if some- 
thing were known to you respecting my 

young mistress, and while you declared 
yourself, sir, not to be a friend of the 

Mrs. Murch looked at me suspiciously, 
while I explained that I had heard of Miss 
Chudleigh from people who had known her 
as being of a gay and lively disposition. 

" And so she was, sir," began Mrs. Murch 
in a mysterious voice, carefully smoothing 
down her apron, *'as gay and lively a 
young thing as ever you saw. But then 
you &0W, sir — perhaps I ought not to say 
it» and you might happen to know it too— 
how poor Miss Hilda met with a disap- 
pointment, and she's a good deal changed 
to what she once was." 

The thought of Hilda suffering and un- 
happy strucE me with poignant emotion, 
almost with remorse. And again there 
obtruded a feeling of doubt and jealousy. 
She had given me up; perhaps a newer 
and fresher affection had taken hold of her, 
in its turn to be blighted. 

" What do you mean by a disappiJint- 
ment 1 Is she not going to be married f " 

" That's true, sir,^ rejoined Mrs. March 
sententiously ; *' only there may be a dis- 
appointment for all that When the lover 
she sets her heart upon proves faithless, a 
poor girl may well " 

" What's this, nurse," I cried, " about a 
faithless lover t" 

Mrs. Murch turned a penetrating look 
upon me. 

" Nobody has called me nurse for years," 
she cried, "and what should you know 
about me bein|; nurse, and giving yourself 
out as not being a friend of the family t 
Why, I do believe," she said, taking me by 
the shoulders, and turning my face to the 
light, " I do believe that you be young Mr. 
Lyme himself that there's been aU this 
t(Hio about" 

There was no use in denying my identity 
after this, and Mrs. Murch presently poured 
into my ears a long and confused account 
with more windings and turnings than I 
should have thought it possible to introduce 
into human speech, and yet that somehow 
worked round to the point intended. The 
sum of all of it was that the squire had 
become more and more involved between 
his son's extravagance and his own, and 
that Combe Chudleigh, the seat of the 
family from the date of the Crusades, must 
now be sold. That the squire had been 
reckoning upon getting his sister's money, 
aU of which had been left to Hilda, but so 
tied up that it could not be touched to 
relieve the squire's needs. That an oW 


Oiariei Dlduni.] 


[July U. 1888.] 109 

admirer of Hilda's had appeared who was 
ready to bay the estate and leave the 
squire in possession for lif e, if Hilda would 
marry him, and then, on the squire's death, 
they would take the name of Ghudleigh, 
so that the old succession, which all set 
such store by, should still be kept up. And 
what had almost broken Hilda's heart and 
induced her to assent to this arrangement, 
had been the report which seemed con- 
firmed by all the circumstances, that her 
old lover had become, as Mrs. Murch ex- 
pressed it, iM rich as Creases, but that, so far 
from intending to come home to claim her, 
intended to remain in India and marry an 
Indian princess^ 

*' Who knows if only one, sir 9 '' added 
Mrs. March solemnly ; " for you might not 
have stopped at that, having once got into 
they heathenish ways." 

There was just the germ of truth about 
this story of the princess that made it 
doubly venomous. My uncle, one of the 
Lymes of Lyme, of an old Devonshire 
stock which inherits the adventurous spirit 
of the Hawkes, and Drakes, and Frobishers, 
did marry an Indian begum, and assumed 
the manners and habits of Hindostan. 
When he died, leaving an immense fortune, 
a good deal of which he had invested in 
English securities, there was a prospect of 
a gigantic lawsuit to settle the succession. 
I was the next-of-kin according to the 
English law, but there were adopted 
children and others who, according to 
Indian custom, might have a claim. How- 
ever, the old begum turned out a trump. 
She proposed first of all that I should 
marry the chief claimant — a girl then about 
eight years old — ^but, finding that this pro- 
posal did not tempt me, we arranged an 
equitable division which satisfied everybody, 
and robbed the lawyers of their expected 
prey. My own share made me passably rich 
— rich enough to buy Combe Chudleigh 
anyhow. But the chance was gone, it 
seemed, for Hilda was irrevocably com- 
mitted to marry Mr. Chancellor, the rich 
manufacturer, the M.P. and rising states- 
man, and would, indeed, already have been 
married but for her aunt's death. 

" Now, what you've got to do, sir," said 
Mrs. Murch solemnly, when so much had 
been said, " what you've got to do is to 
go and find Miss Hilda. There's more 
hangs round about it than you and I know 
of, but I do knojv as she'll be a miserable 
woman all the days of her life if she 
marries that man. It ain't any use writing, 
sir; it ain't any use sending. Miss Hilda 

isn't one to go back from her word when 
once she's given it. But if you saw her, 
and told her everything yourself, perhaps 
she and you might find a way to alter it." 

But where was she then, my sweet 
Hilda 1 Where could I find herl It 
seemed that she had been staying in 
London for the season, but finding London 
hot and unendurable, she had started with 
her father and some other friends for a 
cruise about the Channel in Mr. Chan- 
cellor's yacht. Mr. Chancellor was kept 
in town by his Parliamentary duties. But 
where the yacht waa at this particular 
moment it was hard to say. Perhaps i( 
was at Ryde, perhaps at Plymouth, or the 
Channel Islands, or some French port 
But just as I was leaving the nail, 
uncertain and irresolute, a messenger 
came up from the post-office in the village 
with a telegram. My driver stopped for a 
few moments by my orders to see if any- 
thing came of it, and presently Mrs. 
March came running out in the drizzling 
rain with her apron over her head, and 
thrust the telegram into my hand. It is 
of just four words, " Send letters to Wey- 
mouth," and it sends me back to Weymouth 
as fast as I can go, and there my first 
visit is to the harbour-master. No, the 
Sea Mew has not come in ; she won't 
come in probably till next tide, and so I 
may make myself easy for some hours. 

But I can't make myself easy. I pace 
up and down that esplanade at Weymouth 
which is so redolent of the Georgian era that 
you may fancy at any moment that stout 
Farmer George and homely Charlotte may 
appear upon the scene; still in the fog and 
smaU rain, promising every moment to 
clear and show the brightness beyond, but 
continuallv pelting nevertheless, regardless 
of all good faitL But now I am no longer 
alone on the pavement Another man— 
a young man — shrouded like myself in a 
long coat, equally impatient, as it seems, 
and also continually looking seawards, and 
striving to make out something through 
the haze, meets me at every turn, and we 
look at each other with distrust and aver- 
sion, as intruders and interlopers ; and 
then I begin to think I know the face, 
that I have seen it somewhere in earlier 
days. A look of half-recognition also 
appears in his eyes. We stop opposite 
each other by simultaneous impulse. 

" Aren't you a Courtney i " I ask. " I 
thought so. Then we were at Winchester 
together. I was in the sixth when you 
joined." ^ 




110 [July U, 1888.1 



Coarfcney held out his hand cordially, 
and yet with respect. He might not have 
looked up to me much under other circum- 
stauces ; but the fact that I had beea his 
senior at school at once put hioi under my 
influence. A man may lose his reverence 
for Church and State, for religion, for 
morality, for many other venerable things, 
but he rarely forgets the superiority of an 
old schoolfellow. 

'*And what are you doing here, old 
fellow V*I ask, putting my arm through his 
as we resume our sentry-go in company. 

'^ Doing I " said Courtney with irritation. 
'^ I am looking out for a steam-yacht And 
I don't believe she means coming in." 

" And what ship is that! " I asked with 
a good deal of cunosity. 

''What's the name of her) The Sea 
Mew," he replied with disgust. " Belongs 
to that wretched cad, Chancellor." 

'* Then why do you sail with him if he's 
such a cadi " I asked with all the wisdom 
of age. 

"Oh, he's not on board," replied 
Courtney. '* Look here, it's in this way. 
I promised to join my cousin Hilda. You 
know her, by the way. Of course," he 
said, striking his forehead theatrically, " I 
know all about you. You married an 
Indian princess. And what are they like, 
and are there any more of themt And 
have you got a yacht down here ) I 
would have a bigger one than Chancellor." 

"Now look here, Courtney," I replied 
severely ; *^ had I married an Indian 
princess, I'd have made you speak of her 
with more respect But you may contra- 
dict that silly story wherever you may 
hear it" 

" Oht I should keep up the delusion if I 
were you," said Courtney. " People don't 
think anything of you if you have done 
nothing out of the usual line." 

Anyhow, I determined to take Courtney 
into my confidence. I told him how affairs 
really stood between his cousin and myself, 
and I was delighted to find that, either 
from sudden friendship for me, or sudden 
detestation of Chancellor, he was ready to 
do anything to serve me. Yes, he would 
take me on board the Sea Mew. He bad a 
general invitation to bring any nice friends. 

It seemed rather a cheeky thing, he 
remarked, to sail about in the rival's own 
yacht But he was sure Hilda would like 
it better. " Only, don't you see," he added, 
casting a despiirtng look over the sea, 
" it's getting thicker and thicker, and the 
Sea Mew will never come in in this fog." 

Just then there seemed a kind of 
thickening in the haze at one point, which 
resolved itself presently into the flapping 
sail of a fishing-boat, that grounded gently 
on the sloping beach. A fisherman sprang 
out, and was making his way towards the 
town, when he was hailed by young 

"Hallo, Dick Steel 1 What are you 
after 1 " 

" Why, it be youn^ Squire Courtney," 
said Dick, rubbing his eyes ; " and you're 
the very man that I be looking for. Now 
then, squire, here be a letter from yoor 
sweetheart of delights," and Dick grinned 
as he handed up a little- twisted curl of 

"There's a nice affair," grumbled 
Courtney, handing me over the note 
which, carelessly as the young rascal treated 
it, thrilled right through my heart to see. 
For it was in HQda's handwriting, hastily 
pencilled. She was here, within sight, if 
only the fog would lift 1 

" Dear Tommie," ran the note,—" It is 
too thick to run in safely, and we are off 
to Cherbourg. Join us there. Your loving 
cousin. Somewhere off the land." 

"That's just like a woman," went on 
Courtney, still grumbling. "If it's too 
thick for them to come in, how the 
dickens are we to go out t " 

Courtney's notion was to hire a fishing- 
smack, and run over to Cherbourg in the 
fog, like a piratical sea-rover, and when 
reminded that the Great Western steamer 
would sail that night as usual, he seemed 
really disappointed. But at ten o'clock 
that evening the fog was thicker than ever, 
and it really seemea doubtful whether the 
steamer would ^et away. A trading steamer 
had just come m with a cargo of potatoes 
from Jersey, and reported the weather still 
very thick in the Channel A gang of 
men, working away by lamplight, were 
loading up trucks on the little quay ; barrels 
of potatoes, curiously fastened up with the 
tops of round baskets, were rolling about 
in all directions. The hoarse cries of the 
men, the banging about of cargo, the 
rattle of the steam-crane, and the roar and 
shriek of the engine waiting for its load, 
made a strange turmoil in the air ; and the 
lurid lights from the steamers, and the 
lamps by which the men were working, 
showing through the fog, lighted up the 
rough bearded faces of the workmen in a 
strange portentous way. Presently we 
could hear the train from London come 
rattling into the station, and an onmibos- 





[July W, 188S.] Ill 

load of passengers was brought down and 
put on board-^the passengers, tlf^t is — and 
still there was no sign of oar boat getting 
away. The potato-boat had already umoaded 
and was gone, and we could hear her fog- 
horn trumpeting away in the distance. , 

Suddenly, and with quite magical quick- 
ness, the scene changed altogether — the 
drizzle ceased, the mist was drawn away like 
a curtain, and the moon appeared sailing 
through a sky full of white, fleecy clouds. 
The luurbour-lights shone out clearly, and 
in the still waters the houses above, rising 
tier upon tier, were reflected with wonderful 
distinctness. Everything was perfectly 
still except for the rattle of steam from the 
escape-pipOy and when that ceased and the 
paddles began to move, all the placid 
miiror-like surface was broken into a 
thousand sparkling ripples. But there was 
no dgnof the Sea Mew — no steamer's lights 
were to be seen anywhere in the offing, and 
thegeneral opinion was that she had reached 
Cherbourg long ere this. 

Early in the morning — a grey promising 
morning ; the sea smooth and overhead a 
real Channel sky, a grand sweep of clouds 
of an indefinite tender grey, converging to 
one point in a unity of design rarely seen 
except at sea ; a dark sail here and there 
flecking the surface of the gently-undu- 
lating waters — I find Courtnev on deck, 
already on familiar terms with the first 
officer, whom he calls Jem, and with 
whom be is discussing abstruse points of 
navigation. The coast-hne before us is high 
and bold, but somewhat gloomy-looking 
and without the pleasant aspect of the 
white and yellow cliffs crowned with 
greensward which seem to smile a welcome, 
in fair weather like this, as you approach 
the coast in other parts of the OhanneL 
Soon we pass smoothly and' swiftly 
between two grim forts that guard the 
entrance to the port— one at the end 
of the long breakwater and the other 
rising grandly from a low rocky islet- 
forts with rows of guns looking over the 
parapet at us and grinning through the 
casemates, but mere popguns in the way of 
artillery compared with the huge monsters 
of modem ordnance ; and then the grim 
forts shut us in as we enter the outer basin, 
a squad, of fidiing-boats and a steamer or 
two leave plenty of room in the wide 
harbour; grey tall houses rise above us, 
and in front hovers the grand rock of 
La Houle, a craggy mass of primitive rock 
that is fitly crowned with a huge fort But 
there is nothing to be seen of the Sea 

Mew. The people of the Douane know 
nothing of her. Courtney's face clouds 
over at the news, or rather at the want of 
news, and indeed it is disappointing. But 
then it is suggested that she may have lain 
to somewhere in the night, and come 
in presently. And so we make our 
way to a caf6 on the quay, and sit there 
under the awning smoking and keeping a 
look-out on the harbour. We do not realise 
that we are in France till we have taken 
our coffee at a round-tepped table in the 
open-air, while Francois welcomes us 
with a graceful sweep of his napkin, 
and the life of a French town goes 
by us in the^ pleasant morning sun- 
shine — the peasants in their short blue 
blouses with baskets on their arms; 
soldiers in the familiar red and blue; 
sailors lounging along ; while bells jingle 
and strange foreign cries are in the air. 
But in the harbour everything is perfectly 
quiet ; no vessel enters or goes out ; the 
signal-mast is bare of flags ; the Douane is 
closed, as if the officials had made up their 
minds that everything was over for the day. 
For my own part, I half dread to see 
the Sea Mew enter the harbour, for I feel 
that her coming will be the destruction of 
all my hopes. Hilda will turn upon me 
cold and resolute, and send me away from 
her without a word of parley. Let me 
have a little respite, in which I may still 
indulge in the pleasures of hope. But the 
respite is likely to be a short one, for at 
this moment the silent port shows signs of 
life. We hear the gruff roar of a gun from 
the fort, and presently a smart and elegant 
steamer floats swan-like into the basin, her 
blue ensign trailing gracefully just clear of 
the water. There is a bustle on shore as 
if something of importance had happened ; 
a boat puts out with a naval officer in the 
stem-sheets and manned by a smart crew 
of sailors in full dress, and Fran9ois runs 
out energetically flourishing his napkin, 
and returns presently to announce to all 
his customers and the world in general that 
here has arrived the yacht of the Lord 
Marquis Chancelleur, the Prime Minister 
of Angleterre. But Courtney is already 
away calling for a boat to cross the 
harbour, and I follow in a more sad and 
dignified way. 



Fifteen years came and went with all 
their shifting seasons, and no filightest word 
straggled back to the city by the sea, to 




112 tJoly 14, U8t.l 


[OoiidiiolBd \if 

tell the fate of the fair young eirl who 
tamed from the altar one bright April 
morning with unsmiling eyes and close- 
drawn hps, and the mockery of her father's 
blessing upon her, to begin life anew as 
Arthur Templeton's bride. Was she happy 
or was she miserable 1 No one in San Remo 
knew or cared, save only one, Signer 
Benoni, still professor of languages and 
inspector of the public schools. Mr. and 
Mrs. Ellis had followed their daughter 
back to England but a month after her 
marriage; a new pastor came to care for 
the tiny English flock which, year by year, 
gre\7 and spread ; the church was enlarged 
and altered beyond recognition; a hand- 
somer villa was taken for l£e rectory ; there 
were changes and improvements here, there, 
and everywhere, telling of the swift growth 
andincreasingpopularityof storm-sheltered, 
sun-girt, placid little San Bemo, over which 
the skies spread so softly, and against which 
the blue waves of the sea beat so dreamily, 
so drowsily. 

There were changes everywhere. Only 
into the old, old city that lay asleep upon 
the hill, out of the way of the young life 
growing freshly up at its feet, only there 
as into the heart of the faithful Benoni, no 
change could come. He was a middle- 
aged man now, and old before his time, 
with hair turned prematurely grey, and 
wrinkles of care and weariness slanting 
across the kindly face with its patient 
smile and gentle uncomplaining eyes. 
There was no one in San Eemo more 
universally respected and beloved than 
he, though he courted no popularity and 
plodded on his ambitionless quiet way, 
without other aim than how to complete 
the labour of the day. His time was very 
full He had all the work he needed to' 
enable him to care for his invalid sister, 
and pay the debts of a worthless brother 
who hung like a millstone around his neck. 
People said it was these cares which had 
aged him in his prime, and robbed him so 
early of the fire and aspirations that belong 
to youth, and that would surely have made 
him into something more than a simple 
professor in a tiny town by this, had he 
but had free play for his talents, or had he 
had a wife to spur him on. But he had 
never married. It was because of these 
home - cares, people said ; and Signer 
Benoni only smiled, and did not contradict. 
His story was locked up in his faithful 
heart, beyond the reach of curious eyes, 
and the sprig of myrtle that he gathered 
fresh every morning for his button-hole, 

and that hung there drooping and fading 
all the busy day through, never told any 
tale& His attachment to this delicate 
little flower, which lent itself so ill to bis 
adornment, was only another of the pro- 
fessor's harmless eccentricities, like the 
habit which led him every day just before 
sunset, if he chanced to be in a room oyer- 
looking the sea, to go to the window and 
watch for Corsica to rise up ghostrlike from 
the waves, just as if it were not a pheno- 
menon wi^ which he must have been 
familiar from boyhood. But these little 
oddities harmed nobody, not even himself; 
and perhaps they had something to do with 
the dreamy, trustful look in his eyes that 
attached people to him insensibly, because, 
though he never spoke of himself or his 
wants, he was felt to be in some way in 
need of any affection they had to give him. 

And so fifteen years had come and gone, 
when one day, as he was leaving one of 
the principal hotels after a round of lessons, 
a card was handed to hiuL 

" Professor, the lady was asking about 
an Italian teacher. She would be glad to see 
you before you leave. Room twenty-seven." 

Benoni turned to obey the summons, 
glancing down at the card, and then 
stopped short, gazing at the narrow slip 
of pasteboard with eyes that seemed to 
spell out the name letter by letter, over 
and over again, unable to comprehend. 
Yet such a simple name it was too 1 " Mrs. 
Arthur Templeton," nothing mord. 

Ah, how suddenly, how easily, how un- 
premeditatedly great things can happen! 
It is only the little things that announce 
themselves with trumpet-peal and bugle- 
song heralding their coining from afar, 
like the rocket that rushes up into the 
ether with a hiss and scream, while the 
comet that covers half the heavens takes 
its place without a sound. 

A faint flush crept into Benoni's thin 
cheeks, and faded away as he stood look- 
ing down at the card. He felt that 
he was trembling. The clerk eyed him 

"Do you know the lady already, per- 
haps, signore f She ia a widow. Her father 
is here with her." 

The professor started and stared at 
the clerk fijcedly a moment, and then 
straightened himself up, hastily putting 
the card in his pocket. 

" Yes," he said simply, " I know her." 
And immediately went up the stairs. 

He could scarcely see as he entered the 
room where Myrtle waited for him. There 


Charki Dickens.] 


[July 14, l«S.l 113 

was a clond before his eyes, as if the 
ghosts of all the separating years suddenly 
rose up and stood mistily between them. 
Then it cleared away, and he saw her 
standing there alone, Myrtle, his one 
heart's love ; Myrtle, free again as in the 
days when he first loved her; free, and 
she had sent for him! He conid not speak. 
He only looked at her. Yes, the very, 
very same. The years, whatever they had 
brought her, had but ripened the bloom, 
had matured but had not changed her — ^had 
saddened, perhaps, but had not embittered 
her. It was the same Myrtle, who now 
met him with an eager questioning look in 
her eyes, that seemed to seek an answer in 
his face before she spoke. Silently they 
stood so looking at each other; then 
Myrtle's eyes fell upon the fragile drooping 
flower in his coat, and a sthue and blush, 
swift and bright as in the old days, illu- 
mined her faca 

" Oh, my flower I " she cried, springing 
impulsively forward, just as she ini^ht 
have done in the past " You are weanng 
my flower ! " 

A light flashed into Benoni'a eyes. 

'* Here is your flower," he said, and drew 
from his pocket-book a little, dried, faded 
blossom, scarcely recognisable in form or 
hue, and held it towards her. " You gave 
it to me, do you remember, that day we 
saw Corsica together ? I have carried it 
so here these fifteen years. Fifteen years ! 
Myrtle, Myrtle, it has been long 1 " 

She looked at him, smiling the old frank 

''The years that are gone — the long 
dreadfal years, we will throw them away 
as I do this withered flower. We will 
neither of us remember them more." 

"Myrtle," said the Italian hoarsely, 
grasping her by both hands, "you gave 
me hope once before, and it was a false 
hope. Do not deceive me now. I could 
not bear it a second time, to hope such a 
hope as this and lose it again. I have 
been true to yon as never man was true 
before. I have loved you and you onlv 
with undivided faithfulness through all 
these years. The memory of you and my 
love for you have grown into the very 
fibres of my heart, and not even death 
can destroy a love that life and time 
have spared. Myrtle, by right of such 
a love as this, may I dare to claim you 
now 1 " 

" There is but one thing in all life worth 
having," said Myrtle softly, " but one thing 
lasting, and perfect, and sure, and that is 

love — such love as yours for me, Francesco, 
and mine for you." 

The Italian threw up his hands in a sort 
of blind ecstasy. 

** Oh, Heaven ! " he cried, " is it possible 
such happiness is mine at last ? It cannot 
be I It cannot be ! " 

" It shall be," said Myrtle. " It must 
be. We have conquered fate." She 
threw baek her head with the old, proud, 
familiar gesture, and then came nearer, 
and laid her white, firm hand gently on his 
arm. " No, Francesco, not even fate can 
prevail wholly against so true a love as ours." 

All who met Benoni as he went back 
along the Esplanade that night to his 
house, turned to look at him again. He 
seemed completely transfigured . His happi- 
ness shone out undisguised in his face, a 
weight of years seemed suddenly lifted 
from him; he stood erect, and held his 
head high, as if to breathe great soul- 
refreshing draughts of this new and wonder- 
ful atmosphere which surrounded him. His 
eyes shone with a brilliancy and fire in 
startling contrast to his ususd dreamy far- 
away look. He was as if intoxicated with 
this strange, impossible happiness that had 
dropped upon him out of an unlooked-for 
heavea He felt almost too weak to bear 
it. Something seemed to snap in his 
heart, as if this sudden expansion of joy 
after the long, long tension of hopeless- 
ness had been too great a strain upon his 
strength. A life-long habit of endurance 
cannot be given up with impunity all in 
one rash, reckless moment Joy is some- 
times as dangerous as grief when it attacks 
the citadel of the heart, and carries it by 

Myrtle stood at the window the next 
morning watching for her betrothed, and 
sineing a little Italian ballad softly to her- 
self Someone came up behind her and 
stood beside her, looking out with dull 
apathetic eyes over the blue Mediterranean, 
which lay gleaming under the warm, still 
sunlight as if it had never known a storm. 
It was her father. M3nrtle turned and laid 
an arm caressingly about his neck, stooping 
a little to bring ner face on a level with his. 

'^Father," she murmured, "I am so happy. 
Won't you be glad a little of myhappiness?" 

The old man shook his head. 

"All folly— folly," he muttered. "It 
won't last, though you think it will. But 
have your own way, child. It doesn't 
matter now. Arthur is dead, and your 
mother is dead, and I am an old man. I 
shall be dead, too, soon. Your life is your 

114 [July 14, 1883.1 



own. Do what you like with it. It doesn't 
matter now," 

Myrtle sighedi and dropped her arm 
from his neck. 

" Yes, my Jife is my own now, at last 
I gave it up to you fifteen years ago. You 
had your will with it then. You did with 
it what you would. And, father, you 
know — ^you know the miserable, miserable 
result of it. Ah!" Her face grew 
suddenly wan, and old, and haggard, with 
a rush of bitter memories, and she hid it 
in her hands. " But that is all done now," 
she said presently, lifting it again with a 
smila '* We will not speak of it any more. 
The dead years shall bury the dead pain& 
I know that you thought you acted for the 
best How can . one heart tell the needs 
of another, judging only by itself ) How 
could you know that whatever love may 
be to others, it was all in all in my life, 
and that nothing could atone to me for the 
loss of it 1 But now that I am so happy, I 
can forgive and forget all the past. I am 
only Myrtle Ellis again to-day, a glad enthu- 
siastic girl of nineteen once more, and my 
life — my real life — lies still all before me.'* 

"Yes, yes," said the old man impa- 
tiently, "and you think it will be all 
happiness. It's the way of youth. But 
each must learn for himself, and it doesn't 
matter now — it doesn't matter now." He 
kept repeating the words monotonously 
like a refrain. It touched Myrtle to the 
quick to see how little power she had to 
impart somewhat of the fulness of her own 
happiness to his cheerless, empty heart. 
She silently put out her hand to him. 
"Ah yes," he said, feeling her toucL 
" The letter. I had forgotten to give it to 
you. I found it downstairs." 

Myrtle took it from him mechanically, 
looking at it with the idle curiosity one 
accords an unknown handwriting; then 
with another glance down the long, smooth, 
sunlit road, stretching itself out before 
her like a symbol of her future life, she 
opened the letter and read. 

" Yes ; it doesn't matter now. Nothing 
matters now," repeated the old man 
drearily to himself over an,d over. 

He was weak and old. Myrtle was young 
and strong. She must manage her own life 
now. It was time he gave it up to her. 

He was startled by a cry, low and sharp 
as if wrung out of physical agony. Myrtle 
dropped the letter and grasped him by the 

"Come, father; you must come with 
me. We must go to him at once." 

Mr. Ellis looked up at her blankly. Her 
face was ashen white. 

" Eh — what is it 9 " he asked helplessly. 

" Francesco— he is iU. It is his heart 
Good Heaven 1 he is perhaps dying now. 
Father — father, come ! " 

"Dying," repeated Mr. Ellis, only half 
comprehending, and dropping his uiag^ 
grey head on ms breast as Myrtle drew turn 
towards the door. " Aye ; nothing lasts- 
nothing. Did I not say so 1 It all goes." 

Benoni lay on a couch, wheeled up to 
the window, in one of the tiny rooms of 
his humble little home. He was better 
now. The paroxysm of pain was past, 
and he was only very weak and tired — too 
tired to move, too tired to do more than 
look up in Myrtle's face with unutterable 
love, as she knelt down by him and took his 
hands in hers. 

" I knew you would come. Myrtle," he 
said, " when I could not go to you." 

" I have come to stay, Francesco," she 
whispered. " I will never leave you again, 
dear — never, never a^n 1 " 

Benoni's great, fflonous, fire-lit eyes rested 
on her with a look of inefiable peace. 

" God is so good," he said. " He has 
given me the happiness of a lifetime in 
these last few hours. I have nothing left 
to wish for." 

And so he lay with his hand in hers, 
smiling up at her, and now and then talk- 
ing softly — while slowly, slowly his life 
ebbed away. 

All gave place to Myrtle, feeling in- 
stinctively her right to be there ; stranger 
to them though she was, this beautifol 
foreign lady whom he had never once 
named to them before. 

And, true to her word. Myrtle never left 
him again day or night Tearless, with 
her passionate grief crushed back into 
her heart lest the despair of it break oat 
and harm him, she sat hour after hour by 
his side, smiling down at him with steady 
eyes, singing to him the songs he used to 
love in a voice that never once broke or 
faltered, and talking to him as only she 
could tsdk, with a perfect calm taught by a 
perfect love. 

So she sat hour after hour and day after 
day, till at last the end came--the end 
which no tenderest care or skill could 

He still lay on the sofa by the window, 
while she crouched rather than knelt by 
his side. It was late in the afternoon. 
The sun was stooping low down to the 




Ohaitoi DIoktBi.] 


July U, 1883.] • 115 

sea. There was not a cloud in all the 
radiant dazzling sky, and faintly, indis- 
tinctlj, like a dream slowly breaking 
throngh the anconBcioogness of a sleep- 
bonnd soul, the faraway beautiful island 
grew into magical life out of the blue mists 
of the horizon. 

The dying man lifted himself np with 
the strange sudden strength of the supreme 

" Myrtle ! " he cried, " Myrtle I " and 
drew her into his arms. " Love — wife — 
look 1 It is Corsica 1 We have seen 
it again — together — at the beginning 
and at the end of our lives — heaven — 
heaven " 

And with the word upon his lips, 
smiling once more into her faithful loving 
eyes, he fell back, fainting, upon the 
pillow ; and before the last dim line of the 
shadowy island had faded from the horizon, 
his spirit had passed beyond her ken to 
the far-off land of the unseen. Myrtle was 
left alone 1 

Ah, not even the most faithful love can 
ever wholly master fate 1 




They were two women in an old- 
fashioned room of an old-fashioned house 
at Kew ; a room softly carpeted with sweet- 
smelling Indian matting and Persian rugs ; 
with quaint spindle-legged furniture, and a 
quainter Chinese paper covered with scrolly 
nd monsters and monstrous gold flowers 
tangled up together; with a high wooden 
wainscot and mantelpiece, the latter carved 
with cherubs carrying wreaths of flowers ; 
and tiny tables heaped with treasures of 
Sevres and Nankin china, Hiudu idols, 
and Burmese knick-knacks in bewildering 

" I call it most undignified, unladylike, 
and unseemly," said the elder woman. 

" Mrs. Pentreath 1 " ^ 

'* Yes, my dear, and if you were to say 
* Mrs. Pentreath ' twice as loudly, and look 
twice as red and indignant, I should only 
repeat the same words. Indeed, I do not 
know any others better suited to such 
foolish and imprudent conduct." 

"But I don't even know what you 
mean," cried the girl, redder than ever at 
the snub she had received. '* What is there 
in my conduct that you can call by such 

names as ' unseemly and unladylike ' ? 
What have I done 1 You have no right to 
speak to me so because — because -'' 

'^ Because you are a motherless girl for 
whose welfare and reputation I am answer- 
able while you live under my roof ; and 
because your father committed you to my 
care," said Mrs. Pentreath slowly. " Excuse 
my interrupting you, Hetty, but I am of 
opinion that these reasons do give me a 
right, not only to express my opinion on 
your conduct generally, but to exert my 
authority if I find you persisting in a 
course which is sure to be detrimental to 
you in every way. Ernest may be silly in 
some things — I am sorry to say he is — but 
you are more silly still if you let yourself 
think that he means to marry you." 

" I don't I never thought anything of 
the sort. I wouldn't marry him. Mrs. 
Pentreath, why don't you send me away if 
you think such things 1 Indeed, I would 
far, far rather go than listen to them." 

" Go 1 So^ that you may induce him to 
follow you i Yes, Hetty, that would be 
just of a piece with the running after him 
at present, the familiarity and forwardness 
of which I am complaining. Let me tell 
you I am not the only person who has 
noticed it Lady Carisfort spoke to me 
some time 8^^o about what she rightly con- 
sidered my foolish and culpable indulgence, 
and Mr. Hamilton " 

"Mr. Hamilton!" The poppy-red cheeks 
grew suddenly white, and even Mrs. 
Pentreath was startled by the strange look, 
half anguish, half indignation, which flashed 
from the brown eyes. " You do not mean 
that He couldn't — I am sure he never 
spoke about me» and — and Captain Pen- 

Mrs. Pentreath smiled with a sort of 
chilling composure, which was very 

" Then you are quite wrong, my dear, 
for it was only yesterday that he was doing 
so, and regretting the way in which you 
were going on ; and I am glad to see that 
you have some regard for your clergyman's 
opinion, if not for mine. You must re- 
member, however, that Qeorge Hamilton 
and Ernest are cousins, and that young 
men are in the habit of speaking freely to 
one another, especially of girls who by 

their own lightness have What is it, 

Hickson^he carriage 1 Very well, I am 
coming ; and, Hetty, don't be silly. It is 
no use crying in that violent way as if 
someone liad ill-used you. I assure you 
that you ought to feel grateful that you 



116 [July'U, 188S.J 


lOondactod by 

have someone to act a mother's part to 
you ; and, though Ernest is my son, it is 
not at all in his interests, but in yours, that 
I have spoken to you to-day." 

Mrs. Pentreath said this in a softened 
tone ; perhaps because her conscience told 
her she had been somewhat harsh ; perhaps 
because the attitude of the culprit, sobbing 
novr beyond control, with her face hidden 
in her dimpled hands, touched her sense 
of pity ; but she went away for her drive 
all the same, a stately old lady, with her 
white hair and fine face, and the furs and 
velvets which shrouded her still upright 
figure. And Hetty Mavors was left to cry 
on by hersel£ 

She made a pretty picture so, despite 
her woe, with her slender childish figure 
and soft dark head crouched up against the 
panelling of the deep old window-seat ; 
behind her a fence of tall ragged chrysan- 
themums, red and saffron tinted, and filling 
the air with their bitter-sweet odour ; and 
behind them again a flutter of brown and 
yellow autumn leaves and the stainless blue 
of one of those rare days in November when 
winter seems still far away, and the fair 
wan efifigy of summer lies Ughtly on the 
moist ground, unburied save in fallen 

Hetty, however, was far from thinking 
of herself in an artistic light Perhaps 
she was deficient in " culture," or perhaps 
she was too miserable ; anyhow, she never 
lifted her face, but sobbed on till startled 
into another position by a footstep at her 
side and a voice saying : 

" They told me I should find you here, 

so Why, Hetty I Hetty, my child, 

what is the matter 1 " 

Hetty lifted her face quickly enough 
then — not in welcome, however, but with 
a look of such unmistakable anger flashing 
through her tears as fairly startled the 
visitor, a rather plain young man in clerical 
dress, with a frank, kindly expression 
which seemed far from warranting the in- 
dignant one which greeted him. Yet, 
though the girl was trembling in every 
limb, she made a strong effort to control 
herself, and stood up, saying coldly: 

" Mrs. Pentreath is not in, Mr. Hamil- 

" So Hickson told me ; but as he added 
that you were in the drawing-room, I 
thought I might come in and see you. I 
had no idea you were in trouble, however. 
Is it — is it anything- 1 could help you in, 
or would you rather I went away 1 " the 
vicar asked quietly, and with a certain 

plain directness and absence of society 
pretence, which made Hetty's efforts at 
composure somewhat difficult 

Yet she answered him directly and with 
the same coldness as before : 

" I would rather you went away. 
People who make trouble can hardly help 
in it ; and as it seems that I have to thank 
you for mine, I would rather you did not 
stay to triumph in it" 

"Make trouble 1 Triumph! I don't think 
I understand you," said George Hamilton. 
He had become very pale, strikingly so in 
contrast to the crimson cheeks which con- 
fronted him, but he still spoke quietly, and 
stood his ground, facmg the girl with a 
calm steadiness which was not without its 
effect " How have I got you into troublel 
I was not aware that I had done so ; bat if 
I have, it must have been, as you know 
perfectly well, so purely accidentally that 
I hope you are generous enough to feel as 
sorry for me as I am for you." 

The grave, reasonable tone made Hetty's 
eyes look misty again. 

" Oh, it does not matter," she said, trying 
to speak lightly ; then breaking down with 
ignominious speed : ** Only I did not think, 
I did not, that you — ^you " 

"That I what? Hetty, my — my dear 
child, don't cry, but tell me what I have 
dona Don't you know — ^Heaven knows 
you might by this time — that I would 
sooner cut off my right arm than hart 
you by a pin-prick, or see anyone else do 
it What is it 1 Has Pentreath " 

But Hetty, looking up with hot cheeks 
and flashing eyes, broke in on the question 
with sharp distinctness. 

'* Captain Pentreath has said and done 
nothing — nothing at all. I don't believe he 
would ever think such things. He knows 
too well how shameful and untrue they are." 

"What things, Hetty?" This young 
girl certainly required a good deal of 
patience, but it was not lack of that quality 
which made George Hamilton's grave face 
graver, and his voice colder than befora 

"What Mrs, Pentreath and you have 

been saying, that I ran after " but 

Hetty was sobbing too violently now for 
her words to be very intelligible, and the 
vicar could only catch such broken phrases 
as "forward," "wanting to marry him," 
" unladylike," the rest drowned in passion- 
ate blushes hot enough to almost scorch 
the tears which flowed over them. Mr. 
Hamilton's brown face flushed for sympathy. 
Manlike, he wasted no words on it, how- 
ever, but went to the point at once. 



[July 14. 1868.] 117 

*'I never said one word of the sort/' he 
said. "What's more, I never thought, 
dreamt, nor implied it Has mv aunt told 
yoa 8oi I can't believe it; and, if you'll 
excuse me, I don't believe you do either. 
You look on me as a friend, I suppose. It 
isn't much to expect after all these years, 
bat I do expect mat. Do you think Mends 
lie about and calumniate one another! 
Tell me at once what you mean." 

Hetty's sobs ceased. She was quelled 
by an anger greater than her own ; subdued 
too by a certain delicious joy which was 
springing up in her bruised and wounded 
little heart She looked up at him quite 

"It was Mrs. Pentreath said so. She 
was angry at somethinff — such a little thing. 
Captain Pentreath asked me to cut him a 
sprig of gardenia from the conservatory 
before he went out this morning, and when 
I went for it he came in after me, and 
stood talking for a minute or two while he 
pinned it in. After he was goxi^ your 
aunt began, and said all this. I couldn't 
even understand her at first, or why she 
was so angry; and then she said Lady 
Carisfort had spoken to her some time ago 
about my — my conduct, and you too." 

"My aunt made a mistake," said the 
vicar coolly. " What Lady Carisfort may 
have said of you I don't know, nor do I 
think it matters much, as she is well 
known to be the most vicious-tongued old 
woman in the county; but since it has 
come to this, and you have been made 
unhappy, I owe it to myself to tell you 
what I said." 

" Then you did say something 1 " Hetty's 
tone had an almost childish accent of dis- 
appointment^ and her eyes began to look 
angry again. 

'' I certainly did. My aunt came to me 
yesterday ana told me — ^it is her fault and 
yours, mind you, Miss Mavors, that you ever 
hear this — ^told me that she was disturbed in 
her mind, because she thought that her son 
was beginning to show a disposition to pay 
you idle attentions, and that you were 
encouraging him under the impression that 
they were serious. She added, however, 
that she did not blame you as much as her 
son, because you were very young." 

"She is very kind, and I am much 
obliged to her," said Hetty haughtily. 

"And rather spoUt." 

" Then it is she who has spoilt me, and 
why did she 1 I wish " — beginning to cry 
— **that she hadn't I thought she was — 
was fond of me, as fond as I was of her." 

" But that people were beginning to make 
remarks. Someone had even asked her if 
her son was going to marry little Miss 
Mavors, and as, of course, no one could know 
better than she that he had not the faintest 
idea of the sort — forgive me, Hetty, and 
remember I am only quoting her words — 
she came to me to consult me as to the 
best means of putting a stop to an affair 
which was giving her trouble, and might 
damage your name. She said she did not 
at all wish to part from you even for a 

"To send me away, you mean! but I 
will not give her the trouble. I will go 
away. I am going at once," Hetty burst 
in vehemently ; then with a sudden change 
of tone : " And you ? What did you say 1 
You are only telling me Mrs. Pentreath's 
part, not yours." 

" I said that I thought she was mis- 
taken," said the vicar, speaking with great 
distinctness, though with a frown on his 
brow which implied that he found the task 
difficult " For, to begin at the beginning, 
it was my opinion that her son, instead of 
commencing to pay you idle attentions now, 
had done nothing else from the day of his 
coming here but pay you the most marked 
ones in his power, and devote himself to 
you in a way which might warrant any 
innocent girl in believing herself to be 
loved by him Further, that I should like 
to know her grounds for thinking that 
Ernest did not do so ; and further to re- 
mind her that men seldom took even their 
mothers into their confidence when they 
first began to think seriously of a woman, 
and that even if Ernest had been rather 
given to flirting in past times, it was my 
opinion that your sweetness and — I mean 
your manner and charms altogether," put 
in the vicar, interrupting himseffin a rough, 
impatient manner, " were enough to give 
any man a fair reason for breaking through 
all previous dislike to matrimony and " 

"Oh, but that was nonsense, and you 
ought not to tell it me again. Don't go on 
with that part," said Hetty hurriedly, but 
with such a lovely rose-colour in her cheeks, 
and such a lovely, shy, questioning glance, 
as would have made anyone think it was 
just that part she did want told to her. 
The vicar thought so, and for a moment 
his puLses beat with marvellous, almost 
dangerous rapidity; then the remembrance 
of why she felt such pleasure in his speech 
came back to him, and he answered her in 
a colder tone than before : 

"Well, that was what I said to my 


118 [July 14, 1888.1 



aunt, and I took the liberty of adding, in 
conclusion, that if she were right in her 
opinion of her son, and if he were capable of 
laying himself ont to win the affections of 
a young girl without any other end than 
his own amusement, he deserved to be 
kicked round Kew Green, and I should be 

very glad to lend a foot for the But 

there's no use in repeating that," cried the 
vicar, cooling down suddenly from the hot 
anger which merely quoting his words had 
roused in him, " and I shsdl make you as 
angry as I did her. You must try to 
forgive me, however, for I was merely 
arguing on a hypothetical case. You are 
not to take Mrs. Pentreath's opinion of 
her son as mine. Probably, indeed, you 
don't need either of them, and are only 
laughing at our presumption in having any. 
That's not to the point, however. You 
accused me of having spoken ill and insult- 
ingly of you, and of having got you into 
trouble. I have told you what I did say, 
and if, hearing it, you still think you were 
right to greet me as you did just now, I 
can only say I am sorry for it, and wish I 
had said nothing at alL" 

" But I don't. It was I who was wrong, 
and — and I beg your pardon, Mr. Hamilton. 
There ! Now please don't hurry away," 
cried Hetty with the prettiest minglmg 
possible of submission and impatience. 
" There is something more I want to ask 
you, if you don't mind." 

" Well, what is it 1 I will tell you 
anything that concerns myself." 

*' And myself ! Mr. Hamilton, I want 
to know why you think your cousin really 
cares for ma His mother does not believe 
he does. She said the idea was absurd, 
but you — ^you differed from her. Why 1 " 

The vicar looked embarrassed. In 
honest truth, he had not much faith in the 
depth of his cousin's affection for anybody, 
but how could he tell the girl so — he of 
all men 9 

" I differed from her, certainly," he said 
with some hesitation ; " partly because it 
would be a tacit impertinence to you to 
assume that any man would dare to single 
you out and appropriate you as Pentreath 
does without caring for yoU) and partly 
because — well, because I cannot realise 
that anv man should live in the house with 
you and not do so." 

The vicar's voice had grown so hard 
that the last words, if intended for a com- 
pliment, sounded more like an accusation. 
Did he too suspect her of intentional fasci- 
nation ? 

Poor Hetty's face grew pale and wistful 
as that of a chidden child. 

" Oh, but you only mean in a certain 
way," she said eagerly; *'a pleasant 
friendly sort of caring that no one need 
dislike. Of course 1 know he is more 
demonstrative than some men, and — and 
says silly things now and then ; but I do 
assure you he has never said one word 
which — which anyone could take hold of." 

The vicar looked at her in surpiisa 
Evidently she was not so sure of her lover's 
affection as he had thought, or she would 
not want so much reassuring on the subject 
He felt vexed with her for asking it, and 
without even a blush on her smooth round 
cheek too ; yet he was too chivalrous not 
to answer her comfortingly. 

" Oh, but you need not think anything of 
that,"he said, smiling. *' Men often say least 
when they care most ; and even if Ernest 
is a bit flighty at times, he knows well 
enough how to appreciate the blessing of a 
pure-hearted girl's affection. I dare say 
my aunt has been a little irritating and 
incredulous; but these are things that 
mothers are always the last to realise. 
Don't you believe me 1 " for she had grown 
paler, and there was a distressed look in 
her face. " Why, I have known a man — if 
it is any good to you to hear of him — who 
cared heart and soul for a girl very like 
yourself, and in much the same circum- 
stances ; and who, though he would have 
gladly risked his life to have called her 
his wife, never opened his lips on the sub- 
ject, or told his secret to her or anyone." 

" Never 1 " 

He had come to an abrupt stop, and 
Hetty's voice repeated the word like a 
startled echo. She was crimson enough 
now, and there was a new look in her 
beautiful eyes, now turned from him in 
sudden shyness. 

" Never. There were reasons against it 
in the beginning, and afterwards it would 
have been no good." 

" But why 1 How ? " 

The vicar had stopped again, his voice 
hoarse with barely smothered pain, and he 
did not notice the tremble in the girl's 
voice, her nervously- clasped hands or 
heaving breast There was even a touch 
of impatience in his manner as be 
answered her. 

" Why f Because when he began to 
care for her she was such a child compared 
to him, such a mere child in reality, that he 
would have thought it profanation to speak 
to her of such matters ; and afterwards as 




OhnlM DIolniii.] 


(July U, 1888.] 119 

she began to grow up it was to such 
beauty and sweetness that knowing his 
own demerits, knowing too how little she 
had seen of the world, ne hesitated equally 
between the risk of a ' No ' which might 
lose him the friendly confidence which had 
become the chief happiness of his life, or 
of a ' Yes ' which she might regret 
through the whole of hers. He told him- 
self he would wait a little longer still, 
till she knew others and could choose 
more freely; and while he was waiting 
another came, and the game was over. The 
second man went in and won in a week 
what he had worshipped for years, and 
there was an end of it." 

" And was he content to let it be so f 
Bat oh ! you mean that he had no choice, 
that she married the other one before he 
coald interfere 1" 

"I don't know if she married him or 
not What does that matter so long as 
she loved him f And as he loved her, do 
you suppose he would want to interfere 
between her and the happiness she had 
chosen for herself!" 

'^ Not unless he thought he could make 
her happier." 

Hetty's voice waa.very low. The vicar's 
rang against it with deep impetuosity. 

"That had nothing to do with it It 
was for her to choose. She had known 
him the longer, and if she preferred the 
other he was too proud, for all his love, to. 
haggle withEer over her preferenca Besides, 
it would have lost all its value for him if 
it could have been transferred from one 
man to another in that way. To sue for 
a touch of the cheek which had blushed 
under the kiss of another, to clasp a hand 
and gaze into eyes which had been pressed 
by other's fingers and smiled on other's 
vows might have been possible enough to 
some mea It wasn't to him. The only 
love he cared for was that first, fresh, un- 
sallied one which only a girl who has never 
played at love, or thought of lovers before, 

has it in her to give ; Mie But there ! 

what a fool I am to go on talking to you in 
this way — nearly as big a fool as he. Only I 
warn you, don't you think that because a 
num is silent he is not in earnest, and 
femember that I consider Pentreath has 
every reason to be so at present, and I 
congratulate him heartily on his wisdom 
and hia luck in having such a rare chance 
of making use of it. Good-bye." 

" He is not here to thank you, or I dare 
wy he would," said Hetty; "but before 
you go let me warn you not to think that 

because people laugh and joke they must 
be in love. It is very kind of you to think 
Captain Pentreath lucky in having won 
me ; but why you should assume that he 
has done so^ and be as ready to make me 
over to him as his mother is to do the 
reverse, I don't' know; and I am not 
obliged to you — ^not at all." 

" Hetty, what do you mean ) Is it not 
true then ? Don't you care for Pentreath 1 " 

" What right have you, to ask such a 
question, Mr. Hamilton 1 And what do 
you mean by ' caring ' for him 1 As a 
friend, as someone to talk to and sing with, 
to enliven his mother and me when we 
are a little dull 1 Yes, in that way, very 
much, as much as he cares for me." 

'* Hetty, it isn't in that way that 
Pentreath cares for you." 

" Is it not f Then you know more than 
I do, or than he has told me, and I do 
not wish to hear anything more of it I 
am quite sure of one thing — that I shall 
not do so from hiuL He is not so silly as 
you imagine him, Mr. Hamilton, and 
would as little dream of falling in love 
with me as of suspecting me of doing the 
same by him." 

"But, Hetty " 

"No, Mr. Hamilton, I don't want to 
hear or say any more. You and Mrs. 
Pentreath have joined to misunderstand 
and misjudge me, and I have been 
obliged in my own defence to tell you 
that you are wrong ; but it is not pleasant 
to me to have to do so, and I did not 
think you would have required it. I 

thought you knew But there, I 

won't think anything more about it, and 
please go away now and leave me. I 
don't want to be rude; but I am angry 
and hurt, and — and I would rather not see 
you any more — not now at any rate. 
Please go," and then, as he made no motion 
to do so, but rather came a step nearer 
with hands outstretched as if to detain 
her, and with a sudden light and flame in his 
face making its plainness almost beautiful, 
she fairly slipped past him and fled, 
flushed and panting, to hide herself in her 
own room. 

At which time, perhaps, it may be well to 
pause and tell you something of her story. 

Esther Mavors was the daughter of an 
ofiicer in the coastguard who, thirty years 
before, had loved and wooed a certain 
beautiful heiress, one Miss Isabel Bovilly. 
Lieutenant Mavors was handsome but 
poor. Miss Bovilly's relations would not 
hear of the match ; and finally, after first 


" to 





encouragmg and then playing with him. 
Miss Bovilly threw him off and married 
Mr. Pentreath, a wealthy banker, by whom 
she had one son — Ernest 

Lieutenant Mayors took his blighted 
hopes to sea, got into a reckless way of 
living, threw away more than one chance 
of promotion, and finally, ten years later, 
was knocked down by a fever on the West 
Coast of Africa, nursed back to health by 
an old Wesleyan missionary, and married, 
out of gratitude, to his daughter, by whom 
he had one child, a girl — Hetty. 

With the advent of the child, however, 
came the end of his married life. The 
young mother died in childbirth, and 
leaving the infant to be brought up by its 
maternal relatives, Captain Mavors went to 
sea again and remained there with brief 
intervals for another ten years, when the 
fortunate bestowal of a post in the coast- 
guard service enabled him to settle down 
at home and begin life afresh with his little 
daughter in a pleasant Devonshire water- 
ing-place. There too he ended it barely 
five years later, before the delights of 
fatherhood and home had even had time to 
lose their first freshness, and just as a new 
and unexpected delight had entered into 
his existence. 

Mrs. Pentreath, then a wealthy widow, 
camiB to spend a summer at the little 
Devonshire watering-place. The old lovers 
met ; the acquaintance between them was 
revived, and all the short-lived pride and 
resentment on the man's part faded away 
at the first sight of the still handsome 
woman who years ago had taught him what 
passion meant, only to scatter it to waste 
by her caprice and inconstancy. 

Mrs. Pentreath too was touched and 
softened. It is something to a woman of 
fifty to find that in one man's eyes she is 
still as beautiful as at twenty-five. She 
was all alone too. Her son had just been 
gazetted to an Indian regiment. 

What might have come of the meeting 
had Captain Mavors lived, there is no know- 
ing ; but death interposed, and within three 
weeks of the meeting with his old love the 
sailor closed his eyes on the world and her, 
his dying hand groping to the last for the 
touch of her fingers, and his dying heart 
cheered by her promise to be a suardian 
and protectress to the orphan child he was 
leaving behind him. 

" It breaks my heart to think of her," he 

had said at the lasi " There'll be no one to 
take care of her when I'm gone, and she's 
too young and pretty to take care of herself." 

And Mrs. Pentreath answered with 
genuine warmth and tenderness : 

'' She is not too young to take care of me. 
Be easy about her, John. Your child shall 
never want a friend while I am alive, and 
when she loses you she shall come to me 
and make my home hers." 

It was a generous ofifer and the lady kept 
it generously. True, on reflection— reflec- 
tion aided by a wise recognition of the girl's 
dawning beauty and the remembrance of a 
too susceptible soldier son — she decided to 
call Hetty from the first her " little com- 
panion," and to give her regular duties in 
that capacity, thus preventing her or others 
from considering her position in the 
ambiguous light of adopted daughterhood. 
But this matter settled, she wowed her 
natural benevolence full play, and treated 
the girl with so much kindness and affec- 
tion that Hetty, having no remembrance of 
her .own mother, was quite ready to 
transfer to her protectress the devotion doe 
to one. Her pretty little fingers were 
never weary of mending or making, or her 
pretty little feet of running errands in 
Mrs. Pentreath's- service. She nursed her 
when sick, read to her and amused her 
when well, and made the house bright at 
all times by the mere fact of her sunshiny 

Mrs. Pentreath often said she did not 
know what she should do without the 
child, and in truth Hetty had no wish that 
she should try. Her Ufe at Guelder Lodge 
was perfectly happy. She was kindly 
treatea, and well dtoi for ; shared in all 
the comforts and luxuries of her guardian's 
life; had masters to teach her French, 
Grerman, and Italian, and by-and-by another 
one in addition. 

This master was Mrs. Pentreath's 
nephew, and his name was George 

Now Beady, 





Beventy-two Page«. Prioe BliqiMiioe. 

The Bight i>f Tramlaiing AriteUsfrom All the Teab Roukd w reterved fty ih* Ayihon, 

Published at fhe Office, 86, Wellington Street, Strand. Printed by Ceables Diokxvs A Eyass, 84 Oreat Kew Street, S.C. 


122 [July 21, 1888.] 



