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 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 

 DATE DUE 
 
 
 mrn 
 
 
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 7f^ MK>. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAYLOKO 
 
 
 
 PRINTCDINU.S.A. 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
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PZ I.WIS"™*" ""'""""y Library 
 
XX STORIES 
 
 By XX Tellers 
 
XX STORIES 
 
 By XX Tellers 
 
 W.W. Fenn^ «By Ww. Robinson 
 
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 EDITED BY 
 
 LEOPOLD WAGNER 
 
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 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
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PREFACE. 
 
 The object of this volume is to show a certain 
 number of popular modern authors at their best 
 as writers of short stories. Time was when it was 
 said, and generally believed, that the novelists of 
 this country could not write short stories. Most 
 certainly they exercised no inclination to try ; or 
 if a few of them did so on occasion, they found 
 their work lying unprofitably on their hands. The 
 three-volume novel was the only kind of fiction 
 that the British reading public cared to welcome. 
 But Mr Rudyard Kipling changed all that. The 
 instant success of his Anglo-Indian stories created 
 a demand for short stories, which has kept on 
 growing to such an extent that we now find 
 authors of the highest reputation turning out 
 volumes of short stories in place of the three- 
 volume novel which formerly represented their 
 average year's work. The direct tendency of this 
 changed state of affairs is towards the gradual dis- 
 appearance of the three-volume novel altogether. 
 Since the introduction of the short story, the read- 
 ing public have rightly come to regard " padding " 
 as an article of doubtful value. 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 The stories here brought together make no 
 pretence to being new. They are reprints. Care 
 has, however, been employed in the selection, so 
 that each story should be representative of the 
 particular style of its author. " Polly," by Mar- 
 garet Watson, is a good example of the homely- 
 pathetic style of short story. Now that Mr John 
 Hollingshead ha!s forsaken theatrical management, 
 and returned to his old love, we may expect to 
 find him producing his annual volume of short 
 stories ; albeit " My Lost Home " will be hard to 
 beat. It is only in strict justice to the author to 
 state that this story preceded Mrs Gaskell's 
 " Manchester Marriage " by a year or two, and, 
 of course, Tennyson's " Enoch Arden." Another 
 prolific story-teller well known in the theatrical 
 world, the late Mr Henry Herman, is here repre- 
 sented by "Two Strokes of the Pen," one of 
 the last and best of all his short stories. This 
 is taken from The Postman's Daughter and Other 
 Stories, by permission of the publishers, Messrs 
 Frederick Warne & Co. Though Mr W. 
 Moy Thomas has during recent years been con- 
 tent to fill the position of musical and dramatic 
 critic on the staff of a great daily newspaper, it 
 may not be long before he rejoins the ranks of the 
 story-tellers. His contribution to this volume, 
 " A Guild Clerk's Tale," affords an apt illustration 
 of his style. Mr Barry. Pain's "Bill," reprinted 
 
Preface. vii 
 
 from In a Canadian Canoe, by permission of 
 Messrs Henry & Co., is one of those stories 
 which in the Preface to that -work he describes as 
 " background " to the humour of which his book 
 is chiefly composed. " Slightly Deaf," by Brace- 
 bridge Hemyng, is one of the best of the Awful 
 Stories from the pen of this author, published by 
 Messrs Diprose, Bateman & Co. Mr George 
 Manville Fenn's " Breach of Promise of Marriage," 
 from The New Mistress, is reproduced in these 
 pages by permission of Messrs Chatto & Windus, 
 in conjunction with the author. Mr H. Sutherland 
 Edwards has worked long and successfully as a 
 war correspondent, leader writer, musical critic, 
 and novelist. Latterly he has commenced to 
 write short stories. His " Marriage of Anna 
 Ivanovna" presents a faithful picture of Russian 
 society of the present day. That such a staid 
 novelist as Mr F. W. Robinson should con- 
 descend to write^ short stories will be a matter 
 of surprise to many of his readers. The times 
 have changed indeed. Already we are pro- 
 mised a volume of short stories in which 
 "An Odd Fix'' will be one of the number. 
 " A Champion of England," by Brandon Thomas, 
 suffers nothing from the fact that it is true 
 in every particular. Though best known as a 
 playwright, Mr Thomas has done much good 
 work in the way of short stories for the 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 magazines in the past. All that need be said 
 concerning "The Romance of a Melody" is that 
 it originated in a dream. "The Episode of the 
 Pilot," by F. C. Burnand, is only one of the many 
 good stories contained in that amusing narrative, 
 Rather at Sea, lately issued from the press of 
 Messrs Bradbury, Agnew & Co. "Angela" 
 exhibits the topsy-turvyism of Mr W. S. Gilbert in 
 quite a new light ; there is a pathos about the little 
 story for which the numerous admirers of this 
 whimsical writer .may not be altogether prepared. 
 As might be expected, " A Fallen Star," by A. W. 
 Pinero, is a story of theatrical life. This was 
 originally contributed to the Era Almanack 
 about fifteen years ago. In "The Wearing of 
 the Green," Mr Justin M'Carthy is seen to good 
 advantage as a writer of Irish stories. The^te Mr 
 Savile Clarke wrote many excellent stories during 
 his busy lifetime, but none prettier than " The 
 Cigarette," here reproduced by the kindness of Mrs 
 Clarke. Most readers of" The Man in Possession " 
 will agree with the critics in the opinion that the 
 mantle of Charles Dickens has fallen on the 
 shoulders of Mr B. L. Farjeon, who now writes so 
 rarely. This homely tale is extracted from Bread- 
 and- Cheese and Kisses, perhaps the most successful 
 of his Christmas Annuals. "The Purser's Story," 
 by Robert Barr, is not the least diverting, of the 
 stories comprising the volume entitled. In a 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 Steamer Chair, recently published by Messrs 
 Chatto & Windus. " A Silent Sacrifice," by W. 
 W. Fenn, inculcates the potent lesson that self- 
 abnegation is the true secret of human happiness. 
 Lastly, " The Chumplebunnys on the Ocean 
 Wave " illustrates the versatility of Mr W. Beatty- 
 Kingston, whose pen is more generally employed 
 upon humorous verse. This story is an extract 
 from his book The Chumplebunnys and other Oddities, 
 published by Messrs Chapman & Hall. 
 