"Yoa're quite mht in saying that I 
like Miss Ray. I Iulb her better than I 
do anyone I know." 

'^ And better than yon have ever liked 
anyone yon have ever known 1 I'm sore 
I'm right in saying that, and I'm not in 
the least bit offended, for I haven't a 
spark of sentiment abont me ; no, not a 
spark of jealous sentiment," she added 

" Certainly you're as free from any folly 
of the sort as any woman whom it has 
been my luck to know," he agreed. 

"I am; and therefore you ought to 
attend to my words of wisdom, and thjnk 
that they're dictated by a pure spirit of 
reason, when I say you don't mc^e the 
most of your opportunities with Jenifer." 

'^You really are my ftiend in that 
quarter, Mrs. Bay 1 " 

*' I really am," she said, turning her face 
fully towards 1dm, in order that he might 
clearly read its eloquent expression. 

" Is it liking for me, or hatred of any- 
one else f " he asked. 

"Well, it's not 'hatred' of anyone 
else, but in a measure it's dread of some- 
one else. I'm not going to tell you 
anything about the someone excepting 
this, that he's a man for whom I would 
throw over fifty Captain Edgecombs." 

Her pliant figure leant forward as she 
spoke, and her bright hir faee shone upon 
him, and he remembered the day so well 
when such a gesture and such a look from 
her would have sent the blood coursing 
throuffh his veina But this day he only 
looked at her admizingly, and felt very 
grateful to her for the interest she 
expressed in his interest in Jenifer Bay. 

" Won't you give me. a hint bb to who 
is my rival t " he asked. 

<< Indeed I won't; bdrides, I'm only 
suspicious, not sure, that he is your rival ; 
at any rate, he's not a declared one, and 
in order to further your cause, and keep 
the field clear for you, I've pretended to 
take a dislike to him, and won't have him 
asked to Moor BoyaL" 

<* You're a valuable ally, Mrs. Bay; 
in return for your kindness I'll venture 
to give you a hint that you may act upon 
and save the Bay family a good deal of 
trouble. That young brother-in-law of 
yours is making a fool of himself with the 
gamekeeper's daughter. He was in Exeter 
with her yesterday, driving her about and 
shopping openly with her. She'll be Mrs. 
Jack Bay before hia people suspect what 
he IS about, if you don't interfere." 

" It's not my duty to interfere with his 
low tastes and matrimonial schemes," she 
said ; " he has a mother and sister to look 
after him, and if they're so blind as not 
to see the danger he's in, Tm not gomg to 
turn informer and tell them of it" 

'* You won't like it if he marries the 
girl. Bemember you're one of the fsmily, 
and anything that overclouds it will over- 
cloud you. Such a sister-in-law settled at 
your gates won't be desirable." 

"If I find it unpleasant^ Til make 
Hubert sell Moor Boyal ; I'm not wedded 
to the place or to the people about it. 
Jack's manying in such a way, and dis- 
gracing us all, won't be half a bad excuse 
for wanting to get away," she said, speak- 
ing with her customary careless frankness, 
and as, just then, her husband rode up to 
rejoin them, the subject of Jack's probable 
misalliance dropped. 

Meanwhile Minnie Thurile had gone 
home, and after briefiy relating to her 
mother what had passed up at ue home- 
farmhouse, she began carefully paddng 
up a rather extensive new wardroba 

"My dresses will be aa handsome as 
any Mrs. Bay has," she observed with 
much satisfaetion to her mother, " and I 
shall look quite as well in diem as she 
does in hers. There's no nonsense abont 
her ; she and I shall get on well enough, 
and I don't oare about the old woman and 
Jenifer. There's nothing to get from them, 
as I shall tell Jack if they «ut us and he 
makes a sillj of himself about it" 

" I shall never feel happv about it till I 
see you^oome oat of the ehureh with the 
ring'on your fingeri* Mm Thurtle said 
anxiously. She was naturally proud of 
her handsome daughter, and highly grati- 
fied at the prospect of seeing her *' made a 
lady of." Butdie had her maternal quahss 
about the marriage, as well as old Mrs. Bay. 

"Perhaps the ringll never be put on 
my finger in church," Minnie said a little 

'*You don't mean to say that he and 
you'd demean yourselves by being married 
at a registry-office 1 " Mrs. ThurUe cried in 
horror y "we've always been church people, 
and I shouldn't be able to look folks in 
the face if my daughter went and got 
married, as if her husband was ashamed of 
her, at.ja registry-office. I should scarce 
look upon you as a wife, Minnie— don't 
you name su<^ a thins again." 

Not beine prepared with a comforting 
answer to wese doubts and fears of her 
taother's, Minnie took refuge in silence, 



CbadM DIokiiu.] 


[July 21, 1888.] 123 

and a.tosB of the bead. She wm not a 
hearfcleis daughter by any means, and it hurt 
and depressed her now to feel that her 
conduct would cause her mother sorrow 
when all the truth came to he biown. 

"And the truth shall be known as soon 
as ever Jack comes back from hunting 
io-daj," she told herself resolutely. ** I'm 
not ffoing to have it said of me that I'm 
ove^boId in going to a bachelor's housa 
Elaiell be sorry enough she let her saucy 
tongue run on aa it did to-day when the 
truth 18 known." 

Her packing occupied her till late in the 
day, and still Jack did not come to the 
keeper's lodge to spend the evening as had 
been his wont of lata Minnie grew anxious, 
bat not alarmed. She felt sore that old 
Mm Bay had managed to gain speech with 
her son, and that a cBmaz was coming. 

Li truth this was the case. Jack had 
&Uen in with his brother and sister-in-law 
as they jogged home, and ^e with 
onusnal saavity and cordiality had in- 
vited him back to Moor Boyal to dinner. 
He hesitated for a moment or two, and 
then said : 

"I shall be delighted, Effie, if you'll 
have me in this gear." 

'' We always dress for dinner, and men 
who dine with me think it worth their 
while to do so ; but you can please your- 
self," she s»id coldly, and Jack felt humbled 
and reproved, but not at all offended. 

''By Jove t I like a woman who knows 
what* s doe to her, and will have it," the 
young fellow thought half-admiringly, half- 
legretfully, for it came upon him like a 
blow that Minnie Thurtle would never be 
able to recall a man to a sense of what was 
due to her in such a way as Ubis. 

''All ri^ht» Effie, 111 stop at my own 
house, and dress, and follow you very 
soon," he said aloud good-temperedly, and 
then he rode home, to hear from Elsie, his 
domestic, a distorted account of what had 
happened in the morning. 

'* Oh, Mr. Jack, is it you f " Elsie cried 
with a little shriek of affected alarm as her 
master came stamping into the passage, 
shouting for hot water. " Lor', I'm all of 
a tremble like. Missus — your ma, least- 
ways, came in this morning, and here 
was Miss Minnie Hurtle a-ragin' and 
going on at me as if I was a eonwicted thief, 
and your ma hearing her, and I not able 
to say a word for fri^t" 

"Go to the deuce, and get^me some hot 
water t" Jack shouted, flying beyond ear- 
shot of the obnoxious communication. 

" The whole business will explode to-night 
if mother^s been down here and has seen 
Minnie," he said to himself thoughtfully as 
he dressed. " Well, I'm almost glad of it 
Sooner or later it must be known, and I 
sha'n't feel like a sneak any longer when 
it is." 

Still, though he said this, he felt very 
much inclined to send an excuse, and 
stay away from Moor Boyal, when he 
pictured the sorrow that would shade his 
mother's eyes when she looked at him and 
knew the toath. 

''I have been a fool," he said pas- 
sionately ; " but I win be the only sufferer 
by my folly. Poor Minnie shall never feel 
it^ even if she does cost me the love of my 
mother and sister." 

Jenifer was standing in the haU when 
he went in, and he knew by the way in 
which she came forwaitl and linked her 
arm within his, ' and drew him into the 
library, that the dUmax was rapidly 

'' Dinner s always a little late on hunting 
days ; Effie won't be down yet, so we'll go 
in here and have a word or two before 
dinner. Jack, whatever comes, voull 
always be my brother^ and I shall always 
love you ; you feel that, don't you 1 " 

He bowed his head assentingly, and 
something like a sob convulsed his breast ; 
but he saKl nothing, and Jenifer went on : 

"Mother went to your house to-day, Jack, 
and now she knows what I have been afraid 
of for a long thne. Dear Jack, can you make 
us happy still — ^with honour 1" 

" Wo, I can't, Jenny darling," he blurted 
out, leaning his head down on his sister's 
shoulder. "Oh, Jennv, don't break me 
down completely, tall I vd been man enough 
to tell you all the truth. It's too late, dear, 
for anything to be said or dona I married 
Minnie in Exeter yesterday, and, I suppose, 
mother and youll cut me f " 

For answer she laid her hand on his, and 
led him to his mother's room. 

"I knew you would come, my boy; I 
knew, I knew," the widow said, trying her 
hahlest and bravest to speak calmly and 
brightly ; " and I know you will listen to 
your mother^ and give up this terrible folly 
that will poison the happiness of us all if 
you carry it " 

"Wait, mother dear," Jenifer's voice 
interrupted ; " Jack has come to tell you 
everythmg, and you will hear it patiently, 
won't you % " 

She looked from her son to her daughter 
in bewilderment. 



124 [July 21. 1888.] 


(Oondookad by 

" He has oome to confess his folly, and to 
listen to his mother, and take his mother's 
advice, backed by her tears and prayers," 
she cried, casting her arms about him, and 
then, with almost a groan, Jack said : 

" Mother, forgive me ! I married Minnie 

He was so excited and agitated as he 
spoke that he was scarcely consdoos that 
his mother reoofled from him, and cried 
out in the bitterness of her grief and anger 
that she " would rather have seen him in 
his cofSn than have heard this." 

But Jenifer saw and heard it all, and 
knew how little it was meant in reality, 
and was gratefully glad that Jack's mind 
was too preoccupied to take in the fall 
force of it 

''Dear Jack," she wluspered soothingly, 
"go to the drawing-room now. Leave 
mother, like a good boy, and you shall 
BC)e her again preeentlv. Go to Hubert and 
Effie ; have no concealment from them." 

As she spoke, the last dinner-bell rang, 
and Jack went out to meet Hubert and his 
wife with his heavy secret unknown. 

There was no opportunity of telling 
them, for dinner was served, and they were 
under the vigilant eyes of the servants. 
Presently Jenifer came in and took her place 
opposite to Jack with an apology for her 
mother's absence from the dinner-table. 

'' What's the matter with your mother, 
Hubert t " Mrs. Bay asked pettishly. " If 
people are ill in my house, I wish they'd 
say so, and not send down mysterious 
messages that leave me in the dark as to 
the real reason why they absent themselves 
from my dinner-tabla" 

" My mother's at liberty to do as she 
pleases in her own home," Hubert said in 
reluctant reproof. 

"Scarcely, I think, when her 'home' 
happens to be in another person's house," 
Mrs. Bay said coolly. 

Then she made things easier for every- 
body by sending away dish after dish un- 
tasted, until Hubert felt almost annoyed 
with his mother for indulging "in a 
caprice " which robbed Effie of her 

Jack had been nerving himself for the 
manly performance of a task that was 
odious to him during the whole of dinner, 
and as soon as they were left alone he 
b^an cracking filberts industriously, and 
prepared himself for action. 

"Effie," he began rather hoarsely and 
with his fair boy's faee looking strangely 
white and pain-lined, "you are vexed 

with mother for not dining with ns 
to-night, but you should rather be vexed 
with ma" 

She turned her face quickly towards 
him, and the bright smile that flashed out 
from her big blue eyes and small gleaming 
teeth encouraged hiuL 

" I have told my mother to-night some- 
thing that has distressed her drradfolly— 
something that perhaps she will nevar 
forgive me for," he said with a gulp. " I 
owe it to Hubert and you to tell you also ; 
but I think you'll stand by us and not cast 
us off. I married Minnie Thurtle in 
Exeter yesterday, and — ^as you treat me, to 
must you treat my wife." 

" I distinctly decline to associate with a 
gamekeeper'sdaughteron termsof equality," 
Effie said, rising up with all her oidinaiy 
graceful self-possession. "As for you, 
Jack, I'll treat you still as a bachelor 
brother if you like to come here some- 
times, but I think your wife and I can 
have so little in common, that it would be 
absurd for me to attempt to notice her." 

Then she made them a pretty sweeping 
bow and retired to one of her own fast- 
nesses to write a highly-coloured and 
amusing account of the scene to her sister 

"So Jack's disposed of," she thought 
complacently as she sealed her letter. 
" Youn^ idiot I he actually thought that I 
was gomg to take up his precious wife 
because I fooled him to the top of his bent 
about her. I wish Edgecumb would take 
the plunge, then I should be rid of the lot 
of them. I do wonder that old Mrs. Bay 
KB mean-spirited enough to stay on here 
when she must see that I want her to ga" 

"Won't you go and say a word to 
mother, Effie 1 She's feeling this aboat 
Jack awfuUy," her husband said, coming 
in to her presently. 

She shrugged her pretty, slender shoul- 
ders and told him " No ; family bothers 
were things she did not mean to take to 



The life of this wonderful, but wayward, 
genius, is amusing and interesting in the 
highest degree; indeed, his autobiography, 
with its curious mixture of fact and fiction, 
is, as Walpole observed, " more amusing 
than any novel" 

The time in which he lived was a 
curiously brilliant period of Italy's history, 

C3iarlM DiekaDi.) 


(Juir2i,u8sj 126 


and the worship whioh rank then paid to 

Kuiu gained him the intimacy of two 
pes, Clement the Sev«iiith, and Paul the 
Thnd ; tibe Dukes Alessamdro and Cosmo de' 
Medici, Frands the First, and Charles the 
Fifth — ^besides cardinals innumerable— and 
all the great ItaUan sculptors and painters 
of his day, induding Michel Angelo and 

" He touched nothing which he did not 
adorn," might well be said of him, and 
nothing was done by him that was not 
only an art gem in conception, but in 
workmanship as well. Luckily for us, his 
works have always been so highly prized, 
that they haye been well carod for and 
tended, and, consequently, most of them 
have sufnved until our day. English gold 
has been able to procure for tUs country 
examples of his work that, once obtained, 
are literally priceless, and, being both in 
royal and good private collections, they are 
not likely again to leave these shores. 

As there is no other lengthened bio^phy 
of him than that which he wrote hmiself, 
or rather which he dictated to the young 
son of Michel di Goro della Pieve a 
Groppino, whilst he went on with his work, 
we are constrained to follow it, believing 
it to be true in all its m%in facts, although 
there can be no doubt he was led astray, 
occasionally, by his fervid imagination, his 
egregious vanity, and his love of the 

His vanity, however, was his weakest 

Kmt, and hiis truthfulness in many cases 
d to yield to it. Knowing to the full his 
capabilities and powers, he endeavoured to 
believe that he could excel in everything, 
imtil his imagination became diseased, and 
he had recourse to what, in plain English, 
we should call downright lying. 

He was the son of Giovanni Cellini and 
Maria Lisabetta Oranacd, who were both 
natives of Florence, where he was bom in 
the year 1500 ; but he said lus ancestors 
had great possessions in the valley of 
Ambraa, where they lived until one of 
the family named Cristofano quarrelled 
with some of their nei£;hbours. The two 
disputants were compelled to separate ; one 
was sent to Sienna, and Cristofano, who 
was Benvenuto's great-grandfather, was 
banished to Florence, where he settled. 

Benvenuto owed his name to hia father's 
dread of having another daughter, and 
whea he heard a boy was bom, he looked 
up to heaven and 8aia|/' Lord, I thank thee 
mm the bottom oi my heart for this 
present^ which is very dear and welcome.-' 

And when pressed to give the child a name, 
all he would answer was that he was ben- 
venuto (welcome); so Benvenuto he was 

Whether he forgot the incidenta of his 
childhood or not, or simply wanted to make 
out that in his early days he was marked as 
a prodigy, it is impossible to say, but he im- 
mediately commences his marvellous stories. 
First, he relates that he, when three years 
old, caught hold of a large scorpion, which 
did not harm him, although its bite or 
sting was deadly, and that he would not 
let it go, so that his father had, by gentle 
application of a pair of scissors, to decapitate 
it and cut off its sting. Next, when he 
was five years old, and looking at the fire, 
he was astonished to receive a box on the 
ear from his father, the cause of which the 
fond parent explained thus : " My dear 
child, I don't give you that box for any 
fault you have committed, but that you 
may recollect that the little creature which 
you see in the fire is a salamander ; such 
a one as never was beheld before to my 
knowledge;" and then he embraced him and 
gave him money. 

A child thus early favoured by the special 
sight of such a rarity as a salamander in 
the fire, must necessarily be reserved, in his 
after life, for some special fate. He probably 
inherited his artistic taste from hu father, 
who, besides being an engineer and one of 
the court musicians, carved in ivory. He 
sadly wanted Benvenuto to give up his 
whole time to music, and set his heart upon 
his son becoming a proficient on the fiute ; 
but the boy, although musical, preferred 
drawing, and so it came to nass that he was 
bound apprentice to a eolosmith of Pinzi 
di Monte, called Michdagnolo, the father 
of the Cavaliere Baccio Bandindli, who 
perhaps, as a sculptor, in his age approached 
Michel Angelo more nearly tmm any other, 
and who, in after life, became Cellini's pet 
aversion. But the boy was restless, and, 
leaving his master, engaged himself to 
another goldsmith, one ^tonio di Sandro. 

When he was sixteen, his brother, who 
then was but fourteen years of age, had a 
duel, and, in the squabble which afterwards 
ensued, Benvenuto ffot mixed up; the 
consequence being uiat the Council of 
Eight banished both of them for six 
months for a distance of ten miles from the 
city. Our hero went to Sienna, and there 
followed his trade with a goldsmith named 
Francesco Castoro. From thence he went 
to Bologna, where he stayed a tiue^ and 
then returned to Florence. 







126 [July 21, 1888.1 




There he abode a short time, until his 
brother returned in some^idiat eyil caae, 
and having helped himself to some of 
Benvenuto's clothes without having first 
gone through the formality of asking his 
leare, Benvenuto got somewhat disgusted^ 
lefb the parental roof, and went to Lacc% 
from thence to Pisa^ but withii a year he 
returned to Florence. 

We narrowl7> escaped having him here 
in England — ^for Torregiano, wlio was 
«nployed by Henry the Eightii to make 
the magnificent tomb of lus fauier, was then 
in Florence, seeldng workmen to come to 
England. He saw some of Cellini's draw- 
ings and work, and warmly pressed him to 
go with him, but he retused, because 
Torreeiano boasted of having broken 
Michd Angelo's nose with a blow of his 
fist As Buonaiotti was Cellini's divinity, 
whom he devotedly worriiipped, this was 
more than he could bear — and it is 
owing to this circumstance that England 
was deprived of the advantages oi his 

He stayed at Florence untU his nine- 
teenth year, when he quite suddenly 
decamped, with a companion named Tasso,' 
without even mentioning the matter to 
their parents, and went to Bome. Tasso 
soon retuxsied to Florence, but Cellini' 
found work, and stayed tiiere for two years, 
when he, also, got home-sick, and returned 
to his father. iBut^ he says, the goldsmiths 
at Florence were jealous of his ffood work, 
and he got into quarrels and brawls — ^indeed 
his temper was ever leading him into some 
scrape, one of which was so serious, that 
he had to fly Florence, and once more seek 
Rome, where he found Cardinal Giulio de'* 
Medici, an old friend of his f atiier's, had 
been elected Pope, under the titie of 
Clement the Seventh (1523). 

Here, the beauty of his workmanship' 
soon procured him patrons amone the 
aristocracv and the magnates of the Church, 
and he found that he could earn more 
money at making jewellery than at gold* 
smith's work pure and simple. 

He soon came under the notice of the 
Pope, though not through lus handicraft. 
He was asked by a friend, who was one 
of the Pope's household musicians, to play 
the flute at the Pope's Ferragosto (which 
was a Boman Festival, held on the 1st of 
August), and his performance so delighted 
his Holiness, that he enquired his name. 
Finding he was the son of his old Florentine 
acquaintance, Giovanni Cellini, he imme- 
diately appointed him one of his musicians. 

and gave him a hundred gold erowns to 
divide with his new associates. Of coune, 
he could not accept this good fortune lilu 
an ordinaiy mortal, so he had a vidon of 
his fiither coming to him and bidding him 
take it under penalty of his curse ; and, as 
if this tale required some sort of confirma- 
tion, he asserts that at the very same time, 
his father had a similar vision. 

At this time he was twA^Kwig a silver vase 
for the Bishop of Salamanca, of veiy 
curious workmanship. It took a long 
time to make, so long, indeed, that the 
bishop's patience got euausted, and, when 
he ffot it at last, 1^ vowed that he would bo 
as slow in paying for it as it had been 1od| 
in manufacture. This angered Cellini, m 
led to a scene which is interesting, as 
ilhistrating the manners of the timea 
One day, in the biah(n>'s absence, a Spanish 

Entiemaa was handling the vase, and by 
I clumsiness managed to injure it, so 
that it had to be returned to Cellini to 
be repaired. Once having got it into 
his possession, he was determined not to 
part with it. The bishop wanted it, how- 
ever, to show somebody, and sent a 
servant who demanded it rudely. To 
this the aniswer was that the bishop shonld 
have it when he paid for .it, and tiie man, 
after alternately supplicating and bullying, 
went away, swearing he would return 
with a body of Spaniards, and cut him m 

Cellini got out his gun, and prepared 
for action; and hardly had he done so, 
when his house was attacked by a band of 
infuriated Spaniards, nor was it till some 
Soman gentiemen came to his assistanoe 
thattiie assailantsretired. Cellini threatened 
to lay the whole affair before the Pope, bat 
ultimately armed himself, and, with his 
servant carryinff the disputed vase, he 
sought the biiSiop's presence, and, after 
some demur, he obtained payment. 

When the Pope did hear of it, Cellini's 
conduct met witii his warm . approval, and 
oonmiissiona fhwti cardinals and grandees 
flowed in upon him, especially for those 
medallions wliich it was tiien the Aahion to 
wear in the hat This induced him to 
study seal-engraving, at which he became 
a great adept, making many of the 
canunals' seals. He also practised enunel- 
ling, which was of great use to him in his 

Then came a plague in Some, and he 
amused himself by going into the country 
shooting. Of course, ms skill exceeded 
everytxKly else's, if his own statements are 




Ohaikt DfekMu.] 


(July 21, 188S.1 127 

to be accepted as fiEusta, kQlMg pigeolm, eta, 
mvariably with a single ballet 

He next turned hu attention to damas- 
cening on steel and silv^er, and some of his 
steel rings inlaid with gold fetched over 
forty crowns, which was less than half of 
what a brother artist, Caradosso, obtained 
for his work. 

llin was all very well in the pipine 
times of peace, bat vrar was at hand, and all 
the potentates of Italy got mixed ap in the 

Jaarrel between Francis the First and 
Iharles the Fifth. Cellini took ap arms in 
defence of Bome, and, according to his own 
account, performed prodigies of yalour. 
On the night of May 5th, 1527, 
Charles de Bourbon suddenly arrived 
before Some with an army of forty thousand 
men, and next morning assaulted the dty, 
where he was killed, eaily in the day, by a 
musket shot, whilst he was leading on his 
troops, scaling-ladder in hand. Of course, 
our hero claimed to have shot him, nor 
only so, but when Clement betook himself 
to ibe castle of Si Angelofor safety, Cellini 
had command of a portion of the ordnance, 
where, to the Pope's admiration, he killed 
large numbers of the enemy, and said he' 
wounded the Prince of Orange. 

One sample of his own version of his 
deeds of prowess may be given : 

"I saw a man who was employed in 
getting the trenches repaired, and who 
stood with a speair' in his hand, dressed 
in rose colour, and I began to deliberate 
how I coatd lay him flat. I took 
my swivel, which* was almost equal to a 
demi-colverin, turned it round, and chai^g 
it with a good quantity of fine and coarse 
powder mixed, aimed at him exactly. 
Though he was at so great a distance, that 
it cotdd not be expected any effort of art 
should make such pieces carry so far, I fired 
off the gun, and hit the man in red exactly 
in the middle. He had arrogantly placed 
his sword before him in a sort of Spanish 
bravado, but the ball of my piece hit against 
his sword, and the man was seen severed 
m two pieces. The Pope, who did not 
dream of any such thing, was highly 
delighted and suiprised at what he saw, as 
well because he thought it impossible that 
such a piece could carry so far, as Uiat he 
could not conceive how the man could be 
cut into two pieces." 

Things grew desperate, and, before the 
capitulation on June 5th, 1527, Clement 
employed Cellini to take all the jewels of 
the r^alia from their settings, and melt 
down the gold, which weighed about a 

hundred pounds. The jewels, for safety, 
were sewn into the skirts of the dresses both 
of the Pontiff and his master of the horse. 

After the capitulation, Cellini returned 
to Florence, where he found his father well ; 
and, having administered to his necessities, 
he went to Mantua, where he visited Giidio 
Bomano, who recommended him to the 
duke, fiom whom he speedily had com.- 
missions. He did not stop long there, 
however, but returned to i^lorence, where 
he found all his family, with the exception 
of a brother and sister, dead of the plague 
— that dreadful scourge which from May 
to November, 1527, Mlled forty thousand 
persons in Florence. 

Here he stayed some little time, and was 
visited by Michel Angelo ; but at last the 
Pope, hearing he was at Florence, begged 
him i^ come to Bome, and offered him very 
advantageous terms. But he coauetted 
before he cimsented, and when he did go, 
he refrained for some time from visiting 
the Pope. 

At last they met, and Clement gave him 
a commission, which turned out one of his 
masterpieces, to make him a morse, or clasp, 
for his pontifical cape. 

He afterwardU designed and struck some 
medals imd coins, and was appointed stamp- 
master to the mint, with a liberal salary. 

And now follows an episode which shows 
the general lawlessness of those days. 
Brawling, street-fighting, and assassination 
were of everyday occurrence, and swords 
leaped lightly from their scabbards on 
slender pretence, wheh wMn' by these im- 
pulsive Italians. 

His brother — ^who was in Bome, in the 
serrice of Aless4ndro do* Medici — of course 
got quarrelsome, a fight occurred, and he 
was shot in the leg. Ben venuto immediately 
joined in the mel6e, and would have killed 
the mnsqueteer who shot his brother, had 
not the man escaped. The surgeons 
proposed cutting off the brother's leg — ^but 
Uieir patient would not hear of it, and 
consequently died. Benvenuto sorrowed 
deeply for him, and brooded over revenge, 
until he found out the habitation of the 
unfortunate musqueteer. Him he found 
standing at his door, and, without more 
ado, he smote and felled him with a blow 
from a long dagger; and, when the 
poor' wretch could not help himself, he 
stabbed him in the collar-b<me and neck 
with such force that he could not extract 
the dagger. Haying thus assassinated his 
enemy, he left the dagger in the corpse, 
and immediately sought Duke Alessandro, 


128 (July 21, 188S.] 



who at once accorded him his protectioii, 
and told him to ^ on with the work he 
had in hand for his holiness. And all the 
notice ever taken of this outrage, was that 
at their next interview, the Pope sliehtly 
frowned on Cellini, and said sigmficantiy to 
him : " Now that you have recovered yonr 
health, Benvennto, take care of yoursdi." 

He was now in high favonr, kept five 
journeymen, and was entrusted by the 
Pope with all his jewels for resetting — ^but 
these he narrowly escaped losing, owing 
to a burelary at his house, which was 
partially defeated through thesagacit^ of his 
dog, who afterwards met the wief in tlie 
stieet, flew at him, and would not be beaton 
o& There was nothing left for the thief 
to do but to confess, and this he did, 
making full restitution of the stolen pro- 
perty; so that Cellini and his dog were 
satiefied — ^there always is a halo of romance 
about everything connected with this 
wonderful man. 

The Pope was highly delighted with 
his morse, and made Cellini one of his 
mace-bearers, who preceded the pontiff 
carrying rods. He also gave him an 
order to make a chalice, and the design 
was worthy of the master. Instead of an 
ordinary stem the cup was upheld by three 
figures of Faith, Hope, and Charity, and 
on the foot were three bosses, on which 
were represented, in basso-relievo, three 
stories relating to the figures. And it was 
over this chidice that ne and his friend 
and protector, the Pope, quurelled. 

No sooner was the design shown to 
his holiness, and duly admired, than 
Benvenuto must needs ask for more pre- 
ferment; this time a place worth over 
eight hundred crowns yearly. The Pope 
refused, saying, if he enriched the artist, 
he would no longer care to work; but at 
last consented to give him the next good 
piece of preferment that fell vacant, pro- 
vided he made haste and finished the 
chalice. The Pope went to Bologna, and 
Cellini says he made great progress with 
his work, but could not get on for want of 
more gold, which he could not obtain firom 
the papal treasury. Besides which, he 
says he suffered from bad eyes, so much so 
that he thought he should lose his sight 

On his return, the Pope sent for him, 
and was so displeased with him for the 
little progress that he had made in his 
work, that he fell in a violent passion, and 

"As there is truth in Ood, I assure 
you, since yon value no living soul, that, if 

a regard for decency did not prevent me, 
I would order both you and your work to 
be thrown this moment out of the window." 

Cellini still pleaded his blindness, and 
in a few days the Pope sent for him, and 
spoke kindly to him. 

But intrigues were going on against him. 
Through the influence of Cardinal Salviati 
— ^who was no friend to Benvenuto— a 
rival goldsmith, named Tobbia, was intro- 
duced to Clement, and in a competition 
between CoUini and Tobbia, for the mount- 
ing of a unicorn's — or narwhal's — ^hoin, 
wmch was to be sent as a present to FrandB 
the First, Tobbia gained Uie day. Then he 
irriteted the Pope by asking for more 
money for gold for the chalice, which never 
seemed nearer completion, and then he 
wasdismissed from mis situation in the mint 
At last the Pope lost all patiendb, and sent 
for the chalice, finished or unfinished. 
Cellini refused to yield it His ar^ment 
was, that the Pope had advanced mm five 
hundred crowns, which he would retan, 
but that he had no right whatever to the 
unfinished cup. Nor could anything stir 
him from his resolution. 

He was taken before the governor of 
Kome; but neither threato nor cajoling 
prevailed, and the matter ended in nu 
having hu own way, returning the moneji 
and keeping the unfinished chalice. It 
must, however, have been some comfort to 
him to find that the pontiff did not appre- 
ciate his rival's work. 

Presumably, Cellini considered this por- 
tion of his life as tame, so he launches out in 
a cock and bull story of his studying necro- 
mancy in company with a Sicilian priest 
They employed a boy as a medium, and 
there were the usual clouds of incense- 
burning, perfumes, eto, until the medium 
declared they were surrounded by a million 
fierce men, besides four armed giMucs. This 
even daunted our hero ; but at last, although 
at one time the place was full of devils, they 
gradually disappeared, until only a few 
were let% who accompanied them on their 
way home, playfidly leaping and skipping) 
sometimes running on the roofs of the 
houses, and sometimes on the ground. 
This seems to have been his worst encounter 
with spirits, and he settled down once 
more to his trade, until his bad temper again 
got him into troubla 

This time he quarrelled with ^ 
Signer Benedetto, wno provoked him 
beyond endurance by telling him that he 
and his partner FeUce were both scoon- 
drek Cellini's hot blood fired up at this, 






[July 21,1881.] 129 

and, scooping np a handful of mud oat of 
the street, he threw it at Benedetto. Un- 
f oTtimately, there was a sharp flint with 
the dirt, which stonned him, and so cut 
his head that it bled profoselj. Some 
meddler told the Pope that Benvennto had 

J 'list mnrdered his rival Tobbia, and the 
^ope, in a passion, ordered the governor 
of jRome to seize Cellini, and hang him at 
onca Luckily for him he got instant 
information, and lost no time in flying 
from Bome as fast as a horse could gallop, 
leaving the irate pontiff to find out almost 
immediately afterwards tiiat Tobbia was 
alive and well 

He fled to Naples, where the viceroy 
wonld fain have kept him, but Cardinal de' 
Medici having written to him to return to 
Borne without delay, he did so, and imme- 
diately set about a medal for the Pope, 
commemoratingtheuniversal peace between 
1530 and 1536. He continued to enjoy 
Clement's favour until his death in 1534, 
at which time he had a quarrel with, and 
killed, a man named Pompeo, so had to 
seek the protection of some powerfol friend, 
whom he found in Cardinal Comaro ; and 
the new Pope, Paul the Third — Cardinal 
Alessandro ^amese — ^gave him not only a 
safe conduct, but at once employed him in 
the mint But, havine aroused the enmity 
of Signer Pier Luigi li^imese, who hired a 
disbimded soldier to assassinate him, he 
thought it time to move, and went to 

Doke Alessandro de' Medici received 
him very kindly, and would have had him 
stay, but he went with two friends of his — 
Bcolptors — ^to Venice, where they stopped 
a short time, and then returned to 
Florence, where he employed himself at 
the mint and in making jewellery, until 
a safe conduct arrived for him from the 
Pope, with his commands that he should 
immediately repair to Bome. 

On his arrival, the magistrates, who were 
not aware of his protection, sent some of 
the city guards to arrest him for the 
murder of Pompeo, but they retired upon 
seeing the document, and Cellini had his 
pardon properly registered. After this he 
had a violent illness, and nearly died; 
and he attributes his recovery to drinking 
plentifully of cold water whilst in a violent 
fever. But even his convalescence must 
be attended with some extraordinary 
occurrence, for he vomited a hairy worm, 
about a quarter of a cubit long ; the hairs 
were very long, and the worm was shock- 
ingly ugly, having spots of different colours, 

green, black, and red; in fact, quite an 
artistic worm, worthy of having emanated 
from such a genius. 

He required his native air of Florence to 
restore him to health, but found the duke 
much prejudiced against him, owing to 
malicious reports ; so, after a short stay, he 
returned to Bome, and very soon alter, 
Alessandro was assassinated by Lorenzo de' 
Medici, 6th January, 1537, and Cosmo 
reimed in his stead. 

At this time Charles the Fifth paid a 
visit to Bome, and the Pope thought to 
make him some . extraordinary present 
Cellini suggested a gold crucifix in which 
he could utilise the statuettes and orna- 
ments of his beloved chalice, but Paul 
decided to give a superbly iQuminated 
missal, and Cellini was to make the cover, 
which was to be of gold, adorned with 
jewels worth about six thousand crowns, 
and he was alio deputed to be the bearer 
of the present to the emperor, who recipro- 
cated the Pope's gift by a diamond which 
had cost him twelve thousand crowns, 
which Cellini afterwards set as a ring for 
Pope Paul But he complained that he was 
not paid commensurately for his labour, 
either in the ring or the book-cover, so he 
determined to go to France, and finally 
accomplished the journey, wonderlul to 
relate, without any marvellous adventures, 
but only the ordinary incidents of travel. 

He arrived in Paris, saw, and was 
graciously received by Francis the First, 
started with him on lus journey to Lyons, 
where it was arranged that Cellini should 
stay, and then, unstable as water, because 
he was taken ill, and his attendant, Ascanio, 
had the ague, he was disgusted with France, 
and determined to return to Bome, which 
he reached in safety, and continued his 
business peacefully, having eight assistants. 

One of these, however, treacherously and 
falsely told the secretary of his old enemy. 
Pier Luigi, that Benvenuto was worth at 
least eighty thousand ducats, the greatest 
portion of which belonged to the Uhurch, 
and which he had stolen when in the Castle 
of St Angelo during the siege of Bome. 

This was a bait too great for the avarice 
of the Pope, so one fine morning poor 
Cellini found himself in custody of the 
city guard, and safely lodged in the Castle 
of St. Angelo, he being at this time but 
thirtyHBOven years of age. After a delay of 
some days he was examined, and made a 

£)od defence, but to no purpose. Pier 
uigi had asked his father for CelUni's 
money, and the Pope had granted hb 




130 [July 21.1888.] 


P?oud[Wiom liy 

prayer; and even the remonstrances of 
Eling Francis the First were oaeless — ^f or 
he was told that Benvenato was a turbolent^ 
troublesome fellow, and his majesty was 
advised not to interfere, because he was 
kept in prison for commiting murder and 
other crimes. The king even begged for 
his release on the grounds that as he had 
visited France with the Pope's permission, 
and with the intention of remaining, he was 
virtually his subject ; but even this reason- 
ing could not ptevail, and Oellini must 
remain in durance. 

The constable of St Angelo was a 
Florentine, and greatly tempered the 
severity of GdUini's incarceration by allowing 
him to walk freely about the castle on parde. 
But it seems that the constable was subject 
to annual fits of monomania. One year he 
fancied himself a pitcher of oil; another 
year, a fix)g, and would leap about as such ; 
and this year he was a bat, lind, believing 
in his own .powers of volition, he £uided 
that Oellini's ingenuity might also enable 
him to fly, and thus escape. 

So his parole was taken from him, and 
he was ihxit up. This naturally made 
Benvenuto anxious to escape, and, having 
torn up his sheets, and made lengths of 
rope therewith, he managed to steal a pair 
of pincers. With these latter, he drew the 
nails which fastened the iron plates to the 
door, making false, heads with wax and 
iron rust 

Matters being thus prepared, he made 
his attempt one night, and succeeded in 
getting outside, but at the cost of a broken 
leg. In his helpless condition some mastiffs 
set upon him, and he had a desperate fight 
with them. A water;earrier gave him a 
lift, and got him farther away, and then he 
, crawled and dragged himself on hands and 
knees, trying to reach the house of the 
Duchess Ottavio, who had formerly been 
the wife of the murdered Alessandro de' 
MedicL However, luckily, a servant of 
Cardinal Gomaro saw him in this plight, 
and immediately told his master, who at 
once had him fetched in and his injuries 
seen ta 

The cardinal next went to the Pope to 
intercede for his prot^^, and at first 
Paul seemed inclined to pardon, for he 
himself had once broken out of St Angelo, 
where he had been imprisoned for forging 
a papal brief. But Celhni's evil genius, Pier 
Luigi, was present ; his counsels had too 
much weight, and the unfortunate artist 
was taken, nominally as a guest of the- 
pontiff, to the papal palace, and after a 

little time he was conveyed again to the 
Castle of St Angelo. 

Here the orazy governor, in order to keep 
him safely, confined him in a very dark 
room under the garden, the floor of whi(^ 
was covered with water, and which was, 
besides, tenanted by taiantolas and other 
noxious insects. 

Deprived of all society, and with no books 
save a Bible and the Chronicles of Yillani, 
Cellini's reason seems to have partially 
given way, and he records numerous visions 
seen, whidi, it is needless to say, were of 
the most astounding nature. Indeed the 
Pope believed him mad, and sent woxd to 
the governor of > St Ajtigelo to take no 
farther heed of him, but to mind the salva- 
tion of his own soul — ^for though the 
governor had recovered his reason, lus 
health was undeitnined. 

With returning sense, he treated his 
prisoner better, giving him pens, ink, and 
paper, besides modelhng wax and im|de- 
ments, so that his lot was much am^o- 
rated; nay, just before his death, he 
allowed Cellini almost the same liberty he 
had enjoyed when first he was imnqson^l 
—a privu^e which was confirmed by his 
successor, Antonio UgolinL 

About this time, Cdlini says, an attempt 
was made to poison him by mizihg pounded 
diamonds with his food, but this was 
defeated by the avarice of the person 
employed to make the powder, who kept 
the real stone and pounded a counterfeit 
After this the governor sent him food from 
his own table, and one of his servants 
tasted it 

Briehter days were now in store for our 
hero, for the Cardinal of Ferraara, coming to 
Home from the court of France, finding 
the Pope one day in a good humour, asked, 
as a boon, in tiie name of the king his 
master, the liberation of Cellini, which was 
graciously accorded, and he was at once 
released before the news could come to the 
ears of his enemy. Pier LuigL 


She had said it, and had meant it too — 
at the time. And now he was gone, per- 
haps for good. She stood, one slender 
arm leant upon the mantelpiece, gazmg 
downward into the flames, thinking of the 
effect of her words. How hateful she must 
have seemed in his eyes — those honest eyes 
of his — when she wilfully put aside his 
earnest remonstrances, and would hear 


^y f fff iMefcmi.] 

MBS, . BEAUMONT^ LOVE STOBY. cJidy 21, imi 131 

nothing. Thece yraa reaentme&t still in 
her qoiTering lip and fliubed cheek, bat her 
heart eank as she tboaght of what awaited 
her if he wonld not speak. 

" Yerj well/' he had said, clearly and 
eabalyy pride being roused at last ; " U yon 
will not listen, Flome, there is nothing left 
forme battogo." What bosiness had he to be 
calm at flueha moment t Men always took 
these things moreeasily than women, their 
conoeit enabling them to appear masters of 
the situation even when they on^ht to look 
worsted. She remembered he had tamed 
ss he reaohed the door, and added half- 
tenderiy: '^Will yonl" And her piide 
had not petmittea her to soften then, or 

The worst was— *wa8 it the worst) she 
tried to tfamk*— that she waa going to a 
ball that ni^t where he woaldbei Suppose 
he snlked and would not speak. Would 
people notice it ) At all erents she could 
not speak first Tom Oarrington would 
have to seek her out for himself, if he 
wanted her. She would behave exaotiy 
as if he was not there until he had made 
amendsi. No more dances kept with an 
initial made by hmelf— it was cruel to 
think <3t it. She would keep two^ just in 
esse. Then she resolved to banish him 
utterly from her thoughts for the present, 
and leave the unravellmg of the knot till 
the evening. Meanwhile consideiations of 
drees daimed her. So. she hurried away 
out of the pretty, sunlit drawing-room, and 
was invisible till lunch-time. 

In the afternoon there was positively 
nothing more to be done. The sky had 
donded over, and the London streets and 
squares looked miserable in the dripping 
rain. It was lucky rain did not stop 
people going to balls, Florrie Belton 
thought Tmie seemed to lag dreadfully. 
Perhaps it was the long wet iStemoon, for 
ahe was not ordinarily eager or. excitable 
about balls and festivities, getting enough 
of them to take them as they came. But 
somehow she could not help feeling that 
this might be a cri8i& While her aunt 
dosed cMufortaUy until the advent of after- 
noon-tea should call for semi-wskefulness, 
ahe went over the scene of the morning in 
her mind. She decided she had said 
nothing that she had not meant ; nothing 
that was not perfectiy just and true — ^at 
least it looked Uke being true, if nobody 
took the trouble to ezphdn it And he 
never did explain anything properly. He 
always said " Very well," in a provoking 
sort of way, eyebrows and shoulders 

going up together, as if he were the 
most hardly-used man in <areation. Even 
when she was right and he was wrong, 
there was no good in going on with it after 
that There is positively no satisfaction in 
being rights when everyone else gives you 
dispassionately to understand that they 
think you wronff. 

How dismal London looks in a shower 1 
If someone only would call. The very 
dogs oatatde w J[dered np «id down in i 
melancholy way, peering aimlessly into 
doorways and down areas. Hush, that was 
a knock t A visitor's knock, calculated to 
shake people into amiably expectant atti- 
tudes, followed by a genteel ring — a curfew 
for the suppression of shabby novels, old 
slippers, and other " unc6mpany " things. 

It may be remarked of "hShm Belton, 
senior, that she was never surprised. She 
had only to opea her eyes on occasions like 
the present, and tiiere she was, equal to 
anything, from a telegram to a peeress. 
Mr. Henry Beatunont^ who smiled his easy 
way into the room, was a visitor to whom 
Miss Belton was ever ready to do infinite 
honour^ He was one of that numerous 
body of weU-dressed, well-fed, gentlemanly 
do-nothings, whose lives are one consistent 
eSoit to please themselvea At thirty-five, 
and what is called a ladies' man, he was 
for ever to be met with dawdling in the 
wake of someattractive'woman.or another. 
Not because he was susceptible, but because, 
being a man of taste, he liked to be seen and 
heard of in the sbciety of what he called 
"presentable womea" Presentable women, 
for their part, were glad to see him ; for 
was he not good-looking, of good figure, 
very well off, and not the least bit in the 
world bald f 

Miss Belton, who was about the most 
entertaining old maid in London when she 
thought fit, roused herself to her utmost 
conversational pressure whenever she saw 
Hennr Beaumont Monie saw it, and 
usually contrived to qualify her aunt's 
attentions by remarks of a casual and 
practical nature. She diverted herself 
by dissecting Mr. Beaumont's agreeable 
commcmplaces, and shaking him into some- 
thing like reaJity. After fifteen years of 
saying what we do not mean, it is some- 
times refreshing to be called upon to say 
what we do ; and Beaumont liked it^ He 
felt it did him good. It was something to 
have come across a girl who cared not one 
jot for what he said^ and who persistently 
threw cold water upon her aunt's civilities, 
when those civilities seemed to bear any- 



132 [J11IJU.11BI.] 


thing like a referaoce to herself. To-day 
he waded patieotlj through the elder lady^is 
flow of general conyersation, and having 
elicited the ftet that they were going to 
the B ^'s ball, calmly fished for an in- 
vitation to dine and escort them, and got it 

So dinner was not the dreary probi^on 
Florrie had reckoned upon its being. 
Beanmont was agreeable and facetioos; 
and when he had gone off to his chambers 
to dress, she was in a more hopeful mood. 
After all, there were people in the world 
who had no wish to snnb her. 

Why shotdd she be snubbed by one 
man, when there were plenty of others 
richer, more agreeable, more amusine, and 
perhaps handsomer, who were reMly to 
take her word for law, and defer to her 
on all occasions! And what were tiiose 
others to her f she asked herself with 
reactionaiy inconsistence. Noting, abso- 
lutely nothing. Their attentions bored, 
when they did not amuse her. She saw 
them for what they were : men who tried 
to pique her vanity and gratify their own ; 
men who amused themselves with her as 
with a pret(ty child ; men who never spoke 
to her on any subject which could be worUi a 
moment's serious consideration ; men who 
had never thought it worth their mascu- 
line while to see whether a woman could 
grapple with the g^ver questions of life, 
or pronounce an opinion on anything out- 
side the lazy, artificial world of nshion and 
its ignoble pleasures. 

When they alighted under the broad 
awning at the B-- — 's, people were arriv- 
ing fast^ The big staircase was blocked 
with arrivals who could neither get up nor 
down. It was one of those crudies where 
the hostess parades her entire acquaint- 
ance regardless of their comfort Qirls 
with their wraps still about them were 
waiting in the draughty haU, tapping their 
feet to the distant mdodies of the Hun- 
garians which occasionally fioated down 
from above. The two ladies followed 
Beaumont into the tea-room, where they 
sat down to wait for the suUddence of the 
crowd. He was verv deferential to-night 
— almost tender, Flonie thought; and 
looked very well She could not but call 
to mind one or two of her friends who would 
have prized his attention. There was no 
sign of the man she sought in the tea-room, 
however ; only a few stragglers who had 
failed in their attempts on the staircase, 
and had sat down like sensible people to 
wait patiently. As they passed in, Florrie 
caught sight of her face in the glass, and 

was starded to see a drawn, anzioas look 
upon it Why should she be anxious about 
anything with Beaumont's flow of raey 
witty talk in her ears) But she could not 
attend. Luckily he did not seem to notiee 
her absence of mind, but went on with his 
cool criticism of the heated struggling mass, 
which was visible on the staircase outside. 
It is much to bdieve in oneself in thii 
world. Henry Beaumont certainly knew 
from long experience that he could be enter- 
taining; but ne overvalued himself to-ni^t 
Man of the world though he was, he did 
not see it^ but calmly and confidently 
reckoned Us chances of suooess with this 
girl, who, he had lately aeknowledfled to 
hiniself, was a presentable woman who wai 
likely to make a very presentable wife. 

A sudden unaccountable clearance on the 
stairs came as a relief to Florrie. Once in 
the dancing-room she looked round quickly 
for the familiar face among the knot of her 
acquaintances who pressed forward. She 
began to think it was not there, till, near 
the end of her first valse with Beaumont, 
she caught mstht of it through a doorvray. 
A contented face enough oxoinarily, it had 
a shade upon it now which the ludf light 
of the landing did not reveal. A showy- 
looking sirl with dark eyes and fair bur 
was lookine up into his face. Flonie 
thought he looked rather bored, and tried 
to catch his eye, as she and her partner 
whirled near them. But it was not to be 
caught It wandered |provokin(^y over 
every conceivable object m her neighboiir 
hood, carefully inspected remote comers 
and particular persons in the crowd of 
dancers, but never came in her direction. 
She longed for the power of the evil eye, 
of which people were conscious even in 
the backs of their heads. Whenever she 
got near, some remark of that flippant^ 
looking girl seemed to call for special 
attention. Gould he be avoiding her t She 
did not think so'; he was evidentij looking 
out for someona She could read his face 
well enough to know that Next time 
they came round, he was gone, and a yoxtij 
old gentieman in a. c^Nicious white waistr 
coat stood by the dark-eyed one's sida 

Fate, who is often very persistent in 
denying us what we most especially want, 
has a trick of throwing it into our laps at 
the last moment, when we least expect it 
At the end of the valse, no sooner was 
Florrie comfortably settied in a sort of 
greenhouse recess with Beaumont, thanTom 
appeared in the opening, convoying a 
dowager. At first it waa evident he did 



OhttiM INfllnoiil 


[Jii]y21,U88L] 133 

Qot recognise them, for they were in semi- 
obscority ; and Florrie prayed that he might 
not look again. Bat he did, taking them 
both in with a glance that seemed to 
Bhriyel her np with its qoiet scorn. For a 
moment she lost her presence of mind. 
Then she bowed, a little too late, for the 
benefit of his back, as he retired muttering 
lomething about the seats being occupied. 
Beaumont had looked up, seeing the un- 
guarded play in his fair partner's face, and 
caught sight of the iltassorted couple in 
foil retreatw A smile played under his 
weU-wazed moustacha 

''There goes Oarrington,"said he, ''boring 
himself with the old women as usual. 
Always his way when he can't get what 
he wants.'' 

It was said in a tone of quiet irony and 
raperiority that made Florrie's hlood boiL 
Mentally she contrasted the two men. 
The assured suavity and gentlemanly drawl 
of the one before her; me quiet sense of 
power that wealth and social status had 
stamped upon his face and bearing— even 
his gestures. Above all the worldly, trivial, 
hearaess, soulless talk, and the cruel 
gibing tone which, as a professed knower 
of men, ke employed in connection with 
many things yet sacred in Florrie's eyes. 

Then the other with his manly out- 
spoken way. One could listen to what 
he said. It was reliable, if occasionally 
blunt Not so experienced as Beaumont^ 
he wanted in tact and temper on occa- 
sions. " Fads," savouring of a schoolboy's 
glorified notions, still clung about him; 
amongst them might be found an exacting 
conception of wnat a woman should ba 
Smoere and upright, retiring and sensitive 
in contact with those not quite to his taste, 
genial and completely at his ease only with 
a few— of whom Florrie knew she was one 
—such morally was Tom Carrington. By 
profession he was a subaltern in one of Her 
Majesty's foot regiments, and what is 
called poor; 

But Miss Belton was not without some 
spirit She would not have allowed her 
dearest friend to see her look downcast 
because a man misjudged her. When they 
got down to the refreshment-room, which 
was crowded with heated, thirsty couples, 
she took some champagne. It did her good; 
she felt she could and would enjoy herself 
now, come what might And what was to 
prevent her 1 She had dances with all the 
best men there. A knot of them wei:^ wait- 
ing for her at the top of the stairs when the 
dimdng recommenced. Amongst them 

was Carrington, not waiting for her. cer- 
tainly, for ne had got possession oi the 
dark-eyed one^s card, and was coolly 
picking valses here and there upon it It 
was an opportunity. Touching his arm 
lightly as she passed, Florrie asked him 
archly if he were not going to ask her to 
dance. It was spoken with perfect natural- 
ness and grace. She had great control of 

feature ; no covert pique ; no well, to 

a practised ear there might have been a 
shade of over-intensity in her tone, a sad 
appeal to his better nature, hidden far 
down in the depths of a necessarily con- 
ventional utterance. But Carrington's ear 
was not practised. Ee was a baby in the 
ways of the sex. He had thought her 
frivolous in the morning for picking a 
quarrel with him about what he considered 
nothing at all, and for refusing to listen to 
any explanation; and now he regarded 
this as a fresh piece of levity. She could 
go and sit with Beaumont in the conserva- 
tory, and then beckon him back like a child 
who has been put in the corner. It was very 
foolish and ridiculous, no doubt, but men, 
otherwise of great common-sense, are invari- 
ably very foolish and childish when jealousy 
is once aroused. So there was an awkward 
pause, which Carrington did not attempt to 
break, and Florrie, seeing the little effect she 
had made, swept away with her new partner 
into the ball-room, despair in her heart and 
utter indifference on her face. Perhaps, if 
she had not been so good an actress, she 
might have fared better; but what is a 
deUcately-minded girl to do when a man, 
however much she may care for him, 
remains persistently deaf and blind f 

It was very hot When is a dance 
otherwise to those engaged in itf The 
neglected ones shivered in the keen draught 
that blew from the open windows, but 
lingered on, having, indeed, little alter- 
native, and dependent for their very exit 
on remote supping chaperons, or fortuitous 
male escort, which offered not Luckless 
beings I What do they here, who can 
neither dance well, talk much, still less look 
handsome and seem merry, which are 
qualifications in some degree indispensable 
to social success 1 Never was any place 
where we so selfishly seek our own ends 
and pleasure like the ball-room. Awkward- 
ness and stupidity, elsewhere meeting with 
ordinary politeness and consideration, here 
find their true level. Beauty, wit, and 
assurance are all in alL What, indeed, 
have we to say to virtue if she squints, or 
dances some forgotten deux- temps, or fears 



134 [July 21, 1888.] 



men like a nan 1 Pleasore, untrammelled 
by social duties, here reigns supreme ; the 
beauty dances all the night and dreams of 
her successes ; the poor wallflower returns 
home, her gloves uncreasedi to wonder 
why women are ever ugly. 

The ball, which, in spite of her success, 
had seemed almost interminable to Florrie, 
was now drawing to its close; Her aunt, 
having by this time exhausted even her large 
capabilities for loud, slow, elderly gossip 
in the lower regions, begged Beaumont to 
find her nieca He was nothing loth, and 
brought her down, looking flushed and 
pretty, to the hall, where a dawdling crowd 
of departures were laughing and talking 
noisily with that absence of constraint that 
sets in in the small hours. He arranged 
her wraps with an air of proprietorship 
which galled her, and did not escape her 
aunt's sharp visioa But she turned and 
thanked hun with her frank smile, and at 
the same moment caught sight of Carring- 
ton standing very solemn and very upright 
at the door, his hat on his head and a 
cigarette in his inouth. 

Such was the depth of self-abasement to 
which she had fallen, such was the humb- 
ling of her pride, that she would have 
given worlds to quit Beaumont's arm and 
go up to Oarrington, even in the presence of 
everybody, and ask his forgiveness for her 
wilfulness of the morning. She would 
have humbled herself to him as to no other 
man, if only that sickening look of indif- 
ference could have been pleaded from 
his face. She knew he cared for her 
still, and was he to go from her sight 
without one word of explanation, all 
because maidenly modesty and pride for- 
bade any overture on her part ? 

One long last look of love and reproach 
passed between these two, and she was out 
in the night air, among the carriages that 
thronged the entrance. As they drove joff, 
she saw him come out and walk rapidly 
down the street. 

Carrington, though he found it hard to 
forsive what he called her frivolousness, 
had intended that quarrel to be made 
up. Florrie had resolved it must But 
the opportunity never came. The Beltons 
left London to pav visits, and absence 
inevitably widened the breach. 

Florrie is Mrs. Beaumont now, and a 
fashionable woman. She quitted girl's 
estate when she married Henry Beaumont 
Whether she has found him selfish, osten- 
tatious, or cynical, we do not know. She 
makes full use of his wealth as her part of 

the contract Her face, like those of so 
many beautiful women in London, has a 
cold, indifferent look ; but people envy her. 
She has a beautiful home, a little child 
with long fair hair like her tnother's, and 
a husband who, whatever he may be, is 
proud of his presentable wife. 

Very few people know anything about 
Mrs. Beaumont's love-affiur. 


PART n. 
As we approached the yacht people 
were looking out at us from under the 
awning on Imrd the yacht, among whom 
I fancied I recognised the slender grace- 
ful form of Hilda Chudleigh ; while, on 
our aide, Tom Courtney was making 
energetic signals of welcome and recog- 
nition. In a few momentd Hilda and 
I would meet. I should be received, no 
doubt, as a mere acquaintance — an old 
friend who had been lost sight of for years, 
and whose reappearance would be the 
subject of- a little commonplace surprise. 
Better to remain unknown than to be 
received like this. And then the thought 
occurred : " Why not temain unknown 1 
Five years in India had turned me from a 
fairyoung Englishman intoacopper-coloured 

individusd of any possible nationality, from 
a Chinese to a Spaniard. And then I had 
changed my name as well as my complenon. 
My uncle, when he left the iservice of Her 
Majesty for the more profitable one of the 
Rajah of M , whose daughter and suc- 
cessor he afterwards married, had assumed 
the more easily pronounced name of 
Lamallam, a name afterwards inscribed in 
pleasant characters on the golden records 
of the Three per Cents, and by which name, 
at the Begum's desire, I had passed while in 
India. And why ahould not I still retain 
M This point I rapidly explained to young 
Courtney as we were rowed across the 

" All right," he rej'oined, when I had 
finished my little story. " Aa lon^ as it 
is the name you go by, what does it 
matter ? I shall leave it to Hilda to find 
you out And now, my friend,'* to the 
boatman, as we touched the side of the 
Sea Mew, " how much i " 

The boatman suggested five i^rancs for 
this little passage — an extortionate race all 
over the world are the boatmen who hang 
about ports and ships^— but eventually was 
well satisfied with one franc. And then, in 
a few moments we stood on the deck of the 



(%BileB DIdctna.] 


[July 21, 188a.] 135 

yacht — a shaded loange, very cool and 
pleasant after the glare of the harbour, 
with matting screens, and Japanese chairs 
and loongesy and books and newspapers 
ererjwiiere strewing the decks. 

We were received hy a bright-faced, 
pleasant yoong fellow, who torned out to 
be Mr. Chancdlor's private secretary — ^the 
ornamental secretary that is — the Hon. 
Wallace Wyrem, a link with the great 
world into which his chief was trying 
to gain an entrance Hence Mr. Wyvem 
was entertaining Mr. Chancellor's friends 
on board his yacht, wiiile his two fellow- 
secretaries were fathoms d eep in Blue Books 
and mazgined foolscap at W hitehalL 

"Delighted to see you, old chap," cried 
Mr. Wyrem, grasping Tommie warmly br 
the hand; ''and your firiend, too, is wel- 
come. And now to present you to our 
chiefii in commimid." 

And Wyvem tripped lightly before us 
along the deck, leading the way to a small 
group of young women, at the sight of 
whom my heart had begun to bolt the 
rataplan. But, after all, Sie tall, graceful 
figure I had seen was not Hilda--she was 
not upon deck — but proved to be Miss 
Chancellor, a slight and pretty girl with 
something of a northern accent, which, 
with a litm nervous awkwardness at times, 
gave her an individuality not at all unplea- 
sant Then there was a married aunt of 
the M.P.'s, the chaperon of the party, a 
odrtain Mrs. Bacon, stout and laughter* 
loving, and an aristocratic4ooking Miss 
Wyvem, haughty but graceful 

''Your cousin Hilda is below," ez* 
plained Miss Chancellor nervously to Tom 
Courtney, who had attached himself to her 
from the first, with an air of feeling him- 
self perfectly happy in her society ; " won't 
you like to go down and see her." 

"No, thank you," replied Tom; "Til 
stop here if you'U let me. Hilda can come 
up if she wants to see mei * And now tell 
me what we are to do and where to go t " 

"WeU," repUed Miss ChaneeUor in 
hesitating tones, "I don't quite know. 
John" — her brotlier, no doubt— '^ has given 
us carte blanche to go where we like, but 
not more than twelve hours distant from 
England, for he may want to consult Mr. 
Wyvem at any moment ; and then, you 
see, he is naturally anxious to join us as 
often as possible." 

Here Mrs. Bacon interposed with her 
habitual happy laugh : 

" Oh, that is quite natural I remember 
when Charles and I — that is Mr. Bacon, 

you know — ^were courting, and I was 
ordered by the doctors to the Spas ^" 

" Yes, you told us that story yesterday, 
aunt," interrupted Miss Chancellor hastily. 

"But these gentlemen haven't heard it," 
persisted Mrs. Bacon. 

I made a friend of Mrs. Bacon from that 
moment^ by listening attentively and re- 
spectfully to her story. It was not a very 
old story after all, for Mrs. Bacon was still 
young and buxom, and might even now 
nave drawn admirers to the Spas. 

But just then I heard a voice, whose 
thrilling accents could never be mistaken. 
It was Hilda, who, speaking from t^e com- 
panion-ladder, was calling in sweet but 
commanding tones : 

*'Mr. Wjrvem, Mr. Wyvem, have the 
letters come on board 1 " 

" Just this moment come I " cried Mr. 
Wyvem, handing Hilda a packet of des- 
patches which riie looked hastily over, and 
then, with a disappointed face, retired 
once more. 

" I don't know what news she'd have," 
cried Mrs. Bacon; "there couldn't be a 
more devoted lover than John. He sends 
her a telegram every four hours. And 
there's sure to be one to rouse us all up in 
the middle of the night I The last time," 
pursued Mra. Bacon with evident pride 
in the narration, " a Government despatch- 
boat steamed after us fifty miles with 
John's message, and was pretty nearly 
lost with aU hands in the fog." 

And yet, in< spite of all this devotion, it 
was evident from the aspect of Hilda's face 
as she reappeared once more, that she was 
scarcely made happy by it But, at this 
present moment^ the chief object of her 
solicitude is her father; tall and rather 
stooping, with his rosy, well-preserved west- 
country face and aquiline and dearly-cut 
features. The steps and the encumber- 
ment of the decks puzzle him a little, and 
he leans heavily on his daughter's arm till 
he has taken his seat on deck, when he 
looks benevolently round as he takes his 
glasses and begins to scratinise the place 
and its surroundings. 

" Bather different sight," he began, after 
taking a long look at the forts that shut 
US/ in, at the huge rock towering above us, 
and the sparsely scattered craft about the 
harbour. "Bather different from Cher- 
bourg in 1858, when I assisted, as the 
French would say, at the meeting between 
their Emperor and our Queen, at the in- 
auguration of the new fortifications. I 
I brought my yacht over, and upon my word 




136 (Jnly 21, im] 



I thought we shotild have been blown out 
of the water, with the saluting and firing 
of big guns. Ah, the French are a fickle 
people, Mrs. Bacon ! ** 

And poor Mrs. Bacon, thus singled out 
— she evidently rather dreaded the old 
gentleman and preferred to keep out of 
me radius of his observations — could only 
say that she had always heard that the 
French were a fickle people. 

By this time the squire's faded brown 
eyes had passed over me without any sign 
of recognition, and then my face came 
under mlda's more trying scrutiny. And 
next moment she called Tom Courtney to 
her sida 

" Yes, Lamallam,** I heard Tom say. 
*' French) He may be ot^nally, or 
Dutch or Hebrew ; but a goocQsh sort of 
fellow anyhow. Sludl I bring him to you ) " 

Miss Ghudleigh made a hasty sign of 
dissent, and at that moment Mr. Wyvem 
burst in upon the group on deck with a 
programme fully arranged. 

" WeVe got to go up the mountain 
to Fort du Roule, first of alL That's 
what everybody does^ and as it's the only 
thing to do at Cherbourg, we must make 
the most of it There are voitnres for 
those who don't like to walk." 

Mrs. Bacon and the squire were the only 
ones who did not care for walking, and 
they were packed comfortably in a voiture, 
which drove off wildly, the coachman 
makbg his whip explode like a cracker. 
But we soon overtook it crawling along 
at the rate of a mile or so an hour. 

''Napoleon couldn't manage it," sang 
out the chattv old squire from his voitura 
"He couldn't walk up, so he had this 
road made to drive up to the top — cost I 
don't know how many millions of franca 
Ah, he was a great man that Ave Caesar 
Imperator ! " cried the squire, doffing his 

The coachman looked round and grinned, 
recognising the Latin perhaps. 

"Vive la R6publiquel" he cried, and 
urged liis horses to a momentary gallop. 

DXit the path is best for us pedestrians 
— the winding path, faced here and there 
with stone, where the goats browse by 
the side on the banks fresh with ferns 
and wild flowera As we rise we unfold the 
panorama of the town and port, with the 
green valleys, whose little streams furnish 
the harbour with a sort of excuse for 
existence; the sea in its restless tran- 
quility spreading far and wide in streaks 
of purple and green, with a white sail 

here and there, and white clouds resting 
above in the pure blue sky. 

''But, according to Shakespeare," be- 
gins Miss Wyvem, whose voice has hardly 
before been heard ; '' according to ^lake- 
speare, the murmuring surges should 
cease to be heard at such a height as this; 
while in reality we hear them much more 
plainly than below. Now, how is this t " 

Miss Chancellor was far too much out of 
breath to attempt a reply, while Hilda 
had thrown herself on the grassy bank, 
her eyes fixed wistfully on the distant 
sea-line. Tommie came bravely to the 

" Why, clearly Shakespeare was wrong," 
he cried ; " he often wrote very careleeuy. 
The thing ought to be put right in the neoct 
edition, with a note 'Amended by Mias 
Wyvem.' " 

But Miss Wyvem descended upon 
Tommie with all the force of a Nasmyth 

"Foolish youth," she said compas- 
sionately, "to pit your feeble intellect 
against the genius of Shakespeare. The 
description you cavil at " 

"No, upon my word," interposed 
Tommie. "You were cavilling at it^ 
not I" 

"The description you cavilled at/' 
resumed Miss Wyvem, not sparing him in 
the least, "was given to a blind man to 
make him think he stood on a lofty height 
while all the time he was on level 
ground. The illusion may have been 
complete; but the blind man would 
naturally listen eagerly for the whisper of 
the sea below, in which he hoped to end 
his sorrows. His guide, noticing this rapt 
attention, explains the reason that no 
sound reaches the listening ear, falsely, 
as it happens — but what would you have 1 
the whole is a delusion." 

" Well, upon my word," cried Tommie, 
" it's real nasty of you to lay a pitfall like 
that for a chap. Just like tiiose cads yon 
meet sometimes, who want you to bet tiiat 
such a word isn't in the dictionary, while 
all the time they've got the book in their 
pocket with the wora in it" 

The girl laughed ; she enjoyed so much 
her victory over Tommie that she became 
quite sociable from that moment, her icy 
crast all thawed away. 

We wandered through the fort, where 
there was nothing particular to see but the 
view from the ramparts, and then upon 
the grassy sward, where the soldiers from 
the fort were having a big wash in a little 





Quuta DIokaoa.] 


[July 21, U88.] 137 

pool that exiBts corioiiBly enough at the 
very eummit of the rock. By this time 
Uie ydtme and its occupants had arrived 
at the top, and the old squire, fresh and 
jaunty, be^an to describe the various points 
we saw below us, the great digue or break- 
water with its strong forts at either end 
and a stronger still in the middle — a digue 
that was built, as to the foundations, in 
pait of the hard granite and gneiss rock in 
which the naval docks and basins were 
excavated, and jpartly of hard primitive rook 
dag from quames in the side of the cliff 
beneath us. The boatmen below are 
always wanting people to hire their boats 
to visit the digue, but we can see it all 
from the top of La Soule, with the naval 
fort and basins, the barracks, hospitals, 
and workshops, but not a sign of a sidp of 
war except a few dismasted hulks. The 
fleet is away on its summer cruise or 
seeking adventures in Madagascar, and 
there is not even a solitary corvette in 
the port to give a touch of life to the 

As we descended the hill towards 
the town, EUlda fell behind the rest, 
and somehow I found myself by her side. 
She was changed indeed, but I should 
have known her anywhere. Was it 
possible that she did not recognise mel 
Her eyes rested indifferently upon me as 
if I had been part of the surrounding 
scenery, and then as I made some trifling 
remark about the descent, she brightened 
up and tried to interest herself in the 
conversation. But she was evidently 
preoccupied, and her politeness cost 
her an effort Why did I not then 
make myself known, and appeal to the 
memory of our old love-passages 1 Some- 
thing at the moment restrained me. I must 
have feared my fate too much, and then 
the opportunity was lost; we had joined 
the main body of the party. And Mr. 
Wyvem had joined us now, and evidently 
tiiou^t that as the representative of his 
chief, he should almost monopolise Hilda's 
society. And the poor girl seemed to 
acknowledge the claim, and did her best 
to be cheerful and bright in his presence. 
Young Courtney harcQy had a chance of 
speaking to his cousin; perhaps he did 
not want a chance, for he was, or seemed 
tobe,entirelyengrossedin Miss Chancellor's 

The diief pleasure in yachting is gene- 
rally acknowledged to be the comine 
ashore^ and hence the whole party on board 
the Sea Mew, with the reception of Mr. 

Wyvem and his sister, and the old squire 
and Hilda, had agreed to dine at the table 
d'hdte of the chief hotel, and amuse them- 
selves somewhere afterwards. The theatre 
was closed, but there was a circus in a big 
desolate place close by, where something 
like a fair was going on — stalls crammed 
with parcels of gingerbread, all to be 
attained by some combination of skill or 
chance. In all of these Tommie distin- 
guished himself, knocking over dolls, and 
unfailingly hitting the bull's-eye in the 
mimic shooting-galleries, and finally car- 
ried off the grand prix of the Tombola, a 
huge ball of silvered glass as big as the 
head of eiant Cormoran. 

All this success excited great disappro- 
bation among the stall-keepers. Monsieur 
was an expert, they said, with one accord, 
and it was not fair that he should engage 
in entertainments that were intended for 
honest bourgeois, their wives, and innocent 
children. Tommie was inclined to go on and 
break all the banks, sweeping away their 
reserve of gingerbread and nuts, and petri- 
fied sponge-cakes; but the townspeople took 
tihe side of Uie staU-keepers, and then some 
sailors came along from an Enelish ship in 
the harbour, and were inclined to back up 
their countryman. 

A row seemed imminent, but I managed 
to drag Tommie away out of the confu- 
sion, and safely into the circus, where An 
animated performance was going on. The 
regular circus routine having been gone 
through in the presence of a large audience 
of soldiers and sailors of the navy — the 
latter exquisitely neat in their blue and 
white, fine-looking young f eUows, each with 
a rose in his breast — the arena was cleared 
for the grand mUitary spectacle of the 
defeat of the Kroumirs. The young sol- 
diers trooped off behind the scenes ; they 
had all been admitted gratuitously in order 
to assist in the military spectacle. 

At this interesting moment a carriage 
arrived to carry the ladies back to the 
yacht with a message from Mr. Wyvem 
that all must be on board by eleven, as the 
Sea Mew might have to sail vrith the tida 
But we were determined to see the end 
of the performance, and, indeed, put down 
Mr. WjTvem's announcement as a little 
piece of extra officiousness. 

By-and-by the band struck up the 
grand march of the Kroumirs, and pre- 
sently a party of the same dashed upon 
the arena, a party of two at least, brandish- 
ing their spears and uttering fierce war- 
cries. Hardly had they gone when a 





^ ' * 





138 [Jill7 21,188&] 


fOoBtafllid bf 

French officer a]^)eared at the head of a 
picquet) and posted a sentry over a heap of 
old saddles that was supposed to represent 
a fotmtain. Exit the picqnet, and the 
sentry begins his march up and down to 
slow music, which quivers and quavers in, 
notes of warning and grief as those rascally 
Kroumirs creep ud and drive a poniaid 
into the heart of tne poor soldier. Then 
the relief approaches and looks in vain for 
the sentry, till they almost tumble over his 
body. The dagger is discovered, and the 
French officer, raising it to the sky, impre- 
cates vengeance upon the heads of the 

Immediately, with adexterous application 
of mats and screens, the arena is converted 
into the palace of the Bey of Tunis. The 
Bey appears to be a wicked old fellow 
with a penchant for bayaderes, a troupe of 
whom appear and dance eraeefully before 
him. All the eligible girh of Cherbourg, 
we are told, have been pressed into the 
service, but then the girls of Cherbourg 
don't appear to be designed by nature for 
bayaderes, and the general effect is skinny 
and bony. But the Bey himself is per- 
fection, a most respectable old gentleman, 
who claps his hands when he has had 
enoueh of the bayaderes with ouite 
Parisian grace. But his face is wrinkled 
with care. He has a world of trouble 
on his hands, for the French ambassador — 
or perhaps he is only a consul — is thunder- 
ing at the gate. Enters the French 
ambassador in evening-dress ; enters a 
stout French general in embroidered uni- 
form and k^pi; enters, in violent excite- 
ment, the French capitaine, waving the 
Kroumir's dagger ; enters the Italian 
charg^'affaires with a scarf of green, 
white, and blue, who prompts the Sey to 
resistance. But when an ultimatum is 
presented by the stout and fierce French 
eeneral, the Bey trembles, turns pale ; he 
Falls back on his wily friend in the green 
tricolor; but he too has lost confidenca 
He may wring his hands, protest, but all 
is in vain. The Bey signs his submission, 
and exeunt the French in a triumphant 
tumultuous rush, while the bayaderes pose 
themselves in attitudes of grief and sub- 
mission. At this moment a placard 
is exhibited which brings down the 
house — "France will have her frontiers 

But still the Kroumirs have to be dealt 
with, and the arena is presently occupied 
with battles, marches, bivouacs, with a 
comic element in the shape of a bibulous 

and vivacious prtvatei who is continually 
on the point of bestowing a kick or a 
buffet upon his oommandine officer, but who 
recovers his sense of discipline in time to 
convert the assault into a respectful sslnte. 
A pathetic element, too, is provided in the 
death of a soldier and his horse, the f<»m6r 
sharing the last drop from his water-bottle 
with his Isithful charger. The massacre of 
this gallant pair by a crowd of Kroumirs was 
the last drop in the cup of their iniquities. 
From that moment they were slau^tered 
like flies, a gallant vivandi^ of course 
performing prodigies of valour, amid fan- 
fares of trumpets and incessant detonation 
of crackers, while the band burst forth 
into a triumphal march, and the audience 
rose en masse, while the saflors laughed 
and cheered at the exploits of their 
brethren in arma 

By the time we had turned out of the 
circus it was nearly midnight, and yet the 
town showed no sign of turning in for the 
night — or whaf was left of it. Half the 
population of the town was in the streets ; 
chOdren ran about and danced, while at 
aU the open spaces a concourse of 
people had gathered, who were formed 
mto a ring, and were dancing round 
and round, chanting some monot(moiiB 
refhdn, slowly at first, and then faster and 
faster, till the dance became a mad whirl, 
and the ring broke up by its own centri- 
fugal force amid universal laughter and 

It was the St Jean d'^t^, the feast 
of Midsummer Day, that the worthy 
Cherbourgeois were celebrating in this 
primitive fashion. . Without a thought 
that he was participating in heathen 
rites, whose origin goes back ^ to 
the early primitive life of mankind, 
without a serious thought, indeed, in 
his head, Tom Courtney plunged into 
the thick of the ttm, claq>ine on one side 
the hand of a pretty dark-eved little 
ouvri^re, while on the other he hooked on 
to a dark-bearded savage-looking young 
fellow, presumably the girl's sweeueart 
The litue ouvri^re did not seem to dislike 
the change of partners, and chatted gaily 
with Tommie during the intervals of the 
dance. But the young sweetheart was 
not BO well pleased. Tommie's French 
was imperfect, and perhaps, in his happy 
ignorance of the language, he may have 
said more than he intended. Any- 
how, the black*bearded young fellow took 
umbrage, w<»ds ensued, and then a slight 
scuffle, and then, in less time than it 





CT h i Im IHffHrft ] 


EJaty 21,1888.] 139 

takes to tell it, the sergenta de yille were 
on the scene, and all the parties to the f ri^ 
were marched off to the guard-house. The 
black-hearded young fellow, who was 
yeiy excited, and in a highly dangerous 
mood, was detained for the nighty while 
Tommie, who took the thing more quietly, 
was permitted to leave on our promise to 
appear next morning at the ^bunal of 
correctional police, and we were &voured 
with the escort of a sergent de ville, nomi- 
Dally for our protection, but in reality, I 
iancy, to make sure of our not breaklne 
oar parole; a sergent who mounted 
goard patiently on the steps of the hoteU 
and seemed disposed to stay there all 
Already, we were told, half-a-dozen 

Sent messages had come from the yacht, 
i one of ue cabin-boys was awaiting 
our arrival to say that the Sea Mew was 
on the point of sailing, and that the pilot 
eould wait no longer. There was no time 
to write, even to explain the situation, 
and we could only send a message excusing 
oazselves on the ground of an unexpected 
engagement on the following morning, and 
hoping to rejoin the Sea Mew at her next 
port ofcalL 

And presently we heard her beating 
through the water in the silence of the 
night — ^a silence broken also by the dis- 
tant cries of those who were stUl keeping 
up the St Jean — ^the reflection of her 
lights pirouettiuff in the swell she raised 
in turning. BeUs sounded, the engines 
went on full speed, and presently she 
shot qnietly out of the harbour, and was 
lost in the indefinite base beyond. 

Ab for Tom Courtney, he was so contrite 
that it was impossible to reproach him, 
and, indeed, except for an excess of youth- 
ful spirits there was nothing to blame in 
his conduct, Axid this view was taken by 
the presidbg magistrate next morning, 
who dismissed Tommie with a fine of two 
francs and a half and costs, which 
amounted to as much more. His enemy, 
now calmed and contrite, was mulct in the 
same amount, and as Tommie insisted on 
defraying the whole costs of the entertain- 
ment, the utmost harmony prevailed, and 
priionefb, guardians of the peace, and 
witnesses adjourned to the nearest caf^, 
^here many bottles of wine were opened 
and drunk, to the health of everybody 
concerned, and to the continuance of the 
entente cordiale. 

But, in the meantime, where was the 
Sea Mewl 



bt thso. gift. 


" George," said Mrs. Pentreath one day 
when Hetty had been living with her for 
nearly a year, *^do you know that little 
girl is finghtftdly ignorant t ^ 

The young vicar looked surprised. 

I'What girlf Not £sther--or Hetty, 
is it, you call her — ^Mavors t She always 
seems to me so wonderfully intelligent; 
and her music " 

'^ I am not talking about her music. I 

F've her masters for accomplishments, and 
must say she takes in what they teach 
her as readily as a cat does cream ; but it's 
her general education. She knows nothii^ 
and has read nothing; can play a 
sonata by Beethoven, and never heard of 
Beethoven in her life, and can't read 
aloud the simplest book to me without 
asking a hundrecl questions about allusions 
and dreumstances which every girl of 
sixteen ought to know by heart Her 
poor father seems to have neglected her 
education shamefully ; and at my age I 
am too old to be turned into a dictionary 
of reference. Don't you think you could 
help her a little — show her what books she 
ought to read, and make her read themi 
It would be a real charity both to the child 
and myself, and she is so intelligent that I 
believe you would find it pleasant" 

"I dare say I should— at any rate 111 
do it willingly," said Mr. HamQton, and 
he had not assumed his post of teacher for 
many weeks before he did find it very 
pleasant, so pleasant indeed that before long 
those three hours in the week which he 
devoted to cramming Esther's young head 
with German and English literature, poetry, 
and philosophy, became the brightest of all 
the hundredand sixty-eight to him, and shed 
a rosy light over all the intervening onea 

It was the old story — the story of man 
and woman brought together as master 
and pupil, the man coming to teach and 
learning instead to love, the old story 
which we have all heard from our cradles ; 
and if Mr. Hamilton managed to ke^p the 
secret of it to himself it was simply and 
solely for the reasons indicated in the story 
of his <' friend." To him Hetty's youth 
and innocence were a shield stronger than 
any disapjiroval of parent or guardian, and 
he would have felt it a desecration of them 
to let in the hot breath of love or passion 
upon their virgin freshnes s . 





140 (JTnlj 21, 1888.] 


[Cionducled tqr 

In this way the girl grew up happy and 
breathing an atmosphere of love withont 
analysing it, as a flower breathes sunshine ; 
learning to stand by sick beds at her 
master's side; working in the parish; 
teaching in the sohooui; and revenging 
herself for her submission in these matters 
by a certain sweet tyranny over the vicar 
which was extremely pleasant and natural 
to both tyrant and victim, though the 
former at any rate would have felt highly 
indignant had she seen it wielded by any 
other woman. 

And Mrs. Pentreath looked on, and 
being a woman of the world, saw more of 
Mr. Hamilton's secret than he at aU guessed, 
and said nothing. In truth, what she saw 
did not displease her. Georee Hamilton 
was an excellent fellow, a scholar, and a 
gentleman; but he was her husband's 
nephew, and the Pentreaths, of course, did 
not belong to the same exalted sphere as 
the Bovillys. He might, perhaps, be 
allowed to do what would be impossible 
to Ernest, for instance ; and though even 
so it would be a very good match for the 
child, Hetty was a gCHod little thing, and 
Mrs. Pentreath would not grudge it to her. 
Besides, it would not take her far away, 
which was a consideration. 

" I really couldn't do without her now, 
till Ernest brings me home a real daughter. 
Ah, if only that dear boy would settle 
down well 1 " the mother said to herself, 
sighing heavily as she re-read for the third 
time a letter which she had just received 
from India. 

This was in June, and in the said letter 
there was no mention of any prospect that 
she would see her son shortly. Indeed, 
she knew that his regiment had stQl to get 
through nearly a year's service before it 
returned home; and therefore she mi^ht 
for a time dismiss thoughts of his settlmg 
down, and give her mind instead to the 
pretty idyll which she believed to be gliding 
to its completion under her nose. 

" I shouldn't wonder if I were buying 
the child's trousseau by Christmas. Poor 
Jack ! he ought to be obliged to me," the 
lady said to herself benignly. 

Alas I long before Christmas, before, in- 
deed, the August sun had finished redden- 
ing die sheaves of golden wheat, while the 
great white petals of the maenolia were 
opening day by day, and languid Londoners 
lay gasping for breath under the shade of 
the trees in Kew Gkirdens, a certain 
P. and O. steamer dropped quietly into 
dock in Southampton harbour, and one 

hour later a telegram was in Mrs. Pen- 
treath's hands, which upset in an instant 
all her thoughts of Hetty and the vicar, 
and replaced them by matter much mote 

For on board of that P. and 0. steamer 
was Captain Pentreath. India is an idle 
place, and idleness is fruitful of flirtations, 
and folly of all sorts. Whether the young 
man's indiscretions had gone beyond folly 
this time was not known, and need not be 
asked. All that Mrs. Penta-eath learnt was 
that he had contrived to get his name 
so mixed up with that of his coloners 
wife, that, to prevent worse consequences, 
he had been urgently recommended to 
apply for leave, and exchange into a home- 
going lament; and as for once in his 
life ne had prudence enough to comply 
with this counsel, such strong interest was 
brought to bear on carrying it into efiect, 
that m less than three weeks he had looked 
his last on Bumohandreepore and the too 
fascinating bungalow where he had wasted 
so many perilous hours, and was steaming 
slowly out of the Hooghly, en route for 

It was a sad blow to Mrs. Pentreath, 
and she felt it sorely; but to the yoanjg 
man himself and a certain set among his 
friends it seemed rather a feather in his 
cap than otherwise. True, he had come 
home under a cloud so far as his o^n 
regiment *and his chances of promotion 
were concerned, but a cloud with such a 
romantic lining as the unfortunate passion 
of a married lady of rank for a young un- 
married officer had no glamour of disgrace 
about it; and when to this were added 
the culprit's exceeding good looks and 
chivalrous withdrawal from the fidd of 
temptation, the whole affair wore quite an 
heroic aspect in some eyes; and made 
even little Hetty Mavors gaze with timid 
wonder and admiration at the too dan- 
gerous Adonis. 

Of course sheknewnothingof the realftcts 
of the story, nor was likely to do so ; neither 
the vicar nor Mrs. Pentreath thinUng such 
matters fit subject for a young girl's ears, 
while Ernest mmself had grace enough not 
to allude to the subject at home. 

The pretty idyll at the Lodge, however, 
came to an end all the same. Captain 
Pentreath was not the man to play flscond 
fiddle anywhere, least of all in Ids own 
home ; and, considering that he had found 
that residence ratijier dull on previoM 
occasions, he thought it a wise proceeding 
of his mother to have secur^ such a pretty 




■ . » ■ ." 





ffhftfflft Pt^**Wff T 1 


(July 21, 1888.] 141 

little girl aa Hetty Mayors for his delecta- 
tion at present He approved of her greatly 
indeed, and told bis cousin (reorge so with 
a frankness whidi the latter u>and the 
reverse of flattering. She was so fresh, he 
Bald, BO piquante, so full of fun, and yet so 
ridiculously innocent It was worth some- 
thing to make her open those big be- 
wit<£ing brown eyes of hers with a look of 
a pretty surprised baby ; and then, what a 
delicious laugh she had 1 He raved about 
her, in fact ; all the more, perhaps, for the 
coldness with whidi the vicar listened to 
his raptures, and proved he was in earnest 
in them by appropriating the girl to his 
own service fit>m the very day of his return 
with the careless ease of a young Bashaw. 

It was quite a matter of course. There 
was nothing special in it Everyone 
waited on him at Guelder Lodge ; every- 
one ran after him; everything was put 
aside for him. Hetty was one of the 
household ; it seemed quite natural, there- 
fore, that she should play his accompani- 
ments, sing to him, mend his gloves, drive 
him to ana from the station in nis mother's 
pony-carriage, and fetch and cany for him 
generally ; and, in return, he was very 
good to her, lounged beside her at the 
piano and in the gt^den, brought her bon-^ 
bons and novels, taught her to ride, and 
even contrived that she should be included 
m sundry invitations to evening and garden 
parties which were given by his mother's 
grand friends in honour of his return, 
which seemed to Hetty a very paradise of 

It was not much use for the vicar to 
come to the Lodge now. Mrs. Pentreath, 
who was always wanting him at other 
times, wanted no one now she had got her 
8on j and, aa that young man was always in 
Hetty's neighbourhood, it was impoasible 
to see one without the other. 

In the vicar's eyes the pair seemed in- 
separable, and the ^1 as pleased with her 
new friend as he with her ; and so it came 
to pass that his visits to the Lodge grew 
rare and more rare ; and his words, when 
there, so few and cold, that Hetty herself 
noticed the change, and felt hurt and 
mortified by it^ wondering vasuely if he 
thought it '* beneath him" to tue as much 
notice of her before his cousin as )ie had 
done bef ora 

A coldness and formality sprang up 
between them, and so, just when the drl 
most needed a true friend, she was left 
instead to the guidance of her own igno- 
rance and inexperience to ateer her oouise 

between the shoals of Captain Pentreath's 
attentions and the rocks of his mother's 
anger. To-day she h|kd been tossed roughly 
from one to the other, and so cruelly 
buffeted in the second 'encounter, that her 
tender feelings were all bruised and quiver- 
ing from ^e shock. It was a new thing 
to her to be spokisn harshly to at all, and 
by Mrs. Pentreath, too, who was usually 
so land and indulgent to her ; but though 
this was* grievous enough, and though it 
was still more grievous and dreadful that 
the cause of such speaking should be a 
man, and that man Mm. Pentreath's son — 
even these causes of trouble ^ould not 
have shamed andagitated her somuch as the 
wav in which Mr. Hamilton, her own friend 
and master, had been brought into the 

True, he had not joined in his aunt's 
condemnation of her. Mrs. Pentreath had 
accused him of doing so, but he had denied 
the fact with indignation; and even in 
the storm of feeling which sent the girl 
flying to her room to sob her heart out 
in peace and solitude, she never dreamt of 
doubting his word ; but in giving it he had 
shown, and shown quite openly, a readi- 
ness to look on her as the property of 
another person, and to make her over to 
that person, which hurt her in a way she 
hardly understood, and would have gone 
further to crush her bright nature than 
anything else if it had not been for one or 
two items which came back to her now in 
her solitude — ^the look in his face, for in- 
stance, when she burst into tears ; those 
words, ''I would cut off my right hand 
rather than hurt you by a pin-prick ; " and, 
more than all, the story of — ^his '^ friend." 

His " friend," indeed 1 Had not eye, and 
lip, and tone all told her that it was him- 
self, that he was the lover, and she the 
girl spoken of ) And if that were so, what 
mattered any one's unkindness, any one's 
folly 1 What mattered any other ill the 
world could send her ; and why — why had 
she been such a little fool as to lose her 
head and her temper,, and drive him away 
as she had done f Why had she run away 
herself, instead of waiting to hear what 
, else he had to sav 1 Might not the stoiy 
have had a fresh chapter added to it, it 
she had been more sensible 1 

The afternoon sunshine was falling in 
long golden stripes through Hetty's window, 
turning to transparent flame ihe few 
flnttermg crimson leaves which still dangled 
from the brown tangle of Virginia-creeper 
without, and touching with a fiery finger 

'">•* ''-*-•.. -^ •..'.. 


142 [July 21, 188S.] 


[Gondacted Iqr 


the maas of ivy which garhmded the 
narrow casement and the girrs brown 
head bent down upon the auL Bj-and- 
bj she lifted it, and looked abont her. 
She was tired of ' thinking and fretting, 
and, besides, her cheeks bamed, and her 
eyes were swollen. Fresh air and exercise 
would take away these outward signs of 
her trouble at all events, and give her back 
the composure she needed, before she again 
met Mrs. Pentreath and her son at dinner. 
There was plenty of time for a good long 
waUc before that, and the thought was no 
sooner in her mind than she hastened to 
carry it ihto execution, and only waiting 
to don hat and ulster, and tell the old 
btttier that she was gone for a walk, she 
left the house, and took her way as rapidly 
as possible in the direction of the river, 
the quietest route at this time of the year 
that she could think ot 

It was rather a muddy route to-day. 
There had been a great deal of rain lately, 
and the river was swollen so as even to 
overflow the towing-path in parts, and 
oblige her to take a wide circuit over soil 
soft enough to encase her stout littie boots 
in. a thick coating of mud, or to take fly ine 
leaps from stone to stone before she could 
resume her onward way. But Hetty was 
not i^e sort of girl to mind either a long 
jump or a littie mud ; and, for the rest, the 
sky was blue and bright, the air just sharp 
enough to be exhilarating, and the sun 
shone so gaily on shore and stream, on the 
yellow leaves of the willow and the copper- 
coloured leaves of the beech, on gnaded 
trunk and shallow, silvery pool, on the red 
roofs of dingy old Isleworth on the opposite 
bank of the river, and the brown sail 
splashed with orange of a big clumsy 
barge drifting slowly citywards, that by- 
and-by the gurl's spirit began to brighten 
too, her step grew brisker, her head more 
erect Once or twice she stopped to drink 
in a mouthful of the fresh cool breeze, or 
pick a few bright-coloured leaves i^m 
the withered hedgerow, or lift a sadly 
bloated frog out of the roadway, and 
deposit him on a stone for safety. When, 
as she was rising from the last-named task, 
her ear was caught by the rapid trample of 
a horse's feet in her rear, and stepping 
quickly on one side to avoid being run 
over, she heard herself greeted in tones 
too familiar to her to be pleasant at the 
present moment 

'^I thought so," cried the rider all he 
checked. his horse at the girl's side, and 
looked down with a gay smile into her 

blushing &ee. *'I Aought I cocddn't be 
mistaken in a certain little figure, even when 
seen from a distance, which would haye 
made most other figures indistinguishable, 

so But Miss tb,Yon — Hetty 1 what k 

the matter 1 " 

For Hettv was not only blushing, but 
there was a look of annoyance and dufaress 
in her face, which in conjunction with the 
traces of tears stiU visible about her eyee, 
miffht well provide comment, more espe- 
cially as there was notiiing in any way 
distressing or alarming about the other face 
bent over her. It was a bright and hand- 
some one, belonging to a young man of 
under thirty, fur, rather pale, and adorned 
with a hiig brown moustache, ^ch, 
t(^ether with his trim soldierly figure, 
made him sufficiently tsking in appearaaoe 
to win a pleasant glance from any girl not 
very hard to please. Hetty, however, was 
vexed with herself at her own embarnM- 
ment, and answered a little pettishly : 

'< Nothing is the matter, Oaptain Pen- 
treath. I was only startied by finding 
your horse so dose behind me, and — and I 
never expected to see you hera'' 

'^ No t Well, I did expect to see yon," 
said the young officer gaOy, as he dis- 
mounted and, wrowinff tiie reins over his 
arm, walked at her side. '* I came home 
half an hour ago, found the house ' empty, 
swept, and garnished,' heard that madam 
was out dri^ng and miss walkings' river- 
ways ' old Hickson said — and so rode off 
river-ways ipyself in search of the latter. 
Tou see, therefore, mademoiselle, that if 
you were meditating running away, an 
idea which your present guilty air suggests 
to me» you may as well abandon the 
attempt^ and resign yourself to being 
taken home again in honourable captivity. ' 

Captain Pentreath spoke in a jesting 
tone, looking laughingly in the girl's eyes, 
as if expecting to see them laugh back in 
answer. It was not an unnatural tiiought 
So late as yesterday, indeed, they might, 
and probably would, have done so, Hetty's 
eyes having a trick of laughing out at small 
notice, while she hieui got too used to 
Captain Pentreath makhig her the chief 
object of Ms attentions when at home to 
be either startled or flattered by them. 
Since this morning, however, everythiog 
had become different to her. She had 
tasted of the tree of knowledge, and bitter 
as tiie flavour of it might be to her, she 
could no longer leel or act as she had done 
jn tiie happy days of her ignorance. Those 
two thoughts, BO impossible in our guileless 


n m rl iw Ptfilretii ] 


[July 21, 1888.] 143 

childhood, so common in after life, " What 
does it mean, and what will other people 
think it means T' had been forced upon 
her mind ; and being too naiye and inex- 
perienced to conceal what was passing in 
it, she betrayed one of them by the ques- 
tion with which she answered Captain 
Pentreath's speech. 

• " But why did you come after me 9 Did 
you tell Hickson you would 1 I hope not — 
at leasts I mean I ^' 

Captain Pentreath laughed aeain. 

'^I did not," he said. " I asked him in 
what direction the mater had gone. He said 
he thought itwas to seeLady Carisfortv * Ah, 
then,' said I, 'if I ride in the same direc- 
tion, I shall most likely fall in with her,' 
and I departed. Do not look so glumly 
at me, Misa Mayors, for I told no fibs. If 
I had ridden along that road it is very 
probable that I should have met my lady 
mother. The only obstacle was that I 
didn't I came after you instead." 

" Then I wish you hadn't," said Hetty 
with more promptness than grammar, and 
with a look which said she meant it. 

Captain Pentreath opened his eyes. 

*;That is rude," he said, "so I don't 
believe you. I think, on the contrary, that 
you are very properly grateful to your 
guardian's son, ergo, her representative, 
^gOi your guardiaii also, for taking the 
trouble to threw the much needed shield of 
his protection over a very imprudent young 
woman. You know you ought not to be 
wandering so far from home, Hetty." 

''Indeed, Captain Pentreath, 1 do not 
I am not a fine young lady with footmen to 
walk after me, and I have been used to 
going out alone ever since I was ten years 
old. I like it," said Hetty curtly, but with 
a lip which quivered nevertheles& 

Was not his plea of guardianship the 
very one on, which she had acted in the 
past, and thought so natural ? Yet to-day 
ihe^ill^ not help fancying that he put it 
iorwaid rather in jest than earnest, and 
with a' mocking ,look in his blue eyes, 
which made her wonder if there had not 
heeoiaQme ground for Mra Pentreath's anger 
after all ; and. whether the matter-of- 
coune simplicity with which' she had 
accepted the young officer's flatteries and 
attentions, and had entered into the spirit of 
sasy famiUarity which he had established 
between th«m from tboibenming, had not 
soniftfchitig. ittit,to-diiy..peqfejiftly.lik^ flir- 

CaptairPSbtreath shookhia bead at her 
with affected soianuty. 

" Then I am sorry to hear it," he said, 
" for it is an improper liking and ought to 
be checked. You are not ten years old 
now, observe, and you are at least ten 
years prettier than you must have been at 

that tender age, therefore But, Hetty, 

you are lookmg quite grave ! What's the 
matter ? Have I ofiended you 1 " 

' '' Only by talking nonsense, Captain 
Pentreath, and bv calling me by my 
christian-nama J. neard your mother teU 
you once that it was not usual, and — and 
you know you have no right to do so." 

"I have as good a right as my parson- 
cousin, at any rate ; and I noticed the day 
after my arrival that he called you by your 
christian-name, for I thought what a dear 
little one it wad, and how well it suited the 

Hetty's face became very pink, but 
whether at the first part of his sentence 
or the second, Pentreath could not deter- 
mine. She only answered the former. 

'* Mr. Hamilton has known me since I 
was quite a little girl, and taught me 
nearly everything I know. That is quite 
a different case." 

" By Jove ! so it seems, and I envy him 
accordingly. I wish I could teach you any- 
thing, or that you would teach me if that 
would do as well. Will you 1 I'll be a 
very docile pupil" 

** 1 doubt it, Captain Pentreath — at any 
rate I'd rather not try." 

" And I wish you would. Do try me, 
Hetty. You couldn'^t give me any greater 
pleasure than telling me to do something 
for you. Don't you mow it t " and Captain 
Pentreath drew a little nearer to the girl's 
side, bending his handsome head till the 
fair moustache almost brushed the dark 
curls about her temples. 

Someone coming along at the other side 
of the leafless quick-set hedge which 
bordered the towing-path saw the couple 
at the moment, and stopped short, as if 
startled ; but Hetty had turned her pretty 
glowing face with sudden animation to her 
companion, and unconsci9us^ of a witness, 
said quite eagerly : 

*' Do you really mean that 1 If you did 
it would make Ine veiy happy." 

" I mea^ evety thing I say to you. Try 
me, that is all, said Captain Pentreath 
fervently. ^ 

Hetty looked Up, a saucy smile m her 
eyes meeting the admiring one bent on her. 

"Then will*'yoti please get on your 
horse again andnMe-en l»4he dtrection in 
which, you were going, I told you I came 





out by myself becanse I wanted to be 
alone, and I would rather go back so. I 
would indeed." 

It was not the reply Captain Pentreath 
had expected, and he looked visibly 
annoyed as he exclaimed : 

" Why, Hetty, what's up t Hare I done 
anything to vex you 1 " then remembering 
the smile in her eyes : " Ah, but I see you 
don't mean it You are only teasing me, 
you provoking little witch, as if you mdn't 
know that no man in his senses would ^o 
in one direction when you are going m 

** But I know nothing of the sort, and I 
want one man to do it Captain Pentreath, 
I am not joking, indeed. I do mean it" 

" Then, Hetty, I must have offended you. 
What have I done f 

'* Nothing at all. You have not offended 

"Then why want to drive me from 
you just because we chance to be taking 
our exercise along the same road, as we 
have done a score of times before 1 " 

Hetty's face was crimson. Had they 
been out toother so often 1 She had not 
thought of It at the time, but now she had 
a vaeue remembrance of something cold 
and cUspleased in Mrs. Pentreath's manner 
when she came in rather late one day from 
a walk accompanied by Captain Pentreath. 
She answered briskly enough, however : 

"Do you call it chance when, as you 
told me just now, you came this way on 
purpose to find me t " 

" And to bring you home 1 It is getting 
late, Hetty, for you to be out" 

" I know it, and I am going home now ; 
but please let me go alone. Please don't 
come with me. Indeed I have a reason for 
asking you." 

That the girl was in earnest now the 
most sceptical person could not have 
doubted. Her pretty face was quite pale 
again, and her eyes wore a beseeching ex- 
pression which no generous man could nave 

Captain Pentreath, however, was not 
&mea for generosity where women were 
concerned. He kept at her side as she 
turned, and only asked : 

" What is the reason, Hetty t Don't be 
silly and mysterious. Tell ma" 

" I cannot. Captain Pentreath. Please 
do as I ask you." 

" What, whan you won't do anything I 

ask I That isn't fair. But I see what it 
is quite well, Hetty — my mother has been 
talking some confounded rubbish to yon." 

" You ought not to speak of your mother 
in that way, Captain Pentreath." 

" WeU, but isn't it true f Hasn't she t" 

" I will not tell you. I don't want to 
speak of your mother at alL Do you forget 
that I am her companion, and owe all I 
have to her kindness and generosity)" 

" No, by Heavens ! nor that she owes all 
the pleasantness her house has to your 
company. Egad, she wouldn't keep me long 
here without it Don't you know thati " 

Hetty made no answer. 

" Because you may as well do sa It is 
the truth, and so if she is soing to bdly 
you and make you disagreeable to me ** 

" I don't want to be disagreeable to you, 

Captain Pentreath. I only— only ^"But 

Hetty's lip was quivering. She b^an to 
realise how helpless she was, and her eyee 
filled with tears. Even Captain Pentreath 
was touched by the sight of her distress. 

" You only want to drive me from you," 
he said pathetically. "WeU, Hetty, yon 
know your power, and however it pains me 
to obey you I will not pain you by the con- 
trary. You must make it up to me some 
other time, and I can promise you one 
thing — if the mater is at we bottom of this, 
she sha'n't congratulate herself on the resnlt 
of it" 

And then he did mount his horse and 
ride away, while Hetty pxursued her home- 
ward route with quickened steps. She had 
nearly reached the Lodge gat^ when she 
saw another gentleman, a familiar figure in 
a low felt hat and Soman collar, coming up 
the dusky road under the horse-chestnat 
trees as if to meet her. It was Geoige 
Hamilton, and involuntarily her steps 
quickened, and she put out one little hand 
as if to flreet him sooner. To her great 
surprise, however, he did not stop or speak, 
but looking at her full with a kind of hard, 
unsmiling severity, lifted his hat, and, 
turning abruptly away, crossed the road to 
the opposite side. 






Prtba Mmpenne 

The Biffht of TrwuUakiff ArUOet from ALL THI Ybab Bouvd it rsMrsMi by tlU A^Okm, 

fabUnhod at Uie Office, M, Welllnsioii Stneti Stniid. Pdnt^ by Charues DIOUHB 4r ^yurs, 24, Qn§i K«w StrNi, X-<^ 




"Mother, you're not as happy here 
now as you would bo in a little house of 
your own, are you 1 " Jenifer said, coming 
in and casting her arms round her mother's 
neck that night as soon as she could 
^ escape after dinner. 

" Happy ! That I can never be anywhere 
again, Jenny ; my day is done." 

" No, no, you sha'n't say such things — 
such futile, untrue things. Mother darling, 
you're our own mother still, and you 
have your work to do for us though we 
have disappointed you," Jenifer cried out, 
weeping as bitterly as if she and not Jack 
had married beneath her, and degraded 
the family. 

"Jenifer," Mrs. Eay said solemnly, 
" what does this mean — that you're going 
to marry, and offer me a home with you 
and your husband 1 Jenny, I won't have 
you throw yourself away for my sake ! I 
I want but Uttle here below, and shall not 
want that little long. You shall not 
sacrifice yourself to Mr. Boldero, good, 
excellent man as he is, for my sake." 

" Mother 1 " Jenifer cried outj " are we 
all going mad because of this trouble about 


Jack I Mr. Boldero ! I should as soon 
have thought of you as of him. Why, 
mother, he's not 'a good, excellent man' 
only in my eyes, he's ever so much more 
and more like what a man ought to be 
than — than any other man I know. He 
would as soon think of the harness-house 
cat for a wife as he would think of me ; 
don't speak of him in that way to me. I 
can't bear it," 

Old Mrs. Bay thought very desperately 
for several minutea In her pocket she 

had a letter from this ^Ir. Boldero, asking 
her consent to his wooing her daughter. 
The letter had reached her just an hour or 
two ago, just an hour before Jack had 
come to her with his bitter confession. 
And she had put it aside as unimportant — 
as comparatively unimportant, at least, | 
because her heart and mind were full of 
the imminent peril of her son Jack. 

But now she was compelled to think « 
of it. 

"Jenny, my child," she began very 
gently, " forgive my forgctfulness of you. 
Something that concerns you nearly and 
dearly has come to my knowledge to-day, 
but with the thought of this disgrace 
which Jack has brought upon us hanging 
over me, I could think of nothing, say 
nothing; but now I will tell you," and 
with this she fumbled in her pocket, and 
brought Mr. Boldero's letter out of it. 

Jenny read it, and understood it at 
once. There it was, an offer, a plain and 
distinct offer of marriage from the most 
honourable and fastidious gentleman whom 
it had ever been her lot to meet 

And this offer of marriage was made to 
her, Jenifer Bay, a girl who was just dis- 

traced by the folly of her brother — a 
)lly of which Mr. Boldero knew nothing, 1 
of which he would take no cognisance ; 
but which would bitterly aggrieve and 
disgust him when he came to know it 

" He shall never smart through me ; he's | 
as the stars above me," the girl said to 
herself in the one brief minute in which 
she held the letter in her hand, trying to 
read it, and failing by reason of the tears ' 
of pity for herself that were half blinding 
her. And this not because of any strong 
sentiment of love for Mr. Boldero, for, in 
these days of which I am writing, Jenifer 
Bay had hold of her own heart stilL And 
though she thought of Mr. Boldero as of a 



VOL. xxxn. 

■i— >|"HPBM>Wi 






146 [Jaly 28, 1888.] 


[Oaodiictod bf 

man whom any woman might love, she did 
not know that she loved him herself. 

On the contrary she rather inclined to 
think that there was something about 
Captain Edgecnmb's demeanour towards her 
which merited considerable consideration 
from her. He liked her ; of that she was 
sure. Ho attracted her by the manner 
in which he showed his liking. And it 
may be presumed that she did not regard 
him as a star above her, for she did not 
feel that if she finally married him he 
would be in any way disgraced by Jack's 

So after holding his letter in her hand for 
a minute after she had read it, she handed 
it back to her mother with these words : 

" It's one of the things that might have 
been, if everything had been different, 

mother ; as it is Well, I wish with 

all my heart that Mr. Boldero had never 
thought of me in that way." 

*• If you could bring yourself to think of 
him ; he is older than you are, I admit, 
but " 

*' Mother, don't, don't speak of him in 
that way; it's not that he is 'older' than 
I am that I — I want you to give him back 
his letter and say ' No ' for me to his offer. 
I could have adored him," the girl 
continued impulsively, '' but he has been 
prudent about his course concerning my 
brothers, and I'm afraid of him." 

"If you were his wife you'd have no 
cause to fear anything that your brothers 
may do^ or have done," old Mrs. Bay went 
on, as eagerly as if she had not been 
perfectly indifferent to the prospect of 
Jenifer's marrying Mr. Boldero a few 
minutes before. In fact it was balm in 
Gilead to her to feel that if her dearly- 
loved, cherished, tenderly cared-for daughter 
willed, she, Jenifer, at least would be out 
of reach of all the evil consequences, the 
bitternesses, the sordid considerations, and 
many mortifications which might accrue 
from Jack's miserable marriage. 

" I won't marry any man in order to 
ese^e my share of a family trouble, mother 
dear," Jenifer said stoutly. 

And on this her mother pleaded Mr. 
Boldero's case over again, not bringing any 
fresh arguments to bear on the subject; 
but urging the girl to accept the offer as a 
happy and safe release from all the home 
dangers and difiiculties. 