 To all those authors and publishers who have so 
 courteously granted him permission to reprint the 
 foregoing copyright stories, the Editor's thanks are 
 
 due, and hereby tendered. 
 
 L. W. 
 
 London, August 1895. 
 
t 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Polly Margaret Watson i 
 
 My Lost Home John Hollingshead 17 
 
 Two Strokes of the Pen . . Henry Herman 33 
 
 A Guild Clerk's Tale . . . W. Moy Thomas 47 
 
 "Bill" Barry Pain 71 
 
 SlightLV Deaf .... Bracebridge Heinyng 85 
 
 A Breach of Promise of Marriage Geo. Manville Fenn 99 
 
 The Marriage of Anna IvInpvna 
 
 H. Sutherland Edwards 1 1 1 
 
 An Odd Fix F. IV. Robinson 123 
 
 A Champion of England . . Brandon Thomas 137 
 
 The Romance of a Melody . . Leopold Wagner 141 
 
 The Episode of the Pilot . ^ . F. C. Burnand 153 
 
 Angela : An Inverted Love Story . W. S. Gilbert 165 
 
 A Fallen Star A. W. Pinero 173 
 
xu 
 
 Contents. 
 
 The Wearing of the Green 
 
 The Cigarette 
 
 Th^ Man in Possession . 
 
 The Purser's Story 
 
 A Silent Sacrifice . 
 
 The Chumplebunnys on the Ocean 
 Wave ... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Justin M'Carthy 187 
 
 H. Savile Clarke 203 
 
 . B. L. Farjeon 217 
 
 Robert Barr 235 
 
 W. W. Fenn 243 
 
 W. Beatty-Kingston 263 
 
POLLY. 
 
 MARGARET WATSON. 
 
 " Well, Polly ! " 
 
 "Well, Tom!" 
 
 "Come out and set on the bench." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 So they went and sat on the bench against the 
 cottage wall, under the climbing roses which grew on 
 the front of the house, and had been trained down again 
 over the bench and at the side where the garden path 
 ran, making a little nook, almost screened from the 
 public gaze, but not quite, for the roses were only trained 
 on long poles, and did not grow close enough to form 
 a solid screen. Perhaps this formed a part of its 
 attraction, for although you don't 'want to do your 
 courting in public, what is the use of having a young 
 man if no one knows it ? 
 
 These two, however, were for once not' thinking of 
 their public. 
 
 " I can't see wot you wanted to leave your place for, 
 Polly — so 'andy as 'twas Sundays, an' you 'avin' the beer 
 to draw, hay and harvest and steamerin' an' all." 
 
 "Your beer! that's all you thinks of. Wot's eight 
 pound and a old dress once a year or so ? I wants tp 
 better myself; you can take up with the new gal." 
 
2 Polly. 
 
 "She've got red 'air, and looks squint-eyed* But it'll 
 be unked 'thout a gal to walk out Sundays. Why shu'ii't 
 we get spliced ? " 
 
 " Spliced ! Law, now ! wot's the chap thinkin' 
 of?" 
 
 " Well,, why shu'n't us ? I gets my twelve shillin's a 
 wfeek now." 
 
 " Who's to pay for the furniture ? I -ain't got but four 
 pound put by." 
 
 " I ain't got much ; but Browns 'ud let us 'ave it, and 
 pay when us could." 
 
 " An' when 'ud that be ? Besides, there ain't a 
 cottage." 
 
 " Not unless you'd go in along of mother, and then 
 us i shu'n't want scarce any more furniture." 
 
 " Not I ! When I marries, I 'as my 'ouse to myself 
 I don't 'old with two missises in one place." 
 
 " Well, then, ole Mother Bennell can't last long, she's 
 a great age, and there'll be her cottage.'' 
 