And at last her arguments prevailed to 
a certain extent. At last Jenifer began to 
remind herself that not only would she 
herself be lifted out of the domestic mire 

which was stifiing them now, but that her 
mother also would be once more honour- 
ably placed, and treated with the defer- 
ence and consideration that were her da& 
It was galling to the girl to a horrible 
degree to see her mother set aside as she 
had been during these latter days at 
Moor Royal. And Jenifer's prophetic) onl 
told her that this would grow. Effie was 
not likely to grow less selfish, or extrava- 
gant, or contemptuously indifferent to 
everything that did not conduce to her own 
pleasure or aggrandisement Hubert was 
not likely to become less yielding to his 
wife's lightest whim. Altogether the oat- 
look for the widow and her daughter, if 
they remained at Moor Royal, was a 
deplorable one, a desperately ignomi- 
nious and distressing one. It did move 
Jenifer strongly this reflection that if sbe 
accepted Mr. Boldero's offer, the outlook 
for her mother in his house would be as 
bright as this one at Moor Royal was 
dark. Moreover she did like and admire 
the man who could release her mother and 
herself from the bondage of life in Effie's 
house. She did like him better than any 
other man she knew, excepting, perhaps, 
Captain Edgecumb, and him she liked in 
quite a different way — as a fascinating, 
amusing, distinctly agreeable and accom- 
plished society man. At this junctiure she 
had no romantic or impassioned feeling 
about either of theuL But she knew that 
Mr. Boldero would become very dear and 
very essential to her if ^he saw much more 
of him, and she believed that, if she became 
Mrs. Boldero, she would be one of the 
happiest women, one of the most loved 
and loving wives in the world. 

All these considerations weighed the 
balance heavily in favour of her accepting 
him. But in the other scale she pat the 
shame and disgrace of Jack's marriage. 
Had she any right to act for her own 
happiness, and by so acting to link a 
man whose name was held in such high 
account by all men with this shame and 
disgrace? At any rate she would not 
accept the offer which Mr. Boldero had 
made in ignorance of Jack's culminating 
folly, till she had given him an opportunity 
of retracting it. He must have gone 
straight home from the " meet," and written 
to her mother with the memory of the un- 
availing prayer she had made to him for 
her brother fresh in his mind. When he 
knew how fully all her worst fears for 
Jack were realised, would he still want her 
to be his wife t 




dnrlM IMclMna.] 


[Jul/ 23, 188S.] 147 

" I ought to have shown it to yoa when 
I got it first, Jennj, but Jack's wicked 
folly had put everything else out of my 
head. Now, whatever your answer is 
going to be, it ought to go to him to-night, 
and I am afraid there is not another 
post)" old Mrs. Ray said dejectedly, for 
she dreaded anything like delay now 
that Jenifer seemed half disposed to act 

"Your letter can't go till to-morrow 
now," Jenifer gasped with a sense of relief. 
" I shall have time to think and to pray, 
and to-morrow, whatever I have been 
taught to know is best, you shall write to 
Mr. Boldero. But at the same time you 
most tell him all there is to tell about 

"Yes, indeed, weUl do nothing under- 
hand, hard as it will be for me to tell his 
father's friend that my son has married 
the daughter of one of his father's 

" We must help Jack never to think of 
her now in that way,'' Jenifer said reso- 
lutely in answer to the piteous bitterness 
which made itself manifest both in her 
mother's words and tones. '' She's his wife 
now. While we only feared she might 
beconie his wife it was different, but 
now " 

" May I come in 1 " Jack's voice, broken 
by sobs, asked at the door. 

" Oh, not to-night — not to-night ! " poor 
old Mrs. Ray whispered. "Jenny, tell 
him. It would kill me to see him to-ni^ht 
—my own boy I And to think of his going 
away from me to such a wife ! " 

So Jenifer went out, and with her arms 
round poor, unhappy, miserably awakened 
Jack's neck, broke his mother's decision to 
him as gently as she could. 

"Be strong, and bear your punishment 
like a man. Jack," she murmured. "In 
time we shall all be happy again, please God. 
Meantime don't get to think hardly of our 
mother even if she does seem a little hard 
to you now; it has come upon her so 

"You never gave her a hint then) 
Jenny, you are a brick! Oh, that I'd 

listened to I mean you won't desert me 

altogether, will you 1 Hubert and his wife 
will treat me like a pariah now, though 
Mr& Effie was always leading me on to 
think more and more of Minnie's good 
looks. There, I'll say no more. I'm a 
coward and a cur to try and cast the 
blame, or the responsibility rather, of my 
choice on anyone else. Good -night, 

Jenny dear ; this house will never see me 
again, I supposa" 

It was a sad going away from the old 
home for the poor misguided boy, whose 
own wilful infatuation had marred his 
prospects in life. His mother lifted up 
her voice and wept, as she listened to his 
receding footsteps along the corridor. But 
she would not recall him to say one pity- 
ing tender word. The thought of the 
disgrace and sorrow he had brought upon 
them all was too new to her for her to 
take him back to her heart, though her 
heart was bleeding for him. 

" Well, Jenny, this is a pretty business 
of Master Jack's 1 Ton my word, I think 
I shall sell the place, and get away beyond 
the reach of the rumour of it," Hubert 
said impatiently when Jenifer went back 
to the drawing-room to say good-night 

" Running away from the rumour won't 
do any good to either you or Jack," 
Jenifer said curtly, for Hubert's absorb- 
ing selfishness jarred harshly on her this 

" It's just like the charitable Jenifer to 
uphold evil-doers," Mrs. Ray said with her 
faintest smiling sneer. "Now I can't 
pretend to want to do good to Jack or to 
wish to see anyone else do good to him ; 
he has behaved like a fool, and I hope 
he'll have the fool's reward. But I do like 
to see good done to myself, and the best 
good Hubert can do me is to take me away 
out of reach of ever hearing anything of 
Ids extremely obnoxious brother and sister- 
in-law. To do that he must sell Moor 
Royal, and so I hope Moor Royal will 
come to the hammer without delay." 

" Hubert, you won't 1 " Jenifer cried. 

"When a fellow's worried as I have 
been to-night he hardly knows what he'll 
do," Mr. Ray replied. 

" Moor Royal has been ours for so many 
generations," Jenifer said sorrowfully. 

" I don't feel inclined to have my health 
and spirits sacrificed for any sickly family 
feeling," Effie cried buoyantly. " I mean 
my hfe to be as bright as society and 
money can make it, and neither will do 
much to brighten it down here now that 
Jack has degraded us as he has. So Moor 
Royal will go as soon as a purchaser can be 
found for it, and in the meantime, Hugh, 
I shall go and stay with Flora." 

Then they went on discussing their 
plans of pleasure, and speaking of possible 
purchasers of the property, as uncon- 
cernedly as if Jemfer had not been 




148 [July 28, 1888.] 


[Conducted by 

'* I'll marry Mr. Boldero, and put mother 
on a throne again, and love him better 
than a man was ever loved before for 
enabling me to do it/' the daughter 
thought with a swelling heart as she 
went back to her mother's room. 

The following day, long before Mr. 
Boldero received an answer from his letter 
to old Mrs. Bay, he had a visit from Hubert 

Briefly, and not at all bitterly, the elder 
brother told the tale of the younger one's 
delinquencies to the family lawyer. Then 
he added : 

" This crowning act of idiotcy on Jack's 
part has naturally upset my wife terribly." 

" How about your mother and sister t " 
Mr. Boldero interposed quickly. 

'' Oh, my mother is a good deal cut up, 
of course, partly because Jack was always 
her pet, and partly because it may affect 
Jenifer's prospects of marriage. Now I 
don't distress myself about that for a 
moment, because I happen to know that 
Edgecumb will marry *her to-morrow if 
she'll have him, and Effie and I both think 
she is ready to do so." 

Mr. Boldero rang for coals, and when the 
little interruption caused by their being put 
on the fire was over, it was he who took 
up the ball of conversation. 

*' Jack has had plenty of advice against 
this crowning act of madness. I know 
his sister stood like an angel of mercy in 
his path, and warned him against follow- 
ing. And Mrs. Ray and you can't have 
been ignorant of his being in jeopardy. 
You have surely tried to save your 

"To tell the truth," Hubert said in 
some embarrassment, "my wife always 
urged me to let Jack alona She had an 
idea he was so pig-headed that opposition 
would only urge him on. Poor girl 1 she 
would have done anything to stop it — ^any- 
thing. In fact she's so distressed about 
it, that nothing will induce her to live at 
Moor Royal any longer. She couldn't 
have any of her own people down to stay 
with her after this ; she's awfully sensitive, 
in fact, and I may as well tell you at once, 
that I've come to speak to you about 
selling Moor Royal." 

" There's one clause in your Other's will 
which you seem to have forgotten, and 
that is, that for three years after coming 
into possession of the property you are 
bound to reside at Moor RoyaL You can 
neither let or sell it." 

'* I wish to Heaven the three years were 

up then," Hubert exclaimed angrily. 
" Why in the world did my father treat 
me as if I had been a capricious boy, 
instead of a man well able to look after 
my own interests 9 It may ruin my domestic 
happiness now if I am not able to take my 
wife away from Moor Royal." 

** Not if she's a sensible woman, Hubert, 
and I should think that she is that," Mr. 
Boldero said outspokenly, but there was 
not that amount of blind confidence in 
Effie's discretion which her husband liked 
to see displayed. 

" Sensible ! I should rather say she was 
sensible, but she's also very determined ; 
she's made up her mind to get away from 
Moor Royal at once, and if I can't sell or 
let till the three years are up, it means an 
expensive round of visits, that's all, and 
at the end of the three years the sale of 
the property. Therell be nothing to 
hinder me thea" 

"Your father always had a dread of 
your parting with the old place." 

"Meantime, as I can't sell it. Til cut 
down timber," Hubert said recklessly. 
"It's all very well, Boldero, but a man 
ought not to be hampered and fettered by 
another man's whim. The sale of Moor 
Royal would be the making of me, and by 
Jove ! it shall be sold the day the three 
years are up." 

"You forget that your father's latest 
wishes are still unknown to * you," Mr. 
Boldero reminded his client 

"Ah, the sealed letter which you hold! 
They can be of no importance, they can 
only concern trifles compared to the Moor 
Royal property, and that's indisputably 

" And yours may it always remain is the 
sincere wish of my heart," Mr. Boldero 
said heartily, as his guest got up to go. 

"Can't echo the sentiment, my dear 
sir," Mr. Ray laughed; " if you had a wife, 
and she hated her home, you'd be very 
glad to get her away from it; but I'm 
thwarted by a mere caprice in doing this, 
and as I said just now, my domestic 
happiness may suffer from it" 

His guest departed, and Mr. Boldero sat 
alone thinking mournfully that all the 
sorrowful prognostications about his two 
sons which hM. darkened the squire's last 
days, were being fast fulfilled. 

" He always had the notion that Hubert 
would wreck his bark against the rock of 
extravagance, and tiiat Jack would fall 
into low company and dissipated ways 
through his over-weaning fondness for 


ObiilM INdkHM.] 


[July 23, 1888.] 149 

sport ; yet his love for Moor Boyal was so 
much stronger than his love for anything 
else on earth, that he has protected it as 
jealoasly as if it had been a cherished 
child. And through no act or deed of hers, 
and without my aid, Jenifer will be a rich 
woman, and able to endow this man 
Edgecumb, whom she loves, with as good a 
proMperty as there is in the neighbourhood/' 

Then he went on to accuse himself of 
having indulged in self-confident vanity in 
having supposed for an hour that fair 
young Jenifer Ray might have preferred 
him, the sober middle-aged lawyer, to the 
handsome young soldier, who (according 
to her brother Hubert) was her heart's 
real choice. 

He felt manfully and generously that as 
things were going now, and with his 
knowledge of how these things would act 
and re-act upon the futures of Jenifer and 
her brothers, he could resign all thoughts 
of her far more readily than he could have 
done had she been likely to remain de- 
pendent Jenifer Bay at Moor Boyal, 
dependent on the capricious bounty of her 
sister-in-law. Had this latter been the 
only fate before her, he would have used 
his utmost eloquence, and brought his 
most urgent claims to bear upon her, con- 
vmced as he was that he had the power in 
him to make her a happy and contented 
woman. But now — ^now it would be well 
for him to resign her to what she would 
think the brighter fate, if she loved 

The three years would soon pass away, 
and the contents of the sealed letter would 
be made known to Hubert Bay and whom- 
soever else it concerned. 

And then f Why then possibly Jenifer 
would be another man's happy wife, and it 
would never be known what fortune, hope, 
and love the family-lawyer had let slide 
through his grasp in renouncing her as he 
meant to renounce her now, even if she 
thought herself able and willing to com- 
plete the sacrifice he had proposed to her 
mother the previous day. 

JSo one else should know of his offer 
with the exception of her mother, to whom 
he had made it, of that he was resolved. 
Not that he was one of those poor creatures 
who are ashamed to have it known that 
they have wanted women for their wives 
who have not become such, but because 
he would not have it known that whatever 
fortune might fall to Jenifer in the future 
he might have had a share in. To pro- 
claim, or in any way to consent to the 

advertisement of his own magn&nimity was 
not a custom of his. So now, though all 
the love of his heart was given to Jenif er 
Bay, and he had never desired anything so 
ardently in his life, as he did now desire to 
marry her, he determined that he would 
refuse her acceptance should she accept him, 
and that no one should ever know that he 
miffht have had her and hers. 

Old Mrs. Bay's letter reached him in 
due time. Jenifer was grateful and 
honoured — this last word was old Mrs. 
Bay's interpolation, and had not been 
dictated by Jenifer — ^but before she could 
answer him she must see him and tell him 
something that had happened which might 
alter his views materially. Would he, 
therefore, come to Moor Boyal that after- 
noon at four o'clock. He rode up to 
Moor Boyal, knowing that before he left 
it he would have flung away his heart's 
best hopes and happiness. 

His knowledge of the contents of that 
sealed letter was costing him dear indeed. 



Naturally, after Cellini's release from 
prison, his first works were for his patron 
the cardinal, until the time came for the 
latter to return to France, and then they all 
set out together. After the usual quar- 
relling, wmch was unavoidable wherever 
Cellini was concerned, they reached 
Fbrence, and then Ferrara, where the 
artist abode for some time, doing work for 
the duke of that place, until the French 
king began to grumble at his non-appear- 
ance, and he pursued hU journey, leaving, 
of course, behmd him, the memory of divers 

At length he did reach Fontainebleau, 
and had an audience with the king, who 
gave him a most gracious reception ; but 
when it came to a question of setting to 
work, and the settlement of a salary, 
Cellini would not accept the terms of his 
benefactor, the cardinal, but broke up his 
establishment, and started on a pilgrimage 
to Jerusalem. 

Messengers were despatched after him, 
overtook him, and brought him back, 
owing to their using threats of imprison- 
ment, of which he had had quite enough to 
last him his life, and which was the most 
potent argument that coi^ld possibly be 
employed in his case. The question of 
emolument was soon settled ; he was to 
have the same salary as Francis had 



150 (July 28, 1883.3 


ICx)ndacted by 

assigned to Leonardo da Vinci (seven 
hundred crowns annually) ; to be paid, 
besides, for all work done for the king, 
and to receive a present of five hundred 
crowns to defray the expense of his 

His first commission from the king was 
a magnificent one, but from its vast scale 
it could scarcely be carried out by an artist 
who was then forty years of age. It was 
no less than to make twelve candlesticks in 
silver, the height of Francis himself, of six 
gods and six goddesses, and the artist was 
assigned the Tour de Nesle as a residence. 

Cellini at once set to work on his models, 
and arranged about the payment of his 
two assistants, but he could not get pos- 
session of his residence. It had been 
assigned previously to the provost of Paris, 
Jean d'Estourville, who, however, made no 
use of it, and would not allow Cellini to 
occupy it, in spite of repeated orders. So 
Benvenuto complained to the king, who 
abruptly asked him, " Who he was, and 
what was his namef Surprised at this 
reception, he did not at first reply, but 
afterwards stammered out that his name 
was Cellini ; on which the king told him 
that if he was the same Cellini who had 
been described to him, he had better act 
like himself, he had the king's free per- 
mission. On this hint he set to work, and 
very soon was in residence at his new 

He then made full-sized models of 
Jupiter, Yulcan, and Mars, and got three 
hundred pounds of silver wherewith to 
commence his work. Meantime he finished 
a silver-gilt cup and basin — which he had 
begun for the Cardinal of Ferrara im- 
mediately on his release from prison — 
and they were of such beautiful workman- 
ship, that, as soon as he had given them to 
his patron, the latter presented them to 
Francis, who in return gave the cardinal 
an abbey worth seven thousand crowns a 
year. The king, besides, wanted to make 
the artist a handsome present, but the 
cardinal prevented him, saying he would 
settle a pension of at least three hundred 
crowns yearly on him, out of the proceeds 
of his abbey ; but this he never did. 

Cellini was now in great favour ; he really 
worked hard, and his Jupiter and otheir 
gods progressed rapidly. The king took 
a personal interest in them, visiting the 
artist's atelier, and gave him an order to 
make a gold salt-cellar, as companion to 
his cup and basin. He had a model ready 
— one he had made in Rome at the request 

of the Cardinal of Ferrara — and with this 
the king was so highly delighted, that he 
ordered his treasurer to give Benvennto 
one thousand old gold crowns, good weight, 
to be used in its manufacture. He duly 
received them, but he says that the 
treasurer, on one pretence or other, 
delayed payment till night, and then in- 
stigated four bravoB to rob him. It is 
needless to say that such odds were nothing 
to Cellini, and that he reached home in 
safety with his precious burden. 

The king, indeed, seemed unable to 
show sufficiently his regard for the artist. 
He gave him letters of naturalisation, and 
made him Lord of the Tour de Nesle. 
He visited him in company with Madame 
d'Estampes, and it was at her instigation 
that Cellini received orders to do some- 
thing wherewith to ornament and beautify 
Fontainebleau. For this he designed some 
magnificent gates, but he made an enemy of 
the favourite through not consulting her 
in the matter. He endeavoured to mollify 
her by presenting her with a beautiful cup, 
but she would not see him, so he went off 
in a tiff, and gave the cup to the Cardinal 
of Lorraine — which, of course, further em- 
bittered his fair enemy. To make matters 
worse, he turned out, neck and crop, a 
man who had taken up his residence, with- 
out permission, in a portion of the Tour 
de Nesle, and who happened to be a 
prot^g^ of madame's. Thus, of course, was 
never forgiven, and it was war to the 
knife on the lady's part 

She set up a rival artist in opposition, 
Primaticcio; was always dixming in the 
king's ears, day and night, his superiority 
over Cellini, and succeeded, at last, in per- 
suading Francis to let Primaticcio execute 
Cellini's designs for the gates at Fontaine- 
bleau. Cellini heard of this, and at once 
called on his rival; and having tried, 
without effect, moral suasion, to induce 
him to relinquish his proposed task, 
threatened to kill him, as he would a naad 
dog, when and wherever he met him. 
This course of reasoning succeeded where 
gentle means failed, and Primaticcio begged 
rather to be considered in the light of a 

Meanwhile he was hard at work on the 
king's salt-cellar, and when his majesty re- 
turned to Paris, he presented it As it was of 
remarkableworkmanship, a detailed account 
of it will be interesting. It was of pure gold, 
and represented the earth and the sea, the 
latter being a figure of Neptune, holding 
a trident in one hand, and in the other a 




[July 28. 1883.] 151 

skip, which was to hold the salt Under 
this were^onr sea-horses with their tails 
interlaced, besides a variety of fishes and 
other marine animals, whilst the water, 
with its nndolating waves, was enamelled 
greea The earth was a beautiful nude 
female figure, holding a cornucopia in her 
right hand, whilst in her left she carried 
an Ionic temple, which served as a pepper- 
box. Under her were terrestrial animals 
and rocks partly enamelled, and partly 
natural gold. This was fixed on a base of 
black ebony, on which were four figures in 
mezzo-relievo of day and night, and of 
morning and evening. It is needless to 
say that Francis was delighted with it, and 
Primaticcio slunk off to Some, under the 
pretext of studying the Laocoon, and other 
ancient works of art thera 

Cellini was now forty-three years of age, 
and in the zenith of his fame and working 
powers. He enjoyed the favour of Francis 
to an extraordinary extent, and the king, 
on his visits to the artist's studio, was 
astounded at the magnitude of his concep- 
tions, and the excellence of his execution. 
On one occasion he ordered seven thou- 
sand gold crowns to be paid him, 
bat the Cardinal of Ferrara prevented its 
payment, and satisfied the king with his 
reason for so doing, that if Benvenuto was 
made rich, he would probably buy an 
estate in Italy, and would leave whenever 
the whim seized him Possibly the same 
reasoning prevailed when, a short time 
afterwards, Francis promised him the first 
vacant abbey whose revenue should amount 
to two thousand crowns a year — but Cellini 
never received it. 

Madame d'Estampes's hostility, however, 
was not yet allayea, for, as she observed, 
"I govern the whole kingdom, and yet 
such an insignificant fellow sets my power 
at defiance ;'' so she persuaded the king to 
grant to a perfumer, one of her creatures, 
the tennis-court of the Tour de Nesle. 
He took possession in spite of protest ; but 
Cellini so harassed him by assaults every 
day with stones, pikes, and muskets (firing 
only blank cartridge), that no one dared 
stir from the place. This method was too 
alow, and one day our hero stormed the 
place, drove out the interloper, and threw 
his goods out of window. He then went 
straight to the king, told his story, was 
laughed at, forgiven, and had fresh letters 
given him, securing him still more in his 

For this the king was amply repaid by 
the strenuous exertions of the artist, 

and the Jupiter, the first and only one 
of that nobly-devised set of candelabra, 
was finished ; and in spite of Madame 
d'Estampes's intrigues, was shown toFrancis 
at its best advantage. He was in raptures 
with it, and talked largely of rewarding its 
creator, but nothing came of it but one 
thousand crowns, which were partly for 
previous disbursements 

War broke out between Francis and the 
Emperor Charles the Ftfth, and the king 
not only consulted Cellini as to the defences 
of Paris, but gave him a commission to do 
all he thought necessary to ensure the city's 
safety, but he resigned his task, when his 
old foe, Aladame d'Estampes, prevailed on 
the king to send for Girolamo BellarmatL 
Her enmity still pursued Benvenuto, and 
she so worked upon the king that one day 
he swore he would never show the artist 
any more favour. An officious friend 
carried this speech to Cellini, and he in- 
stantly formed a resolution to quit the 
kingdouL Before he could do so, however, 
he had many alternate hopes and fears. 
Sometimes Francis would load him with 
praises, at another he would scold and repri- 
mand him severely, and it was, at last, only 
through the instrumentality of his old 
friend, the Cardinal of Ferrara, that he at 
length succeeded in quitting Paris. His 
departure, though nominally a pleasure- 
trip, in order to visit his sister and her 
daughters, was, in reality, a flight ; for he 
left his furniture and other goods behind 
him, to the value of fifteen thousand crowns. 
He endeavoured to carry away with him 
two magnificent silver vases, but he wad 
pursued and compelled to surrender them. 

He seems to have had, for him, a quiet 
and peaceable journey, the only excitement 
he records being a terrific hailstorm, the 
hailstones beginning of the size of ounce 
bullets, and ending by being as big as 
lemons; nay, afterwards they found some 
which a man could hardly grasp in his two 

However, his party suff'ered no harm 
with the exception of some bruises ; which 
under the circumstances was not to be 
wondered at; but, as they journeyed 
onwards, they found the trees all broken 
down, and all the cattle, with many 
shepherds, killed. They reached Florence 
without further mishap, and there Cellini 
found his sister and her six daughters 
all well. 

Cosmo de' Medici, the Duke of Tuscany, 
received him with the greatest kindness ; 
sympathised with him, and promised him 




162 [July 2S, iaa.i 



almost unlimited wealth, if he would but 
work for him, and it was settled that hu 
first task should be a statue, either in 
marble or bronze, for the square before 
the ancient palace of the Republic, the 
Palazzo Vecchio. Cellini was forty-five 
years old when he made the model of his 
famous Perseus, which is now at Florence, 
in the Loggia dei LanzL 

He settled upon a house, which Cosmo 
at once purchased and presented to him, 
but the irritable artist must, of course, at 
the very outset, quarrel with the duke's 
servants, and, consequently, some delay 
occurred before he could begin his model. 
But everything was at last arranged, even 
down to his salary, and he entered formally 
into the Medicean service. 

Still, even in his beloved native town 
he was not happy, for Baccio Bandinelli, 
the celebrated sculptor, was either jealous 
of him, or he of Bandinelli, and they were 
always at feud. He kept good friends with 
his patron, made a colossal model of his 
head, executed some jewellery for the 
duchess, and worked hard at his Perseus ; 
but he was always at daggers drawn with 
some of the ducal suite, and just now it 
was with the steward, who, he says, 
suborned people to charge him with a 
horrible crime. 

There seems to have been no attempt at 
a prosecution ; but Cellini felt it decidedly 
advisable to quit Florence for some time. 
So next morning he departed, without 
telling anyone but his sister, and went 
towards Venice. From Ferrara he wrote to 
the duke, saying that though lie had left 
Florence without taking leave of him, he 
would return without being sent for. At 
Venice, he visited both Titian and Sanso- 
vino, and also Lorenzo de' Medici, who 
earnestly advised him to return to France, 
instead of going back to Florence. But 
Cellini, having written the duke his version 
of the cause which drove him from his 
native place, and judging that the outcry 
against him had somewhat subsided, re- 
turned as suddenly as he had left, and 
unceremoniously visited Cosmo, who, 
although at first he seemed displeased, 
soon entered into good-humoured coU" 
versation with him, asked about his visit 
to Venice, and ended by bidding him mind 
his work, and finish the statue of Perseus. 

This statue, or, more properly speaking, 
group, however, did not progress very 
rapidly, for Cellini was not liked, and he 
was thwarted wherever it was practicable, 
while both the duke and duchess would 

fain have kept him at work designing and 
making jewellery for them; in fact he 
was obliged to bribe the duchess with little 
presents of vases, eta, to try and gain her 
influence to obtain more help on his great 
work, and especially to counteract the 
machinations of his arch-enemy, Bandi- 

It was of small avail, for the duke, dis- 
pleased with the slow progress of the 
work, had, some eighteen months since, 
stopped supplying money, and Cellini had 
to find his men's wages out of his own 
pocket So, by way of consolation, he 
thought he would murder Bandinelli ; but 
when he met him, other ideas prevailed, 
and he spumed him, thinking what a much 
more glorious vengeance it would be to 
finish his work, and thus confound his 
enemies, and Bandinelli afterwards offered 
him a fine block of marble, wherewith to 
make a statue. 

This, however, did not make them 
friends, for both being once in the dake's 
presence, Cellini told the duke plainly that 
Bandinelli was a compound of everything 
that was bad, and had always been so ; and 
then he went on to criticise most unmerci- 
fully his rival's statuary, and to overwhelm 
it with ridicule. At the same time, however, 
he made him stick to his promise, and 
insisted on the delivery of the block of 
marble, out of which he carved a group of 
Apollo and Hyacinthus. 

This delighted the duke, and he begged 
him to leave the Perseus for a while, and 
devote himself to sculpture; and Benvenuto 
did so, carving a Narcissus out of a block 
of Greek marble. 

The duke had some doubts as to Cellini's 
ability to cast a lai^e statue in bronze, but 
the artist assured him of his powers, 
promising that it should be perfect in 
every respect except one foot, which he 
averred could not be cast well, and would 
require to be replaced by a new ona 

The casting was a series of accidents. His 
shop took fire, and it was feared the roof 
would fall in ; then from another side came 
such a tempest of rain and wind, that it 
cooled the furnace. Add to all this, that 
Cellini was taken suddenly ill of a violent 
intermittent feyer, and every one will 
perceive that things were almost as bad as 
they could ba 

111 in bed, news came to him that his 
work was spoilt, so he got up and went to 
the workshop, where he found the metal 
cooled, owing to deficient firing. This he 
at once remedied, and, with the addition of 



Charles Dickens.] 


[July 28, 1888.] 153 

some pewter, the metal soon began to 

Hark ! a loud report, a blinding glare of 
light, and when men had come to their 
senses, they found that the cover of the 
furnace had burst and flown off, so that the 
bronze began to run. Quick! tap the 
metal ; but it does not flow very quickly, 
it must be made more fluid. A number 
of pewter platters and dishes were pro- 
cared, and into the furnace they went, 
some two hundred of them. Then the 
metal ran kindly, and the mould was 
filled, and nothing more could be done 
but wait with patience for its cooling. 

The mental strain relieved, Benvenuto 
returned thanks to Heaven for the successful 
issue, then forgot all about his fever, and 
found he had a great appetite ; so he sat 
down with his workmen and enjoyed his 
meal, drank " success to the casting," and 
then to bed, to arise quite cured, and capable 
of eating a capon for his dinner. 

Two days afterwards came another 
anxious time. Had the casting been suc- 
cessful 1 Piece by piece it was uncovered. 
Yes, all wentwell until the foot was reached, 
which was to be imperfect What a dis- 
appointment ! the heel came out fair and 
round, and all Cellini's learned lecture to 
the duke went for naught Yet, still, on 
uncovering it, came a little cry of joy, for 
were not the toes wanting, as also part of 
the foot 1 Who now could say he did not 
thoroughly understand his business 1 And 
80 his patron and the duchess fully 
admitted when they saw the work. 

After this a little rest was permissible, 
and a journey to Some was the result 
Here he saw Michel Angelo, whom he in 
vain induced to take service with Cosmo 
de' Medici. But St Peter's was to be 
built, • and nothing could persuade its 
creator to leave it Malice had been busy 
during Cellini*s absence, and on his return 
he found the duke very cold towards him ; 
but although he managed to overcome 
this, an incident was about to happen 
which was to make the duchess, henceforth, 
his implacable enemy. 

She wanted the duke to buy a string of 
pearls for her for six thousand crowns, and 
begged Cellini to praise them to the duke. 
He did so, and the prince was wavering as 
to the purchase, when he asked the 
jeweller's honest opinion of their value. 
Cellini could not but answer this appeal in 
a straightforward manner, and replied that 
they were not worth above two thousand 
crowns, at the same time pointing out to 

the duke how much his consort desired 
them, and how she had asked him to aid 
her in obtaining them. So when the 
duchess once more asked for them, she was 
refused, and was told that Benvenuto's 
opinion was that the money would be 
thrown away. The duchess was but a 
woman, she gave him one look, shook her 
head threateningly at him, left the room, 
and never forgave him. She got her 
pearls though. A courtier, more supple 
and pliant than Cellini, begged the duke 
to buy them for his wife. He chose a 
happy moment, stood a few blows and 
cuffs, and then the indulgent husband 
yielded, and the pearls were his wife's 

The duchess could not now bear the 
sight of Cellini, and the breach between 
them was widened by his refusal to give 
her, to adorn her room, the figures of 
Jupiter, Mercury, Minerva, and Danae, 
which he had made to go with his Perseus. 
Her influence made itself felt, and even 
the duke sensibly cooled towards our hero, 
and at last he found access to the palace 
very dijficult 

But the crowning honour of his life was 
at hand. His Perseus was to be shown to 
the people and judged by their verdict 
Proud, indeed, must have been the artist 
when he viewed the crowds which, from 
before daybreak, poured foith to see and 
admire his work. There was no adverse 
criticism there — no petty or factious jea- 
lousy. The people heartily and honestly 
admired the creation of their fellow-citizen, 
and felt a truly fraternal pride in owning 
him as one of themselves. The duke him- 
self, concealed at a window, listened to the 
remarks of his people, and was so pleased, 
that he sent his favourite, Sforza, to 
congratulate Benvenuto, and tell him 
that he meant to signally reward him. 
His pride must have been gratified to 
the very utmost " During the whole day the 
people showed me to each other as a sort of 
prodigy;" and two gentlemen, who were 
envoys from the Viceroy of Sicily, made him 
most liberal offers, on behalf of their 
prince, if only he would go with them. 
Verses, Latin odes, and Greek poems were 
written by the hundred, and all, with any 
literary pretensions, vied with each other in 
producing some eulogium on Cellini. 

At length, sated with praise, he longed 
for a little rest, and obtained leave from 
his princely patron to make a short pil- 
grimage to Vallambrosa, Camaldoli, the 
baths of Santa Maria, and back again. At 



154 CJnly 23, ISBS] 


[Condnoted I7 

the baths he met with an old man, a 
physician, who was, besides, a student in 
alchemy. This old man conceived a great 
friendship for Cellini, and told him that 
there were mines both of gold and silver 
in the neighbourhood ; and furthermore, 
gave him a piece of practical information, 
to the effect that there was a pass, near 
Camaldoli, so open, that an enemy could 
not only easily invade the Florentine terri- 
tory by its means, but also could surprise 
the castle of Poppi without difficulty. Being 
furnished by lus old friend with a sketch- 
map he immediately returned to Florence, 
and lost no time in presenting himself 
before the duke, and acquainting him with 
the reason of his speedy return. 

The duke was well pleased with this ser- 
vice, and promised, of course, great things ; 
but the favour of princes is proverbially 
fickle, and when, in the course of a day or 
two, he sought an interview for the purpose 
of being rewarded for his Perseus, he 
was met by a message from the duke, 
through his secretary, desiring him to name 
his own price. This roused Cellini's ire, 
and he refused to put a price upon 
his work, until, stung by repeated reitera- 
tions of the demand, he said that ten 
thousand crowns was less than it was 

Cosmo was evidently a good hand at a 
bargain, and was quite angry at being asked 
such a sum, saying that cities, or royal 
palaces, could be built for such a sum ; to 
which the artist retorted, with his usual 
modesty, that any number of meh could 
be found capable of building cities and 
palaces, but not another, in all the world, 
who could make such a statue of Perseus. 
His rival, Bandinelli, was called in to 
appraise it, and, whether he took its real 
value, or had some doubts of the conse- 
quences of the fire-eating Cellini's wrath 
in the event of his depreciating it, he 
assessed it at sixteen thousand crowns. 
This was more than the duke could stand ; 
and, after much haggling, it was settled 
that the artist should be rewarded with a 
sum of three thousand five hundred gold 
crowns, to be paid in monthly sums of one 
hundred gold crowns. This soon fell to 
fifty, then to twenty-five, and sometimes 
was never paid at all, so that Benvenuto, 
writing in 1566, says there were still five 
hundred crowns due to him on that 

Still Cosmo was anxious to keep 
Cellini at work. He could thoroughly 
appreciate the artist's efforts, but he 

objected to pay the bill. Numerous plans 
for work were raised, and models made; 
but they fell through, either through the 
artist refusing te adorn another's work, or 
through the prince choosing the worst 
models. The court, too, was full of 
intrigues, as the story of a block of marble 
will show. A fine block, intended for a 
statue of Neptune, had arrived, and the 
duchess contrived that Bandinelli should 
have the promise of it. Of course Cellini 
could not stand this, so he pleaded his 
cause with the duke, with the result that 
it was arranged that he and his rival 
should send in models, and that the 
victor in the competition should execute 
the statue. Benvenuto says he produced 
the best ; but, knowing the court well, he 
waited on the duchess with a present of 
some jewellery, and promised, if she would 
only be neutral in the contest, to make for 
her the finest work of his life, a life-sized 
crucified Christ, of the whitest marble, on a 
cross of pure black. Cellini says Bandinelli 
died of sheer chagrin; and the duchess 
declared that as he, if he had lived, should 
have had the stone, at any rate by his death 
his rival should not have it, so the marble 
was given to Bartolommeo Ammanati, who 
finished the statue in 1563. 

The feud between Bandinelli and Cellini 
rose to such a height as even to interfere 
with their sepulchral arrangements^ The 
latter in disgust with the duchess had 
promised his Christ to the church of Santa 
Maria Novella, provided the monks would 
give him the ground under it, on which to 
erect his tomb. They said they had no 
power to grant his request, so, in a pet, he 
offered it on the same terms to the church 
of the Santissima Anunziata, and it was 
eagerly accepted. But Bandinelli had 
nearly finished a " Piet^," our Lord sup- 
ported by Nicodemus — a portrait of him- 
self, and he went straight to the duchess and 
begged the chapel for his own tomb. By 
her influence, with some difiiculty, he 
obtained his wish, and there he erected an 
altar-tomb, which is still in existence ; and 
having, when it was finished, removed 
thither his father's remains, he was taken 
suddenly ill, as aforesaid, and died within 
eight days. 

The next noteworthy incident in Cellini's 
chequered career was that he bought a 
farm near Vicchio, about seven miles from 
Florence, for the term of his natural life (in 
other words, an annuity), of one Piennaria 
Sbietta. He paid his property a visit, and 
was received with every demonstration of 


Clutfln Dicksos.] 


[July 28, 1888.1 155 

affection by Sbietta, his wife, and his 
brother Filippo, a profligate priest. Several 
persons warned him of impending danger 
iiom one or otber of them, but their kind- 
ness seems to have disarmed his suspicions, 
and he stayed to supper, intending to sleep 
at Trespiano that night. When he resumed 
his journey, however, he was taken violently 
ill with burning pains in the region of his 
stomach, and next morning felt as if on 
fire. Then he concluded that he had been 
poisoned, and, after passing in review the 
thiogs of which he had partaken at supper, 
he felt convinced that corrosive sublimate 
had been administered to him in some very 
highly seasoned but palatable sauce, which 
he had so much relished that he had been 
helped to two spoonfuls. At Cellini's age — 
he was then sixty — this proved nearly 
fatal, especially as the physicians of 
that day were profoundly ignorant. He 
hovered between life and death for six 
months, and did not thoroughly recover and 
attend once more to his business for a 
whole year. 

His illness was productive of another 
event in bis life, for, whilst lying sick, 
he made a vow, should he recover, to 
marry a woman who had nursed him 
with great care. He f ulflUed his vow, and 
by his wife. Madonna Piera, he had five 

When able again to work, he sought the 
duke, who was at Leghorn, was kindly 
received, told to return to Florence, and 
occupation should be found for him. But 
this does not seem to be the case, so he 
completely finished the marble crucifix, 
which he intended for his tomb, and showed 
it to the duke and duchess, both of whom 
were highly delighted with it. Cosmo han- 
kered after it, and ultimately obtained it, in 
1565, for fifteen hundred crowns, when he 
had it removed and placed in the Palazzo 
PittL In 1577 it was sent as a present to 
Philip the Second of Spain, who had it 
carried on men's shoulders from Barce- 
lona, and deposited in the Core Alto 
of the Escorial, where it may now be 
seen, inscribed : " Benventus Zelinus, Civis 
Plorent: facie bat 1562.*' 

Not being fully employed he got fidgety, 
and a friend of his, Signer Baccio del Bene, 
havuig arrived in Florence on a mission 
from Catherine de' Medici, they had a con- 
versation, in which it was mentioned that 
the queen dowager wanted to finish the 
sepulchral monument of her deceased 
husband, Henry the Second, and that 
Daniello Bipciarelli da Yolterra, who had 

the work in hand, was too old to execute 
it properly, so that there was an excellent 
opportunity for Cellini to return to France, 
and once more take possession of his Tour 
de Nesla 

He asked Baccio to mention this to the 
duke, as, personally, he was willing to go, 
but the duke would not listen to Ben- 
venuto going away, and selfishly kept him, 
without giving him employment — at least 
as far as we know, for here Cellini's auto- 
biography ends, in the year 1562. 

In 1561, however, Cosmo presented him 
with a house near San Croce, in the Via 
Bosajo, for him and his legitimate heirs 
male for ever, and in the grant, which is 
very flattering, is the following : " Possessing 
the house and its appurtenances, with a 
garden for his own use, we expect the 
return for the favours shown him will 
appear in those masterpieces of art, both of 
casts and sculpture, which may entitle him 
to our further regard." 

Very little is further known about him, 
but we know that on the 16 th of March, 
1563 he was deputed, together with 
Bartolommeo Ammanati, to attend the 
funeral of his old friend and master, Michel 
Angelo Buonarotti. 

On the 15th of February, 1570, Cellini 
himself died, and was buried with great 
pomp in the chapter-house of the Santisbima 
Anunziata, in the presence of the whole 

Yasari painted his portrait, in which he 
is represented with his back towards the 
spectator, whom he regards, with his beard 
on his shoulder. It is the face of a man of 
middle age, with features of no remarkable 
cast, short curling hair, and crisp beard, 
the moustache slightly upturned, bushy eye- 
brows, and two warts on the right side of 
his nose. 


Stretch out thine hand to me across the waste ; 
Ah, dear loat friend, see how between us rolls 
An arid plain, where wander weeping souls, 
That seek for all the shadows thcv have chaded, 
While sadly wandering, torn by dreads and foars. 
Amid the mazes of life's weary years. 

Stretch out thine hand, nor heed all that which lies 
Between my living form and thy dead heart. 
Help me to play alone my listless part. 
Wherein I see naught of those clear bright skies 
We watched together, standing hand in hand, 
To see the sunset deck the darkling land. 

That time has come again. I stand alone. 
The hills no more mav glad my waking sight 
Save when between the darkness and the light, 
I close mine eyes and think ; then each grey stone. 
Each gentle hollow, each fair light and shade 
, Are mine, imprintcKi where time cannot fade. 



153 [July 2S, 188S.) 



Then why not come and sit beside the fire, 
Make thyself known I I would not ask for more, 
Would not e'en question of that darksome shore, 
Where I have lost thee, nor would I aspire 
To gaze within thine eyes. Let me but clasp 
Thine hand in mine ! 1 could not fear thy grasp. 

Dear, thou art dead, yet wilt though not return? 
I do not -fear thee, for I know thou'rt dead. 
Canst thou not feel this ? Leave thy quiet bed. 
And watch with me the drift-wood redly bum. 
Just as thou didst of old. *Tis eventide, 
What keeps thee from thy old friend's fireside ? 

I will not question more ; methinks thou'rt here, 
Yearning to whisper of thv presence sweet. 
I will be still, i)erchance rlf hear thy feet 
Pause at mv threshold, or thy whisper near. 
X will be still, for death is dumb, is dumb ! 
Thou canst not speak, i<o I will feel thee (^ome. 



If fortane, as the saying goes, some- 
times comes to people whUe they sleep, she 
is pretty sure to make off again without 
taking the trouhle to wake them. Thus I 
felt it to be, anyhow, when on returning to 
our hotel after our interview with the 
magistrate, we found that, although the 
Sea Mew had sailed the night before, yet 
that Hilda and her father had not gone 
with her, but had actually slept in the 
same hotel for the night, and had started 
this morning in a chaise and pair for parts 

It was provoking to think that I had 
again missed the opportunity of seeing 
Hilda, and of making myself known to her. 
It was provoking, too, to find that both 
Hilda and the squire had heard of our 
little adventure of the night before, and 
had remained to hear the result, driving 
away as soon as we had been released from 

Hilda had written one of her pithy little 
notes to Tom, congratulating him on getting 
out of his scrape, and bidding him beware 
of making friends with peopleof whose ante- 
cedents he knew nothing. As for her father 
and herself, they were about to visit an 
old friend of the squire's, who was believed 
to be living in the neighbourhood. But as 
their route was uncertain there was no use 
in following them. Tom and his friend 
had better rejoin the Sea Mew as soon as 
possible, and try and keep out of mischief. 
There was something gravely sarcastic 
about the note that sounded to me like an 
implied reproach. Was it possible that 
Hilda had after all recognised me, and had 
seen through the thin disguise and half 
despised me for having assumed it) All 
the more I was resolved to follow them. 

and have a thorough explanation with 
Hilda; and the slight obscurity that veiled 
their movements only made me more eager 
to find them. 

This obscurity was presently somewhat 
relieved by the return of the carriage 
which had taken them away, for the 
driver reported that he had taken them 
to a place about seven leagues from 
here, where our friends had hired another 
conveyance. And so having no seven- 
league boots, we ordered a carriage to be 
brought round, secure of the first stage in 
our journey. 

But before the carriage could be brought 
round a voiture appeared, driven at 'a 
splitting pace from itie station, in which 
voiture there sat a little man in spectacles, 
with a short black beard and vivacious 
features; though he hardly so much sat 
either as stood, jumped, danced, gesticu- 
lated ; everybody flying about at his word as 
if he were the commander of the port At 
last, as if his mainspring had suddenly 
broken, he sank down upon the cushions 
with a gesture of despair ; and then we saw 
for the first time that he had a companion 
in the carriage, a very pretty woman in a 
pretty costume, arranged with blue serge 
and blue and white braid to represent 
approximately a seafaring dress. And 
then before we quite understood what was 
the matter, we were somehow dragged into 
the business by a chain of eager boatmen 
and toute who exclaimed in a choras of 
shoute and cries : " This way. Monsieur le 
Directeur, this way; behold those two 
messieurs there who know all about your 

''But she has gouQ, she has sailed T' 
repeated Monsieur le Directeur, folding his 
arms gloomily. ''All is finished! My 
friend," addressing the cab driver, " let us 
return to Paris." 

" But no I " cried Madame la Directrice, 
rousing herself in turn. "But no, Alphonse, 
how absurd thou art Eetum to Paris ! 
And what shall I wear when I get back to 
Paris, when I am here completely equipped 
for the sea. Let us address ourselves to 
these messieurs." And she bestowed such an 
engaging smile upon Tom Courtney that his 
susceptible heart was won in a moment 
" We are looking for the Sea Mew," she 
said, addressing us in excellent English, 
"a vessel that belongs to the friend 
of my husband, the distinguished Meesta 

" And so are we," replied Tom in his 
most dulcet accents. " We, too, belong to 



OhaflM DIekaiia.) 


(Jaly 28, 1883.] 157 

the Sea Mew, and I hope we shall be 
compagnons de voyage.'* 

Madame bowed graciously, and hoped 
so too, explaining the matter to her 
husband, who suddenly became radiant 

" Ha, ha 1 " cried the director," here is our 
affair then well arranged. Messieurs, I have 
left my bureau of Public Instruction, at 
the earnest request of my very good friend 
Chancelleur, that I may make your voyage 
entertaining, and also, let us hope, a little 
instructiva Well, I have my programme 
perfectly arranged, and it was irritating to 
find it in danger of being rudely cut in 
two. But since you, messieurs, are here 
to receive us, all is well, very well. We 
shall begin at once, having breakfasted. 
Cherbourg need not long detain us, its 
history is written in blue books and the 
budget of the State. But we have a dis- 
trict close by, intensely interesting to all 
you English who are a little akin to the 
Normans. You, perhaps," addressing Court- 
ney, " you, perhaps, are a little Normaa 
Your name, monsieur, which I did not dis- 
tinctly catch 1 Courtney ! " triumphantly. 
" See, precisely what I said — Courtnez, 
short nose, just as we have Courthose, or 
short pantalon." 

" Mon cher, " remonstrated madame, 
frowning at him, "do not entertain our 
friends with these b^tises." 

" B^tises ! " cried the director, "it is not 
b^tise, it is philologie. You should, sar," 
again addressing Courtney, " be of a verri 
distingue family. Only the great chiefs 
have the names according to the physique. 
To be a 'De' is nothm', and any one 
little seigneur is a ' De ' — but a Courtnez, 
ah, that is grand ! '* 

"I'm very glad to hear it," said Tom, 
laughing; but at the same time rubbing 
his nose as if to assure himself that this 
organ was not unduly limited in dimen- 
sions. "And my friend here, Lamallam, 
what is he 1 " 

"Ah, that I know nothing," rejoined 
the director, shaking his head suspiciously; 
" that is not French, that is not English, 
that is not Dutch — perhaps it is Hin- 

Tom Courtney gave me a nudge. 

'*Our friend is a conjuror," he mur- 

He seemed quite fascinated with the 
director ; we should have dubbed him pro- 
fessor, but that is a title which does not 
assume large proportions in France — any 
little boy's tutor is a professor. Well, Tom 

was so fascinated with the director, jointly, 
perhaps, with the director's wife, that he 
persisted in counter-ordering our carriage for 
the seven leagues, and in staying to break- 
fast at the hotel with our new friends. The 
director made a glorious breakfast, talking 
all the while, in a running commentary on 
the viands before us; he sketched the 
natural history of the lobster, showed us 
the connecting link between the shrimp 
and the spider, gave us a brief account of 
the process of making cream in Normandy, 
apropos of the sauce k la cr6me. Only as 
there were thirty or forty more of his com- 
patriots at table all talking and gesticulat- 
ing at high pressure, with the incessant 
rattle of plates and dishes all mingling 
in one mighty roar, it happened that not 
all his instructive remarks reached our 
ears. Madame la Directrice too seemed to 
enjoy her breakfast She had the satis- 
faction of feeling that she was the best- 
looking and the best-dressed woman at the 
table. The wife of the " port admiral," as 
we dubbed the officer who had the most 
gold lace about his coat, erew pale with 
envy and jealousy at the signt of her rival's 
fresh Parisian toilet; while the officers 
with one accord pronounced the new 
comer as of all things the most "chic." 
And, by the way, the gallant officers them- 
selves were a puzzle and wonder to us 
strangers. What were all these captains 
and lieutenants doing, and the brisk and 
smart seamen, too, who thronged the 
streets, while all the time there was not 
a single ship in a condition to go to 
sea. But then that was explained by the 
presence of naval barracks, where men are 
trained in seamanship without the dis- 
agreeable necessity of going afloat An ex- 
cellent notion this last, said the director sym- 
pathetically, for he hated the sea himself — 
except from the shore ; while madame, on 

the contrary The director gave a shrug 

expressive of the sacrifices he was making 
for the pleasures of his fair and amiable 
partner, and to accomplish his mission for 
his very good friend Chancellor. 

All this would have been amusing 
enough if I had not been so anxious to get 
sight of Hilda once more. But then, as 
Courtney urged, of what use was it to 
start on a vague uncertain chase, when in 
the course of twenty-four hours or so we 
should be sure to meet on board the Sea 
Mew 1 And in the meantime our director 
had us in his power. He was not an 
exacting taskmaster ; he allowed us plenty 
of opportunities for rest and refreshment, 





158 [July 28, i8f s.) 


(Conducted hj 

and for eojoying the society of his lively 
and charming wife. But in the meantime 
the programme must be carried out. In us 
he beheld the representatives of the pas- 
sengers of the Sea Mew, and in our 
persons must his vows to his friend Chan- 
cellor be accomplished. And so, breakfast 
once over, a carriage was ordered^ and we 
were driven ofif along the coast towards 
Gape La Hague. 

"I am going to show you," began 
our director, " the earliest stronghold of 
your race in Normandy — the first settle- 
ment, probably, of the barbarous Scan- 
dinavians on the shores of civilised 

As we started, the weather was rather 
threatening, great banks of clouds drifting 
up from the sea, with occasional driving 
showers; but in spite of the weather, when 
we reached the little bay called the Anse 
St Anne — where there is a little fishing 
village under the protection of the big fort 
that crowns the point — in spite of the 
weather, I say, the whole of the male 
population of the village was on the move. 
Their fishing-boats were anchored a little 
way out at sea — short bluff craft bob- 
bing up and down on the swell like so 
many fishing-floats ; and each man as he 
left his hut to start with the tide for the 
fishing-banks carried on his back a sort of 
coracle, rudely constructed, and of the 
frailest materials — an egg-box in one case 
— a little wooden scoop, in fact, which the 
fisherman dexterously set afloat and 
scrambled into, and then paddled out to 
his boat. A primitive race these fisher- 
men, among whom still linger many of the 
superstitions that once were universal in 
the district There is "le moine de Saire," 
for instance, the evil genius of these parts 
and the terror of seamen. In the road- 
stead of Cherbourg he calls out, *' Sauvez 
la vie ! " and draws the seamen who come 
to his help into the waves. Upon the 
rocks, he cries, " Par ici I par la ! " in 
order to mislead them ; and these are evil 
pranks in which he indulges to this day. 
But he no longer sits upon the Bridge of 
Saire to play at cards with the belated 
traveller and to throw the player into 
the water as the penalty for losing the 
game. People had long been too wide- 
awake for him, and when the railway 
was made he abandoned the bridge in 

Madame la Directrice is well versed in all 
this folk-lore, and she can tell us of the 
goblins that haunt the coasts hereabouts, 

which the country people call huards, or 
hurleurs; and of Chincheface or, more 
correctly, Ghichevache, a fantastic beast who 
devours good wives. Her lamentable 
thinness — for Ghichevache, is evidently, 
being interpreted, " miserable cow ** — ^anj- 
how, the lamentable thinness of this beast 
is evidence of the scarcity of that particular 
article of diet Another monster, called 
Bigome, eats up husbands who are under 
the dominion of their wives, and his cir- 
cumstances seem to be more comfortable. 
Our fair friend is delighted to find that the 
same monsters were known in England, as 
witness Chaucer, who warns ladies to avoid 
the example of patient Griselda, "Le&t 
Ghichevache you swowle in her entndle," 
and Lydgate, who, as Professor Morley 
shows us, devotes a whole poem to the two 
mythic beasts. 

By this time we have reached Beaumont 
Hague on the western side of the 
peninsula, with a lonely chAteau in a wood, 
close by which our director points out with 
triumph a raised embankment of green- 
sward, which he assures us is the J9ague 
Dyke, an entrenchment that cuts off the 
whole neck of land ending in Cape La 
Hague; a work that some ascribe to the first 
Norman settlers in the land, who here may 
have formed a stronghold and place of 
retreat^ whence they might sally out to 
plunder and dev-astate at wiU. Eight 
villages are cut off from the rest of the 
department by this entrenchment, villages 
which contain a population more purely 
Scandinavian perhaps than any other part of 
France — a people tall and strong, with fair- 
haired women of full and bountiful forms, 
a people whose mouths have hardly adapted 
themselves in all these centuries Jto the trip- 
ping language of the French, so that in the 
neighbourhood the district is sometimes 
known as the Pays de Ghenna, from the 
peculiar way in which the French ** cela " 
is pronounced. It is a little England, 
indeed, beyond the silver streak, and Tom 
Courtney feels a wild desire to embrace 
some of these tall, good-looking girls, and 
exclaim : " We are brethren and sisters ! " 
But it is hardly likely that the claim to 
relationship will be welcomed and acknow- 
ledged, for, sooth to say, the English are 
not over-popular in Normandy — especially 
unpopular, too, among the seafaring popula- 
tion, a little envious of our flag that, as far 
as commerce goes, has almost driven theirs 
from the seas. 

And so we take leave of La Hague. 
Hague, as pur director points out, in the 



CbarlM DIckeni.] 


[July 28. 1883.] 159 

sense of an enclosed space — rapidly running 
orer the words belonging to the same root 
— "haie," "hedge," "ha-ha," and even 
"hay" — and we drive off, accompanied 
by a sharp rattling shower of rain and an 
equally heavy shower of philologic lore from 
onr director, Tom remarking that all this 
learning acted upon him in the same way as 
a sermon, and gave him a wonderful appetite 
for dinner. 

When we reached the town we found 
despatches waiting for us, which gave us 
a fresh object in life. First of all was a 
letter from Hilda brought by a servant in 
a wonderful shiny hat, driving a dog-cart, 
with a fine fast-trotting mare. And this 
proved to be from Hilda for Tom, with a 
short account of her adventures. They had 
found the chateau of the Count de St. Pol, 
only to learn that the old squire's friend was 
dead, and that his son ruled in his stead — a 
young man, handsome, brOliant, and very 
ricL He had welcomed them with all the 
effusion of his race ; but as he kept up only 
a bachelor establishment, Hilda and her 
father had taken up their quarters at the 
hotel at Valognes — " a dear old place, which 
yon mast come and see, Tom." Another 
despatch too — by telegraph this one — came 
from the Sea Mew, dated Ryde. She had 
ran across to pick up her owner, who 
was going to join her there, and back to 
the coast of France — port of rendezvous, 
St Yaast 

We sent for the railway "Indicateur." 
Last train to Valognes at a quarter past six. 
Dinner must be postponed till we reach that 
placa Tom grumbled and muttered some- 
thing about never travelling with people 
who were running after girls. 

The same question presented itself both 
to Tom and myself on reading these 
despatches. Had the recall of the Sea Mew 
to pick up its owner anything to do with 
Hilda's hasty departure from the yacht 
with her father ) Was it possible that she 
shrank from the assiduous attentions of 
her betrothed, wished to put off their 
meeting as long as possible) Perhaps 
it was rather a highhanded proceeding 
which a girl of spirit might resent^ this 
ordering back the whole party to meet 
its host — a thing not chivalrous at all, but 
rather savouring of the self-importance of 
an arrogant man. However that might be, 
Tom reminded me that hitherto Hilda had 
notshown any repugnance to Mr. Chancellor, 
and that having made up her mind to 
accept him she must have been prepared 
for a certain high-handedness which was 

part of his character. And, again. Chan- 
cellor's visit to France was in pursuance of 
a scheme of direct advantage for the 
Chudleigh family. For the son of the 
house, Redmond, the ex-guardsman and 
rou6, was now, Tom informed me, lying 
hidden in some French town, mixed up in 
certain questionable bill transactions, upon 
which his creditors had threatened criminal 
proceedings, and Chancellor had under- 
taken to negotiate matters, hoping to avert 
any exposure, and to ship off Master 
Redmond to some obscure colony — say as 
governor or commander-in-chief Now, 
undoubtedly, John Chancellor was very 
much in love, and it would be a bitter dis- 
appointment to him to find that Hilda was 
not on board to meet him. And why 
should she have inflicted this disappoint- 
ment on one who was doing his best to 
serve her 1 

Tom and I talked the matter over as we 
waited for the time of departure, winding 
round and round the subject without 
coming to any conclusion. But while we 
sat in the shade in the courtyard of the 
hotel, smoking and talking over our woes, 
the director being busy with a note-book and 
his programme, and his wife having gone to 
array herself for a walk, a young and bright- 
looking girl approached, and in pretty 
broken English requested our advice and 
aid. She was Justine, the femme de 
chambre of the English mademoiselle, 
and her mistress had left her here with her 
boxes, promising to send for her when the 
destination of the party was settled ; but 
she had heard nothing, and was so dull 
and desolate in this place that existence was 
no longer endurable. If we would help 
her to find her mistress, we should earn 
her prayers for our welfare and her ever- 
lasting gratitude. 

"If I could travel with a femme de 
chambre, how gladly would I," exclaimed 
Tom. " But as that would not be thought 
correct, I don't see what can be done. But 
don't cry, my child," seeing that the girl's 
eyes were fast filling with tears. " You may 
rely upon iis to see you all right." And 
here it occurred to us that Justine might 
attach herself to Madame la Directricc, who 
was travelling without a maid; we were all 
sure to meet on board the Sea Mew, and 
in the meantime Justine could make herself 
useful to her compatriots. Justine eagerly 
seized the opportunity — an orderly little 
creature, a satellite who felt herself lost 
without a central planet — and presently 
we saw and heard her in full career of 



160 (July 28, 18SS.] 


[Conducted by 

activity, darting here and there for things 
for madame, and singmg : 

" A Saint Malo sont arrives, 
Snr le bord de la riviere, 
Trois balemens charges de bles, 
Sur ri sur To sur le Sord de Teau, 

Dans I'ean, 
Sur le bord de la rivifere." 

"A nice little girl that," quoth Tom, 
rising and throwing away the end of his 
cigar ; '* I mean to have a talk to her, and 
find out what's the matter with Hilda." 
Tom must have found an opportunity 
for carrying out his purpose, for presently 
he reappeared, and seated himself beside 
me. ''A clever little thing, too, that 
girl," he began; "she put me up to the 
situation in a moment Her mistress, she 
said, was quite satisfied and happy — at 
least, if not quite happy, anyhow quite 
content, till last night when the post came 
in with two d^p^ches for mademoiselle, 
one, no doubt, from her fiance, which she 
read quite calmly, half smiling to herself, 
and the second-r-ah, the second — ^which 
she opened quite indifferently. It was 
only from the vieille chatelaine at the 
chA,teau of monsieur, her papa. " Yes, the 
second," went on Tom, imitating the little 
femme de chambre's gestures, and waving 
of hands ; " the second produced a most 
lamentable efifect on mademoiselle. She 
turned pale, was about to faint, and then 
gave way to an indescribable agitation, 
wringing her hands, and even weepmg, in a 
way h navrer le coeur. Now, what's navrer 
le cosar )" asked Tom, interrupting his nar- 
rativa " I want to get up all those little 
phrases ; they are so useful in travelling. 
Navrer le coeur, what does it mean, now ? '' 

"Perhaps you'll know before you are 
much older," I replied gloomily, for, indeed, 
the little story I had just heard had made 
me feel something of a heart-break. The 
"vieille chatelaine " could be no other than 
Mrsw Murch, and the news that had so 
much affected Hilda could hardly be other 
than an account of my visit to Combe 
Ghudleigh, and of what I had said and 
done. But that Hilda felt that I had 
come too late, and that we were hopelessly 
and irrevocably parted, was only too plain 
from the manner in which she had received 
the news. Not a gleam of joy or of hope, 
but only the grief and sorrow with which 
she took leave for ever of all the sweet 
promise of earlier days. 

But if I could only see her — speak to 
her in my own name, urge my own rights 
of first and only love. I became in a 
moment feverishly anxious to depart. 

To a man anxious to get away, it was 
rather vexing, that as Tom and I were 
settling our bills we should be seized upon 
by the director. "Are we to travel on 
to-night then, my friends 1 " And then I 
su^ested that as we were going to a small 
town of limited resources, that his wife 
and he would be much more comfortable 
in their present quarters. "Not at all, my 
friends," rejoined the director ; " no trifling 
considerations of comfort shall interfere 
with my devotion to the friends of my 
excellent Chancelleur. Till we are on board 
that ship with the extraordinary name, I 
will not lose sight of you, my friends, for 
a moment. You, my brave Gourtnez, 
conduct my wife to the omnibus, and we 
others will follow on foot." 

And I presently beheld Tom pleasantly 
sandwiched between Justine and her 
mistress, while the director held me by the 
arm as he discoursed upon the origin of 
the name of Cherbourg, whether Caesar- 
burgh, as some pretend, a derivation the 
director was inclined to scout, or more 
probably after some Saxon chieftain Cyric 
or Cedric. 

But soon we were speeding, at the de- 
liberate speed of a French express train, 
along a pleasant English-loolang valley, 
with a stream showing here and there a 
gleam of light, and snug villas perched 
among the trees; through a woodland- 
country, the trees all aglow with the rays 
of the declining sun, with little fields 
between, shining in vivid green ; the storm 
all cleared away, and the day finishing in 
peace and splendour; then among roses 
which cluster about every cottage, hang 
about the station- walls, and clamber around 
the wheels of old deserted luggage-trucks 
— ^a land of roses and rich meadows, with 
green hedges and happy, comfortable- 
looking cows standing to be milked, and 
milked into vases of polished brass of quite 
noble classic form : a country of village 
spires and thatched roofs, with a pretty 
bit of river here and there shining from 
under a bridge. It is the river Douve---a 
less brawling stream than our English 
Dove, but with a charm of its own, in its 
rich and pleasant valley. And yonder on 
the hill our director points out a spire 
among the trees, which should be a place 
of pilgrimage for the Scots. It is Brix, 
the original home of the Bruces before 
they knew either Northumbria or Scotland. 
And then we are left at Valognes, while 
the train speeds on into the green, smiling 



ChariM DlekflUL] 

LETTERS TO A COUNTRY DOCTOR. tJniy 28. lass.] 161 

The inevitable little omnibas waiting at 
the station is already nearly filled with 
commis-Yoyageurs, and there is only room 
for Jostine and the boxes, which ar^ packed 
outside, so we walk down into the quiet 
town where the shadows are creeping up the 
wtUs while the tall roofs of the big cMtoauz 
are still in full sunshine. A pleasant social 
life they must haye led these provincial 
seigneurs before the Bevolution, shut out 
from most of the cares of the world behind 
these big florid gateways within the shaded 
oonrtyanis, and the gardens full of sun- 
shine. The gardens are still there, with 
their pear-trees loaded with fruit trained 
in formal neatness over the espaliers, with 
the apple-trees and plum-trees, that may 
have been grafted by the dainty hands of 
dukes and marquises of the ancien regime; 
and the courtyards are still there and the 
florid gateways, these last with a narrow 
doorway, perhaps, cut out of the great 
expanse, and a Uttle grating whence some 
white-ooifed sister may look out upon 
the world outside, as quiet almost as 
the doiatered world within. These big 
houses of the old noblesse are nearly all 
conventa now, or seminaries, or retreats. 
Except tliat in one or two of them, perhaps, 
some honest bourgeois lives, like a mouse 
in the comer of a granary, in a room or 
two cut off from the grand salon, with the 
legs of & fat carved cupid on one side of 
the partition, and his torso on the other ; 
while the carved mantelpiece holds the 
dish for tobacco and the modest pipe of 
the propri^taire. He will replace the 
purchase-money in a few years with the 
produce of the grand garden, that seems 
continually soaked in sunshine all through 
the long summer days. But of the courtly 
old families who Uved here through so 
many centuries in their homely state, what 
trace is there now 1 Who knows or cares 
whether our friend De St. Pol, for instance, 
is the offshoot of some almost royal line, or 
the son of some speculator or contractor, 
who the other day might have carried a 
pedlar^s basket % 

In a wide grass-covered Place we come 
to a halt — the Place surrounded by formal 
rows of well-clipped limes, with seats under 
the trees, but not a soul to be seen, and 
the silence only broken by the ringing of 
the big solemn bells of the church, whose 
graceful dome and quaint spire crown the 
house-tops, and the tinkling of little bells 
of convents from anywhere among the 
trees. Hereabouts was the keep of the 
old citadel, that stood out against Kings 

of England and Kings of France in turn, 
with hardly a stone left upon another now 
to tell the tale, but where the turf gives 
back a solemn echo from the cells and 
dungeons below. 

Our director leads the way across the 
grassy Place, and enters the porte-cochere 
of a ramblinff old hotel. A couple of old- 
fashioned diligences block the view of the 
entrance, and sundry waggons piled high 
with hay. A girl is driving some turkeys 
into a dilapidated stable, and cocks and 
hens are marching to roost in a long pro- 
cession. But by the doorway, in a little 
nook shaded with shrubs and creepers, 
there is a group of which I recognise the 
principal members — the old squire, regard- 
mg the scene with dignified complaisance, 
while at a table sits Hilda, sketching the 
old gateway, the tower, with its conical 
roof just touched by golden sunlight, the 
shadows that hang about the mullioned 
windows. The grey time-worn front of 
the church behind is still bathed in light ; 
there is a solemn kind of pathos about 
this last little bit still left of the old castle 
of Valognes. 

" BuC mademoiselle, you have succeeded 
admirably," cried an enthusiastic voice 
from the group. "You have expressed 
the very sentiment of the scene, and in 
such a charming manner that I shall 
treasure this sketch as one of my most 
precious possessions." 

The speaker was a young handsome 
fellow, small and slight, but well-built, who 
hung over Hilda as she worked with quite 
unnecessary solicitude. 

" But he is charming, that young man," 
said Madame la Directrice to her husband 
sotto voce. "Do you happen to know 
him, mon ami 1 " 

"Know himi — yes," exclaimed the 
director. " This is one of the best of my 
friends — ^the young M. de St. Pol." 


For the last three or four years I have 
been making a collection of the curious or 
quaint letters sent to me by my poorer 
patients, and though, from the nature of 
the contents, I cannot make public all 
that is written, I will, with your permis- 
sion, give some extracts from them, which 
will tend to afford some information as to 
the orthography and modes of expression in 
common use by some of the rural inhabitants 
of Hertfordshire. The extracts are copied 


162 lJu]y 28, 1883.) 


[OondiftBtod Iqr 

literally from the originals, and are abso- 
lutely correct, except as regards the names, 
which are, for obvious reasons, dis^ised. 

The knowledge of anatomy exhibited in 
the following is very poor. 

'^ My cough is som beter, but when i 
cough it causes awful pain on the left side 
of the stomock below the hip. i have 
aploide a letseed poultes.'' 

A deeper insight into anatomical details 
is shown by the person who wrote : 

** I feel very full at the chest where the 
digestive organs lie, especially after meals.'' 

Another writes mo3t emphatically: ''if 
you plese sir would you be so kind has to 
send me hay bottel of meadson, for hi have 
got such hay pain hay cross my stickamat" 

The next extract is very quaint 

'' To Mr. Blank, Surgent plese sir i write 
beeing unable to come myslef feeling so 
tirde and ill. i cannot rest anywere such 
cofifeing and soroiness and benumfells and 
trembleing with much wecking." 

The patient evidently meant to say that 
she had feelings of numbness with much 
weakness. More explicit was the poor 
woman who wrote : 

" I have such bad crying stericks wich 
causes me such pains in my chest and 
heart makes me feel very weak." 

The next example shows that the person 
who wrote it had conquered the difficulties of 
orthography, but had a very confused idea 
of the use of the pronouns. 

'' Mrs. Johnson's -head is a little better ; 
when I put my arm out straight there is 
such a tingling in my thumb, but her 
medicine makes me feel sick." 

A poor man came to the surgery one day, 
and, fearing he would be unable to see me 
personally to explain his symptoms, had 
written the following letter which he handed 
to me, as I happened to be disengaged : 

'' Sir you gave me a bottle of medecine 
about tree weeks ago for my cold at the 
chest and the small of the back. My cold 
was begingeing to come out of me nicely, 
but I could not see you the next time. I 
feel a little stuff up at the chest as if a 
UtUe flem wants looseing; sir, my kind 
thanks to you for a nother bottle." 

The following patient had evidently 
tried to cure himself before applying to his 
medical man ; he writes : 

" Will you be kind enough to send me 
something to ease a very sad pain in my 
inside, for I have beign suffering since 
yiesterday at noon. I have had brandy 
and wiskey and several things but nothing 
dent give me any relefe." 

The latter part of the next letter reminds 
one of the famous lines in Macbeth : " If 
it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere 
well it were done quickly." 

''Mrs. Stone wanted your opinion as to 
whether anything could be done for him 
by sending him away anywhere, she would 
be glad if anything could be done, to have 
it done, if you thought it could be dona." 

Very affecting is the following epistle« 
received from a poor woman whose husband, 
was in extremis : 

"SiK, — My poor dear husband is so 
much ^orsef 4 poor harm is in such 
dreadful pain and so swolen. Coud you 
doo anything to ease him, and his tongue 
is coated dreadful, and I cannot get any 
food down him. I am broke for Linement 
and medeson, do cindly come as soon as 
posable from yours Respctfuly. 

"J. Waters." 

As is also the following : " He was taken 
with a sinking and guddy feel, and we 
thought he would of died for a hour or 

It is veiy gratifying to a medical man to 
hear that a patient is better, and that he 
attributes the good result to his doctor's 
skill, hence I transcribe the following : 

" If you please would be so kind as to 
send me some more medsin, as the other 
suit me so will, and my coft is a little 
better, but I have the retmatic so bad in 
my head." 

Another grateful patient — ^apoor working 
man — ^writes a most genuine and touching 

" I have got my little girl to write me a 
few lines to you, to tell you I am very 
much obliged to you for what you have 
done for me . . . and now I must conclude 
with kind love to you, yours affectionate, 

"Amos Baker." 

The word medicine seems a puzzler to 
many poor people, and it is spelt very 
variously in my correspondence, e.g., 
meddeson, medesin, meaddsen, medeson, 
medsin, medsen, medinse, medecian, mede- 
cin, medecine, meadson. Some get over 
the difficulty by asking for something, 
somethink, or somethind for their ailments^ 
The word appetite is rarely attempted, but 
when it is it involves a complete failure, as 
in the ensuing letter : 

" Pleas to send me som moor medecin. 
I ham geting better, but my Back his very 
weark and Hapytite very bad." 

As specimens of quaint spelling the two 
following extracts are amusing : 

" Sir pleas Will you Be so Koind As to 





Chflilfli DkdDeBi.] 


[Jaly 23, 18^3.] 163 

seand Me A Bottoll of Meaddsen, the 
Bottoll Was lefb yeasteaday." 

''Sir I should bee verey mach a blige 
to yoa if you could ooxne and see My 
hasbon at wonce for i should like to 
haye your adivce for his head is so verey 
bad and he swelen so as he cannot see out 
of one of eya" 

Almost as interesting is this extract : 

" My back was taken bad a week ago I 
had a Plaster from the Cemist that don't 
seem to do me any good I have got it on 
know. I Was took on yesterday morning 
when i begun to work that's like a snap 
come the bottom my back I fell down and 
that took the use away from me for some 

I could give many more extracts, but I 
fear I shall tire my readers, and, therefore, 
wOI only quote a remark made by a recently 
made widow. When I asked her how her 
husband died, she replied, " He went off 
as easy as a glove." 

In conclusion, I will refer to a few of 
the strange terminations to the letters I 
have had. One person signs herself " yours 
respectively," another "I remain with your 
assistance," another ''your ammble ser- 
vant," another "your afflicted and poor 
servant," and another "yours respctfuly." 




There are " mauvais quarts d'heures " 
in all lives, and it was a specially " mauvais 
quart d'heure" which began for Hetty 
Mavors about this time. In the first place, 
the vicar ceased to come to the house at 
all, so that she had no explanation .'either 
of his words in the drawing-room that day, 
or of his strangely altered demeanour so 
shortly afterwcotls. In the next, the 
breach between her and Mrs. Pentreath 
would not heal. It should have done so, 
seeing that Hetty was even nervously 
anxious to keep within the limits assigned 
to her when once she was aware of them, 
and that Mrs. Pentreath, having said her 
say, and being conscious that she had said 
it over harshly, was disposed to let the 
matter drop, and trust to the good principles 
of her young companion for there being 
no necessity for its renewal. But unless 
one is very great or very humble it is 
difficult to go back from a position one has 
once assumed. Mrs. Pentreath was too 

proud to weaken the force of her rebuke 
by owning it had been too severe ; and 
Hetty had been too much wounded by her 
patroness's injustice to make any advances 
on her own part So a certain constraint 
and coldness sprang up between these two 
ladies who had been so fond of one 
another; and the younger suffered moat 
from it, seeing that the other had her son 
to fall back upon, while she had — ^nobody ! 

Certainly no one could accuse Hetty 
of seeking consolation from Captain 
Pentreath, or of "running after" that 
young officer any more. On the contrary, 
she avoided him as much as possible, leift 
off chatting with him or volunteering any 
of those little friendly offices and errands 
which she had taken on herself in all 
innocence for his service, kept as much as 
possible at her guardian's side when he was 
present, and even substituted a huge and 
interminable piece of embroidery in place 
of the songs and duets with which she and 
the young officer had been wont to make the 
evenings tuneful She only went to the 
piano now when his mother asked her; 
never otherwise. 

It was excellently meant, but it was 
overdone, jas such efforts are apt to be, and 
not from any wilfulness on Hetty's part, 
but simply from girlish simplicity and 
ignorance. Mrs. Pentreath, of course, 
could have done it much better in her 
young days, and could have retired from a 
flirtation with as much grace as she had 
shown in entering on it; but then Mrs. 
Pentreath had been a little woman of the 
world from her very cradle, and forgetting 
that Hetty was the very reverse, she felt 
almost angry with the girl at times for her 
awkwardness and consciousness ; and even 
wondered whether this exaggerated cold- 
ness and distance was but a blind to conceal 
a more clandestine intimacy between the 
young people than had previously existed. 

In truth, however, poor Hetty had a 
very difficult part to play, and the person 
who was the cause of her having to play it 
was the very one to make it more difficult 
still to her. From a sense of delicacy for 
which Mrs. Pentreath did not give her 
credit, she had sturdily refused to give the 
young officer any explanation of her change 
of conduct ; but Captain Pentreath was 
not to be blinded. Even if his mother had 
not given him more than one hint that his 
attentions to her young companion were 
displeasing to her, his own vanity would 
have forbidden him to believe that any 
girl could voluntarily withdraw herself 





164 (Jul; 28, 1883.] 


[Conducted by 

from them; and, therefore, while preserving 
a certain amount of caution before " the 
old lady," he chose to assume that Hetty 
and he were fellow-victims to her tyranny, 
and to embarrass the girl unspeakably by 
a system of sighs and glances, whispered 
words, and covert expressions of sympathy, 
which, if not actual lovo-making, were 
sufficiently like it to make the poor child 
desperately uncomfortable. 

If she had only known how to rebuff 
him, and in such manner that she might 
not seem to attach more meaning to his 
conduct than he intended to express by it ! 
But, alas I it was just this that seemed 
impossible to her. These things which 
appear so easy to us in after-life, are often 
very Juggernauts in the path of youth 3 
and of all difficult things to refuse a man 
before he has offered to her is the most 
difficult to a young and modest girl ; more 
especially when, as in this case, the man 
has no intention of offering himself; and, 
in the desire to enjoy what is to him a 
very pretty flirtation with a very pretty 
girl, keeps carefully on the safe side of 
any expression of which she could take 

Hetty could have cried at times for a 
friend to confide in and ask assistance 
from in her difficulties ; but Mrs. Pentreath, 
who might have been such a one in the 
past, was of course the last person to 
whom she could appeal at present, and as 
for that other, he never came near her 
now. Since the day of that passionate 
interview in the parlour when he had said 
so much and yet so little, she had not once 
spoken to him ; and the poor child grew 
pale and wistful -looking in the loneliness 
to which this falling away of her old allies 
seemed to have finally condemned her. 

Captain Pentreath, too, was beginning 
to get tired of her persistent shyness and 
avoidance, and took advantage of her wan 
looks to introduce a little plan of his own 
for breaking them down. 

There was, as I think I have said, an 
eight o'clock service at St Gudule's on 
weekdays. Hetty had been in the habit of 
attending it in all weathers, her little feet 
tripping to church as briskly through the 
winter snow as over the summer grass; and 
Mrs. Pentreath approved of the praetice. 
She thought it well for young girls 
to be religious in their habits, and said 
so. But one day it came to her knowledge 
that Ernest had begun to accompany Miss 
Mavors on these early excursions, and 
forthwith the latter found her church-going 

at an end. She had no idea of the real 
reason of its prohibition, or that it had, in 
fkct, been the means of first opening Mrs. 
Pentreath's eyes to the idea that her son 
might be finding the girl more attractive 
than was desirabia She never said so, of 
course; she had far too much tact and 
breeding to suggest such an idea ; but it 
was put to Hetty that when there was a 
third person in the house it would be a 
convenience to her patroness to have her at 
home in the morning; and the girl complied 
immediately and as a matter of course. 
Equally as a matter of course Captain 
Pentreath confirmed his mother in her 
Suspicions by discontinuing his church- 
going when she did, and there the matter 
rested greatly to Hetty's regret, and not a 
little to that of the vicari who missed her 
sweet face from its accustomed comer in 
the church, and guessed quite wrongly as 
to the reason why. 

But one day Hetty found the embaigo 
taken off as quietly as it had been put oa 

Captain Pentreath had been grumbling 
at breakfast at being awakened in the 
morning by the eight o'clock bell from 
SL Oudule's. 

"What did Hamilton mean," he asked 
impatiently, " by ringing a beastly bell at 
that hour in November, when people in their 
senses would never dream of getting up to 
wade through fog and mud to a dreaiy 
service ) For his part, as there wasn't any 
sun in England to warm the air in winter, 
he required to stay in bed till the fires had 
had time to do it instead ; and if Hamilton 
could find anyone idiotic enough to prefer 
going to his old church instead, his victims 
oughtn't to want a bell to call them to the 

" Fie, Ernest) for shame ! I believe 
George has a very fair congregation, and I 
am sure the bell never disturbs me," said 
Mrs. Pentreath in the indulgent way in 
which she always rebuked her son; but 
about an hour later, when Hetty and she 
were alone, she said to the girl : 

" I don't think you are as rosy as you 
used to be, Hetty. You used to have such 
a good colour every day last winter when 
you came in to breakfast from the early 
service* I'm afraid it's too cold for you to 
go at present ; but if not, and if you like 
it, I have nothing particular for you to do, 
you know, my dear, which need keep you 
at home." 

Hetty's face went rosy enough on the 
instant to satisfy anyona 

"Too coldl" she repeated almost in- 





ClitflM IMckeaa.) 


[July 28, 1883.1 165 

dignantly ; " it was never too cold for her 
to go, and there was nothing she liked 

Her eyes quite shone with gladness at 
the thought of the permitted pleasure, and 
she thanked Mrs. Pentreath so eagerly that 
the elder lady almost began to question the 
wisdom of her concession, and to wonder 
if she had unwittingly played into the 
hands of two youn? people who cared so 
much for each other s society as to stoop to 
scheme for it 

Perhaps as regarded one of them she was 
not very far out 

Captain Pentreath had no opportunity .of 
seeing Hetty alone during the day; but 
when he came down dressed for dinner in 
the evening he found her in the drawing- 
room before him. She was standing on the 
rug before the fireplace, stretching out her 
hands to the blaze to warm them. No one 
else was there. Even the gas was not yet 
turned up ; and as the firelight leaping up 
cast a warm glow over the soft, semi-trans- 
parent folds of her simple frock of Madras 
muslin, touched to a deeper crimson the 
knots of rubycoloured ribbon at her breast 
and elbows, and flushing her sweet face 
with rosy warmth, fell back, leaving a 
brighter sparkle in the bright dark eyes 
which turned enquiringly to the door, 
Ernest thought he had never seen her look 
so young, and fair, and winsome. His own 
eyes kindled with genuine admiration, and 
as he came towards her he exclaimed : 

"What a radiant vision for a weary 
man's eyes ! I only wish it were Christ- 
mas, and that there was mistletoe about ! 
But it is cruel of you to look so blooming 
to-night, Hetty, when only yesterday I was 
impressing on my mother how awfully ill 
every one thought you were looking. Did 
she say anything to you about it, and about 
takmg more exercise ? I went so far as to 
suggest that was what you wanted." 

" I, ill ! No. What do you meani Mrs. 
Pentreath said nothing to me," answered 
Hetty, blushing rather from embarrass- 
ment than pleasure at his compliments; 
"except," she added immediately, "that 
she said I might go to the early service 
again ; but " 

Captain Pentreath burst out laughing. 

"She did! Brava, mother! I didn't 
think you would swallow my matutinal 
hook so easily, or that I had baited it with 
the right worm for you. To think that she 
did stop your going just because she found 
out I was accompanying you ! I wonder 
now who told her." 

"Captain Pentreath, she never did. 
What makes you fancy such a thing ? " 
cried Hetty, shocked and crimsoning ; but 
she was silenced. 

" What 1 Why the fact that I am not 
a fooL You heard what I said this morn- 
ing about my weakness for late rising in 
winter. What do you think when you see 
the way in which she acts on it and before 
the day is out ! I saw through it from the 
first ; but it wasn't worth while saying any- 
thing while we could get our walks (what 
happy ones we have had, Hetty I) at other 
times ; but now pray, pray " 

What Captain Pentreath was praying 
for, however, remained unknown; for at 
that moment the door opened, and before 
Hetty, in her confusion and indignation, 
could even open her lips to remonstrate, 
they were sealed by the appearance of 
Mrs. Pentreath, who entered the room 
ruffling the train of her long black silk 
dress behind her; and taking in with a 
calmly critical glance, which embraced and 
measured both together, the startled atti- 
tude of the girl with her hot, flushed face 
and sparkling eyes, and Captain Pentreath's 
elaborate absorption in the newspaper, 
behind which he was almost hidden as he 
reclined in the armchair into which he 
had hastUy flung himself. 

Not one word of comment did she 
utter; but there was something in that 
keen, momentary glance and in the set of 
her lips and eyebrows which spoke more 
eloquently than a lengthy speech to Hetty's 
aroused sensitiveness, and in one second 
confirmed the truth of Captain Pentreath's 
revelation as to the cause of the abroga- 
tion and re-granting of her liberty. 

The girl's whole soul was in a tumult of 
disgust, wounded feeling, and impatience. 
There is always something int^sely 
galling to a frank, high-spirited nature to 
find that it has been mistrusted and 
suspected at a time when it is conscious of 
nothing but the truest and most innocent 
intentions ; and the idea that Mrs. 
Pentreath had been silently disapproving 
of and guarding against her so far back as 
those summer months when she (Hetty) 
thought that there was nothing but love 
and confidence between them stung and 
mortified her to a degree which' almost 
made her forget her previous annoyance 
at Captain Pentreath^ sympathetic con- 
fidences, which, from the clandestine way 
in which they were bestowed on her, she 
was beginning to feel both disagreeable 
and compromising. 




166 [July 28, 1883.] 


[Conducted by 

Bat by morning time all these Bhadows 
had happily disappeared. In middle age, 
indeed, we take oar cares to bed with us, 
turn them over with our pillows, and wake 
from restless slumbers to find them 
couched at our side and looking bigger 
and more ghastly in the morning light 
But youth has a blessed facility for letting 
things unpleasant slip lightly by, and 
burying the day's troubles in the night's 
sleep; so when Hetty woke next morn- 
ing it was to nothing but a sense of 
pleasure in resuming the habit which 
had begun by being a duty and had 
become one of the chief sources of happi- 
ness in the day. 

To be sure, one little twinge of conscience 
did trouble her, suggested by the query as 
to whether it was only the quiet morning 
service which seemed so attractive to her, 
or whether, in looking forward to it, she 
was not also craving for a sight of the 
friend whose counsels in and out of his 
sacred office she had so sorely missed ; but 
even if Hetty had been more of the modern 
introspective character than she was, she 
could hardly have regarded this little weak- 
ness as a deadly sin. Of course, regarded 
impartially, the Eev. George Hamilton was 
only a man like his cousin Ernest Pen- 
treath ; but women have a way of their 
own for discriminating on these things, 
and to Hetty he was quite unlike any 
other man, Captain Pentreath least of all 
Besides, it was only in his ministerial 
character that she was looking forward to 
seeing him. It was not likely that he 
would even notice her presence in the 
church, so little had he seemed to miss it. 

So Hetty thought, and yet, just as she 
was leaving church after the brief service, 
and hesitating a second before facing a 
small cold rain which had just begun to 
speckle the grey stones, and add a raw 
dampness to the chill of the November air, 
a voice behind her said : 

" Have you no umbrella ? Surely you 
didn't come out without one in this 
weather 1 " 

Hetty turned round, her whole face one 
flush of shy startled joy which a man must 
have been blind indeed not to read and 
feel flattered by ; yet her answer was tame 
and commonplace enough : 

" Oh, thank yen, Mr. Hamilton, I forgot 
it j but it doesn't matter. I don't mind a 
little rain." 

" You may learn to do so if you go out 
in it unnecessarily, and before breakfast 
too. Nothing is so foolish." 

But though the vicar tried to speak 
coldly, it was a difficult task with that 
lovely wistful face looking upwards into 
his; and then Hetty had given him her 
hand, and there was something in the soft 
clinging touch of the little fingers whidi 
melted him still more. He could not help 
adding : 

" I thought you had given up coming to 
the weekday service altogether. Tou have 
not done so for a long time." 

" No," said Hetty. How glad she was 
he had given her an opportunity of explain- 
ing, and yet she blushed dreadfully over 
the process. ** I could not help it Mrs. 
Pentreath kept me at home. She said she 
wanted me of a morning." 

" Mrs. Pentreath ! " repeated the vicar 
sceptically, but indeed, Hetty's blushes 
were misleading. *^ I thought she never 
got up till after you got back ; but I don't 
at all doubt" — this very coldly — "that 
you were wanted, and I did not mean to 
reproach you." 

'^ Ah, but I was not wanted really," with 
a quickness born of the chill distrust in 
Mr. Hamilton's tone. That he should 
suspect her was too much. "Mrs. Pen- 
treath said so, but it was — I don't mind 
telling you, because you know all about it 
already — because of her son. He came 
with me three or four times — do you 
remember 1 — and when she found it out 
she stopped my coming. I was very, very 
sorry, but I could not help it" 

" And Ernest was sorry too, I dare say," 
said the vicar, " but, after all, as he can see 
plenty of you at home, he ought to have 
been content with that" 

"His contentment had noting to do 
with it," said Hetty warmly. ** I did not 
come to church for him, as Mrs. Pentreath 
might have known." 

" But he came to church for you, as she 
also knew, by his staying away directly 
you did. I don't think she should have 
•interfered with your liberty in con- 
sequence; but considering her views on 
certain subjects you can hardly blame her 
for doing so. ■ Many mothers would have 
done the same." 

"And you think I should have said 
nothing about it f You would have liked 
me to stay away from church of my own 
accord if Captain Pentreath chose to go 
with me 9 1 did not expect you to say 
that," cried Hetty, much hurt, and with 
moistening eyes. But George Hamilton 
was not looking at them, and his voice 
I sounded harder than ever. 



Chirifli IMokeiia.] 


(July 23, 1888.] 167 

"Nor do I say it I should be very 
sorry to offer any opinion as to the 
relations between you and my cousin. 
They hare nothing to do with me, as I 
told you on the one occasion on which we 
spoke of them." 

'' And I told you then that there were 
no relations between us — absolutely none/' 
cried Hetty more hotly than before. " He 
began by being kind and friendly to me, 
and I used to talk and laugh with him. I 
liked him. I don't mind saying so ; but 
that was all, every bit of it; and since 
Mra Pentreath was vexed by it, even that 
is at an end. He would like to be kinder 
still to me, I believe, but I will not let 
him. I never walk with him. I hardly 
ever speak to him. I keep out of his 
way. I am rude — positively rude. Even 
Mrk Pentreath acknowledges it, and you — 
don't you believe it that you look at me 
so t Is it possible that you disbelieve me, 
that you think there is anything between 
us even now 1 " 

" Yes, I do think so. I do disbelieve 
you. Heaven help me ! " cried the vicar 
harshly. " I would give my right hand 
not to do so, but how can I avoid iti 
What can I think of the girl who talks to 
me like this — ^the girl whose nature I 
thought was as pure and spotless as the 
flowers on the altar within there, and who, 
nevertheless, I saw with my own eyes, and 
not an hoar after the scene in which she 
professed so much grief and indignation at 
her guardian's unjust accusations, walking 
side by side with the object of those 
accusations in a lonely lane at sundown ; 
he telling her that he would lay down his 
life to please her, and she — ^she assuring 
him of the happiness his words gave her 1 
There, I did not mean to make you blush. 
Miss Mavors, and I ought rightly to 
apologise for having overheard even so 
much of a tdte-^-t^te which was not in- 
tended for me ; but neither of you spoke 
very low; and as I passed you, coming 
back from seeing old Betts, along the 
fields by the towing-path there, I could 
hardly avoid both seeing and hearing — for 
a minute." 

" The pity was, Mr, Hamilton, that you 
did not do both for longer," retorted 

Truly her colour was brilliant, as the 
vicar said, and she panted a little as she 
spoke, but her eyes met his dauntlessly, 
And there was. a half angry, half scornful 
smile on her pretty red lips which made 
the vicar's heart beat more quickly in 

spite of himself. Even a lover's jealousy 
could not construe the expression into that 
of a girl convicted in an unseemly love- 

** It seems to me," she went on, '^ that 
people who overhear things always manage 
to stop short just when their hearing what 
is being said would be of any use. I did 
tell Captain Pentreath that if he wais in 
earnest in what he said it would make me 

very happy and What else 1 Go on, 

Mr. Hamilton.'' 

" How can I tell what else ) " said the 
vicar, somewhat confused in his turn, but 
speaking quickly and abruptly as usual, 
'* I am not an eavesdropper or a spy. Do 
you think I stopped to listen ? " 

" I wish you had," said Hetty, " for then 
you would have heard me ask him to go 
away and leave ma He said he would 
do anything to please me, and that was the 
only thing I wanted. I had gone out by 
myself because my head ached from crying, 
and I wanted a little fresh air. Captain 
Pentreath was in town. We had no idea 
that he was even coming back to dinner, 
and when he overtook me on the towing- 
path, and said he had come there to find 
me, I was so vexed I could have cried. 
I did all I could to drive him away. I 
was sulky, almost rude; but he would 
not go; and then he began to talk 
nonsense, and I begged him to leave me. He 
was very unwilling, for of course he knew 
he had done nothing to vex me, and thought 
someone had been making mischief between 
US, and that made him angry and inclined 
to say foolish things, which he wouldn't 
have done otherwise. When he saw that 
I was really in earnest, however, and 
wanted him to leave me, he did so, and I 
came home by myself. You know that, 
for I met you — (how well I remember it !) — 
and you — cut me 1 Oh yes, not rudely or 
vulgarly; yoa bowed, of course, but you 
cut me all the same, and you know iL You 
have been very unjust to me, Mr. Hamilton, 
as unjust and unkind as Mrs. Pentreath. 
But after all it does not matter. I have no 
claim on either of you ; and if I have no 
one else to take care of me, I — I can — can 
take care of myself quite well." 

Now, it is a very good thing for young 
women to have proud, independent spirits 
of their own, and to make proud, inde- 
pendent speeches for the destruction and 
humiliation of other people ; but if they 
want to be taken at their word they should 
not have tiny round faces which turn from 
red to white, and pale and quiver like a 








baby's at the smallest provocation, nor 
great liqaid brown eyes that flash and 
sparkle like a little stream under a wintry 
sun; nor a voice that falters and droops 
like broken mosic, and, above all, they 
must not cry — not if they have bonnet- 
strings at any rate. 

George Hamilton saw one big pearly 
drop splash down and stain the crimson 
ribbons tied in a cosy bow under the little 
round chin of the girl he loved as she 
stood there, flashed, defiant, and prettier 
than ever, a slender, fur-clad figure on the 
cold grey stones under the cold grey sky, 
and with the leafless elm-boughs tossing 
over her head ; and, despite all his previous 
convictions, all his efforts at hardening 
himself against what he considered a weak 
and hopeless passion, he gave way at 

" Don't, Hetty, don't say that, my child, 
my love 1 " he entreated, taking both her 
hands, and drawing her almost forcibly 
within the shelter of the porch which she 
had quitted. " You have a claim on me, 
the greatest a woman can have on any 
man, for I love you. I have loved you 
ever since you first came here, and it 
nearly broke my heart to think that I had 
not only lost you, but that you could 
deceive me. Dear Hetty, forgive me, be 
just to me. What else could a jealous 
man think, knowing how Ernest admired 
you, and how successful he is with women 
generally 9 And, oh, my darling, tell me 
now, for pity's sake, do you care for him 
at all, or have I any hope 1 " 

Early service at St. Gudule's began at 
eight o'clock and lasted about half an hour, 
so Hetty was usually back long before the 
lazily-luxurious ten o'clock meal which was 
called breakfast at Guelder Lodge, and 
comprised more courses and dainties than 
often go to a middle-class dinner. On the 
present occasion she was considerably 
later than usual, and thought herself still 
more so when she espied, as she came up 
the drive, tlie stately figure of Mra Pen- 
treath, who usually was not down till the 
last moment before breakfast, seated in an 
armchair before the dining-room window, 
with her gold-mounted eyeglasses on her 
nose, and reading her letters with as 
tranquil au air as though to be up and 
dressed thus early was quite a normal 
occurrence with her. Hetty, however, was 

quite startled by the sight, and congratu- 
lated herself on having forbidden the vicar 
to come home with her, as, in the joy and 
content of his unlooked-for happiness, he 
was exceedingly anxious to da Nothing, 
indeed, would he have liked better than to 
have been allowed to march in to break 
fast, with his small sweetheart on his arm, 
and then and there announce his engage- 
menti and ask his aunt's congratulations — 
her approval he took as a matter of course 
—on the same. Unfortunately — very 
unfortunately, as it happened — however, 
Hetty would not hear of such a thing. 
Her guardian's previous suspicions had 
wounded the child's pride and modesty to 
the quick, and the mere thought that it 
might be said that, foiled in securing one 
lover, she had gone to church to catch 
another, was enough to send the sensitive 
blood burning to her cheeks, and though 
she could not refuse the vicar the few 
words he asked for, especially when 
those words were the seal of her 
happiness as well as his, she was in such a 
tremble of agitation after she had uttered 
them, and so eager to escape immediately, 
that Mr. Hamilton felt it would be cruel 
and ungenerous to detain her, and consoled 
himself with the reminder that as it was 
her visiting day in the district they would 
be sure to meet in the course of the after- 
noon, and when she had grown a little 
calmer and less shy of him in his new 

Of late he had gone out of his way to 
avoid such meetings, and had succeeded at 
the cost of as much pain to himself as to 
his fair young colleague and parishioner; 
but to-day there would be no more neces- 
sity for such self-sacrifice ; and when they 
parted with a long fervent hand-clasp on 
his side, and one shyly tender glance from 
Hetty's dark eyea ere she ran across 
the street and disappeared in the chill 
November mist, the Bev. George Hamilton 
was as happy a man as could well be 

Now Keady, 




Sevenlar-two Fages. Piio« SlxpoBM. 

The Bight ofTratuUUing Articles from All thb Yxab Round if reserved hy the Auihort. 


^abllshed at the Office, 26, Wellington Street, Strand. Pr'jited by Charles Dickens St Etars, 24, Great New Street, K.C. 


170 (Angnst 4, 1888.] 


[COndMtad by 

be inextricably mixed up in the county 

And in addition to this thoughti which 
was in itself a painfoUy overwhehning one, 
old Mrs. Eay had a keenly vivid perception 
of the truth that this downward step of 
Jack's would give Hubert's wife the chance 
she wanted of riding roughshod over them. 
Effie was quick, brilliant, attractive, delu- 
sive as a will-o'-the-wisp ; but Effie was 
not pitiful In whatever spirit she might 
take Jack's dereliction from the right way, 
old Mrs. Bay felt that it would be in a 
spirit that would be derogatory to the 
Kays, and that Effie's fine little feet would 
trample them all down without compunc- 

It was Jack who had flung them down 
in the mire in this way — Jack, who had 
always had the advantage o£ home-training 
and associations 1 Her heart was hardened 
more and more against her son as she 
reflected thus, and Jenifer had no pleasant 
tidings for hiuL 

Everything, the whole order of life at 
Moor Royal, seemed overstrained. When 
Mr. Boldero went in on that, to him, event- 
ful day, he found old Mrs. Ray almost 
unable to comprehend the real object of 
his visit, so full was she of lamenta- 
tion for Jack and of wrath against those 
who had led Jack to this sudden destruc- 

"I can never forgive him. I would 
rather have seen my darling boy in his 
coffin than know him to be the living 
prey of a woman who could ruin him in 
cold blood, as this woman he has married 
has done. Mr. Boldero, I am a bitterly 
tried mother ; I have lost both my sons 
in life. Hubert is tired of me, and Jack 
is separated from me by a dreadful gulf. 
If it were not for my daughter, I should 
be a desolate woman." 

''Having your daughter, I look upon 
you as the most richly-gifted and fortunate 
woman of my acquaintance. Be patient, 
Mrs. Ray ; there are bright days in store 
for your daughter and you." 

'' You mean, through you, my generous 
friend, as you were my husband's trusted 
friend," she said more softly. " Mr. 
Boldero, glad as I am to give my girl to 
you, I " 

''I must ask you to say no more of 
this," he interrupted. " It's the brightest 
hope I have had in my life, this one I've 
indulged of winning Jenifer for my wife. 
But I must relinquish it now, at least for a 

" Relinquish it ! " This was confirma- 
tion strong of all her dreariest fears. 
Jenifer was '' relinquished " by a man who 
had only sought her the day before, on 
account of her brother's marriage. 

"I will not even ask you for your reason, 
Mr. Boldero. I accept your decision, and 
on the part of my daughter and myself, 
thank you for coming to it so speedily." 

She spoke with unruffled courtesy. 
At least, she told herself, he should not 
see that his insult had the power to move 

" Mrs. Ray, for some months I must be 
contented to appear to you as one of the 
most deqiicable oreatures who ever defiiced 
this earth. When those months are over 
I shall be justified in Jenifer's eyes at 

''Miss Ray will not set herself up as 
either your accuser or judge, rest satisfied 
of that I am sorry your letter of yester- 
day should have compelled me to trouble 
you to come here to-day, but I won't 
detain you any longer." 

8he meant to dismiss him with solemn 
dignity, but her plan was upset Jenifer 
came in, fearing the interview had taken a 
wrong turn between her mother and Mr. 
Boldero, and really thinking of him as the 
family lawyer, and not at all as her own 
lover. Jack's business was of paramount 
importance in her estimation. If Mr. 
Boldero said kind words of him now, even 
now her mother would be persuaded to 
see, and love, and forgive her son. 

" ' Oh, come ye in peace here, or come 
ye in war 9 ' " she began, trying to make 
her quotation lightly. "I'm sure it's in 
peace," she added hurriedly; "now that 
Jack has lost all his other friends, youll 
stand by him, won't you ) " 

She had come forward confidently, and 
was holding out her hand to him, when old 
Mrs. Ray interposed. 

" Jenny dear, Mr. Boldero is as shocked 
and disgusted at Jack's conduct as any 
other right-minded person might be. It 
does not surprise me that he is no longer 
desirous of allying himself with so pain- 
fully disgraced a family." 

" Which means that he doesn't want to 
marry me any longer," Jenifer remarked 
with periect composure "But however 
shocked and disgusted you are," she added, 
turning to him confidently, "you will per- 
suade my mother to be kind to the poor 
boy, won't you ] " 

"That, or anything else in the world 
that I can do tliat you ask me, Jenifer. 




CbttlM BlakMUL] 


[August 4, 1888.] 171 

Trast me for a short time longer, and 

then Jenny, I dare not even hint to 

70a what I shall do then. If I stir an 
inch oat of the ragged path my feet must 
travel along, for a time, I commit a breach 
of confidence and trast" 

The girl shook her head sadly, sorrow- 

"I'm beginning to understand that 
you're not a free agent" 

" I shall be in time, thank Heaven," he 

"Before that time comes we may all 
be in our ^aves, Mr. Boldero," old Mrs. 
Ray remained with a natural severity. 
But Jenifer drew herself up to her full 
fair height, declaring that such forebodings 
were the effect of want of fresh air, and 
that her mother would look at a few 
temporary troubles with brighter eyes if 
she would only come out for a walk. 

" With all my heart I hope soon to see 
you and your sons and daughters-in-law 
happy and at peace with one another," Mr. 
Boldero said to the widow as he was 
taking his leave. 

"Perhaps a few words of advice from 
you to my sons when their poor father 
died would have spared us all much 
misery," she retorted bitterly; "it's use- 
less your expressing such hopes now." 

''For a time I must submit to be mis- 
construed," he said quietly, but his heart 
was hot within him as he felt how impo- 
tent he was at present to throw off the 
fetters which a dead man's mistaken good 
intentions had bound about his feet. 

Old Mrs. Bay's farewell to the man 
whom she had for a few hours hoped 
to have for a son-in-law was icy. It 
seemed to her for the first time in Jenifer's 
life, that Jenifer was acting in an undig- 
nified way in being frank and cordial 
towards this man who had solicited her 
one minute only to reject her the next 
But Jenifer had very clear vision. She 
knew that no man could reject her — or 
renounce her rather — unless it was at the 
bidding of some power within him stronger 
than life or love. And such a power she 
felt honour to be with Mr. Boldero. 

Probably it will be said that had she 
been in love with him — as much in love 
as she ought to have been to have justified 
her readiness to marry him — she could 
not have reasoned thus. The fact is Jenifer 
did not reason about it at all. Just as she 
knew in the dead of night that the 
sun would surely rise in the morning, so 
did she know tnat a real reason for acting 

as he did would reveal itself in due time. 
It did not occur to her to feel aggrieved at 
his having withdrawn his offer of marriage 
for the present She knew the sun womd 
shine again^ and did not even feel impatient 
for his beams. 

No; undoubtedly there was nothing 
at all resembling love in this phase of feel- 
ing. But it was real, genuine, strong, 
reliant friendship ; perhaps a more durable 
article, though not so attractive at first 

So to her mother's intense chagrin 
Jenifer made herself " cheap," as old Mrs. 
Bay called it, and insisted on walking as 
far as the lodge-sates with Mr. Boldero. 

"Effie has given me an unmistakable 
hint to move from Moor Boyal this morn- 
ing," she said to him as they got away 
from the house ; " she is going to stay with 
her sister for some time, and she means to 
shut up Moor BoyaL She says Hubert 
can't afford to keep the place up, and there 
are some cruel legal restrictions on his 
selling it; so her only alternative is to 
shut up the house and go." 

" You are being awfully tried, poor girl ; 
you will be royaUy rewarded." 

" Do you think I shall be ? " she asked 
earnestly. " Have you any notion of the 
idea that has come into my brain, put there 
by Effie in the first place, I really believe 1 
If I could get my mother to go up to 
London, I think I could do something with 
my knowledge and love of music and 

"By teaching 1" 

" Well, my ambition goes beyond that 
You know how often I've sung at con- 
certs about here, and what a success I've 
always had." 

"My dear girl, dismiss the notion of 
going on the concert boards from your 
mind at once ; in the first place the difii- 
culties you'd have to face in getting on 
would be crushing, and in the second 

i)lace, if you got on, you would only be 
ooked upon as an amateur, and treated 

" I don't imagine for an instant that I 
should succeed if I went on now, but I 
mean to give myself good training ; I mean 
to study hard for a year with ' one of the 
best teachers of singing in London. You 
see, Mr. Boldero, I have been preparing to 
meet the fact of my mother and myself no 
longer having a home here ; and as I must 
help to make the home of the future, don't 
— ^pray don't discourage me from trying to 
do it in the only way I can." Then she 



172 [Angiut 4,1888.] 



went on to tell him that she had been in 
correspondence for some days with Madame 
YogliOi a lady who had been a qneen of 
song a few years ago, and who now was 
accredited with marvellous powers of im- 
parting instruction in vocalisation, as well 
as of getting her pupils "paid engage- 
ments " at the expiration of their term of 
pupilage with her. 

" You certainly seem to have elaborated 
your scheme with a great deal of discretion 
and forethought " 

" And you will say nothing against it V 

*' I won't promise that, Jenifer. I am 
not pledged, thank Heaven, to refrain from 
advising you; and I do advise you strongly, 
my dear, my dearest girl, against courting 
disappointment, pain, and mortification, as 
you are contemplating doing." 

" You say this — ^you who have flattered 
me about my singing as you have I " 

"1 have never flattered you. Every 
word of admiration that has fallen from 
my lips has come from my heart I say 
again as I have said to you and to your 
father, that your fresh, sweet, true voice, 
and finished style, have a charm for me 
beyond the charm of any other woman's 
voice and style — in a drawing-room, or on 
a small stage, when you are facing an 
audience of friends and acquaintances pre- 
disposed to admire and applaud you to the 

"I shall try and forget that I have an 
audience of strangers, or try to remember 
that they'll judge me strictly on my merits ; 
and, if I have done well before, I shall do 
better then." 

" I have only a slight knowledge of the 
life you propose to enter upon, but I know 
enough of it to tell you this. You will be 
hedged in by envy, jealousy, and strongly- 
biased critical feeling. You will not take 
the place of a rich, highly-stationed lady 
who may howl her worst in public with 
impunity, because it is merely her * whim ' 
to do so. She will get applause when you 
will get a hiss. You wUl be known to 
have taken to the concert-boards more 
from need than choice; you will have 
around you as fellow- pupils, probably, 
girls endowed with musical and vodeJ: 
talent as highly as, or more highly than 
yourself, whose talent has been profes- 
sionally trained for years. And you will 
not be protected from their jealousy 
by any instinctive well-bred feeling of 
toleration in them. Jenifer, I dislike the 
thought of this career for you more than I 
can say." 

<' You sha'n't dishearten me, Mr. Boldera 
ril disarm jealousy, and turn a deaf ear to 
slighting words. My hardest work will be 
with my mother. I'm afraid shell think 
that I might as well become a circus-rider 
at once," 

"Have you counted the cost of tiiis 
yearns study at all ) " 

" How unpractical you think me I Of 
course I have counted it; counted it and 
provided for it My father was always vety 
generous to me " (^e entirely forgot as she 
spoke how entirely unprovided for her 
father's will had left her), "and I have 
nearly a hundred pounds by me. I am 
going to sell some jewellery that* I don't 
value, though luckily it's valuable. And 
for two hundred pounds Madame Yoglio k 
going to take me as her pupil, and give me 
special lessons for twelve months. Then, 
she says, through her I shall surely get an 
appearance at once, and paid engagements 
soon after. Say my prospect is good ; do 
say something encouraging." 

" Heaven bless you, Jenifer 1" was all he 
could say. Then he mounted his horse, 
which he had been leading all this time, 
and said good-bye to her at the lodge- 

" Jenny," her mother said to her when 
she went back after this long consultation 
with Mr. Boldero, "I don't know how 
Hubert will take it ; but I feel that I must 
leave Moor BoyaL I shall never dare to 
go beyond the grounds for fear of meeting 
that woman Jack has married. I shall 
stifle here. Do you think Hubert will 
object 1 " 

"Hubert and Effie are going to leave 
Moor Royal themselves," Jenifer said; and 
then, with a beating heart, she bared her 
little plot to her mother. 



Quite a border town is Malpas, the hills 
of Wales growing distinct and near at hand. 
Thus was the lord of Malpas in early days 
the right-hand man of the Earl of Chester, 
for a strong manand a ready was needed here 
when a swarm of nimble Welsh any day 
might come skirmishing over the plain. And 
so the lord of Malpas had three castles in 
charge, a strong trilateral to hold against 
the invader — ^Medpas for one, guarding the 
main road to the south; Shocklach, near 
a ford on the river Dee ; and Oldcastle, on 
the banks of a tributary stream. Of the 


three easiles the remauB are baft aoantj, 
bat still their sites can be made, out, lying 
within the compass of a few miles from eacn 
other, showing the dangers of the pass they 
gnarded, and hence, perhaps, the Norman 
scribes named the little town Mains 
Passns, signifying, in monkish Latin, the 
bad pass. 

From Malpas rons a range of pleasant 
sandstone hilk northwards to Tarporley, a 
pleasant little hunting-town on. a gentle 
slope, the Welsh hills still in view, and the 
broad and fertile vale of Chester. Bat 
before coming to Tarporley an abrupt sand- 
stone rock strikes the eve, rising in solitary 
erandeor nearly four hundred feet sheer 
nom the plain, and upon this rock is the 
venerable and imposing ruin of Beeston 

Another strons castle was this of the Earls 
of Chester, buQt by the same good Banulph 
who was rescued from the Welsh by the 
fiddlers. The line of the Earls of Chester, 
descendants of Hugh Lupus, came to an end 
in the reign of Henry the Third, and the 
crown came in for its castles and lordships, 
and thus Beeston Castle was held for the 
king in the barons' war; after yrhich it 
hardly comes into notice till its dismantle- 
ment by the Parliament in the Civil Wars, 
as a possible rallying-point for disaffected 
RoyaUsts. Not a very eventful history for 
such a fine old castle. But popular estima- 
tion gives it a grand r6le as yet unplayed 
in human affairs. "Beeston Castle shall 
save all England on a day " is an old say- 
ing, which must have come down from the 
time when the Welsh were still dangerous 
neighbours; for from what other quarter the 
danger is to come, from which Beeston can 
save us, it is difficult to see. 
. A little farther north lies Delamere 
Forest, with the old British trackway 
running through it— a branch of Watling 
Street starting from Chester and pointing 
towwds Manchester — and many old earth- 
works on the line to tell of sieges and batties 
of which all other memory has perished ; 
as at Eelsbarrow and on Eddisbury Hill, 
where Ethelfleda of Mercia had a dwelling, 
it is said, and which was a stronghold, no 
doubt, of even more primitive times. The 
forest was once a royal chase and weU 
stocked with deer, with hereditary keepers, 
and hereditary poacher8,no doubt, but isnow 
mostly enclosed and cultivated. Farther 
on is Yale Boyal, now the se^t of Lord 
Delamere, with a few traces in the founda- 
tions of the once royal i^bbey. 

According to tradition Prince Edward 

was returning from the Holy Land, after 
escaping the poisoned dagger of the Old 
Man of the Mountains, when his ship was 
overtaken by a dreadful storm and nearly 
cast away. In his extremity the prince 
vowed, if he should be spared, to dedicate 
to Heaven a monastery with a hundred 
monks; after which the storm suddenly 
cleared away, and the ship came safe to 
port Edward had known adversity in his 
youth, and had been for some time a prisoner 
at Hereford in the hands of the insurgent 
barons — ^with apologies to the brave Earl of 
Leicester for calling him insurgent — but 
anyhow a prisoner, and kindly treated by 
the neighbouring monks of the Cistercian 
Abbey Dore. ^d so he chose a hundred 
monks from Dore to fill his new foundation, 
the first stone of which was laid with great 
pomp by Edward himself, by this time King 
of England, in 1277. But the monks must 
often have wished themselves back in 
peaceful Dore again; for tenants and neigh- 
bours seem alike to have held the new 
community in detestation, as interlopers 
exacting rigidly tithes and dues where 
formerly there had been a pleasant laxity 
in this respect. We read of a monk 
collecting tithe having his horse killed 
under him by a flight of arrows ; another 
monk was slain by the savage foresters, and 
his head kicked about as a football. 

And now for the Wyches, the salt towns 
known as such time out of mind, with their 
brine-springs and undeiground caves of 
rock-salt. Northwich, first of all, with its 
little port on the river Weaver, where 
vessels of two hundred tons or so resort to 
load up with salt Here the brine pits 
worked for so many ages, and the mines of 
rock-salt worked since 1670, have caused 
such underground cavities, that the surface 
has everywhere subsided, the old town 
threatening to disappear altogether some 
fine day, and leave a salt lake in its place. 
The county round about is studded 
with low roomy buildings with tall 
chimneys, where great salt pans are at work 
boiling and evaporating. From Northwich 
and Winsford a fleet of some four hundred 
flats are constantly afloat, carrying salt to 
Liverpool, whence it is exported to America 
ahd India. Then there are Mlddlewich, 
higher up the river, a quaint old town, with 
many thatched houses, and Nantwich, that 
in topographical propriety, should be called 
Sout^wich. But Nantwich beine in such 
close proximity to the Welsh, and resorted 
to by them for ages, is supposed to have 
assumed the Welsh prefix, Nant or valley, 

•m • 

174 (Angurt 4, 188S.] 




although the Welah never knew it as Nant 
anythmg as far as we know, bat called the' 
place the white salt pit town, Yr Heledd 
Wen, as they named iTorthwich the black 
salt pit town. The Welsh must have 
coveted Nantwich, having no other supply 
of salt, and made many rushes upon it; 
and Henry the Third, at war with the 
Welsh, once ordered the pits to be closed, 
to starve them, as it were, into submission. 
Hugh Lupus built a strong castle here 
against the Welsh, but there is not a trace 
of it left. The brine pits have ceased 
to be worked, although the original spring 
still runs as salt as ever, bubbhng up close 
to the river brink. But the country all 
along this valley of the Weaver is one 
great salt field, the dried-up bed, perhaps, 
of some Dead Sea. 

We must not forget the 'little river 
Peover that joins the Weaver at North wich, 
with the villages on its banks — Upper and 
Lower Peover. In the church of tne latter 
is a massive oaken chest, hollowed out of 
a solid block, and if a Cheshire lass can raise 
the lid of this with one arm while she looks 
in she is fit for a Cheshire farmer's wife, 
reminding one of the libellous rhyme 
currentamong theneighbouring and perhaps 
envious Lancashire folk : 

Cheshire bred, 
Strong V th* arm and weak i' th* head. 

No thought of salt is here or of miners, but 
all quite rural and feudal, with great parks 
and country seats dotting the country in 
all directions. There is Alderley Park, 
held by a branch of the Stanleys, and 
Alderley Edge, a curious break — a fault in 
the sandstone — ^with a precipitous face, 
from which is visible a noble prospect far 
and wide, with the smoke of Manchester 
and its satellite towns in the distance, and 
all about pleasant villas of the Manchester 

Returning to Northwich and Watling 
Street again we come to Knutsford, sur- 
rounded by parks and ancient halls, and in 
itself a centre of quiet provincial life of 
interest to all the world through the 
graphic pen of Mrs. GaskelL Knutsford 
is Crauford indeed, whose histoty was first 
told in the first series of Household Words. 

A pleasant homely town is Knutsford, 
"the name coming from Canutus — upon 
what occasion I find not ; indeed, a finemarket 
and pleasantly situate," writes the his- 
torian of Yale Boyal, although a modem 
authority has thrown doubts upon this 
etymology, and suggested Neatsford. But 
Canutus is our man, and we will have 

nothing to do with the neat-herd| 
and it is pleasant to find Mrs. Oaskell 
seeking confirmation as to Canute and Mb 
ford from pundits of the Danish king's own 
tongue. But the direct origin of the little 
literary centre is an old Presbyterian 
settlement in the town, one of whose early 
ministers was stout John Turner, whom we 
hear of at Preston in 1715, arming his flock 
against the ChevaHer'a army and taking 
prisoner a Highland scout, and who after- 
wards setUedat Knutsford, and was probably 
an ancestor of our author. But her studies 
of character are confined in no narrow 
groove, and it is pleasant to come across, 
in Mr. Green's Knutsford, some of the 
original models from which she drew. 
Here is the great lady of the parish, for 
instance. Lady JaneStanley, the sbter of that 
Earl of Derby who married Miss Farren, 
the actress — ^Lady Jane who walked about 
Knutsford in great dignity, carrying a gold- 
headed cane, which she was known to 
lay about the sturdy shoulders of a farmer 
who presumed to take the wall of her. A 
spinster so devoted to the virgin state was 
this Lady Jane, that it quite shocked her 
to see a couple walking arm-in-arm, so that 
leaving in her will money to pave the streets 
of Knutsford, she stipulated, it is said, that 
the pavement should be only one fiag 
broad, in order that it might be impossible 
to walk k la Darby and Joan. 

In early days, too, our author must have 
heard the stories of Higgins the highway- 
man, which were, indeed, repeated, with 
little embellishment, in The Squire's Story 
in an early Christmas number of Household 

The career of this dashing robber is in- 
deed remarkable. We first hear of him in 
the west, robbing a farmer coming home 
from market, and being transported to the 
American plantations. There he escapes 
from custody, breaks into a house at Boston, 
and so, provided with funds, ^ets on ship- 
board, and back to his native land. Then 
with renewed confidence and daring he 
takes to the road, and is so successful in his 
pursuits, that he is enabled to set up house- 
keeping at Knutsford — quite the gentle- 
man, with sporting dogs and thoroughbred 
hunters. He marries the daughter of a 
respectable family, and is much looked up 
to by the neighbourhood, and pays his 
way with strict punctuality. But some 
night when all the world is abed, he 
saddles one of his thoroughbreds, muffles 
up its hoofs in worsted stockii^ rides 
silently out of the paved courtyard, and 


fBniVm OlcdDsos.] 


through the sleeping town; then dashes 
off to some rendezyons, fifty or a hundred 
miles away. Presently a terrible affair 
happens at Bristol : an old lady is found 
one morning murdered, and her house ran- 
sacked. She is known to have had a con- 
siderable hoard of coin in Spanish dollars 
and doubloons; perhaps the old lady 
herself had been the child of a bold 
baccaneer, and the dollars had been got 
by eyil deeds upon the Spanish main. 
Higgins is the first to bring the news to 
Ejiutsford, long before the Flying Posts 
and Weekly Muls have wind of it ; and it 
is noticed soon after that Spanish money 
has suddenly come into circulation about 
Knutsford — where, perhaps, a more cosmo- 
politan spirit reigned than at present, in 
the way of currency. 

People might have put this and that 
together, but it seems they didn't, for 
Higgins still continued to move in the 
best society; and one night attended an 
assembly at Knutsford, ruffling it among 
all the county grandees. One Lady 
Warburton, of Arly, was noticeable for 
the splendour of her diamond parure, 
and general display of gems and jewels ; 
and Higgins marked them for his own. 
He left earlier than the rest and rode out 
to intercept the Warburton chaise, which 
presently came lumbering up. Higgins, 
trusting to the darkness of the night and 
his slouched hat and cloak, dashed up to 
the coach ; but the lady within, catching 
sight of his face, greeted him with a 
friendly wave of me hand : '' Oh, Mr. 
Higgins, why did you leave us so early 1 " 
The highwayman, abashed, muttered some 
polite rejoinder and rode off. 

His last exploit was to break open the 
house of a lady of rank near Carmarthen, 
a terrible ride for the thoroughbred over the 
wild mountain passes; but here he was 
caught red-handed) tried,and convicted, pro- 
testing that he was a gentleman of condition, 
and that the whole affair was a mistake. 
Apart from these eccentricities of conduct, 
Higgins seems to have been an amiable 
man — anyhow, he had secured the warm 
affection of his wife, who stood by him to 
the last. Just before the date fixed for 
the execution, a reprieve came down, 
signed by Lord Shelbume ; but the under- 
sheriff, convinced that this was a forgery, 
refused to delay the hanging. The gallows 
was, as was then usual, some little distance 
from the town, and Higgins walked at such a 
rate that the attendants could hardly keep 
up with him, abusing the under-sheriff aXL 

the way, and protesting that the reprieve 
was a good one. On mounting the fatal 
ladder he handed a letter to the sheriff, it 
is said, containing a full confession of his 
crimes, including the Bristol murder. Ac- 
cording to the Annual Register, however, 
he only gave a letter to his wife, and died 
impenitent A broadsheet exists, purport- 
ing to be the full confession in question, 
wmch is evidence at all events of the 
current belief as to his crimes. 

Another original from whom Mrs. 
Gaskell might have drawn, was M. Bogier, 
French emigr6 and dajicing-master, a 
model such as Moli^re would have de- 
lighted in, penetrated with a profound sense 
of the importance of his art, remarking of 
the younger Pitt that his dancing gave no 
promise of his future greatness; an inventor 
of the wildest projects, and always airing 
his acquaintance with distinguished people 
among whom he considered he had every 
right to be classed. 

Then there was John Astly, the artist, a 
fellow -pupil with Sir Joshua Seynolds, 
who, passing through Knutsford, was asked 
to take the portrait of Lady Daniels, a rich 
and fascinating widow, who, when the 
sittings were over, blushingly asked him 
whether he preferred the original to the 
portrait ; and who, in giving him her hand, 
endowed him with the Dukenfield estate, 
worth five thousand, a year. The artist 
proved something of a spendthrift, and 
alienated the best part of the estate ; but 
the name is still to be found in the bead- 
roll of county gentry. 

Nor should Molly Coppock be forgotten, 
the great maker of black-puddings, who 
had the honour of supplying the Prince 
Regentwiththesedelicacies; nor John Slater, 
whose fame as a maker of hunting-breeches 
secured him the patronage of Prince Albert 
For Knutsford is in the centre of a good 
hunting district, where squires and farmers 
muster strongly in all the good fellowship 
of sport, even in these days of agricultural 
depression, for, as the song goes : 

For to keep a fanner*a spirits up gen things be 

getting low, 
There's nothing like fox-hunting and a rattling 

tally-ho I 

But after all it was in her girls that 
Mrs. Gaskell most excelled, sweet and 
healthful creatures, with just sufficient 
faults to make them not too good for 
human nature's daily food. Have we not 
loved them in youth, and sought them in vain 
in manhood, and shall we find them at last, 
always young, always fresh and innocent 1 



176 [AugixBt4,un.) 



There most liave been sach girls once upon a 
time, and probably they lived hereabouts, 
in this quiet, placid, restful scenery, among 
these country houses with their modest 
luxury; in these snu^, professional, red- 
brick mansions along the high street, with 
their snowy curtains, and the sheen of 
their cool shaded gardens seen through the 
oak-lined passages, as the sweet bells of 
Knutsford ring out the passing hours. 

Just to the north of EInutsford lies 
Rostheme with its mere, one of a small 
chain of meres, which stretch, a puzzle for 
geologists, from the basin of the Weaver 
to that of the little river Bollin. This 
village of Rostheme is altogether charming, 
with an ancient church and a few scattered 
houses in a rich secluded valley. The church 
has noble monuments to the proud family 
that has lived for centuries here in dignified 
seclusion, and the graveyard with its 
mouldering heaps slopes steeply down 
tovrards the little lake — the last a thing 
quite unexpected here in Cheshire, which 
is not a lake county at all, and is 
very still, and peaceful, but melancholy- 
looking, shaded with high and thickly- 
wooded banks, where an everlasting silence 
seems to reign. Something about the lake 
in its solitary seclusion seenas to have 
struck the popular imagination. The story 
goes, that when the church bells were first 
brought to Rostheme, one of the bells could 
not in any way be got into the church 
tower, but, breaking away from ropes and 
levers, rolled down the steep slope towards 
the mere, and went on rolling and rolling 
till it splashed right into the lake, where 
it was lost in the fathomless abyss. 
Fathomless indeed is the mere, according 
to popular estimation, and undoubtedly 
very de^p ; a depth of over a hundred feet 
has been actually measured, and that, for a 
bit of a mere like Rostheme, is a pretty good 
record. Now when the bell got to the 
bottom of the mere, if it has a bottom, it 
might reasonably have expected to rest 
there in peace, but that would be to reckon 
without the mermaids, notoriously addicted 
to bell-ringing. 

Sea nymphs hourly ring hia knell, 
Hark ! now I hear them—ding dong belL 

But how should mermaids get into 
Rostheme Meret Well, the story goes 
that there exists, between Rostheme and 
the sea, an undeiground channel, and that 
every year on Easter mom a mermaid 
works her way through and rings the beU 
that lies at the bottom of the mere, so that 
those who get up early enough may hear 

it The connection of the bell with Easter 
seems to class the legend with those 
children's stories which are suggested by 
the customs of the old faith. For from 
Grood Friday to Easter Sunday the bells 
are altogether silent, and when children, 
wondering, ask '' What has become of the 
bells 1" they are told ''They are gone to 
Rome to be blessed, but are coming back 
on Easter mom ;" and so it turns out when 
at daybreak upon the hallowed mom, the 
children hear the joyous peal. 

Beyond Rostheme lies Altrincham, now 
almost a suburb of Manchester, like its 
twin town of Bowden, and close by is the 
ancient park of Dunham, with its deer 
almost lost in the bracken that spreads 
beneath the venerable treea Dunham once 
belonged to the Masseys, but is now the seat 
of the Earls of Stamford and Warrington, 
whose strange family history may be more 
fitly told elsewhere. 

Leaving with regret the district of parks 
and pastures, wo must now deal with a 
cluster of towns lying on the borders 
of Stafibrd and Derby counties. 

Crewe comes first of all, and as every road 
leads to Rome, so all railways lead to 
Crewe, the most thoroughly railway town 
in existence, having no other raison d'etre 
than the workshops and offices of the great 
railway junction. It takes its name from 
Crewe Hall, an old Jacobean mansion not 
far off, but the Crewe of the railway time- 
tables sprang up suddenly from nothing, 
at the behest of railway directors and 
engineers, without any nucleus of market- 
place or hamlet, buHt, indeed, upon a 
barren and clayey farm that a wide- 
awake attomey from Nantwich is said to 
have bought for fifty pounds an acre, and 
sold for five hundred. Then comes Sand- 
bach, with something of a manufacturing 
air about it — for we are here upon the 
confines of the silk manufacture — with 
a fine old timber hall converted into an 
inn, and a market-pl^'^o with two obelisks, 
probably mutilaterl crosses, said to be of 
high antiquity. Upon these crosses, it was 
said, an inscription could be traced, not so 
that anyone who ran might read, but 
traced in peculiar characters, "which,** 
writes our old historian, "a man cannot 
read aright except he be held with his head 
downwwls," an operation more trying than 
thought-reading, one would think. But our 
old historian saves us the trouble of 
standing on our heads by recording the 
inscription, not saying whether he read it 
in the approved meth<xi or not, and a rather 

... _ ,a« ^_ 

' Jk ■'. I' .U ' W- 


■ Ll ■ J HWBf^f 




Cbttlei DlolMiB.] 


vagae inscription it is relating to buried 
tr^sore to he found in the river by anyone 
who can interpret it aright 

In the same circuit is Congleton, still 
more silky than its neighbour, with some fine 
timbered houses, and cheerful and thriving 
in appearance. And then we come to 
Macclesfield, the metropolis of silk-weaving 
in these parts. Macclesfield was once a 
walled town, it is said, with a strong castle, 
guarding a junction of important highways ; 
but all vestiges of the fortifications have 
perched. The silk manufacture at Maccles- 
field dates from the eighteenth century, 
and would seem a little out of place 
in the old fortified Norman town, and 
yet in tracing the manufacture to its 
source we come upon the tracks of the 
shrewd and adaptable Normans, who have 
left so many marks of their practical 
sagacity all over the county. 

To begin with, we all know the history 
of the introduction of the silkworm into 
Europa Gibbon describes how two Persian 
monks, missionaries in China in the reign 
of Justinian, brought the eggs of the silk- 
worm to Constantinople concealed in a 
hollow cane, risking the penalty of death, 
which would have followed a discovery by 
the jealous Chinese. The silkworms hatched 
out, and flourished in their new home, and 
from Constantinople the cultivation of the 
mulberry and raising of silkworms spread 
through Greece, especially in the Morea. 
About 1130, Roger, the Norman king of 
SicUy, took possession of the Morea in 
returning from the East. Struck with 
the floarishing state of the silk trade in his 
new conquest, he gathered together from 
Athens, Thebes, and Corinth all the silk- 
workers he could lay hands on, and by 
mingled force and persuasion induced 
them to emigrate, partly to Sicily and 
partly to Calabria. Thus the industry spread 
through Italy, and then in 1274 Pope 
Gregory planted mulberry-trees at Avignon, 
and brought there spinners — throwsters is 
perhaps the proper word, the actual spin- 
ning is done by the worm ; anyhow, those 
who prepared the silk and those who wove 
it. From Avignon theindustry found its way 
to Nismes and thence to Lyons, and there 
would have remained, perhaps, without 
striking root in England, but for the great 
Louis and his edicts against the Protestants, 
which drove from their native land some 
of the wealthiest and cleverest of the silk- 
manufacturers in the south of France, to 
settle mostiy about Spitalfields, where 
their dwellings are still to be seen about 

Spital Square. Between the Protestants 
of France and the English Presbyterians 
there had been an intimate connection ; and 
the Spitalfields manufacturers, looking out 
for people to prepare the silk, seem to have 
been drawn to Macclesfield, where there 
was a fiourishing settlement of their co-re- 
ligionists. Andsothe industrious population 
thickly settied in these valleys — for we have 
left behind us the flat and fertile land of 
cheese and milk-paUs and are approaching 
mountainous Cheshire — this industrious 
population was glad to take to silk-throwine, 
and by degrees many of the Spitalfields 
manufacturers transferred their works alto- 
gether to Macclesfield. Thus the trade has 
come down to our own days, always some- 
thing of an exotic, not quite firmly rooted 
in the soil, nor making any vigorous 
native growth, but with a large popula- 
tion dependent on its fluctuations, just 
making a living when trade is prosperous, 
and something less than that in adverse 

Of old Macclesfield something is left in 
the fine old church of St. Michael s, founded 
by Queen Eleanor — the princess who may 
have sucked the poison out of the wound 
of the assassin's dagger, and whose funeral 
crosses are still in evidence of a husband's 
affection and grief. When Edward was 
warring in Wales, Eleanor, who seems to 
have liked to be always near him, was 
church-building in Macclesfield; and this 
church of St Michael attracted the bounty 
of the great people in the neighbourhood. 
The Leghs of Lyme built a chapel in con- 
nection with it, where monuments still 
remain of this ancient family — a family 
devoted to the Plantagenets, and to whose 
influence probably is due the favour in 
which the town was regarded by that line, 
to which it owes its charter and many 
ancient privileges. Sir Perkin Legh fought 
at Cr6cy by the side of the Black Prince, 
and his descendant Sir Piers was one of 
the few faithful found among the faithless 
who stood by the luckless Bichard the 
Second, and was put to death by the 

This same family of Leghs still occupies 
Lyme Hall, a fine quadrangular hall, partly 
of the Tudor period and pamy of eighteenth 
century Italiaa All about the hall the 
scenery is wild and charming, quite unlike 
our received ideas of Cheshire. Bat here 
Derbvshire Peak is full in view, and the 
wild hills about Buxton. And the narrow 
strip of Cheshire that runs up between 
Lancashire, Yorkshire, and Derbyshire is 




178 [August 4, U8S.] 


[Conducted t)f 

a country of rugged hills and wild mountain 
moorkmd. Here the Manchester water- 
works have annexed a whole district ;^ in 
one case removing a whole village and build- 
ing it afiresh on a new site, and now 
there is a great lake over the spot where 
generations have lived and died. It is not 
said whether on stilly nights the church- 
bells can be heard ringing from these watery 

At the foot of these hills lie a cluster of 
busy towns, Stockport, the chief, in its 
valley of smoke and reek — a valley of tall 
chimneys and huge factories, crossed by 
the fine railway-viaduct, from which you 
look down upon a scene of lurid smoke 
and vapour, iJmost appalling in its steiii 
intense grimness and gloom. Wonderful is 
the contrast, and enormous the difference, 
in the conditions of life between these 
toiling myriads below, and the proud squires 
and sturdy farmers of the plain. 


Mr. Spencer has told the world how it 
misunderstands its own social history. 
Even after the existence of a science of 
society has been recognised, there are many 
difficcdties in the way of the student. 
There is a bias of patriotism, of anti- 
patriotism, of education, of interest, and so 
on. All this he has illustrated in a book, 
dry of title, grim in chapter-headings, 
erroneous in its premises, but vying in 
interest with most novels. It is a pecu- 
liarity, perhaps it should rather be said it 
is a necessity, of this study, that its 
advance should best be comprehended by 
the variety of its illustrations, and the 
domain of folk-lore has hardly yet been 
sufficiently explored for this purpose. One 
need not necessarily be entangled in Mr. 
Spencer's system of philosophy, aild the 
present writer is far from believing that 
Mr. Spencer's conclusions are confirmed by 
liberal study of primitive man, or, what is 
not always the same subject, primitive 

Every one knows the common rhyme, 

Green's forsaken, and yeUow's forsworn, 
And blue is the colour that must be worn, 

and nearly everyone regards the rhyme as 
indicating an ancient preference for blue 
instead of green. Sr>me may go farther, 
and give a reason for the preference of 
blua Blue, we will be told, is the sky 
colour, naturally it is the colour that in 
old days would dominate the likes and 

dislikes of a simple Nature-worshipping 
peopla Blue in the sky and blue in the 
sea, the one highest, the other deepest, of 
all which met man's gaze, is it not natural 
to conclude that the rude couplet which 
has been quoted, represents, in modem 
language, a tradition of very remote ages! 
This is no unnatural conclusion. Never- 
theless it is almost certainly an erroneous 

It is a singular fact that colour seems to 
have but little entered into the thoughts 
of early peoples. They were but children, 
and children left to themselves will not 
manufacture general terms. Sir John 
Lubbock notes that the words blue and 
green are not to be found in the most 
ancient of Indian sacred books, the Rig Yeda, 
although it consists principally of hymns 
to Heaven ; and that the word blue is also 
absent from the earlier books of the Old Tes- 
tament, from the Koran, from the Iliad, and 
from the Odyssey. AwordwhichHomeruses 
came later to mean blue, but, as he used it, 
it meant black. Mr. Gladstone, whose 
contributions to this subject, as to so many 
others, are numerous and valuable, some 
years ago contributed an essa^ of great 
interest to The Nineteenth Century, on 
the Colour Sense, and in it he indicated 
the sU^es of historical development of 
knowlec^e of colour. First of aU there is 
absolute blindness to colour in primitive 
man ; next the eye distinguishes between 
red and black ; thereafter colour and light 
part company, and the eye discerns red, 
orange, and yellow ; the third stage is the 
recognition of colours which belong to no 
extreme, but are like green and its varieties, 
in a mean ; lastly, blue is discovered. This 
scale is the work of Dr. Magnus, and he 
refers Homer to the second stage, that is 
when the eye distinguishes betwee9 colour 
and light, and notes red, orange, and 
yellow. Mr. Gladstone indicates that, in 
his opinion, it is hardly possible to pass 
more than an approximate judgment on the 
sense of colour in Homer, but he expresses 
his belief that the estimate of it given by 
Dr. Magnus is liberal rather than the 
reversa Sir John Lubbock says that he 
finds this mental colour-blindness, if we may 
so describe it, . quite inadmissible as an 
explanation of the lack of primitive colour 

However this may be, there is, in the 
opinion of the present writer, no doubt that 
the associations of name, or perhaps oCsense, 
with colour are comparatively new; that 
they are not to be found among those early 




[Augiut 4,1888.] 179 

peoples respecting whom we h«ve definite 
records ; and that this, while it does not 
necesaarilj indicate that colour was not 
enjoyed, yet proves that to the enjoyment 
was wanting what^ to ns, is perhaps repre- 
sented by definifetveness. If the Ghreeks 
and Bomans had no word for blue, this 
indicates that in their mental cnltore there 
was a certain want» although it does not 
indicate that oar notions of their civilisa- 
tion, their art, their philosophy are wrong. 
One fact must not be strained ; only when 
it is understood that tiie facts of sociological 
enquiries are not made of, or like, india- 
rabber can really uaefiil progress be made 
in this branch of research. Admit that, as 
Mr. Gladstone says, a child of three years 
in our nurseries knows, that is to say sees, 
more of colour than did Homer, or again, 
that Aristotle and Xenophon onl^ saw 
purple, yellow, and green in the rambow, 
and yet, whatever explanation, whatever 
elucidation this enquiry demands from 
otherl sources, to us here there is no 
occasion to consider either the problematic 
development of visual perception, or any 
enquiry arising from this. It is enough to 
ascertain that the secret of mysticaliissocia- 
tion of colottis and qualities, if it has 
descended from primitive times, has come 
down through unformed, unuttered, imagi- 
native conceptions, and owes little or 
nothing to the influence of. word makers, 
and^ that, if this descent is to be traced, 
we most seek the secret in times, customs, 
wajTs, and peoples more of our time than of 
the past 

Let us glance at the current supersti- 
tions which we find as to blue, before 
attempting any explanation. 

It is a lucky colour for daughters to wear, 
they say in the South of l^gland, wlule 
green is very unlucky. 

Those dressed in blue 
Have loven true, 
In green and white 
Forsaken quite. 

In the North-east of Scotland we have : 


'S love true^ 


'S love deen, 


'S forsaken. 

After this who would expect that blue 
would be rejected by ballet-dancers on 
account of its ill-luck 1 Yet Mr. Boucicault 
has told how when Babil and Bijou 
was about to be produced, a premiere 
danseuse and twenty other girls rebelled at 
a full-dress rehearsal when they found that 

their costumes were to be entirely of blue, 
without silver; silver adornments, it seems, 
serving to counteract the baneful charm of 
blue. This prejudice reminds us of an ancient 
story of the Lady Onnestaun in the early 
part of the seventeenth century. Alex- 
ander Hamiltoune was angrily sent by her 
from her gates with the words : " Away, 
custraun carle, ye will get nothing from 
me." Hamiltoune, seemingly filled with 
rage, invoked Satan, and received from 
him <<the boddom of a blue clue." This 
he laid down, "foiment the said Lady 
Onnestaun's yett of Woidheid, and within 
ane schort tyme, scho and her eldest dochter 
took bayth suddane seikness, and was both 
bereft of thair naturall lyfe thairby." 
Dalyell, who furnishes us with this tragic 
story, says it is not to be ascertained 
that blue was in Scotland more a mystical 
colour than some others. It does not, 
however, appear that any other colour was 
more in favour for use in enchantments. 
A blue clue was used to ascertain who one 
in the future should wed. Bums tells how 
when Nell and Bob burned nuts on 
Hallowe'en : 

Merran sat behind their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell, 
She leaves them gashin (a) at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel'. 
She thi'oueh the yard the nearest taks, 

An* to tne kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins graipit fur the banks (&), 

And in the olue-clue thraws them. 
Right fear*t that night. 

An' aye she win't (c), an' aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukm*, 
'Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L I but she was quaukin' ! 

But whether 'twas the de'il himsel*, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin'. 
To spier that night. 

(a) Conversing. ' (6) Cross-beams. (c) Winded. 

The explanation given by Burns is : 
"Whoever would with success try this 
spell, must strictly observe these directions : 
Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, dark- 
ling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; 
wind it in, a clue off the old one, and, to- 
wards the latter end, something will hold 
the thread ; demand * Wha bauds 1 ' that 
is, who holds t An answer will be 
returned from the kiln-pot by naming the 
Christian and surname of your future 
spousa" Henderson tells us that in 
Bozburghahire it is a peculiar species of 
Brownie, called Killmoulis, who holds the 
Hallowe'en clue. Every mill has its own 
Killmoulis, and the stories of him are very 
numerous. The blue clue is to be thrown 

180 [Anguit 4, 188S.] 


into a pot alone in tho gloaming, and the 
worsted wound on a new clua Towards 
the end of the winding, the mysterions 
** Auld Eillmoolis " will catoh and retain 
the end. The enquirer cries, '*Wha 
holds 1" and Killmoulis "will snort out 
the name of your future spousa" 

Blue is frequently associated with mys- 
terious lights and appearance. That l^hts 
bum blue when a ghost comes we have iJl 
heard from our crMle& When John Fian, 
schoolmaster and sorcerer, was chaiged 
with hindering by enchantment the return 
of King James the Sixth of Scotland with 
his bride, Margaret of Denmark, it came 
out that when the warlocks met Satan in 
North Berwick church the light of a candle 
''apperit blew." This was in 1590. A 
hundred and nine years later we are told 
of a bluish light in connection with the 
proceedings against Christian Shaw. It 
is said that as an antidote to the evU eye 
Arabs will throw salt into the fire, " con- 
cluding, as the flame arises, that every evil 
genius is banished." Is the presence of 
evil indicated by bluel queries DalyelL 
This at least appears, from some research 
in unsavoury records of demonology, that 
when the Fiend gave his servants the nip 
or mark by which their service was sup- 
posed to be indicated, the colour of it was 

As an example of the good repute and 
honour of the colour, we may remind our 
readers how almost universally in Catholic 
countries blue is regarded as the colour 
devoted to the Virgin, and therefore sacred. 
The Virgin is always represented as 
wearing a blue robe, and to those who are 
at all familiar with Continental habits and 
costumes, the current associations of blue 
with her name must at once suggest them- 
selves. On the Ale and the Teviot, blue 
cords are worn by women from the birth 
of their children till they are weaned. They 
are supposed to avert fever. The cords 
are all old, and have been passed on from 
one generation to another. We cannot be 
far wrong if we regard this bit of folk-lore as 
closely fJlied with a mental, perhaps un- 
conscious, survival of Bomanism. When 
blue is worn at the celebration of the 
mass it is said to denote humility and 

It is somewhat strange to note that the 
Covenanters, of all religious bodies the most 
opposed to anything savouring of Bome, 
also regarded Uue as a fortunate colour. 
Of course their supposition — ^may we not 
say superstition f — ^was founded on Scrip- 1 

ture, and upon a passage of Scriptaze 
probably wrongly construed : 

" And the Lord spake untoMoses, saying, 
Speak unto the cnildren of Israel, aim 
bid them that they make them fringes in 
the borders of their garments throughout 
their ^nerations, and that they put upon 
the fringe of the border a riband of blue; 
and it shall be unto you for a fringe, that 
ye may look upon it and remember iJl the 
commandments of the Lord, and do them; 
and that ye seek not after your own heart 
and your own eye& — Numbers xv., 37, 38, 
39." Hudibras mentions, "Presbyteriin 
true blue," and this has probably reference, 
as Dr. Brewer indicates, to the occasional 
use by preachers of a blue apron as 
covering for the temporary platfprm upon 
which they held forth. The phrase 
"true blue" we owe to Spain. The 
great families believed that necessarily 
the blood flowing in noble veins must be 
somewhat different from that of the base- 
born. It was conjectured, therefore, that 
the blood of the aristocracy had a tint more 
blue than that of the mob. Hence ''true 
blue " would mean " well bom." In current 
English it indicates as much qualities of 
mind as of birth. We know what peculiar 
meaning Ixt^ numbers now attach to the 
bit of blue nbbon in the button-hole. Bine 
has been adopted as the symbol of temper- 
ance. Agun, in armoury — or, popularly, 
heraldry — it possesses a significance of 
purity and honour, which is indicated by 
its use in many noble orders, as for 
example in the ribbon of the Order of the 
Garter. Upon all those associations which 
seem bom of modem days, of Covenanting 
blue, and temperance Uue, and heraldic 
blue, we have an altogether new light 
thrown bv several incidents in fairy-tales 
told and believed in distant lands among 
humble folks who never heard of Bothwell 
Brig or of Bouge Croix. For instance, turn 
to one of the North Grerman stories in 
Thorpe's Yule-tide Stories, and what do you 
find) It is a blue riband which Hans 
picks up in the road, although his mother 
says, "Let the old riband ue; what dost 
thou want with it ? " And it is this blue 
riband which gave him magical strength, 
so that " no one, so long as he wore that 
riband, could prevail against him, and 
every one must stand m awe of him." 
Has not this little story its application to 
the mystical conjectures elicited by the uses 
of blue noted above Y 

After all, although the world p;rows 
wiser, old superstitions still unoonsdonsly 




ChailM XMolnoi.] 


[Angoat 4, 1888.) 181 

liold sway, and whether we believe blue 
to be samd becaiue it is a great Nature 
colour, or because it was early consecrated 
to the Virgin, we must own this: that 
despite all evasions and explanations, 
colour-significance holds its place in the half- 
iaithB of the world. That the same colour 
should be used both for ffood and evil 
pniposes is not to be wondered at in the 
least degree. 

We can be almost certain that the same 
penon does not hold blue to be both lucky 
and unlucky, and this we may expand, with 
some reservation, into the broader state- 
ment that a people, as a whole, do not 
regard luok and ill-luck as represented by 
one term. This, of course, is not to say 
liiat, as circumstances alter cases, one 
object or colour may not at one time re- 
present one thing, at another time a quite 
distinct and different thing. Speaking 
generally, however, peoples, like men, have 
their individual preferences. This granted, 
take the case, not very rare, of a man 
changing bis form of religion, say from Pro- 
testant to Roman Catholic The man 
remains the same as before ; but he changes 
his point of view. The same thing has 
happened again and again with whole 

The first instinct of a convert is to 
blacken his previous career, and renounce 
his convictions of the past A people does 
this alsa The result, therefore, alike in 
the case of individuals, and of races is 
this : you have two currents of feeling, one 
old, one new. Take the case, then, of a 
Roman Catholic girl brought up to regard 
blue as the sign of the Virgin's purity, and 
in a lesser degree also, of the Holy Church. 
When she turns to Protestantism, is she not 
likely to have of all colours a dislike to 
this, which reminds her of her past f In 
Ceylon, and other places, the gods when 
they were expelled from worship became 
the people's demons, and this is a change 
with which every one who has studied 
folk-lore is familiar. It has its application 
to the theory of colour significance. It 
cannot be pressed too far, but it goes, in 
its way, to explain how in Protestant 
countries we must expect to find a Soman 
emblem signifying evil (except where is a 
mental survival, as on the Ale), while in 
countries under the Bomish Church it 
remains indicative of good. 

It h possibly true enough that could we 
back a long way; we should find that 
lue became the virgin's colour through 
some such mental transfer as gave the 


Virgin the attributes of deposed goddesses. 
But we do not require to enter into 
the question this suggesta We are con- 
tent to point out the significance which 
long attached in the popular mind to 
colours — to blue, for example, as shown 
above — ^tbe importance, not to be over- 
looked, of widespread colour sympathy — 
and, lastly, the extent to which colour- 
theory must still be regarded as influencing 
the thoughts and lives of the many 
millions, whose tastes, prejudices, customs, 
and culture are traced and classified in the 
study we call sociology. 



The director and his wife, and we as 
their friends, were received with the 

greatest possible cordiality by M. de St. 
ol, who insisted upon taking us all to 
dinner at his chftteau close by, an immense 
building that seemed half deserted, with 
great iron gates, and ferns growing out 
of the interstices of the brickwork ; and 
with great gardens and conservatories, not 
absolutely neglected, but showing almost 
the wildness of Nature. But the parts 
inhabited were very scrupulously kept and 
charmingly cool, with shining polished 
floors, and everything studiously arranged 
in careless easa 

" Ma foi, vive Valognes pour le rdti ! " 
cries the marquis in Lesage's comedy of 
Turcaret; an exclamation we might very 
well have echoed looking to the excellent 
dinner provided by M< de St Pol. The 
count was Anglophile in everything, even 
in the cuisina As a delicate compUment 
to Hilda, no doubt, was the "cdtelette 
d'agneau k la belle Anglaise," and equally 
for the squire's benefit, no doubt, the 
" gosberi pie au John BowL" The same 
spirit pervaded the whole establishment 
The horses were English, and English also 
the stud-groom, ^^iglish "bowl dowgs" 
snuffed about the legs of visitors, and 
infused a terror speedily allayed by their 
pleasing affability. Our friend's chief 
delight in his country life, it presently 
appeared, was to drive a fast-trotting 
English ponjr in a little villaee cart with 
a Uttle retinue of ''bowl dowgs" dis- 
porting beneath. But he owned that even 
this occupation did not redeem his country 
life from weariness and ennui Custom 
prescribed that he should visit his estates 
as soon as the Grand Prix had been run ; 
but a fortnight on his estate generally gave 




182 [Augut 4,1883.1 


[Coododed bj 

him a surfeit of the country. And yet he 
felt that it ought not to be so. The pure 
tranquil life of the country he appreciated, 
and would be willing to share with a con- 
genial spirit Ah, it he could find such a 
one 1 Some young English girl, perhaps — 
he had a peculiar tendresse for the English 
girl. She must be beautiful, rich, accom- 
plished, and at the same time tender and 
loving to a degree to put a man out of 
his senses ; and, above all, she must never 
have loved befora 

The count confided these sentiments to 
us men, as we smoked after dinner on the 
lawn beneath a pure, deep, star-lit sky. Our 
director pronounced these ideas to be im- 
practicable. He too confessed that in his 
own youth he had dreamt of marrying 
some young English mees, fair as an angel, 
and of a wealth to enable him to folbw 
his cherished pursuits without ignoble 
carea ^ But the event had falsified his an- 
ticipations. He had indeed encountered 
more than one mees with wonderful per- 
sonal charms, but always with nothing or 
next to nothing in the way of ** dot " O&ers 
had been pointed out to him undoubtedly 
rich, but with bad complexions or other- 
wise not corresponding to the ideal belle 
Anglaise. And as for uie first bloom of the 
a£fectionSy he had it on the authority of the 
greatest English novelists that the little 
mees began her love-affairs before she had 
given up her doll, say at twelve years old, 
or perhaps even earlier. 

There was just enough truth in this last 
assertion to make both Tom and myself a 
little angry with the director, and the count 
artfully took our side, though it was easy 
to see that he was trying to pump Master 
Tom a little on the subject of ms cousin 
Hilda. For De St Pol was enthusiastic on 
the subject of English marriages arranged 
on a basis of pure affection, and of the 
virtue and fidelity of the English demoiselle, 
who not content like the average French 
girl with the husband presented to her by 
her parents, will live a celibate life for 
years till she meets with a fitting object for 
her virginal devotion. 

"How's thatr' cried Tom doubtfully, 
looking at me as if I were the umpire in 
the match. But just at this moment^ saving 
us from further discussion, came the sound 
of a piano from the salon, and the dear 
rich voice of Hilda singing some English 
ballad; so we rose and left the director 
in possession of the field, in possession, too, 
of the battery of liqueur bottles, of which 
every now and then he mixed and tasted 

a dose, on principles of science and 

The count was in lus right as host to 
hang about the piano as lie did, asking 
first for one song and then another, but it 
was irritating to see that Hilda received all 
his attentions very graciously, torning 
upon him all the full powers of her lovely 
dark eyes, and throwing herself into the 
exchange of compliments and badinage 
with light-hearted appreciation. There 
was nothing in her now suggesting 
the love-lorn damsel 1 Surely hMa Mr& 
Murch and Justine must have been com- 
pletely deceived as to her having any after- 
thoughts or regrets ! Once or twice, in- 
deed, I found her eyes resting upon me with 
a grave kind of scrutiny ; but for the rest, 
she so persistently evaded all my attempts 
to gain a word with her, that in vexa- 
tion I began to devote myself exdusively 
to Madame la Directrice — a devotion that 
was not ill-rewarded, for beneath the little 
artificialities of the Frenchwoman there was 
evidence of a charming, candid soul, full 
of sympathy and appreciation for all 
phases of human life. 

Madame, too, sang very feelingly, 
although not with Hilda's power and exe- 
cution. It was my turn now to hang over 
the piano and beg for songs, and I was 
delighted to see a flash of anger and scorn 
in Hilda's dark eyes. Yet still she was 
engrossed with the count, and it was im- 

{ossible for anybody else to come near her. 
t was just the same, too, as we drove 
home through the pleasant perfumed night, 
the bean-flowers filling the air with sweet- 
ness, and the more subtle scent of the 
roses clinging to everything. Not a word 
could I get wiUi Hilda, who retired to her 
room at once on reaching the hotel 

And then, as I walked up and down the 
courtyard, I watched the ught shining in 
her window — a light that brought out mto 
faint relief the old gateway and tower, 
while the quaint outlines of the twin spires 
of the church rose dark against the sky. 
Justine, her light labours finished for the 
day, was standing in the doorway below, 
humming to herself her favourite " Sor le 
bord defeau." She ceased as I approached, 
and began to examine the boraer of hor 
apron in a manner suggestive of coquettish 

" Justine," I said in a low voice, " you 

will take a little note from me to 

mademoiselle — a little note of two lines— 

that she may read it before she sleeps) " 

But Justine, perhaps resenting a little 



Cbutof DickBDi.] 


[Angiut 4, 1888.] 183 

that ahe should be considered only as a 
channel of communication with her mis- 
tress, receiyed my overtures in a temper 
quite unexpected. 

"I, monsieur!" she cried, her eyes 
flashing fire, " I carrv billets to my mis- 
tress, who is confided to me by your 
countryman, to whom she is bound by 
vows almost sacred 1 Never, monsieur 1 *' 
And with that Justine darted off, her nose 
contemptuously in the air. 

And then another window opened on the 
opposite side of the courtyard, and Madame 
la Directrice appeared, wrapped in a white 
peignoir, and combing back her long hair. 
Then she leant upon the window-sill, look- 
ing up at the stars, and siehed gently. 
Presently, her eyes attracted by the glow- 
ing tip of my cigar, she acknowledged my 
presence gracef uUy. Yes, it was a heavenly 
night, a night on which one would like to 
fly about like the moths. 

^ Stephanie ! " at this moment cried the 
manly voice of the director, who appeared in 
his shirt-sleeves with a shawl in his hands, 
*• Stephanie, my child, be careful of thy 
throat" And he wrapped her up with 
qoite parental solicitude. 

And then there was a new arrival, which 
brooght the landlord to the door in a 
discontented spirit Indeed, the appear- 
ance *of the new comers, although highly 
picturesque, was hardly reassuring to the 
strictly commercial appreciation of an inn- 
keeper, first of all came two men, brown 
and dusty, with great leathern wallets over 
their shoulders, and ragged garments, 
adjusted with a certain careless grace. In 
the rear mavched a couple of Pyrenean 
sheep with lone curly horns and long 
early brown wool, with an air rather as if 
they were driving the men than being 
driven by them, while absolutely last was 
& protty gipsy-looking girl of thirteen or 
BO, in a short skirt, with bare brown legs 
and feet, and a tambourine thrown over 
her shoulders. The men wanted a lodging 
for the night — a stable or something of 
the kind — ^for themselves and their com- 

The landlord looked at them sus- 

"Three francs," he said, holding out his 
palm for the money. 

The leader of the band shook his head. 
They had no money just then, but after 
they had given a few performances in the 
morning — -^ 

"Let US have a performance now," said 
xnadame gafly from her window. " And | 

then, if we are pleased, perhaps the money 
will be forthcoming." 

The girl unslung her tambourine and 
one of the men produced a tin flageolet, 
and they began a shrill noisy tum-dee-id- 
dity, the sheep scraping the ground with 
their feet, and executing a few gambadoes 
in the direction of the maids of the inn, 
who had all gathered at the doorway to 
assist at the entertainment. The maids 
fled themselves with loud cries, and this 
proved the best part of the entertainment, 
especially when one of the sheep took a 
decided fancy to the fat cook, and chased 
her into a distant comer of the yard. 
This brought down the house, as well 
as showers of coin from the spectators. 
The girl gathered up the largesse, and 
tendered it respectfully to the landlord as 
his tribute. '' Keep it, my child," said the 
landlord, waving his hand grandly; "it 
was only as a guarantee of good faith that 
I demanded the money. Yon shall have 
your niche in the stable for nothing." 

Soon after daylight next morning the 
wandering band departed. They were 
satisfied with their receipts at Valognes, 
and anxious to get on to the bathing- 
places on the coast, where they expected a 
still more plentiful harvest When the 
slight stir caused by their departure had 
ceased, the bells began in a shrill clamorous 
way, and turning out to the gateway I 
found quite a stir going on — black-robed 
priests, and stout elderly dames with their 
missals, and little bands of sisters, grey 
and wlute, gliding about It was possible 
that Hilda, being an early riser, might 
come out too, and give me a chance of 
speaking to her. But I saw nothing of 
her, and was half dozing over my cup of 
caf6 noir when I heard the laughing voice 
of Justine in the courtyard. There she 
was, talking to a servant in a shiny hat, 
whom I recognised as belonging to 
M. de St Pol, and who had brought a 
splendid bouquet, with which Justine was 
tickling her nose ecstatically. The old 
squire now came out,' and began to talk to 
the groom about his horse, which had been 
ridden hard and was flecked with foam. 
Next moment Hilda appeared, holding the 
bouquet and an opened note in her hand. 

<'It is 'from M. de St Pol, papa," she 
said carelessly. " He wants you to see his 
model farm, and give him your advice. He 
will drive us there on our way to St Yaast 
And he suggests breakfast at the farm. 
You see no objection 1 " 

''On the contrary," said the squire 


184 (Aasart 4, isas.] 



politely, "I shall be only too pleased. 
Answer the note, Hilda, to that effect" 

The count most have been waiting for 
his answer in the town, for he soon made 
his appearance in person, driving a phaeton 
and a pair of high-stepping horses. Justine 
rushed madly to and fro for a time, as she 
attended to Hilda's imperious require- 
ments, and then Hilda herself, fresh and 
glowing, all her spirit and brightness 
restored, mounted to the driver's seat 

" It is so kind of you to let me drive," 
she said as the count handed her the reins, 
« for I know your prejudices are against it" 

'* I am only too proud of my charioteer," 
said the count politely; but the people 
of the inn all came out and held up their 
hands in wonder and disapproval 

" We shall wait for you at Quettehou," 
said Hilda, waving her hand to the rest of 
us, and then she drove off at full speed. 

" < They'll have fleet steeds that follow, 
quoth young Lochinvar,'" quoted Tom, 
rather malapropos as I thought. Certainly 
no fleet steeds were at our disposal — nothing 
but the pair of horses that worked on 
alternate days in the diligence ; good for six 
miles an hour on an emergency, but for not 
a step beyond. 

" We shall wait for you," Hilda had said, 
but we felt the waiting would be very 
doubtful with the count in command, and 
with such a start too. 

For the director positively refused to 
start on the chance of getting breakfast on 
the way. He knew the country, he said, 
which, fertile as it might be, was not 
prolific in good breakfasts. 

"Ah, it must be barbarous," cried his 
wife ; " a place called Quettehou for in- 
stance. Is it possible that a place can exist 
with such a name 1 " 

"Another of the footsteps of your 
ancestors," cried the director ; " Quettehou 
is just West Hyihe, a little polished by the 
attrition of French tongues." 

" Polished, you call it 1 " cried Tom. " I 
should say turned from good English to 
bad Dutch." 

And then madame called out that she 
was starving, and led the way to the break- 

Hardly had we finished breakfast when 
we heard a mat clatter of hoofs in the 
courtyard, and, looking out of the window, 
beheld a scene which recalled something 
similar in Don Quixote. A company of 
horse-dealers had ridden in, well-mounted, 
and with their horses gaily caparisoned. 
The leader of the band, who rode up to 

the door, was mounted on a bright bay of 
wonderful power and symmetry, his satin 
coat creasing like a glove at the sUghtest 
movement, and the pose of head and neck 
full of fire and pride, without a particle of 

" I call that a perfect horse for harness," 
cried Tom, examining his points critically. 
" 1 should like to buy that for the governor. 
I wonder how much he would taka" 

" What will I take, ear 1 " exclaimed the 
horse-dealer, who had associated so much 
with brother horse-dealers from the other 
side of the Channel that he had picked up 
a good many English phrases. "I will 
take a tousand pistoles — mille pistoles." 

" Listen 1 " cried the director admiringly. 
" He Says pistoles. Don't we hear the very 
accent of the Biscayans 1 Let us hear that 
once mora How much did you say, my 
friend 1 " 

" Ten thousand francs for you, monsiear/' 
said the horse^Lealer in a jocular tone, as 
much as to say : " I don't look for a cus- 
tomer in this quarter." 

" Ah, but you said pistoles just now/' 
rejoined the director in a disappointed 

" Ah," replied the other, " that is just a 
way we have among ourselves. ** Pistoles 1 
francs! What does it matter!" And 
with that he turned to Tom, whom he 
seemed to recognise as a kindred spirit 
'^Ah, you English have one eye for the 
horse. We met the young Englishwoman 
just now, and she would have bought 
the horse for the old gentleman, her 
papa. But she had not enough money 
m her purse, and though I would have 
trusted her willingly for her pretty face, 
she was too proud to be under obligation 
to me. But I know very well, from the 
look I had from the young De St Pol, 
that he will pay me my price for the horse, 
and no doubt make something out of the 
bargain. For myself, if I could afford it, 
I would gladly abate a few hundred francs 
for one little embrace from the pretty 
English mees." 

" Look here," said Tom, doubling his 
fist^ and tapping significantly the white 
hard knuckles, " no more talk about made- 
moiselle, or " 

" You ponch my 'ed," cried the horse- 
dealer; laughing good-humouredly. *' No, 
I not like that kind of ponch. We shall 
have French ponch together, if you like. 
Tenez, gar9on 1 du ponch I " 

While this was going on, the post had 
come in with our letters, and among them 


K ^ 




(AQgnft 4, 1888.] 185 

two rather important ones for me. Hitherto 
I had reoeiyed nothing of importance from 
my imcle's estata The lawyers had made 
certain advances, and would have gone on 
advancing; but I did not feel myself 
justified in laonching oat on borrowed 
money. Bat now here was a letter from 
my agent, stating that so many lacs of 
rupees had been remitted by an Indian 
bank, and that he had placed to my credit 
with Rothschilds of Paris the snm of forty 
thousand pounds — a million francs. The 
second letter was a polite one from the 
bankers themselves, announcing the credit, 
at the present rate of exchange, of one 
miUion ten thousand franca Now I could 
bay this horse, which I had taken a fimcy 
to, and still be a (French^ millionaire. 
I called Tom on one side. 
"Look here, old fellow/' I said, " before 
you bemuse your faculties with punch, I 
want you to buy that horse for me. We 
will catch young Lochinvar in spite of his 
start, and while you are buyins the horse 
I will go and buy a dogcart ; for I had 
seen a very nice one for sale in a coach- 
maker's shed that morning. 

Tom managed his part of the business 
so well that he saved the price of the dog- 
cart out of the ten thousand francs 
demanded by the horse-dealer, and in less 
time than it takes to record it, the horse 
was harnessed and taken for a trial trip 
round the town. He trotted splendidly, 
and Tom, as we drove into the hotel-yard, 
exclaimed : 

" I say, old chap, we'll win some cups 
out of these Frenchies before we go back. 
Well call him Contango, because you 
bought him out of the first coin you 
touched, and we'll enter him for the 
trotting-raoo at Trouville." 

Uadame was delighted with our pur- 
chase, and it was arranged that she and 
the director should share our dogcart, while 
JuBtme followed in the waggonette with 
the heavy bageage. But when the director 
had witnessed Contango's playful per- 
formance on his hind-legs as he was 
broi^ht up to the door, he decided that 
Justine should take his place, and that he 
would follow with the baggaga 

"One fenm&e-de-chambre the less, what 
does it matter f " cried the director ; '* but 
who will fill my chair at the Bureau of 
Public Instruction 1 " 

And so we drove merrily on through 
& pleasant fertUe country, till presently the 
1^ began to rise over a bleak hillside, 
&&d then, when we reached the top, the 

sea came upon us without warning — ^the 
bright silvery sea dimpling in the sunshine, 
wiuL a cluster of masts in the poxt below, 
and in the roadstead a fine English yacht, 
with her burgee flying from the masthead, 
which we soon recognised as the Sea Mew. 
But Quettehou was passed, and nothing 
seen or heard of Hilda and her party. 

A pleasant bay this of La Hougue, and 
well-known to English seamen in mediseval 
days, for here the English often landed in 
their frequent invasions of Normandy in 
thedaysof thePlantagenets; and from this 
hill, too, it is said that in later years James 
the Second watched the sea-fight in 1692, 
when the French fleet, gathered here to 
invade England iii the interest of the 
Stuarts, was defeated and destroyed by the 
Dutch and English united. Fourteen of 
the French ships of war lie sunk beneath 
the wave in tins smiling bay. Fort rises 
grimly beyond fort on each promontory 
and rocky islet^ picturesque too, with 
something of the grace of mediasval towers 
about them. 

But the picturesqueness disappears as we 
approach the port, where ship-buOding is 
going on brisklv, with the noue of many 
hammers and all the dirt and confusion of 
a small port devoting itself energetically to 

A trim boat from the Sea Mew, with her 
smart crew, lay ! among the Norwegian 
timber-ships, the colliers, and trading-brigs 
in their unkempt and rough-and-ready trim. 
And presently we came across Mr. Wyvem 
sitting disconsolately in front of a noisy, 
dirty-looking inn. His features brightened 
up considerably at the sight of us. 

"Here you are then, at last," he 
cried, and then he was introduced to 
Madame la Directrice, who was duly 

" I shall have to send the crier 
round for our party," he went on ; " they 
are scattered in all directions. It was a 
mistake coming here ; you never know till 
you have seen a placa You read a flaming 
account in a guide-book, with all kinds of 
historical flummery cooked up, when all the 
time the place should be labelled B. H., or 
' beastly hole,' as a warning to travellers." 
" And Chancellor 9 " asked Tom. " Jm he 
on board % " 

" Well, no," replied Wyvem ; " he joined 
us for a few hours at Ryda Terrible sell 
for him Miss Chudleigh not being there. 
But he can't get away, there's a jolly row 
in Parliament Ain't I glad I'm here I But 
Where's Miss Chudleigh all this time 1 " 










186 [Aagnrt 4, USa.] 



Tom explained as best he could. Wyvem 
looked grave. 

" Well," he said, " it's just as well the 
chief isn't her& There would be a jolly 
row among them. What is the old squire 
dreaming about t " 

At tluB moment the rest of the party 
from the yacht came along, Mrs. Bacon 
leading the way, very hot and sunburnt, 
with a red guide-book in her hand that 
wasn't a patch upon her cheeks in the way 
of colour. 

'* A charming country," she cried, seizing 
me by the hand, while Tom greeted Miss 
Chancellor with quite joyous recognition ; 
* ^ charming eount];y, only not a nice place to 
stop at Smells, smells!" lifting up her 
hands and nose in admiration. Experience 
of life, indeed, is no guarantee against 
astonishment at French smells. They are 
so varied, with such a depth and richness of 
bouquet about them as to compel admira- 
tion. You miss them, too, when you leave ; 
the air of England seems cold and chill 
without them. But Mrs. Bacon could not 
take them calmly. 

They had all been for a drive almost to 
Cherbourg, to see the old Ch&teau of Tour- 
laville, noted as the ancient patrimony of 
the family of Bavaleti themselves noted as 
being the wickedest people in Normandy. 
All sorts of crimes appear in the family 
annals, and of all these this ill-omened 
chateau was the scena The Moine de 
Saire, who haunts the coasts hereabouts, is 
said to have been a wicked priest belong- 
ing to the fated race. Strong natures had 
these men, and wild passions, and chafed 
against the chain which bound them to 
these gloomy rocks, and to a lonely un- 
eventful life. Their fierce longings of 
berseker and viking, untamed by civilisa- 
tion, broke out into all kinds of ex;cess and 
violence. As Mrs. Bacon remarks charit- 
ably, perhaps if they had come over with 
William the Conqueror with the other 
Normans, they might have become model 
country gentlemen and good Christians. 
As it was, they got into a wrong groove, 
and came to the headsman's axe in a general 
way whenever the king's justice found its 
way into these parts. 

Boom 1 The Sea Mew presently fired a 
gun, at the sound of which all the fishermen 
and seamen about the port jumpedabout and 
sacred and anathematised the English; and 
the gun signified that we were wanted on 
board. The director, too, had arrived with 
the baggage, and all was ready for going 
on board, only where was Hildal — where 

was the old squire ! As for De St Pol, 
nobody asked for him. 

" But, monsieur 1 " cried Justine in an 
aside to me, ''if you are waiting for 
mademoiselle, you may wait long enoagh." 
Justine, I may say, had been in an awful 
temper at being again left behind by Miss 
Chudleigh. " My last mistress took me 
everywhere, shared all her distractions with 
me," Justine had sobbed ; '' but mademoi' 
seUe treats me as if I were a parcel, to be 
forwarded by luggage train." 

What did Justine mean % Why, simply 
thiUi M. de St Pol had no intention what- 
ever of putting mademoiseUe on board the 
Sea Mew. His own yacht was somewhere 
on the coast, and it was in her that he 
intended Mks Chudleigh should make a 
cruise. Oh, Justine was perfectly sure of 
M. de St Pol's intentiona She had been 
so informed by the count's own man. 

The affair now began to look awlnrsrd. 
Hilda might in all unconsciousness seriously 
compromise herseli True, her father 
was with her, but female tongues would 
say that he was not likely to be an efficient 

" Of course you will follow Hildal" uud 
Tom, " and I will go too. We shall have 
to fight that St Pol, one of us, I fancy." 

And Justine must go with us. And 
yet it was awkward. However, we went 
with the others to the pier, hoping that 
Hilda and her father would turn up at 
the last moment Up to this time 
Madame la Directrice had been full of 
pleasant anticipations of the voyage. Bat 
when we came to the " bord de Teau," about 
which Justine was always singing, the 
aspect of things was rather alarming for 
madama A fresh tide was coming in with 
something of a swell, dashing among the 
timbers of the pier with noise and tumult ; 
the boat tossed violently up and down, 
while it was as much as the sailors could 
do to keep her clear of the pier, while one 
of them hung on with a boat-hook to the 
slimy, slippery steps. Madame clung to 
my arm in terror. She had always loved 
the sea, she sobbed, but it was an ideal 
sea, a sea that was dways calm. She had 
never imagined anything so dreadful as 
this. The director, who had made the 
voyage to England before now, had 
already been hauled into the boat and 
was calling to his wife to be brave : 

" Stephanie, do not be so foolish ; there 
is no danger. Come on I " But Stephanie 
could not master her feelings. 

" After all, why go on board," cried 


GhiclM DbdMOB.] 


[Angast 4, U88.] 187 

Tom, " when yoa don't Ijke it 1 Gome with 
OS— and the director too. Hi I '' shouting 
to the director ; " we have got a seat in 
the trap for you 1 " 

" No, no r' replied the director; " better 
the sea than a raging horse. Biit you go, 
Stephanie ; we shall meet in a few hours.'' 

"Heaven be praised!" cried madame, 
as she turned to wave a last adieu to the 
director. "I would have followed thee, 
Alphonse, to the death, but I infinitely 
prefer being safe on shore." 




It was not by chance that Mrs. Pentreath 
happened to be downstairs when Hetty 
returned from St. Oudule's. Of all evil 
spirits difficult to lay, when they have once 
been raised up, the spirit of suspicion is the 
most difficult. Yesterday Mrs. Pentreath 
had been really touched by Hetty's subdued 
manner and pale cheeks; and had felt 
anxious to give her a proof of confidence ; 
jet so mischievous was that lurking spirit, 
that eyen the girl's glad gratitude for the 
trifling favour accorded her was sufficient 
to stir him into fresh activity, and the 
Tision of that interrupted t^te-^-tdte set 
him to work again as vigorously as ever. 

If these young people, her own son and 
the girl who owed everything to her bounty, 
were really capable of scheming vulgarly 
for her deception, then it was right that 
they should be convicted and exposed 
as speedily as possible; wherefore, Mrs. 
Pentreath, much to the disgust of her maid 
and not a little to her own, had herself 
called and dressed a full hour before her 
usual time, only to find (she hardly &new 
whether to her vexation or satisfaction) 
that though Miss Mavors had been up and 
out some time ago, Ernest was still snugly 
in bed, and turning his customarily deaf 
8v to announcements of hot water and 
br^kfast, even after the latter had become 
a visible fact, and was smoking appetisingly 
upon the table. 

Hetty came in rather shyly. If the 
^car had gone home to his breakfast in a 
snflBciently jubilant mood, hers was not 
uanch less happy. To know that she was 
no longer alonein the world — a solitary little 
waif belonging to no one in particular — ^but 
^ object of importance, holding another 
person's happiness in her hands, and that 
person the one of all others in the world 

whom she most admired and reverenced, 
was enough of itself to make her so happy 
that she was almost afraid to lift her eyes, 
lest the inward joy shining through those 
tell-tale windows should betray her secret 
too soon ; and this timidity was increased 
to a nervous flutter by the unexpected 
sight of Mrs. Pentreath and the dread of 
being questioned as to the cause of her 

She need not have had any such fear, 
however. Once satisfied as to the fact of 
Ernest's whereabputs, that young man's 
mother cared very little about the lesser 
one of Hetty's being five or ten minutes 
late; and though the consciousness of 
having put herself to considerable incon- 
venience by her over suspiciousness gave a 
slight touch of irritability to her manner, 
she took pains to show Hetty that this 
was not directed against her, by cutting 
short her apologies with a good-humoured 
readiness which greatly relieved the girl's 

Yet she could not help noticing that her 
young prot^g^e was looking more lovely 
than usual; her bright eyes soft and 
dreamy with a new delicious tenderness 
quite unlike their wonted sauciness, and 
her cheeks wearing so rieh and rosy a 
livery as a man must have been blind indeed 
not to see and admire. Be as cautious as 
he might, Captain Pentreath could not 
take his eyes off her when once he had 
contributed his presence to the breakfast- 
table, and his mother thought to herself 
with a half amused annoyance, " If saying 
her prayers in a cold church and running 
home afterwards makes the little monkey 
look as pretty as that, I almost wish, for 
Ernest's sake, I hadn't let her go at alL" 

If Mrs. Pentreath had only known what 
caused that brilliant illumination she 
would have clasped her hands for thank- 
fulness, and been ready to embrace both 
the engaged couple out of the fulness of 
her heart ; but her severity had overshot 
its mark. She had neither taken into 
account Hetty's affection for herself, nor the 
innocent liveliness natural to a young and 
healthy girl ; but had spoken to her as to 
any vulgar-minded, unscrupulous young 
woman, bent onlv on achieving a good 
match. The result was in every way un- 
fortunate to both of them. In the first 
place it taught Hetty to fear and distrust 
where before she had felt nothing but love 
and confidence, and, if it did not make her 
absolutelv dislike her patroness, it robbed 
her of all feeling of reliance on the latter's 



188 (Angut 4,18811 


[Gondnoled by 

kindness and justice. Farther, on the 
present day, it ahnost bronght about an 
actual quarrel between her and her lover. 

It is easier, men say, to bear a separation 
of three years from a woman who doesn't 
belong to you, and is never likely to do so, 
than one of three hours from one who does, 
and that so recently that her acquisition has 
not yet lost its value. Hetty's heart thrilled, 
and her long eyelashes drooped before the 
look of passionate gladness which greeted 
her in the vicar's eyes, when she met him that 
afternoon. They were pleasant eyes at all 
times, straightforward, blue, and kindly ; 
but grave usually, and stern sometimes; 
that expression Hetty had never seen in 
them till then ; and certainly no woman 
before her had ever heard from him the 
whispered " My darling I " which accom- 
panied it, and brought ner small hand to 
nestle into his with an answering glance of 
shy, loving gratitude. 

But the quarrel was to come, and began 
in this wise : 

'< And now I've got to tell Aunt Julia 
that I am going to steal her house-fairy ; 
so when shall I come about it — this even- 
ing 1 " said the vicar cheerfully, as he and 
his young sweetheart walked slowly and 
happily in the direction of a certain poor 
cottage, rather outside the village; and the 
words, natural as they wero, made the 
girl start violently, and look up at him in 
a dismay for which he was not at all 

"This evening!" she repeated almost 
with a gasp. *'0h, no, no. How can 
you even think of such a thin^? Not 
nearly so soon ; not for a long time yet. 
Please, please, don't 1 Indeed you mustn't" 

The vicar looked at her in frank astonish- 

" Mustn't tell her ! " he repeated ; " but 
why not 1 Surely, my darling child, you're 
not ashamed of your goodness to me ) " 

" Ashamed ! No, orcourse not, but " 

"Then why not let it be known ? " 

" But not just yet — not at once. Oh, 
George, please don't be in a hurry. Ton 
don't know how unpleasant things have 
been at the Lodge of late." 

" I can guess it from what you've told 
me, dear, and it's just to put an end to this 
unpleasantness that I want to have you in 
my own caro as soon as possibla You 
won't be afraid to trust yourself to me, 
Hetty ? " 

"No, indeed," she said warmly, and 
nestling her hand a little closer into the 
arm on which it lay, " but it is so sudden, 

and Mr& Pentreath Geor^ can't we 

wait a little beforo saying anythmg to any- 
one! It is enough pleasure for me to 
know that you care for me. Yesterday I 
thought no one did; and now if Mn. 
Pentreath were to be unkind, or try to 
take you away firom me " 

" She might try," said the young vicar 
gaily, " but as the effort would be entirely 
futile, I hope she won't be foolish enough 
to make it. Why should you credit her 
with such a wish, however! Have you 
any reason to think she would object to 
me as a husband for you t " 

" N — ^no, except that she objects to me. 
She does not like me at all now." 

*' Nay, that I can't believe. My aunt is 
a jealous, autocratic woman, and apt to 
turn rusty if any of her whims are crossed ; 
but I am sure she loves you, and from 
something she once dropped I am not at 
all certain that she would not be really 
pleased to hear that we cared for one 

"Oh, Mr. HamUton, I don't think 

" I do, so let us prove which is right 
Come, Hetty," laying his other hand re- 
assuringly over the one whose trembling 
he could feel upon his arm, " this is only 
foolish nervousness, and I love you too 
well to bear with it. Our secret most be 
known sooner or later. Why not out with 
it at once t " 

" Oh, not quite at once ! Surely that 
isn't necessary. Couldn't we wait jost a 
little bit— till- till Captain Pentreath is 
gone, at least!" 

" Captain Pentreath 1 " 

"Yes," she said so eagerly that she 
missed the tone of his voice as he repeated 
the name after her. " He will be gone quite 
soon. His new regiment is under orders 
for Canada ; and he will not want to spend 
all his leave in this quiet place. Only 
yesterday he was talking of running over 
to Paris for a few weeks. Promise me not 
to say anything till he is gone. Do !" SQ^ 
she looked up beseechingly into his eyes, 
not, however, to find them beaming on her 
as they had been a while ago, bat daik 
with an expression of mingled sorpnse 
and displeasure before which she shrank 

"That is strange 1" he said slowly. 
"What, in the name of Heaven, can 
Captain Pentreath have to do with you 
or me in the matter of our engagement ? 
His mother is your guardian, of course, 
but he — ^what is he to you ! " 


muk", . ■ ■J -' 




[Aiigait4,lfl88.] 189 

There was no miatakiTig his tone now. 
Hetty had made a mistake, and, being 
friditened, she stammered and bungled, 
and made matters worse in her anxiety to 
mend them. 

" Nothing — nothing, of course," she said 
homedly, " except that if he — I mean if 
Mr& Pentreath were vexed it would be so 
horrid for me — ^worse than it is now, 
and " 

" If he were vexed ! That is what you 
were going to say, I think ; and what 
right, pray, has he to be vexed in such a 
matter t " 

"None, none ; only Oh, George, 

yoa know what Us mother has been saying 
about— about me and him." 

"I do, and that is why I am anxious to 
ahow her, with the least possible delay, 
how wrong she was in her assumptions. 
My dear Uttle love, it is for your own 
good and dignity that I urge it. Can't 
you trust me f " 

His tone was very gentle and caressing 
again, so gentle that Hetty thought he 
had come down to pleading, and foolishly 

" No, because she would not believe you. 
I know she would not. She would think," 
crimsoning all over, and speaking in a 
whisper singly suggestive of tears, " that 
it was only because she had put a stop to 
—to— the other — I mean, that I wanted to 
get married to someone, it didn't matter 

For a moment the vicar made no answer; 
and if the tears had not been so near Hetty's 
eyes that she had no courage to look up at 
hun, she would have seen a sudden colour 
come into his face, the quick, startled flush 
of a man newly confronted with an idea at 
once painful and repugnant to him. Sug- 
gested by anyone else, indeed, he would 
simply have flung it aside with indignant 
contempt; but put before him by Hetty 
herself, and emphasised by the poor child's 
shamefaced blushes and faltering lips, it 
met him with unpleasant force ; and 
against his will there shot through him 
a horrible thought piercing him like a 
poisoned arrow: What if it were truel 
and, if not, how should the imagination of 
it have come into her mind 1 

" That is a strange supposition," he said 
&t hist, and in an altered voice — a very 
grays one. " I do not understand how it 

could have occurred to you unless 

Hetty, be frank with me, I beseech you. 
Do you remember what you said to me 
only this morning, that you had not the 

slightest earing for Pentreath except as a 
friend ) " 

"Of course I do ; and it is true. Oh, 
surely you believe me I " 

" Certainly I believe you ; but if I am 
to do so, and if I am also to believe what 
you said of him when we first spoke on 
the matter^hat his attentions to you were 
also purely friendly and playful, such as 
a brother might pay you, in fact, and his 
mother had no right to object to — what can 
induce you to speak of him now in the 
way you do, or to make him an obstacle to 
the announcement of our engagement 1 " 

It was Hetty's turn to be silent now. 
Truly she had said so, and at the time she 
had beUeved what she said ; but since then, 
few weeks ago as it was, she seemed to have 
grown years older and wiser, and her eyes 
had been opened to the ineaning of many 
things which had been unnoticed before. 
Besides, Oaptain Pentreath's manner had 
certainly altered in at least an equal degree. 
There was nothing in it that even she could 
honestly call brotherly now, and enough of 
something so different as to make her 
shrink with timid dread from anything like 
a scene, or even such farther comments 
from his mother as might be produced by 
announcing her engagement to some one 
else whil&t living in the same house with 
him. Yet how was she to say this to any- 
one without seeming to give the lie to her 
former protestations ; and how, in especial, 
was she to say it to George Hamilton, who 
had already proved that he could be more 
than a little jealous, and who was now look- 
ing at her, as she felt, with angry astonish- 
ment 1 In her embarrassment at not being 
able to find an answer she blushed more 
than ever, and by so doing added to Mr. 
Hamilton's annoyance. 

He was very much in love with this fair 
young pupil and parishioner of his, and 
fully believed in her love for himself. He 
believed, too, that she was the very essence 
of all that was innocent and pure; yet, at the 
same time, he could not help remembering 
that he had heard his cousin speak of her 
in terms sufficiently light and familiar to 
indicate an intimacy which had pained and 
angered him even then when he had no 
right to resent it, and the mere remem- 
brance of which at present filled him with 
an agony of wounded pride and jealousy 
stronger still than lova 

For a minute he waited, hoping that 
Hettie would answer, and silence the 
horrible doubt which had arisen in him ; 
but when she did not speak, his impatience 




190 [Angoit 4, 1888.] 


[Oondiictod Iqr 

became too great for his self-control, and 
he stopped short, dropping almost oncon- 
Bcionsly the arm which had been supporting 
her hand to his side, so that they stood 

" Hetty," he said then, trying to speak 
gently, though what the effort cost him 
might have been guessed by anyone who 
had seen the drops standing on ids brow, 
"I don't quite understand you. I asked 
you a question, and, instead of answering 
it, you are silent. Is it because you are 

offended with me, or because My dear, 

be frank with me. You don't know how I 
love you, or how dear you are to me ; so 
dear that if it was a choice between my 
happiness and yours, between losing you 
altogether or taking you with even one 
grain of reluctance on your part, one 
shadow of regret for another, I would give 
you up this moment, and do my utmost for 
you instead in the way you preferred ; only, 
Hetty dear, don't let there be anything 
between us, anything my wife could not 
say to me, or I to her. I do not believe 
that it is so. I believe that you do love 
me, and even if I were not the first — even 
if you had cared for some one else before 
me, or had given him the right to think so 
at any rate, I would rather know it from 
yourself and now. It would not make me 
love you less, or blame you, even though it 
might be a trifle bitter to me just at first 
Nay," with a forced laugh and a kindly 
touch on the girl's cold hands, as he saw 
the paleness which had come over her 
cheek, '* I did not mean to frighten you, 
love. Maybe even the bitterness might be 
wholesome for me. When I was a little 
lad I had an old Scotch nurse who used to 
tell me I was ' ower proud than gude,' and 
pride needs a fall now and then, you know. 
Only be honest with me, dear." 

Hetty looked up at him, her eyes full of 
tears. That poor attempt at a jest had not 
at all deceived her, or weakened her per- 
ception of what the question really meant 
to an '*ower proud" man. If she had 
kept silent so long, it was not from 
coquetry, or even cowardice, but rather 
from a desire to be perfectly sincere. She 
spoke, clinging with both hands to the arm 
which had dropped hers : 

" George, there is nothing to tell you, 
and you must not suspect me. I have 
never flirted with Captain Pentreath, or 
given him the least cause to think I cared 
for him. I might have done so, perhaps," 
her pretty face flushing ingenuously, ** if I 
hadn't heard that he was a man who said 

pretty things to every girl he met, and 
expected them to fall in love with bun m 
return ; but I was determined not to fall 
in love with him. I joked and laughed, 
and tried to be very kind and friendly 
with him, because he was Mrs. Pentreath's 
son, and kind and friendly to me ; but 1 
never said a word to him that all the world 
might not have heard. I never save him 
EO much as a flower or a sketch, or 
wrote " 

"My darling, don't go on. That is 
quite enough, and I am ashamed of myself 
for asking you. The fact is, I am horribly 
jealous, and I care for you so much that 
when Ernest took to rhapsodising about 
you " 

" But he had no right to do so, and if 
you asked him, he would tell you so him- 
self. After iJl," with a little innocent 
sauciness, "I cannot help a person's 
admiring me." 

" You couldn't help my doing so, cer- 
tainly, and I couldn't help it either," said 
the vicar, laughing, and pressing the little 
hand more closely against his side. "I 
was not blaming you, love, because Ernest 
admires you ; only " 

** Only you don't want me to admire him t 
And I do not ; but, George, if you still 
distrust me in the very least, do as you 
wished to do : go up to the Lodge and tell 
Mrs. Pentreath of our engagement She 
cannot be much more disagreeable than 
she has been to me of late ; and if I wanted 
you to wait till her son was gone, it was 
only because unpleasantness of that sort 
is so much worse before a man, and I 
thought he would make it still more so. 
Do as you like about it, however." 

But the vicar had been put on his mettle 
and would not listen to such a suggestion. 
His little sweetheart had been too generoas 
for him not to be generous on his side, and 
he declared that she should choose her own 
time for the avowal. For the present, at 
any rate, he would be content, and more 
than content, to enjoy the knowledge of 
his happiness in private, and wait on her 
pleasure for the rest So the quarrel 
which had threatened to be so serious blew 
over like a summer cloud; the lovers 
parted even more tenderly than they had 
met; and when Mrs. Pentreath saw the 
yet lovelier rose colour in the girl's cheek 
that evening, she said to herself in 
despair : 

"It's no use, the little monkey is 

Erettier than any girl in the neighbour- 
ood| and Ernest would be a bat if he 



Ohaifai IXokaBi.] 


[Angust 4, 1883.] 191 

couldn't 866 it How can that stupid 
Geoige have been bHnd enough not to do 


AH of which proves how excessively 
foolish it was for Hetty to beg for silence 
about her engagement, and for Greorge 
Hamilton to accede to it 

They met again next day at early service, 
but only for amoment Hetty had been made 
D«r?oti8 by Mrs. Pentreath's unexpected 
appearance at the dining-room window on 
the previous day, and was in a desperate 
huny to get back quickly on this occasion. 
She said that she felt sure her guardian 
had suspected something, and though Mr. 
Hamilton laughed at her and called her a 
tetrible cowatd, he was too kind-hearted to 
detain her against her will 

She would not even let him accompany 
her, but rushed off, turning her bright face 
back for one tantalising little nod at him 
before she disappeared round the comer, 
and making the vicar say to himself in 
half-humoroos desperation : 

"If I don't persuade Ernest to start for 
Paris before another week. Til be shot 
I'm not going to have my little girl 
frightened of any one, now Fve got the 
right to take care of her." 

Perhaps ib was to exercise this right, or 
perhaps only to get a longer vision of the 
little figure so dear to him on its home- 
ward route, that the vicar, instead of 
turning off to his own house, re-entered 
the church and ran upstairs to the gallery 
where the choir were in the h2S>it of 
sitting. There was a window there from 
which he could get a view of the road 
which, after skirting Kew Green, passed 
the walls of Ouelder Lodge, and could 
thoa have the pleasure, such as it was, of at 
least seeing his sweetheart within her own 

On this occasion the plesisure was a very 
negative one. The little figure was there, 
it is true, just coming into view round a 
torn of the road and clearly distinguishable 
in its neat dark ulster and cap, the trim 
rounded outlines sharply defined against 
the background of white pavement and 
blue sky, where the rosy colour of morning 
yet lingered in a crimson stain ; the small 
well-polaed head thrown a little back as 
though to meet the frosty breeze which 
gave a backward sweep to her draperies 
from the tiny, swifb-stepping feet But the 
feet were not stepping as briskly now as 
when they had left him, and the face might 
not have been raised to court the crisp 
morning air, but to meet the down-bent 

glance of the tall square-shouldered young 
man who was walking at her side ; the 
man whom, by his whole cut and bearing, 
no less than by his erect soldierly figure, 
Mr. Hamilton recognised as his cousin, 
Ernest Pentreath 1 

Poor Hetty! The surprise to her of 
finding Captain Pentreath at her side, as 
she turned round the first comer from the 
church, was at least as unpleasant as it was 
to her lover ; and her violent start, coupled 
with the tone in which she uttered his 
name would have said as much to most men 
not abnormally conceited. It said nothing 
to Captain Pentreath. He only laughed 
good-humouredly, as he put out his hand 
to her and exclaimed : 

" Why, Mies Mavors, how you jumped 1 
I really thought you were going over my 
head. Please take my arm and hold tight, 
or we shall have you flying away altogether. 
One would think you hadn't expected to 
see me." 

" Expected to see you I But I did not," 
Hetty exclaimed in almost angry astonish- 
ment, and taking no notice of the proffered 

Captain Pentreath smiled quietly : 

" What, because I didn't turn up yester- 
day 1 My dear child, it was from my care 
for you that I abstained, and if I had only 
had a chance of speaking to you during the 
day, I should have told you so. I guessed 
from something in my mother's manner 
that she was on the look-out, and meant 
to surprise us ; so I stayed in bed on 
purpose, and let her have the trouble of 
getting up early — ^which I know she 
hates — for nothing. She won't do it 
again. Her maid had orders to call her 
an hour later than usual this morning, and 
directly I heard it I gave similar ones, and 
then got up, without being called, as soon as 
ever I heard you go out, and followed you : 
with this difference, however, that, as I 
walked out of the French-window in my 
room in preference to the front-door, the 
domestics probably imagine that I am still 
in the arms of ' Murphy,' and are at the 
present moment depositing cans of hot 
water outside my chamber portal in that 
happy delusion. 

"And why do you want them to 
imagine it ] " said Hetty, with great cool- 
ness considering how fast her heart was 
beating between fright and anger — yet she 
knew nothing of that choir-window, by 

the way. ** I am very stupid, but " " I 

don't understand yon at all," she was 







lAvsul 4,1881.] 

going to 8a7i but it was a foible of Captain 
Pentreaih'a to like doing most of the 
talkine himaelf , and he broke in : 

« Why 9 Becaoae my mother's absurd 
folly makes it necessary. But, Hetty, you 
are looking grave; and if yon didn't 
understand my motive I most indeed have 
seemed a brate to yon to stay in bed like 
a log when you were sweet enough to take 
my hint so readOy, and aet on it at once." 

" Your hint, Captain Pentreath I " 

" Tea, about the church-going. Don't you 
remember the mater interrupting us just as 
I was telling you about it You are so 
quick, however, that I knew you had 
understood abready, and though, you see, 
she suspected too, I couldn't think of any 
other way of getting hold of you." 

" Gretting hold of me for what, Captain 
Pentreath 1 " and then Hetty did manage 
to get out her former sentence : " I don't 
understand you in the least ; and I wish 
very much that you would not come to 
meet me and talk in this way. Your 
mother would be very much vexed if 
she knew of it, and," with a great effort, 
for she saw a look of unbounded surprise 
growing slowly in his eyes, and her small 
stock of courage began to waver, "I do 
not like it either; not at alL" 

Captain Pentreath stared and then smiled 
alittle. Hehad been inclined to be annoyed, 
but it occurred to him that the little girl 
was cross because she had been left to take 
her*walk alone on the previous day ; and 
after all, she was pretty enough to be 
allowed a few airs. He set lumself to 
pacify her at once. 

" What is it that you don't like, Hetty 1" 
he said softly. " That the mater should be 
vexed 1 1 assure you I don't like it either, and 
I think it abominable of her to have made 
you so uncomfortable, and to have spoilt all 
our fun in the way in which she has done 
of late ; but it's partly your own fault, and 
that's one of the things I've been want- 
ing to say to you. You shouldn't give in 
to her so much, or let her tyrannise over 
you. I don't In fact I like to pay you 
more attention whenever I think she has 
been sitting on you ; and there is really no 
need for you to be so afraid of her. She 

couldn't eat you for talking to me ; and 
she knows that if she tried i should make 
her sorry for it. It's a veiy bad plan to 
give in to a woman who likes po?rer, and 
my motiier loves it The more people 
yield to her, the more she'll bully them ; 
and it was chiefly to tell you this, and 
bemuse your sweet, sad face made me so 
nuserable, that I threw out the feeler about 
exerdse and early services. If you knew," 
with a laugh of conscious merit, '' how 
I . hate turning out in this confounded 
weather you'd think it a magnanimous 
suggestion; but I really couldn't devise 
any odier way for our getting a little talk 
together, you were so desperately careful 
not to offend the powers that be. My dear 
Hetty, there is no occasion for it Only 
trust me to take care of you, and yonshall 
be quite safe ; but if you run away Irom 
me in the way in which you have been 
doing of late I shall have to run away too. 
Don't you know that it is only your sweet 
smiles that make life at the Lodge bear- 
able to me, and that if I am to stay there I 
can't do without them t Give me one now 
at any rate, to show me I am forgiven for 
letting you come out alone, and to reward 
me for walking up and down here in the 
cold all the while you were in at your 
prayers. I should have been there too, 
by the way, but for my cousin. Upon my 
soul, Hetty, I believe it is he who has pat 
my mother up to all tlus nonsense." 

'' Captain Pentreath 1 " 

'' I do. You needn't look so astoimded. 
Hamilton is a parson ; but parsons are no 
different from other men, except that they 
are meaner. Hetty,- I'll tell yon a secret 
It's he who's at the bottom of all this. He 
wants you for himself ! " 

Now Seady, 





27^ Biffhi o/TramiaHng ArtieUtfnm All thx Ybab Bound «i reterved by the AMm% 

ablished at tbe Offloe, 86, WeUlngtan 8tre«t, Strand. Printed by Charues Diokbhs ^ Evahs. 84. Gnat Kew Street, &C 



194 [Angii8tn,1888.] 



complicated businesa.aisoaantB, from which 
many. a staider^ graver, more indoatrioiWi 
domesticated, and generally praiseworthy 
woman would have turned aside in fear and 
trembling. And she would bring aU her 
bright winning ways, and prompt power of 
action to bear upon any cause which in- 
terested her. A^s many good causes, as 
well as many indifferent ones, did interest 
her in the course of every year, she certainly 
may be accredited with being very useful 
in her generation. People who disliked 
her were apt to say that her zeal ia good 
works was mere feverish love of excite- 
ment. Her chi:onicler will only say that it 
led her into the commission of many an 
act which called forth blessings on her 

Her object to-day in getting away from 
many congenial associates in uie Row, and 
going over to St John's Wood to see 
Madame Yoglio, was at least an unselfish 

A letter from her sister, Mrs. Ray, had 
informed her of the {acta of the break-up 
of the Moor Royal establishment, and of 
Jenifer's intention of studying for twelve 
months under Madame Yoglio. 

'' It will be a great relief to me,'' Effie 
had candidly written, " when old Mrs. Ray 
and Jenifer part company with us. My 
mother-in-law is a skeleton at the feast 
I know her position is a hard one, and I 
don't feel inclined to better it at my own 
expense. Bat if Jenifer can only succeed 
as a concert-singer, and make a lot of 
money, and so be able to make the poor 
old lady more comfortable, I shall really 
be very glad. Do all you can with YogUo; 
get the rapacious old cormorant a few good 
paying pupils who'll only want to howl in 
private, on condition that she really does 
exert herself to push Jenifer's interests 
with public concert-givers." 

It was on this request of her sister's that 
Mrs. Jervoise was acting now. A season 
or two ago, Flora had herself taken lessons 
of Madame Yoglio. That is to say, she had 
paid lavishly for singing for a quarter of 
an hour three times a week under Madame 
Yoglio's auspices, and had spent the rest 
of the lesson-hour in entertaining Madame 
Yoglio at luncheon, and being entertained 
by that lady's pungent accounts of the 
way in which the majority of the young 
ladies whom she taught agonised her 
exc^uisitely acute ear, and wrung her 
artist souL 

It was on Flora's advice, which had 
filtered through Effie to Jenifer, that the 

latter had in the first instance applied to 
Madame Yoglloi. And now that negotia- 
tions bad resulted in the rebtigns of 
mirtrfissand p«ipil beineasiajpshed between 
Madame' Yoglio and'lilite Ray, Mn. 'Jer- 
voise was ^oine to try what her penonal 
influence, tog^uier with the indir6|Bt/]^wer 
of the purse, could do for Jenifer. 

Madame YoglK> was at home. She gene- 
rally was at home imiil two o'clock; the 
rare exceptions to this rule being When she 
had pupils whowere wealthy and muzuficent 
enough to pay her for w aacijfiee she 
made in gettine herself into a costaaO in 
which she would be presentable to the eyes 
of men at this early hour of the day. 

The room in which she received Mrs. 
Jervoise was not the one into which 
pupils, or possible pupils, were admitted. 
The latter was a large, weU-ventilated, uid 
pleasantly-furnished apartment to which 
madame deooended in faultlessly, neal;^ as 
well as rich apparel The sanctum into 
which Mrs. Jervoise — a "past" pupil- 
was frankly conducted, was a little room, 
stuffy as to its atmosphere, overcrowded 
with luxurious fat armchairs and sofas, 
carpeted with velvet-pile in everv crevice, 
reeking with the mingled, odours of 
fading flowers, cigarettes, scents^ and 
essences of various descriptions, for both 
internal and external application, and 
lighted in a sultry way by two windows 
which were veiled by deep rose-coloured 
silk blinds and creamy musuna 

The ex -queen of the concert-boards was 
in the full enjoyment of. her hour of ease, 
lolling back i|i the deep recesses of one of 
the .plumpest armchairs, her untidily slip- 
pered feet stretched out before het on a 
soft velvet cushion, a French novel in her 
hand, and a tiny cigarette between her 

A large, loosely stout woman, her pro- 
portions appeared huge now enveloped as 
she was in a flowing blue silk wrapper, that 
did not restrain her in any direction. Her 
head was uncovered by any kind of cap, 
and her hair, which fell over her fcwehead 
in a ragged black fringe, and was much 
tangled at the back, did not conduce to 
the propriety and neat^iess of her morning 
toflette. Her face, broad, fat, snub-nosed, 
mobile, and greasy, wj^ i^ved from being 
repulsive by its quick, changeful, humoroQs 
expression, and by that dramatic instinct 
which has enabled more than one great 
stage luminary to compel a' snub nose to 
appear perfectly in place on the face of 
a heroine of classic tragedy. Madame 


Gbvlai DIekMM.) 


[▲ugutt 11, 1888.] 195 

Yo^lio's personal appearanoC; it may as 
weU be admitted at once, was intensely 
vulgar. Bat there was about her such 
intelleetaal force, that in her presence she 
compelled you to forget the vulgarity. 

She rose up, adroitly sending the flowing 
folds of her blue sUk robe-de-chambre over 
her carelessly-attired feet, and greeted Mrs. 
Jervoise with effuBion. Mixture of German 
and French woman as she was, she spoke 
English with perfect purity and grace, 
never betraying by the faintest touch of 
accent that she was other than one born to 
the right of speaking it with native per- 
fection. But at times she permitted herself 
the indulgence of being a little florid in 
style, afler the manner of one portion of 
her nationality. 

The cigarette went into the silent grave 
formed by a large Japanese pot, and the 
massive blue sUk enveloped arms were 
held out towards the fragile-looking fair 
Diana, who came in, exquisite in the 
sublime austerity of a modem English 
horsewoman's toilet. 

"My always charming Mrs. Jervoise, 
you are welcome to me as the breath of 
spring which you bring into my room," 
Madame Voglio began, and Flora laughed, 
managed to evade we impending embrace, 
and asked : 

"Why don't you have more of that 
same breath in your room 1 Ah, madame, 
madame, the old story, I'm sure ! You 
shatter your nerves with your abominable 
cigarettes, and then shut your windows 
hermetically to keep off the neuralgia," the 
lady who was half patroness, half pupil 
said audaciously as she ruthlessly pulled 
np the sultry-looking blind, and flooded 
the room with bght and air by opening 
the window. 

Madame Yoglio flung the yellow-backed 
novel aside merrily. 

"You are always the same, always 
vigorous and unsympathetic," she said 
admiringly, " and 1 revel in you now when 
you put me in a draught that makes my 
poor fat shoulders ache, just as I did when 
you used to bring tears to my eyes by 
the way in which you would bring all 
your notes from the wrong places. You 
shall lunch with me to-day, and tell me 
how many tickets I shall send you for my 
concert at which I introduce one of my 
most creditable pupils." 

" III do both," Mrs. Jervoise acquiesced; 
" and you shall tell me what you can do 
for Miss Ray, if she is worth doing any- 
thmg for.^' 

"Ah, these young sanguine local ama- 
teurs ! ** madame said, sighing heavily, and 
shrugging her shoulders as if the subject 
were too painful for her to venture to 
approach it " They come to me, these 
enterprising and brave young ladies, and 
they say io me, * Madame, my master, who 
is the most f airious teacher of singing in 
Little Peddlington, tells me he can teach 
me nothing more I I have quite got beyond 
him, and so I thought I would take a few 
lessons of you, and then go on the concert- 
boards ; ' and then," madame continued, 
grasping the sparse locks on either side pf 
her head with vehemence, " then when I tell 
them the truth — that they know nothing, 
nothing ! not one single little thin^ that 
would fit them to be professional smgers, 
they look upon me as a jealous old woman 
— ^jealous of them and their puny pipings." 

" You won't find Miss Bay a fool of that 
order; if you tell her plainly she can do 
nothing, she'll believe you, and ask you if 
she can ever hope by hard work to do any- 
thing. I think she can." 

Madame Yoglio laughed 

" You thought the same thing of your- 
self, my sweetest friend," the jovial pro- 
fession^ — who was, happily for herself, 
successful enough to dare to be candid — 
cried; " but," she added suddenly, " I will 
promise you this : I won't mislead your 
friend Miss Bay with the little delusive 
flatteries which my conscience assailed me 
for offering to you, a rich woman who 
could never suffer through them. Are you 
BO fond of this young lady that you will 
— or whim — ^her to succeed," 

" No ; but I Uke her very well, and I 
want you to do all you can for her, for — 
for family reasons," Mrs. Jervoise said 
rather haughtily, for Madame Yoglio was 
not proving as amenable to Flora's wishes 
as she had led Effie and Jenifer to believe 
the powerful procurer of places on public 
concert-boards would be. 

"Then it is that you want to get her 
comfortably out of the way of somebody. 
Tell me. The somebody is " 

" My sister," Mrs. Jervoise interrupted 
impatiently ; " how tiresome you are with 
your suggestions and innuendoes ! Just 
listen to a prosaic statement. My sister 
is married to a man who hasn't half enough 
money to satisfy her very reasonable re- 
quirements, and she doesn't want to have 
her mother-in-law a fixture in her house 
for the remainder of her life. If Miss Bay 
makes an income, she and her mother will 
clear out of Efiie's way without giving any 


196 tAngiut U, USS.] 


Oondnclad bf 

one the chance of reflecting upon Effie. 
You see I am quite disinterested. My 
appeal for your valuable aid in establishing 
this girl is quite an unselfish ona" 

'^You are always that, my charming 
Mrs. Jervoise, and we shall see, we shijil 
see. Is Miss Bay one whom one can 
present on the boards, or is she a wayside 
flower requiring a great deal of culture 
before it can be offered to the view of 

'* She's a beautiful sirl, well-bred, high- 
spirited, fearless, and dever." 

" Bah ! she'll marry in a month, and I 
shall have my month's conscientious teach- 
ing thrown back upon mv hands without 
result. My favourite pupil at the present 
moment — the one who will soon be a popular 
favourite^ and redound to my honour — is a 
pork-butcher's daughter, without an 'h' 
in her vocabulary when she speaks, and 
with a style that is admirably adapted to 
win the gilded youth of the period to the 
refreshment-room bar. She will win all — 
all I far more than all at which she aims. 
She has no nerves, no humour, no artist 
feeling. But she hsB sound lungs, a mag- 
nificent voice, and the advantage of having 
been my professional pupil for seven years. 
My child, these are the rifts that repay 
one for giving them pulmcity. But we 
will have luncheon now, and moralise on 
the impossibility of making virtuous in- 
capability succeed, and of feeding properly 
during those months of the year when the 
birds of the air are protected by the law of 
the land." 

She rose as she said this, and shuffled 
out of the room and downstairs into a 
well-appointed dining-room, where a round 
table daintily set out with many delicacies 
awaited them temptingly, 

''Ah," she murmured gratefully, falling 
comfortably into a chair, and beginning to. 
eat with a zest which sent Mrs. Jervoise's 
appetite away to the limbo of lost things, 
" ah, for how many years of my life did I 
restrain myself, and hunger because of my 
voice ! I have feared that one morsel more 
snipe might destroy me with the public for 
more times than I care to remember, and I 
have left truffled larks to be devoured by 
the unappreciative, when I have paid a 
guinea for half-a-dozen of them, in brief 
forgetfulness of the duty that was on me 
that night of singing to a remorseless, 
surfeited crowd at a Monday Pop. Ah, 
you little realise what sacrifices we artists 
make at the shrine of duty," she went on 
cheerily, helping himself as she spoke to 

enough p&te de foie gras to upset the liver 
even of the goose that contributed most 
largely to it. 

''Aiid if Miss Bay does as well as I 
think she will, you will exert yourself to 
get her engagements, won't yout " 

** I shall wait and see before I promise. 
Ah, how you cast contempt on my little 
luncheon ; you pick, pick like a little bird. 
It is your fear of getting fat which makes 
you starve yourseff. You all do it in your 
youth, and Nature revenges herself by 
spreading you out so " (she extended her 
arms to their utmost length in illustration) 
"as you aga" 

"You didn't starve yourself in your 
youth, and you have spread," Flora said, 
laughing at madame's unconsciousness of 
her own dimensions, while she was deriding 
the bulk of the ordinary Englishwoman. 

" I have rounded," Madame Yoglio said 
solemnly. " See, I have not lost my waist; 
we see no beauty in flat surfaces. We 
round gracefully, gradually ; your country- 
women widen awkwardly." 

Then, finding that her guest would not 
be persuaded to take any more food and 
sustenance, Madame Yoglio heaved herself 
out of her chair with an effort, and waddled 
to the door to see Mrs. Jervoise mount 
and depart 


Now that the Queensland Oovemment 
is probably going to annex New Guinea, I 
for one hope that they, being so much 
more within reach, will manage matters 
better than we, with more than half the 
world's circumference between us, have 
been able to do in New Zealand. Oar 
management somehow resulted in Hau- 
Hau, that terrible travesty of missionary 
teaching dashed with determination to 
cling to the land that was slipping from 
their grasp, which was described in All 
THE Year Bound* some four years aga 

The Maoris were worthy of a better 
fate. I suppose they must go, though 
they will leave a good deal of their blood 
in the veins of the colonists. Mr. Delisle 
Hay, who talks of New Zealand as 
" brighter Britain," and is far above any 
such weakness as " Maoriland for the 
Maoris," admits that they had arts 
and industries of no mean kind. Their 

• All thk Year Hound, New Series, VoL 2f>, 
p. 161, "Hau-Hau." 



[Augoet 11, 1888.] 197 

difellings, often highly decorated with 
carviDg, were far superior to Irish cabins, 
aje, to too many English oottage& 

Their "pahs" were fortified on a system 
quite eqiud to that of Yanban. They 
were careful tiUers of the soil ; and with 
noihine but stone axes and shark's- 
tooth knives, they would cut down the 
hnge kauri pines and shape their war- 
canoes with an accuracy that would stand 
the test of geometrical in8trument& A 
canoe with forty or fifty paddles on a side 
woald be driven as fast as a steam-ram or 
a racing-skiff. Wooden statues, picture^ 
writing on rocks and trees, image-amulets, 
showed strong artistic leanings, though 
among artists the m6ka (tattooers^ ranked 
highest Great was the request m which 
clever workers were held. Battles were 
fought to secure possession of them ; and 
of several the poetical biographies are still 
corrent. To an Englishman's notions their 
highest artistic attainment was the making 
of what are incorrectly called ** mats,^ 
ti^as, that is, of flax-fibre, some as soft as 
silk, some interwovm with kiwi's feathers, 
which were stitched in so thickly as to make 
the fabric look like fur. Such a robe would 
take several women two or three years to 
make it, for the kiwi's feathers are almost 
as thin as coarse hairs. 

I for one don't think the^ have improved. 
I would far rather see a chief in his to^ and 
mdku than dressed in a bad imitation of 
cor costume. And they do dress nowa- 
daya Mr. Hay tells of a young lady in 
pale green sUk with lace trimmings, 
panier and train, lace collar and cuffs, 
pink satin bows, gorgeous cameo brooch, 
gold watch-chain, and lavender kid 
gloves. She wore a white hat looped 
up on one side, trimmed with dark 
green velvet, and adorned with flowers, a 
long ostrich feather, and a stuffed hum- 
minff-bird. She had a huge chignon; a 
laced parasol in one hand, and a feathery 
fan in the other; and dainty boots on her 

So long as she was in the Settlement 
this gay Deauty wholly imored all her 
kindred, walkmg in solitary grandeur, 
proud of her '* Englishness." But when 
she got outside, she fell in with two or 
three old Maori women, as filthy and ugly 
as such women always are, and before long 
she had her silk skirts turned up, and was 
squatting amongst them, enjoying a hearty 
smoka Such a lady is not likely to make 
flax-fibre mats, though she does (in spite of 
her grand airs) look after her husband's 

cooking. You will meet her riding by his 
side in a blue velveteen habit, with hat and 
feather to match, he, too, being considerably 
"got up," from his white h^et down to 
his spurred boots; and when, next day, 
you accept their invitation, and call upon 
them, you find the fair Amizon in a 
dirty blanket and nothing else, squatted 
beside the dinner-pot smoking a short pipe. 
Her husband, when he comes in, will be 
angry, but only because she did not do 
honour to her pakeha guest by appearing in 
full pakeha costume. 

Mr. Hay witnessed a strange and embar- 
rassing ceremony; the husband actually 
dressed his wife m her best clothes before 
his very eyes ; and when it was done he 
proudly said : " You come see common 
Maori, sah t You come find pakeha gentle- 
man, pakeha lady, pakeha house ! Good, 
good. Now you sit talk to my missee ; I 
get pakeha dinner." That is the new style, 
and somehow it does not seem to have much 
vitality in it What I cannot understand is 
why there should be so few marriages be- 
tween settlers and nativea Mr. Hay speaks 
of a girl, "a delicious little brown innocent," 
who brought her husband ten thousand 
acres of good rich land; though, on the 
principle that the land belongs to the 
tribe, and not to the chief, I do not quite 
see how that could be. The main draw- 
back is one that was equally felt of old in 
Ireland and Scotland — ^you marry your 
wife's kindred, and they aU think they have 
a right to come and feed upon you in any 
numbers, and for any length of time. If 
her tribe was a large one, even the brown 
innocent's ten thousand acres would not go 
a very great way. 

These dress-stories show that the veneer 
of civilisation is not very solid, and a great 
deal of the Christianity is only skin-deep. 
How can it be otherwise, when it is not 
(like ours) a thing which has been in the 
olood for over a thousand years, but is far 
newer than the muskets and the fire-water 
which have so sadly hastened the decay oi 
the race. 

Many a tattooed Christian still believes 
that the spirits of good men (in old time it 
was brave chiefs) have a long and toilsome 
journey to make to the far north, where, from 
a great projecting rock they leap into the sea 
and swim across to ''Three Kings' Islands,'' 
which are the gate of Paradise. Many, too, 
still hold the ngarara — ^a beautiful little 
green lizard — ^to be awfully tapu. To throw 
one of these at a man is a deadly insult 
Such an act nearly cost Mr. Hay his Ufa He 





198 {August 11, 18S3.] 



had a let of Maoris oufeting liaes through 
the bush for laudHsurveyingi indadiug two 
pious old fellows, Pita (Peter) and Pora 
(Paul), who used to hold a prayer-meeting 
every night, and who, by their oomic look, 
their quaint affectation of ohildishness, and 
their love of laughter, reminded him of 
Irish peasants. One day, picking up a 
ngarara, he held it out to the old men, 
asking what it was, and threw it, saying 
^' Catch!" when all at once they were 
transformed into fiends, yelling, dancing, 
singing their war-song. He thought at 
first it was a joke ; but, just as they were 
going to fall on him with their axes, a 
couple of half-breeds hurried him off, cry* 
ing : '' Bun for your life 1 " At night they 
were aU good friends a^ain, and Pita, lying 
by his side in camp, said : *' We should cer^ 
tainly have killed you, in our wild passion, 
and then have been very sorry for it It's 
all over now, for weVe had time to reflect 
that, being only an ignorant pakeha, you 
knew no better. Besides, we are Christians, 
though we had forgotten that for the 

Such an aneodote shows what manner 
of men these Maoris are — people who not 
only weep in church at the pathetic pas- 
sages, but laugh uproariously at anything 
in lessons or sermon that tickles their 
fancy. Mr. Hay has seen a church full of 
them waving their arms, stamping their 
feet, grinding their teeth with n^e, when 
the treachery of Judas was being related. 
To such people Christianity came as a new 
form of tapu (taboo). They were ready 
for any number of rites and ceremonies, 
and it was only when they began to read 
for themselves, and to contrast the teach- 
ings of the Book with the conduct of the 
land-grabbing pakehas round them; when, 
moreover, their implicit faith in the mis- 
sionary had been weakened by the coming 
in of rival faiths, each claiming to be the 
only true wi^, that they got to be eclectic, 
giving up the New Testament, in its prac* 
tical portions, and sticking by the Old, 
because it allowed polygamy and revenge, 
and strictly forbade the alienation of land. 

This tapu had many use& A river was 
tapu at certain seasons, so as to give a 
close time for fish ; a wood was tapu when 
birds were nesting, fruit ripening, or rats 
(delicacies in the old Maori cuisine) multi- 
plying. To tapu a garden answered — till 
Captain Cook brought in pigs — far better 
than the strongest fence. A girl, tapued, 
would be as safe amid the wild licence of 
unmarried Maori life as if she had been 

in a nunnery. Tapu was probably never 
intentionaUy broken, so Weird was the 
horror.which surrounded it Bat, in this 
case, rf^^S ^ inioranee was no excuse ; 
and th^ most rorions waxs were thote 
which' arose from breaUng it The si^ 
of tapu was easily set up — a buncli of 
flax or hair, a bone, a rag on a carved 
stick, that was enouglt To lift it was 
much harder, needuig the intervene 
tion of the tohunga (priest), who, by 
muttering incantations, and, above all^ 
by making the tabooed man eat a sweet 
potato (kumera), charmed it ^way. 

Judge Maning, who yean ago wrote a 
book called by his own nickname. The 
Pakeha Maori, be6ame tapu through an aet 
of humanity. He buried a skull which he 
saw lying with a number of other bones on 
the beach. Straightway hb companions 
shrank from him; he had to sit apart at 
night, the food which they set before him 
he was to eat without touching, and when he 
neglected to do so they made off in a body, 
and warned his household of the plight in 
which he was coming back. Whea he got 
home the place was deserted. He beli 
out for four days, but on the fifth he was 
forced to send for the tohunga^ who made 
him throw away his clothes and pull down 
his kitchen. 

A very convenient way of forcing the 
trader's hand in the early days was to put 
his ship and cargo under tapu. This made 
it impossible for him to sail away, or to 
have dealings with any one else than 
the chief who had laid him under this em- 
bargo, and who, therefore, at last brought 
him to his own. terms. One can fancy this 
was a natural way of making reprisals for 
the fancy prices which, we may be sure, 
the trader would exact. 

Many a massacre of whites was due to an 
unwitting infringement of the tapu ; just 
as if you trespass dn Lord Marlshue's 
covers in breeding-time, you'll find your- 
self subject to all sorts of pains and 
penalties, even though your object was the 
harmless one of {ducking a butterfly oiohis 
or a t way blade. The historic massacre of 
Da Fresne and his crew was brought 
about by a deliberate breach of tapu ; and 
such outrages on native feeling were so 
dangerous, that Governor Macquarie; of 
Sydney, in 1813, tried to make every 
skipper in the New Zealand trade sign a 
bond for one thousand pounds not to ill- 
treat Maoris, not to break tapu, not to 
trespass on burial-grounds, not to kidnap 
men or women, ma efforts were fruitless. 



diarlM Biekenf.] 


[Aiiguitll,1888.] 199 

Maoris were fine sturdy follows, and 
thoagh there was, as yet, no Kanaka labour- 
market in Queensland, no Queensland at 
all in fact, a ship that was short-handed 
Fas yery glad to get some of them on 
board by any kind of device. The worst 
thing connected with the carrying off of 
native women was that the poor creatures 
were generally put ashore in some other 
part of the islands, La among enemies. 
There slavery, or worse, was sure to be 
their fate. Hence more than one massacre. 
A captain carried off a chiefs daughter, 
and left her two hundred miles down 
the coa^t, where she was made a slave of 
and finally eaten. Wbat more natural than 
that the chief and bis people should feel 
deadly hatred against all whites, having, 
as savages always have, the firm conviction 
that all whites belong to the same tribe, 
and therefore ougbt to suffer for one 
another's faults 1 Another caude for bloody 
reprisals was the treatment of the men who 
were taken on board. '' I'm a chief," said 
one who was being driven with a rope's- 
end, when incapable through sea-sickness, 
to some menial work. '' You a chief I " 
scoffingly replied the master of the Boyd, 
for that was the name of the ill-fated ship. 
"When you come to my country youll 
find Fm a chief," was the reply. The 
Boyd happened to sail into the harbour of 
Whargaron, the very place to which the 
flogged chief belonged. He showed his 
tribesmen his scored back, and they vowed 
vengeance, for even a blow to a chief is an 
insult that can only be wiped out with 
blood. The captain and part of the crew, 
leaving some fifty souls in the ship, went 
ashore to select timber. The Maoris way- 
laid and murdered them, and, dressing 
themselves iu their victims' clothes, went 
at dusk to the ship, climbed on board, and 
killed every one ezpept a woman, her 
children, and a boy who had been kind to 
Uie chief during lus distress. The vessel 
was plundered, and the chief's father, 
delighted at securing some firearms, 
snapped a musket over an open barrel 
of powder and was blown to pieces with a 
dozen of bis men. 

Tapu was successfully broken by the 
early missionaries in the Bay of Islands. 
One of their settlements was up the Keri- 
keri river, the tapu of which for fish during 
the close months was very vexatious to 
them, for it blocks up their only road to 
Te Puna, the head station. Stores must 
be had ; and at last, in defiance of tapu, they 
manned a boat and rowed down, amid the 

rage and terror of the Maoris, who expected 
to see them exterminated by the offended 
atua (spirits). When the mission-boat 
came back it was seized, and the crew 
boxmd ready to be slain and eaten. 
Happily, to eat the stores seemed the 
proper way of beginning, and these stores 
were partly tinned-meats, jams, etc., and 
partly drugs. Having greedily devoured 
the former, the plunderers duly fell upon 
the latter, finishing off the jalap, castor-oO, 
salts, and so forth, as part of the ceremony. 
The result may be guessed. The '<mana" 
of the missionaries began to work mightily, 
and with grovelling supplications the an- 
guished Maoris released their prisoners and 
besought relief. The whole tribe was con- 
verted How could they help it? Had 
not the gods of the stranger proved their 
superior might by utterly disabling those 
who had stood forth as the avengers of 
their own insulted deities 1 

This was a far different result from that 
which befell Du Fresne. De Surville, 
who came whQe Cook was making his 
survey, had not left a good impression. 
He had been most kindly received ; his 
sick, kept ashore by a fearful storm, had 
been carefully tended. But, after the storm, 
a boat was missing, and he, thinking the 
natives had stolen it, inveigled the chief on 
board, put him in irons, and sailed away 
after destroying the village. The chief 
pined for his wife and children, and died a 
few days before De Surville was drowned 
in the surf off Oallao ; but the transaction 
was remembered against the Wee-wees 
(French). Two years after, Marion du 
Fresne came to a different part of the 
island. For a month he and his crew were 
treated like gods. Then, suddenly, Du 
Fresne, and sixteen others, were killed and 
eaten, and Crozet^ the second in command, 
carefully drawing off the sixty survivors, 
wasted all around.with fire and sword, and 
sailed away, reporting that , the mass&cre 
was wholly unprovoked, and wishing to 
name Cook's Bay of Islands Treachery 
Bay in memory thereof. Not till 1851 did 
the truth come out Sir G. Grey was then 
governor, and hearing that some French- 
men were shipwrecked on the west coast, 
he sent Dr. Thompson to help them on to 
Auckland. Some two hundred natives 
had gathered to assist the French, and, in 
the night, Thompson heard old men tell- 
ing why the Wee-wees had been eaten, 
twenty years before, Du Fresne had ill- 
repaid the month's exuberant hospitality. 
He had cooked food with tapued wood, had 


200 (Aagnit 11, UBS.] 



cat down trees in which, after Maori 
coBtom, the bodies of chiefs were tem- 
porarily slung; and when remonstrated 
with he had pat chiefs in irons and burned 
villa^ea The Franch stoiy that it was a 
relation of the chief carried off by Du 
SurviUe who had eaten Da Fresne was 
wholly wrong. Da Fresne bore his own 
trespass, and died in his own iniquity ^e 
very word, for it means unfftirness). Dr. 
Thompson was sure, from internal evi- 
dence, that the Maoris were telling truth. 

" Mana,'' by the way, means influence, 
prestige, authority, good-luck — all these 
together. It may be possessed by in- 
animate things; a "mere" (menstone axe) 
had mana, like EzcaUbur and other charmed 
swords. A chiefs mana waxed or waned 
as his power grew more or less ; and when 
it left him there would be some portent, 
like those which ushered in the death of 
Julius CsBsar or Brutus. Connected with 
the idea of mana was the reverence for 
rank. The chief was inferior to the head 
chief or king, who could trace his lineage 
to the chiefs of the little band which came 
acrossfromthemythic Hawaiki,and peopled 
the islanda Chiefs worked at any task, 
not servile, as hard as their slaves. The 
slave (often a captive of noble birth) might 
by valour and conduct rise to h^h posi- 
tion. There was no remnant of a servile 
race, though ethnologists suspect admix- 
ture with some melanic people, especially 
among the few Maoris in Stewart s Land 
and Middle Island. A white man was 
valued according to his supposed position ; 
if he was not supposed to be a rangatira 
(nobleman) he was of little account, unless, 
indeed, he had muskets, the ownership of 
which gave great mana. Mr. Delisle Hay, 
in his delightful Brighter Britain, gives an 
amusing instance of how a ball-room quarrel 
was prevented by playing on the Maori 
feelings about gentUity. To a bush-ball 
came a number of Maori belles, and also 
" Miss City Swell," who had never before 
been out of Auckland. The latter, whose 
head wastumed by flattery,roundly said that 
she was disgusted at the attention paid to 
" those brown wretches," and she would not 
dance with anyone who chose to dance 
with them. Here was a pretty business ! 
Some kind friend, of course, repeated the 
injudicious remark to the native girls, and 
they went off in a body, followed by their 
brothers and cousins. ''They were not 
going to stay where they were to be in- 
sulted in that manner." There they were 
down by the river, waiting for the turn 

of the tide to go back to their kam^ 
(village). Happily an old colonial came m 
in time to hear their grievance, and to say: 
'^Ah, poor creature, she's not rangatira. 
It's a pity she gives herself such airs when 
her parents are only kukis." ** Oh, if 
thaf 8 it," repUed a chorus of sweet voices, 
" well go back. We are ladies, and don't 
mind what common persons say or do," 
and so the ball went on. 

AU these gradations of rank, all tim 
tapu and mana, were kept up by a strong 
belief in the supernatural Perhaps the 
most remarkable instance is that dying 
through horror at having broken tapa, 
which reminds one of the voluntary dying 
80 common among the Sandwich Islanders. 
A chiefs slave, a mxe brave fellow, honoured 
by being fJlowed to fight at his master's 
side, ate unwittingly wer battle some^ of 
the chiefs food, thus ^evously breaking 
tapu. When told of his trespass he fell ill 
and was dead in a few hours. The tohunga 
(priest) might be of any rank, or of either 
sex; some unusual power, ventriloquism, 
or what among us nmkes a man able to 
work a " medium," or what the Scotch call 
second-sight, marked out the tohunga, and 
a few successful utterances sufficed to make 
him or her famous. Ambiguous he was, 
as a Greek oracl& " A desolate country 1 a 
desolate country I " was the reply to a con- 
sulting war-party. They went out in high 
hopes, and were slain to a man. It was 
their own country that the seer had meant 
Judge Maning tells of a spiritualist meeting 
at which he was present, where a young 
chief, lately dead, was brought back with 
such thrilling effect, that his betrothed, in 
spite of the efforts of her brothers, killed 
herself that she m^ht go away with him 
into the spirit world 

Such was the race to which, like a sea- 
mist taking solid shape. Cook's ships 
and crews appcaiod just one hundred and 
fourteen years aga He was not the first ; 
therewereFrenchandSpanish talesof alarge 
South land, which may have been Mada- 
gascar, certainly was not New Zealand, for 
the inhabitants used bows and arrows; and 
then in 1642, Tasman sailed from the great 
ishmd now known by his name, and 
anchored in Golden Bay, as it is now 
called. He never landed; the Maoris came 
alonffside in canoes, and attacked a boat 
whidi was passing from one ship to the 
other. Three Dutchmen were killed, one 
of whom the natives carried away; Tasman 
gave them a broadside, shooting down a 
man who stood in the prow of the fore- 


ChailM DlfikoDi.] 


[▲iig!Utll,188S.] 201 

most canoe holding an ornamental spear, 
and then sailed away. Cook, the Whitby 
coUier-Iad with a craze for mathematics, 
who forced himself into notice by pnblish- 
ing while on survey off Qaebec some 
OMervations on an eclipse, took with him 
his tame Tahitian, Tapia, and landed at 
Taranga, beginning by shooting a chief 
who was not to he daonted by several 
volleys fired over his head. TIus was on 
a Sunday; next day, seeing a gathering of 
chiefs, each with hiis green-stone mere, he 
and Sir J. Banks and Dr. Solander took 
Ta{& with ihem and tried to get np a 
conference; bat Tapia's harangue did not 
move them to friendship. "Go away," 
was their reply; "go; what have we to 
do with you f " Cook offered beads, and 
iron of the use of which they knew 
nothing ; but what they wanted were a 
musket and a hanger, and when these were 
refused, they became so importunate that 
one had to be killed and the rest peppered 
with small shot. But Cook would not be 
baffled ; he tried to seize a canoe's crew, 
and when they resisted four were killed, 
and the other three (one a boy of eleven) 
leapt into the water and were captured. "I 
am conscious," says Cook, ''that the feeling 
of every reader of humanity will censure 
me for having fired on these unhappy 
people ; and it is impossible that on a c«am 
review I should approve it myself 

The three captives, after being consoled 
by Tupia, were dressed and put ashore, 
but soon came rushing down beseeching 
that they might be taken on board again ; 
they had been landed in an enemy's 
country, and were in fear of being killed 
and eaten. Even when they were restored 
to their people it was found impossible to 
make peace. A chief whom one of the boys 
claimed as his uncle, took two gi^oen 
boughs, one of which he handed to ^pia, 
the other he laid on the body of the man who 
had been shot in the conference, showing 
plainly that what had begun with killing 
could not end peaceably. Cook, who sadly 
wanted provisions, was disappointed and 
named the place Poverty Bay. Nor had 
he much better success tiU he got to Tolago 
Bay. Here chiefs came on bon^, fearlesdy 
staying all night ; fish and sweet potatoes 
were readily provided ; Sir J. Banks was 
allowed to botanise unchecked; a war 
dance was got up in the visitors' honour. 
"We have found the terra australis in- 
cognita," was the feeUne of all on board, 
and what most astonished the scientific 
men was the exceeding neatness of the 

Maori sanitary arrangements. " Their 
gardens," writes Banks, " ard as well tilled 
as those of the most curious people among 
us. This place Cook called the Bay 
of Plenty; and thence he sailed about, 
surveying, ascertaining that Middle Island 
was cut off from its northern sister, 
peppering impudent chiefs with small 
shot, patting children on the head (this 
was remembered of him by a chief 
who was alive in 1850 — Maoris are 
sometimes very long-lived), admiring the 
skill with which the pahs were fortified, 
taking possession of the whole land in 
King Ueorge's name, leaving pigs and 
fowls (which multiplied), sheep and goats 
(these disappeared), and potatoes — ^far more 
innutritions fare (though of easier cultiva- 
tion) than the fern root or the sweet potato. 
He thought them a fine race, not without 
chivalrous feeling. He was right; in 
bitterest war, if the men of a besieged pah 
had eaten up their food, their foes would 
give them some, while, as to drink, they 
were of the same mind as Duke Robert 
when Henry proposed to force William to 
surrender by cutting off his water-supply. 
I have often wondered, when going over a 
British pah, on the Wiltshire downs or the 
Cornish moors, and finding no trace of a 
well, whether the same courtesy went on 
here in old days ; whether Icenian would 
allow Catyeuchlanian to come out and fill 
his water-vessels and so inside his defences 
unharmed. The gentlemanly bearing, too, 
of the Maoris impressed Cook as it 
must impress everybody, that is, until in 
manners and fedmg they are degraded 
down to the level of the mean whites, 
who for more than a century were 
the chief pioneers of civilisation among 

That such a race should be doomed seems 
very hard, and harder still that the doom 
should be wholly due to the white man. 
Evil diseases (brought in before Cook's 
day, by some unknown ship, probably lost 
on her way home), drink, and above all 
firearms, did the work. 

The exterminating effect of the latter 
cannot be measured without knowing how 
Hongi, determining to make himself in 
Maori land what King George was in 
Britain, brought in firearms, and shot down 
his countrymen wholesale. With us gun- 
powder has, perhaps, made war less deadly j 
with the Maoris it is quite the reverse, for 
the killing did not cease when one tribe was 
beaten, it went on to the bitter end, the 
musket giving fearful power. But of this 


202 [Ailg(UtU,U8S.] 


[Conducted by 


and of the afler fortunes of the island by- 
and-by. In these days of dear meat, one 
can scarcely know too much about a country 
where there are twenty-seven sheep per 
head to every inhabitant. 


A COUPLE of centuries ago, or less, a ton 
of ice would have been readily bartered for 
a few lumps of sea-coaL The fuel had its 
market value, while the concealed water was 
a worthless encumbrance. ITot merely our 
recent forefathers, but the ancients also, 
regarded ice either with indifference or 
with fear and dislike. It was an accessory 
of pinching, dreaded winter. It impeded 
navigation^ made the streets ' dangerous, 
and was an affliction to the shivering 
housewife. As for deriving any benefit from 
so odious a phenomenon, no one dreamed 
of it. A few scholars were aware that the 
Greeks and Eomans had cooled their 
Falemian or their Chian wine in summer 
with snow from the mountain-tops. A few 
travellers reported that Turks, Arabs, and 
other misbelieving and turbaned persons, 
in the Land of the Morning, refngerated 
their sherbet, or, sometimes, the forbidden 
grape-juice so dear to Hafiz, by a similar 
process. But even the skilM surgeons 
who, when Charles the Second had his 
fatal fit of apoplexy, tortured the Meny 
Monarch, like a Bed Indian at the stake, 
never thought of ice, which, from what we 
read of the symptoms, might have done the 
royal patient some good. And even if 
they had thought of it, there was no ice 
to be had for love or money in all England. 
The age of jocular tenures, when a fair 
estate was to be held by serjeanty of a 
snowball on Midsummer Day, and a red 
rose at Christmas, was over. Nobody 
thought of husbanding a substance so use- 
less, so vexatious, and so ephemeral as that 
ice, the production, collection, transport, 
and distribution of which now afford bread 
to toiling thousands, and necessitate the 
employment of a flotiUa of lighters and a 
fleet of screw-steamers, of caravans of 
waggons, and ponderous rolling-stock on 
many railway lines. 

^ The first ice-houses date only from the 
eighteenth century. Very few of them 
existed before the reign of George the 
Third, and of such as there were, most had 
been built in great men's parks to provide 
the means of icing the new wine called 
Champagne, after uie new-fangled method 

of the French aristocracy in Paris. Pre- 
sently, perhapsaboutthe time when Conmna 
was fought^ some shrewd London fish- 
mongers besan to realise the fact that 
their perishaole wares would be the better 
for ice. Next, there set in a rage for cream- 
ice, for wateT'ice, for icing everything 
from bottles of hock to the heads ojf 
fevered patients ; and winter ice was heed- 
fully hoarded, and rough Norwegian ice 
broujdit over in the lobster smacks. Then 
the Wenham Lake Company reaped well- 
earned dividends by the first systematic 
effort, on a large scale, to produce what 
everyone wanted, and America for years 
ruled the market, even in India, where 
every regiment and every station had for 
a century depended on the shallow trenches 
and the bundles of wetted SM twigs or 
thom-bouffha that are sure on clear diy 
nights to be thinlv coated with the coveted 
commodity. Perhaps the finest ice now 
to be bought^ and the most massive, comes 
from the artificial fiords in Norway, sreat 
glassy blocks of transparent crystal, huge 
and solid as the Herodian masonry of the 
Temple of Jerusalem. 

But, needful as ice is, as a requirement 
of our modem civilisation, the first essential 
is that it should be cheap. The magnificent 
specimens produced by artificial culture, 
sawn into blocks, like Carrara marble, and 
sold by the cubic foot, are, compared with 
the commoner sorts, what high-priced 
Ch&teauMargaux and Ch&teaa Lafitte are 
with reference to the humble clarets \(hich 
make up the bulk of the exports from 
Bordeaux. In England the Norfolk 
Broads, carefully farmed for that purpose, 
yield a large supply. Belgium, that rich, 
populous, and busy little kingdom, not 
merely fiimishesitself with ice, but supplies 
the north-western departments of Fmace 
with vast quantities of ice, collected in a 
far more romantic fashion than is possiUe 
amongst flat plains and shallow merea 
High above the corn-lands of the Low 
Countries on one side, and the Rhine valley 
on the other, rises the strong backbone of 
the Ardennes, with its miniature mountains, 
savage gorges, leaping cascades, and lofty 
moors, and there, at opa, lies the dep6t of 
the ice traffic for a considerable portion of 
Continental Europe. 

The ice-winner, like most skilled workers, 
is, in his way, a specialist. Summer is his 
idle time, his penod of enforced inactivity. 
He may, like his neighbours, bear a hand 
in the hayfield, or hdp to carry home the 
oats, but a long, sharp, and early winter is 



GkidM Mskmib] 


(Aiigiuitai, U8I.] 203 

the aort of saaBon for which he prays. 
When it comesi in all its rigour, blooking 
the lanes, and patting a stop to agrioultare, 
then is the chanoe for the hosbandman 
whose orop is the hanrest of ice. He is, 
himself, always a peasant, one of those 
petty freeholders who woork harder, and &re 
worse, than the rustics of any other land in 
Earopa Bat his freehold is very small, 
bought, as it has boon, by his &ther or 
mndfjEtther, at aboat the price of a hon- 
ored poonds an acre, and it jost keeps the 
two lean cows, and the few gannt pigs, and 
the mare and the foal, and the palliid, hardy 
children above starvation pitch. But 
clothes and comfort, the doctor's drugs for 
the sick girl, the means to keep bright^ey ed 
Eo^ne at the lihge University, the annual 
savuigs, depend on ice. And he who seeks 
to miQke or supplement a living by the sale 
of ice must not only be robust, bcdd, and 
tough of oonstitntion, but needs to be a 
pet^ capitalist There are.hay-wagsons 
and teams of horses to be hured m>m 
farmers whose nags and hinds are earning 
nothing while frost locks ap tiie soil There 
are men to hire^ to teach^ and to keep 
steady, .helpfiil, and good-humoured in 
the most trying weather, and during the 
severest toil The ice-winner — ^Oagneux 
is his name, in Walloon pfttois, though he 
is very frequently described as " Maitre 
Coupeur " — ^needs to possess a good many of 
the rou^h merits that went to the making 
of an old 8ea'<saptain of the Elizabethan era. 
The first and indispensable requisite is, 
that he should know the high moor- 
land, as well as ever pilot or channel- 
groper knew the salt water between France 
and England, rock, shoal, and current. 
And it should be known that he knows it 
Life is dear to us all, and labour, carried 
on among the wilda of the bleak Axdeimes, 
fifteen or sixteen hundred feet above the 
sea-level, and exposed to every gale that 
blows, is certainly z^ot lackine in the 
element of danger. Dwellers in tne valleys 
shudder when they talk of the " fanges," 
of the desolate, wolf-haunted uplands, in 
mid-winter. There, the rural postman goes 
armed There, around every lonelymoorland 
farm, bark and siuirl fierce dogs, with sharp 
spikes studding their collars, because of 
their ceosins uiat lurk in the heathery 
ravines to snap up whatever prey is 
left unguarded. " Pig first, chila next, 
then dog 1 " is the Wa&oon estimate of the 
predilections of a wolf. But snow is more 
to be feared, in the high Ardennes, than 
wolves are, terrible as it is to the lonely 

wayfarer, at sunset in January, to see black 
specks rapidly advancing across the track- 
less waste of white, or to be dogged through 
the forest by a persistent something on 
four feet, that slinks, and lags, and crouches, 
waiting only for a stumble, or a sign of 
fear, to dash upon the victim it has marked. 
Wolves in B^gium, after all, do very little 
harm. Some five or six human lives in the 
year — those of broom-makers ohiefiy — com- 
pose a fair averaga But cold and hunger 
slay their scorea Whole households have 
been knoim to perish, amid the far-off 
wastes, when deep drifts lay between their 
cottages and the nearest place where bread 
and brandy could be bought, while the 
rescuers, whom pity has tempted to explore 
the distant passes of the moorland have 
sometimes been surprised by a tourmente, 
as in the Jura, and paid the penalty of 
their rash chivalry. " They that go to the 
fiuiges in the snow, are not sure to come 
bacdc," says a local proverb. Yet the ice- 
winner — the Gagneux — ^must go, and that 
in the most trying of temperatures. 

To be weatherwise is almost as much a 
necessity of life to the man of ice as is 
local knowledge. Were he not reputed to 
know the causeways that lead to every 
morass, the hummocks of firm ground, and 
the-springs which, in that region of mineral 
waters, are warmer or colder than others, 
the mothers would not trust him with 
their sons, nor the faitaiers with their 
horses. But he requires, also, to keep a 
keen eye on the signs of a possible snow- 
storm, and it suits him better in the long 
run to lose days and days, and to run the 
risk of thaw, than to get his horses and 
his men involved in the risk of a tourmente, 
locidly Imown as a " trouble." What suits 
him beet is the fine, clear cold that some- 
times cotaies in winter, and sometimes 
in spring, when he can reap his harvest in 
the chiUy sunshine. Then he is active 
indeed. Long before dawn, long after 
dark, the waggons rumble along the well- 
kept high-rof^s, or strike off into the 
stony lanes. The bells on horse-collars 
jingle merrily, as if the crop to be won 
were golden wheat or bearded barley. The 
men — ^three or four — ^who trudge sturdily 
beside the horses, wear fur caps with 
flaps and ear-pieces to enable them to bear 
the cutting blasts; always have a red 
handkerchief put on, turban fashion, under 
the for cap, with vest and jerkins of knitted 
wool ; and are shod with tremendous boots, 
weU greased, that are to save their feet 
from frost-bite. They are all strong young 






204 [AugQBt 11, 1888.] 


fellows, except Uie Gafpieoz, tbour captain, 
who, with grizzled hair and anziouB e^ea, 
heads the expedition. They have picks 
and shoyels with them, and a hatchet, and 
iron grapnels and coik of rope, and a couple 
of light planks — ^lif e-baoys, these last, to be 
fiong down in dangerous places among the 
fathomless quagmires, where a warm 
sulphurous spring makes the ground 
treacherous to the tread. 

Whether the Gkigneux's trade is easy, or 
the reverse, depends very much on the rain- 
fall and the setting in of the frost When 
there is sharp cold with a dear sky, and 
after months of rain, fifty or sixty waggon- 
loads of ice may be cut, loaded, and de- 
livered at the railway-station of Spa by 
the different contractors in the course of a 
short winter's day, and without serious 
peril to life or limb. The ice then comes 
from pools nestling among the spurs of 
the hills, or from actual sheets that envelop 
the northern sides of the rolling, heathy 
uplanda But in years when the mercury 
runs, as so often happens, quickly up 
and down the tubes of barometer and 
thermometer, the ice-winner must go 
further afield. He gets a better price 
for his wares, but he earns it' by risk, 
and pain, and cruel exposure to cold such as 
in England is all but unknown. And it 
makes the utmost difference to him 
whether his biting weather comes at 
Christinas or in Lent Ice-merchants in 
the capital, like other traffickers, cannot 
afford to be sentimental The commodity 
offered has to compete, as to cost, if not 
quality, with artificial ice like that of 
Wenham Lake, or that which is bom of 
freezing mixtures, air pumps, and the 
evaporation of ether. Wluit suits the Gag- 
neux is what our American cousins call a 
" cold snap " towards an early Easter. For, 
as ice is roughly reckoned to lose forty per 
cent in a d^ climate, and sixt^ in a damp 
one, spring-won blocks rule higher in the 
market than those which have to drip and 
waste through possible months of fog and 
wet The mid-wmter work in snowy years 
is the wildest and the worst, for then the 
adventurers must wend their way to 
swamps abhorred of herdsmen, where in 
the early autumn many a rider following 
the hounds plunges suddenly to his saddle- 
girths in the black mud. There are quak- 
ing pits in such morasses, near which may 
be seen rude crosses in unhewn stone or 
tarred pinewood with " Priez pour lui " 
scrawled on a weather-beaten board, and 
wreathed around with garlands of heather 

and bded wild-Aowers, which mark the 
nameless grave of some wayfarer or 

Formidable as are the bogs of the high 
uplands towards the Prussian frontier, 
they are to the ice-wumer what the Arctic 
Sea used to be to the Hull whalers— s 
source of profit Knowing, as he does, 
the ground, as well as the tossing snow- 
waves and tfiefast-Qying flakes permit him 
to recognisethelandmarks, hetries toke^ 
to the firm ridges and to shun the dread- 
ful " fondri^res," some of which are deep 
and tenacious enough to swallow down his 
whole company, team, cart, and all When 
the pool is reached, he it is who ventores 
first along a narrow tongue of land, to step 
forth upon a jutting stone, crusted wilii 
snow and slippery with moss, and to begin 
the attack upon &e thick marble-hard ioe, 
as a leader should do. There is an art in 
ice-cutting, as in most occupations, and 
much tact is needed to |^t the maximnm 
of weight chopped, spht, hauled ashore, 
and swung into the waggon, with the 
minimum of pick and shovel work. A 
clever thrower of the mpnd, to bring in 
floating blocks from a oistance, is as much 
prized as an adroit harpooner at sea. 
Often it is necessary to wade ; and that in 
half-congealed water, and clinging mud, and 
mire of bird-lime tenadtv. Sometimes a 
precious hour is lost in the process of ex- 
tricating an unlucky comrade who has 
sunk to his armpits in the swamp, and 
now and then a novice can scarcely 
be kept from nodding drowsily off into 
the Bleep for which exhanatCKi Nature 
craves in the bitter cold, and from 
which there would be no awakening in 
this world. 

Frost-bite is seldom severe, but bUsters 
and temporary blindness from the glare of 
the white waste are not uncommon ; while 
the sudden setting in of a snowstorm may 
in a moment spoil the day's harvesting, and 
task all the prudence and strength of the 
explorers to struggle back to the safe road. 
No Gagneuse has ever yet carried on his 
business on teetotal principles. Bad brandy 
and worse gin are idways heedfully stored 
in a basket, slung beneath the waggon, 
and frequent, if moderate, drams are 
doled out as the work goes on. Bat 
the great inducement to volunteers is the 
daily half-crown, for three francs in the 
Ardennes is a sum that represents princely 

There are two qualities of Ardennes loa 
The Number One, the first-class ice, comes 








(Angut U; 18SS.] 206 


from pools and lakelets which some steep 
ridge protects from driving snow. For the 
catting of this hard transparent staff, 
eight or ten inches thick, and almost 
equal, save in metric symmetry, to the 
best blocks from Norway, there is keen 
competition. The earliest in the field has, 
by tradition, a right beyond dispute. 
Hence every Oagneuz tries to be more 
matutinal than his rivals. The early bird, 
in human shape, is he who is privileged to 
qnany the superfine sort of clear ice which 
may be fit for table use. But for every 
ton of this, twenty of the second quality 
find their way to market The inferior ice 
is often in jagged masses of extraordinary 
solidity, sometimes sixteen, and even 
eighteen inches thick But they are dull, 
opaque, and of a snowy colour, layer after 
layer of pure ice alternating with spangles 
and patches of drift, so that the whole has 
the aspect of a slab of white conglomerate. 
This ice, as containing more air, and as 
less compact in substance than the trans- 
parent, is said to lose considerably by 
storage; but that it is in great and con- 
stant demand is shown by the anxiety to 
get it safely off as fast as steam can urge 
the iron wheels along the iron road, to 
Brussels, Antwerp, Ghent, and Lille. 

The gleanings of the ice-harvest, when 
onoe die pools and lofty-lying tarns have 
been denuded of their thick crust, and a 
decided thaw has set in, are of a far 
humbler sort, and consist of ^gy snow, 
beaten hard into compact blocks by the 
blows of shovel and mallet, packed into 
common carts, and stowed away in the ice- 
cellars of local restaurateurs and ca(6- 
keepers to await the demand for sorbets 
and cream and water ices during the en- 
suing summer. But with this the Gag- 
neux has nothing to do. Snow is to 1^ 
had without peril and for scanty toil, and 
is paid for at a tariff correspon<ungly low, 
and is therefore beneath the attention of 
the bold adventurer, who has laboured, 
schemed, and faced danger for months in 
the interest of his f amuy. Now he has 
given back horses and waggon to their 
owner, has disbanded his crew, and awaits, 
like a philosopher, by his chimney-comer, 
the chances and the changes of a new 


SoxB kindly look, some undefined expression 
Larks in the shadow^ of thine earnest eyes, 

Some secret thing that claims my heart's posses- 
By sympathetic ties. 

Some likeness of the mind, some fellow-feeling, 
Blends our cleft lives to one hannonioua whole i 

Thy good unto m^ better self appealing 
Haunts all my mmost soul. 

Wordless, yet ever to my thoughts replying, 
Giving me look for look, and breath for breath ; 

With thee the world is paradise undjring, 
Without thee— Life is Death 1 



GoNTANOO did his daty well that day. 
The milestones span away behind him. 
To be sure, they only marked kilometres, 
nine little ones in between to mark each 
hundred metres, and the tenth on a larger 
scale, where the distances to different 
places had been carefully marked on, and 
as carefully knocked off by some travelling 
enthusiast, some Old Mortality whose 
ideas had become reversed, and who had 
devoted himself, with cold chisel and 
mallet, to the disfigurement of these local 
records. Disfigureid they were, anyhow, 
with remarkable completeness, and the 
want of any authentic record of our pro- 

gress caused a little discoid among u& 
riginally we were the most charmingly 
united party you can imagine. The 
director's wife, the shock of separation 
from Alphonse once over, threw herself 
into the enjoyment of Uxe hour like a 
school-girl just released from dass. The 
day was fine, the road smooth and shaded 
with trees. We caught glimpses here 
and there of the blue sparkling sea — 
glimpses now through the branches of 
apple-trees studded with young fruit, or 
crowning the vista of some shady lane 
almost equal to a Devonshire lane in 
beauty ; and every now and then, as 
a wider prospect opened out from the 
summit of some trifling eminence, we 
gained a view of the whole bay, dotted 
with white sails, and could make out the 

Baceful Sea Mew steaming along in a 
isurely fashion. Once or twice Stephanie 
thought she could make out her director 
anxiously gazine landwards, and waved 
her handkerchief zealously, on the chance 
of his being on the look-out our way, at 
that particular moment, with binoculars 
of extraordinary power. Altogether, we 
were as happy and contented as people 
could well be. Contango slashing along at 
a pace that should have troubled the repose 
of people who intended to bet against him, 
Tom making all kinds of fun with Justine 
on the back seat, while the pair in front 
were more soberly employed in comparing 
impressions on what was passing. Now, 


206 [August, U, 1883.] 


LGoodttOtod Igr 

Tom had set out very carefully to time 
Contango's performancei and for the first 
two or three kilometres this went on with 
complete regularity. Then he missed a 
milestone — ^to call it by the famiUar name 
— and to conceal his want of care he stuck 
in two which had really no existence, 
thus bringing up Contango's record to 
something astonishing. Now, if the dis- 
tance on the milestones — still to use the 
familiar term — ^had been properly marked, 
we could have decided the xeal distance 
travelled . without any discussion ; but, 
thanks to Mortality Bedivivus, we were in 
a complete fog about the matter. Presently, 
however, we arrived at a village — St. 
Marcouf — where we were able to correct 
our dead reckoning. 

All along this district^ the villages 
are nearly all either something-ville or 
Saint somebody ; and, indeed, throughout 
Normandy the same rule holds good, the 
ville in most cases, no doubt, being an 
adaptation to French of sundry &a:on 
and old Norse terminals. Vic, wich, fold, 
bye, have apparently been all melted down 
into the French ville. So, at least, our 
director instructed us in a little disquisi- 
tion upon the subject But the weather 
was too hot for such considerations. 
The merits of the church, which is 
ancient and singular, were in our eyes 
chiefly the pleasant coolness and calm 
it afforded. The spire of St Marcouf 
is, they say, a sea-mark for the fishermen 
and sailors in the bay, and a curioua open- 
ing or oculus in the chancel over the high 
altar was said to have been contrived so 
that the altar-light burning always in pre- 
sence of the Blessed Sacrament mi^ht throw 
a cheerful eleam out to sea, giving the 
sailor struggung with the waves a hopeful 
sense of the eye that is watching over his 
safety. We might also have drunk from 
the ancient fountain of St Marcouf, but 
the spring was pronounced to be too near 
the village cemetery, and so we voted for 
the village cider, although, perhaps, in that 
we had still more concentrated essence of 
the forefathers of the hamlet For do not 
apple-trees grow in tjhe churchyard itself) 
and what is not apple-juice in the cider is 
made up from the holy well 

At St Marcouf we were encouraged by 
finding ourselves hard upon the trail of 
Hilda and the count They had passed 
through the village not an hour before — ^the 
tall mademoiselle, her father, and the young 
De St. PoL Mademoiselle stopped to see 
the churcL She was there half an hour at 

least, and the count seemed very impatient 
at the delay. There was a long discussion 
among them, too, as to where they should 
goj ti^e count urging them to cross the 
isthmus and visit Coutances and Gran- 
vUle, where he had his yacht ; and pro- 
mising to show them the coast of Brittany. 
But mademoiselle had decided at last— it 
was she who seemed to decide things, the 
old gentleman, her father, took no part in 
the ^discussion — ^mademoiselle had decided 
that she would go on instead to Bayeox. 
An4 then they had started, the count in a 
bad humour it seemed, and no doubt we 
should overtake the party before they 
reached Carentan. So we drove on, re- 
assured by what we had heard, and not 
Stting Contango to his tip-top speed, for 
yeux would be the general rendezvouB;the 
Sea Mew was to put ini at Port au Bessin, 
where there was a good harbour, which 
would take her in lumdsomely at full tida 

Thus we drove on towards Carentan, the 
country gradually becoming flatter and 
flatter, and finally resolving itself into rich 
low-lying pastures, protected from the net- 
work of streams that intersected them by 
high grassy banks, lin^ with willows, and 
elms, and tall poplars, with legions of 
cattle quietly grazing — a picture after Cuyp, 
of the Dutdbi rather than the French school 
These wide - spreading pastures are the 
wealth of this rich district of the Gotentin, 
the country whose proud barons disdained 
to call themselves the men ef the young 
bastfuni William ; but who were speedily 
brought to submission by the embryo 
Conqueror. This and the subsidiuy 
Avranchin, with its chief town of Avranohes 
— the two districts together under the <dd 
regime forming the baiUage of Cou- 
tances — these two districts have been 
the great nursery of the ancient English 
baronage. Just now we might call it a 
hot-bed rather than a nursery, the beat is 
so intense, with hardly a breath of air 
stirring over the plain, where the tangled 
rivers and streams are lying at rest, with 
scarcely a movement in their waters at the 
bottom of Uieir deep muddy chwnela A 
bountiful country too, with evidences of 
plenty and profusion on every ride. 

We find Carentan in the fall fever of its 
weekly market — and such a market as you 
will rarely see in these degenerate days. 
The place — ^with some nice old houses 
on one side forming a covered piazzsr— 
is filled with blue blouses and white 
caps. Ducks, and turkeys, and chickens 
all quack, and gobble, and duck unheard in 




(Auoiit n, m$,} 207 

the sreat gf^bbld tiiat rises from so many 
atricfent human voices — all the world talk- 
ing their loudest^ and the bells clanging 
oat from the tower of the fine old church : 
a beirildering maddening turmoil. The din 
is not to be escaped from either in the inns, 
which are crammed with market-people f^t- 
ingi drinkingi and bargaining over their 
cups : stoat men with mealy voices dis- 
coaaiog fat beeves, and oily dames with 
fanny, itanted'Iooking lace caps-degenerate 
successors these last of the ancient tower- 
ing head-eear. Everywhere about are 
bandies of live poultry, carried uncer^ 
moniously by their legs, protesting loudly 
in their shrillest voices ; but the people who 
cany them are as much viconcemed as 
though they were so manybunchesof onions. 
Bat abreadythe crowd is ebbing away 
from the maxket-place j the market-women 
are counting up their stoddngs-f all of fiv&- 
franc pieces; and the buyers with their 
loads are scrambling into their carts, into the 
diligence, or filing away in long profCession 
to the railway-statioa In the midst of all 
this hubbab, in which we have been wan- 
dering a little dazed and bewildered, some- 
body touches Tom on the shoulder. This 
somebody wears a blue blouse, a rough 
three-sous straw-hat, bound with an end of 
scarlet braid ; he is bronzed and burly, with 
something of the keen good-humoured air 
of the Norman horse-deider. 

'< Wall, Tom, old man l" he cries, << what 
are you doing along here ) " 

Tom stares at him for a moment in 

'< Why, it is Bedmond," he cries at last ; 
" Bedmond disguised as a French peasant 
Have yoa come to meet your father 
Bedmond changed colour at this. 
"No," he cried in an alarmed tona 
"Are they here?" 

" We are expecting to come across them 
any minute," replied Tom. 

"Oh, I say, hide me up somewhere/' 
cried Bedmond ; " I could not £ace the old 
governor just now on any account." 

" Don't be frightened/ said Tom dryly ; 
"your old nurse wouldn't know you even." 
Baymond, however, insisted that we 
should follow him to his own house-of-call, 
a little auberge " Au Bouche d'Or," where, 
through a labyrinth of market-carts, he led 
Q3 to a little caf6 and salle-4manger, re- 
dolent of ram, and cognac, and garlic 

We had left Madame la Directrice and 
Justine at the hotel to repose during the 
noontide heat, and Contango was discussing 

his oats with great relish in the stables 
below them. We had determined that if we 
found that EUldaand her father had driven 
on to Bayeuz, as there was now no pressing 
need to follow them. Contango should 
be spared any further work, and that 
Tom should remain at Carentan for the 
night, and drive quietly over to Bayeuz 
next day, while the rest of us went on by 
train this same afternoon. We should be 
there as soon as the Chudleighs, no doubt, if 
they were goin^ to drive the distance, 
and as the tram did not leave for a 
couple of hours, we could spare an hour to 
Bedmond with easy minds. As for Bed- 
mond, he was too full of his own affairs to 
take much interest in oura It seems that 
he had been living at Caen, a second Beau 
Brummell, idle and out at elbows, pretty 
well supplied with money, however, b v his 
sister, who must have devoted most of the 
income left her by the late Miss Chudleigh, 
of Weymouth, to his benefit. Of a more 
stirring nature than the unfortunate 
Brummell, however, he had struck out a 
line for himself. It was buying poultry^ 
and pigs, and horses, anytlung he came 
across, and selling them again for a profit 
That was his programme, at least ; hitherto 
he had been rather unfortunate. He had 
begun with horses, and had lost money 
over them ; had come down to pigs, and 
still lost money. Now he was reduced to 
poultry, but was always sanguine of 
eventual results. To-day, for instance, he 
had bought a hundred turkeys at five 
francs each ; these he should take back to 
Caen, and sell for about double the money. 
Tom took in all this with wonder and 
amazement Was this the glass of fashion 
and the mould of form, the Adonis of the 
Guards' Club, the arbiter of Pall Mall f Had 
he come down to this 1 In the prime of 
his days, too, and of his manly beauty, for 
he was handsome — ^handsomer than ever, 
perhaps, in the easy unstudied garb of Gaul, 
in the blue tunic that Yerdngetoriz might 
have worn with just such an air. He was too 
proud, evidently, to build any expectations 
upon his sister's marriage. Tom gently 
touched upon this point, and to his surprise 
Bedmond seemed quite in the dark as to 
the whole matter. Hilda had certainly 
written to him once or twice lately, but he 
had given over reading letters ; he no longer 
took any interest in home matters. Hilda 
might marry whom she pleased. Tom 
suggested that this indifference was rather 
unland, seeing that EUlda's marriage had 
been arranged partly for his benefit. Had 


208 Ungnst 11,1888.] 



he heard nothing about Mr. OhanceUor's 
handsome o£fer to give him, Bedmond, a 
good appointment f Bedmond opened his 
eyes at this, and taking a bundle of letters 
from the pocket of his blouse, picked out 
the most recent of them, from Hilda, and 
read it carefuUy over. Then he sat for a 
few moments in deep thought 

" Yes, that might do," ne said at last, 
the expression of his face changing to a 
careless listlessness. '' Perhaps it wul suit 
me better than pig-dealing after alL Only 
I can't meet the goyemor and Hilda and 
her young man in this kind of coetome," 
looking at his blue blouse. " Look here, 
Tom, lend me fifty pounds, and I'll run up 
to Paris and get rigged out, and then ru 
meet the famuy coundl, say at Trouville." 

Tom looked doubtfully into his purse, and 
said he did not know if he could manage 
it, but I gave him a nudge to intimate 
that I would take the responsibility, and 
then Tom counted out the notes, which 
Bedmond thrust carelessly into his pocket 

"Thanks," he said cdmly; "and now 
come along, Tom, we'll hare a bit of fun 
with the turkeys." 

Tom was always ripe for anything in 
the way of fun, and perhaps he felt that 
he was entitled to something in return for 
the money he had parted with so readily, 
and he followed Bedmond to the courtyard 
of the inn, where the latter disentangled 
his cart from the tightly-packed mass of 
vehicles, and bringing out his ponjr from 
the stable, put it in and harnessed it with 
Tom's ready assistance. At the bottom of 
the cart were lying the turkeys, not, per- 
haps, a hundred — in that matter, probably, 
Bedmond used a little customary exaggera- 
tion, but anyhow a goodly number tied 
together in pairs by tiie legs j and what- 
ever their motives might have been, it was 
certainly a work of humanity when Tom 
and Bedmond drew out their knives and 
cut the ligatures that bound them. 

" Now we're off," said Bedmond, jumping 
into the cart, Tom clambering up on the 
other side, and away they went at full 

For the first few memento not one of 
the turkeys stirred; they could not feel 
their legs, perhaps, just at first, or realise 
the unaccustomed liberty they enjoyed. But 
just as they cleared the porte coch^re of 
the inn, the ostler running after them to 
claim the gratuity that Bedmond had for- 
gotten, the trap gave a lurch, and a fine 
old turkey-cock, thrown off his balance by 
the shock, spread out his wings, and 

finding nothing to restrain him, flew oat 
of the cart with a mighty whirr right in 
the fiuse of the pursuing gar9on, who 
dutehed him wildly and then rolled over 
and over in the dust And then bird i^ter 
bird took to flight, their wings darkening 
the air, and bringing the whole town oat 
in hot pursuit; do^ barked, women 
screamed, while the birds carecored in all 
directions, settling on the rooft of hooBos, 
perching on the telegraph-wires, fluttering 
mto shops, and even flying into the 
windows of the mairie and scattering the 
municipal records in wildconfhsioa Tom 
and Bedmond meantime drove on caUoosIf 
regardless of the cries and diouts that 
followed them, and taking not the 
slightest notice of the train of flying birds 
they left behind. Strange to say, not- 
withstanding this wonderful winuM of 
turkeys, not a soul thought of lootingi or 
of seizing the goods that fortone had so 
bounteouiuv provided. Such is the respect 
that the Irench citizens bear for the law, 
that not a single turkey was, so to say, 
nobbled. Each man contented himself 
with defending his own possessions and 
calling loudly for the gendarmes. 

Soon the alarm-beu was ringing at the 
gendarmerie, and the men turned oat 
in a body. And it was pleasant to hear 
the sabres clanking and to see the 
cocked hate making head against the 
invaders. Under the protection of the 
law, everybody now joined in the capture ; 
but it was melancholy to see that as each 
bird was caught ite legs were firmly tied 
up again and it was carried off head 
downwards to the gendarmerie. Not all, 
indeed, were thus accounted for. A few 
had made their way over the tops of the 
houses, and were lost to sight Mean- 
time the chief of the gendarmes got oat 
pen, ink, and paper, and began to " dress " 
a proc^verbid of the affair. It was a 
serious matter, he observed, to disturb the 
tranquility of a community in this nn- 
heard-of manner. Justice must inform 

Clearly it might be dangerous for Tom 
to show himself in Oarentan after this 
madcap piece of business. 

Anyhow, the pair had disappeared, and 
I made my way into the market-place, 
determined, now that the uproar had 
abated and the fierce noontide heat^ that I 
would find out whether Hilda and her 
father were still in the town. The most 
likely place to find Hilda, I thought, woald 
be the church. She had the usual fondness 




[August 11, 1888.] 209 

of Engliah girls f or investigatiiig ehnrches 
and pablic monomentB, and I should 
probably find her sketching some old 
portal, or perhaps in the cool interior, 
lifltening in a kmd of day-dream to the 
sabdaea clamour of the Gregorian plain- 
80Dg. The bell had just ceased ringing for 
yeipers as I entered the church, and a 
small assemblage of worshippers was scat- 
tered about among the chairs : a few 
elaborately-dress^ women, the wires, no 
doabt) of local magnates; some market- 
women in highly-coloured shawls and short 
petticoats ; and one or two aged peasants in 
threadbare and carefully-patehed blouses — 
these last the most fervent and devout of 
the whole assemblage, even including the 
officiating priest, who required an occa- 
aioiial pinch of snu£f to help him on with 
his breviary. But more to my purpose, I 
espied, leaning against a column that cut 
off farther view, the grey, time-worn head 
of the old squire. Hilda must be there 
too, beyond the pillar, but I could not get 
near enough to see without disturbing 
the whole congregation, and so I waited 
patiently till the service — a very short one 
—was finished. 

Most of the people had left the church, 
bat a few were still left, kneeling about here 
and there, and the squire still kept his 
seat I edged round the church towards 
the pillar. The squire had surely fallen 
asleep, leaning his withered, tired-looking 
face against the cold stone-work. But he 
was alone, no Hilda was there, and the 
knowledge of this gave me a certain thrill 
of undefinable misgivii^. I touched the 
sqaire on the arm. He roused himself 
and turned to me with an air of bland 
enquiry. No, he had not been asleep, but 
had closed hiis eyes for a few minutes in 
reflection. He walked with me towards 
the ^ door, looking a little dazed and 
bewildered after his nap. His memory 
seemed to have failed him for the moment. 
He hardly knew where he was, or to whom 
he was speaking. "Hilda," he replied 
▼agaely, in answer to my enquiry ; " I 
don't quite know where she is — ^in the 
garden, or perhaps down in the villa^" 
jost as if we had been at Combe Chudleigh. 
And then he seemed to gather his faculties 
together, sittine down in the porch and 
hoidbg his forehead in his handa ** Yes, 
I think she's gone out,'' he repeated ; '* gone 
oat with that young Frenchman to see 
wms abbey, but I don't know where." 

It was inaddenin^ to be thus thwarted 
by the old man's fajhng memory, for I was 

now seriously alarmed about Hilda. Not 
that perhaps she could come to any actual 
harm, but that the count might lead her 
into some embarrassing or compromising 
position, the heroine of some story that 
would be told of her during all the rest of 
her life. Heaven only knew what trick 
he might play her; misinterpreting, 
perhaps, the free and independent bearing 
of an English girl, and taking advantage of 
the purity and unsuspicion of her nature. 

By this time the old sauire had come to 
a more lively sense of tne situation ; he 
began to grumble out that it was getting 
lato, and tiiat it was too bad of Hilda to 
keep him waiting so long. When we got 
back to the inn we found no tidings of 
HOdai And now Madame la Directrice 
was becoming uneasy. When should we 
rejoin tiie yacht and her dear Alphonse ? 
And that charming Monsieur Tom, where 
was he, and why was not everything ready 
for departure? But Justine drew me 
aside with a mysterious air. She had 
news of mademoiselle. She had driven off 
with M de St. Pol; he had hired fresh 
horses, and had taken her away — away to 
the forest Tes, she had found that out 
from the people of the inn. There was 
some old abbey to be visited. What 
could mademoiselle see in those old abbeys 
that were no longer fit for human habita- 
tion 1 But this was at C^risy, in the very 
middle of the forest Ah, why did 
mademoiselle leave her faithful servant 
behind, who would have protected her from 
all these dangers f 

After all, Justine seemed to have hit 
upon the truth, for the squire, when again 
interrogated, seemed to recognise the name 
G^risy as that which his daughter had told 
him. The place, too, might be called on 
the road to Bayeux, although it was a long 
way out of the direct line. Our trusty aide, 
Tom, having failed us at this pinch — not 
exactly from his own fault, for how could 
he have anticipated any unpleasant result 
from tilie pleasant adventure of the turkeys t 
— and I being left to my own resources, I 
persuaded Madame la Directrice to accept 
the escort of the old squire, and packed 
them off—Justine very unwiQingly making 
one of the party — ^by the next train to 
Bayeux. And then I got Contango bar* 
nessed and put in the dog-cart, and started 
off at a slapping pace for C6risy. 

Through pleasant, English - looking 
country, flat and fertile, with many streams, 
bridges, and turnings,' evening shadows 
coming on and the setting sun gleaming in 



210 [AtigOBt 11,1888.] 


tCondneM bf 

the waters, now