 "Well, we'll see. I'm to get ;£'i2 at Mrs Simpkins's' 
 and rise up to ;^i4, and I can save somethin' out o' 
 that; so can you out o' your twelve shillin's, or tain't 
 much use to talk about keepin' a wife and family out on 
 it ; and then if anythin' 'appens to ole Mother Bennell, 
 you can let me know." 
 
 " All right, Polly ; give us a kiss." 
 
 And Polly gave him a kiss — a good solid one — and 
 perhaps several more, and so they parted. 
 
 Next morning Polly started for her new place, that 
 of plain cook in a clergyman's family, where "the 
 family " consisted only of the master and mistress, and the 
 work of the house was to be divided between herself and 
 a young housemaid. A small dairy would be included 
 
Polly, 3 
 
 in Polly's work, but she had been used to do all the 
 rough work of a large one, so the change appeared to be 
 advantageous in every way — from " general " in a farm- 
 house to " cook " in a parsonage. 
 
 Polly Lamburn was a beauty, according to rural ide^s, 
 being tall and plump, with very black eyes and hair, and 
 red cheeks ; strong too, and one who " didn't mind what 
 she did," as her neighbours said, and this is high praise. 
 She thought ' very little of her looks, being much more 
 proud of her strength and her capacity for work. 
 
 A carrier's cart took her and her " oak-painted " 
 wooden box the first six miles of her journey — a pleasant 
 enough way of travelling on a warm day when you are 
 not in a hurry ; and Polly was quite able to enjoy the 
 unwonted idleness of sitting through the morning hours 
 with her hands, clad in black thread gloves, in her lap, 
 watching the old white horse as he trudged up hill and 
 down, and stopped at each house of call without any 
 special instructions from his driver. 
 
 The carrier took her to the nearest railway station, 
 and from there she had ar twenty-mile journey through 
 the valley of the Thames to the little village of Stoke, 
 which nestles in shady elms by the river-bank. Polly 
 got out, feeling somewhat giddy and tired, at the little 
 station, with its name brilliantly displayed in the foliage 
 of the golden-leaved pyrethrum, in the bright strip of 
 garden beside the line, and was met by a cheery, round- 
 faced young man, who picked her out as the " new gal " 
 in a moment. 
 
 "You for Mrs Simpkins's, miss? I'll carr' yer box; it 
 ain't very fur to go.'' 
 
 " What sorf of a place is it ? " asked Polly, when they 
 were out of the station and in a quiet country road. 
 
4 Polly. 
 
 " Oh, it's — a — very good sort of a place accordin'," he 
 answered cautiously. " Be you come fur ? " 
 
 "Ah — all the way from Wentford down t'other side o' 
 the country." 
 
 " Oh ! be you from Wentford ? I've heard tell o' 
 that place — leastways, I thinks my mother's sister's son 
 worked there one time. I think he was carter along of 
 a farmer — name o' Willet, or som'at like that I thinks 
 'twas, but I won't be sure." 
 
 " Well, if that ain't queer ! I was general at Willet's 
 this three 'ear. Was that Bob Richards now ? " 
 
 " Ah ! did you know 'im ? " 
 
 " Know 'im ? I should think I did ! He kep' comp'ney 
 with the dairymaid up at the big house. 'Ave 'ee got 
 married yet ? " 
 
 " No, leastways not as I knows on ; he mtgAi be." 
 
 "She were a poor weakly thing, couldn't stand the \ 
 dairy cold mornin's, and got took ill and left. I thought 
 as how he'd never marry 'er." 
 
 " I won't be sure-^leastways I don't know if that's 
 right — but, p'r'aps the weakly ones ain't alius the worst 
 to live with. Awever, 'ere we be, and I 'opes you'll get 
 along all right. Thie missus ain't a bad sort accordin'." 
 
 They turned through a white gate into a short drive 
 which led up to a long house, with four gables, all facing 
 the road. The froht of the house, and the porch, were 
 covered with Virginian creeper — green now — and this long 
 front gave an impression of a large house ; but it was not 
 that, for its breadth was not in proportion to its length 
 and did not even allow for passages enough, so most of 
 the rooms were made to answer a double purpose. 
 What passages there were were narrow, with unexpected 
 steps which had no apparent raison d'Hre but that of 
 tripping up the stranger. 
 
Polly. 5 
 
 Polly and her companion went up to a side door, 
 which was opened for them by Kate, the housemaid, 
 rather impprtant and rather shy. 
 
 She led them down a dark passsage, with a drop of 
 two steps at the end, into a fairly pleasant kitchen, 
 where a nice little meal was set out for the traveller, and 
 then upstairs to the room they were to share, the man, 
 Ted Lawrence, following with the box. 
 
 It was an attic room, the roof sloping down on two 
 sides with whitewashed walls and ceiling, furnished with 
 a painted wooden washstand and dressing-table, a good- 
 sized iron bedstead, a chest of drawers which had seen 
 better days, but had now lost two feet (whose places 
 were supplied with odd pieces of wood) and much of its 
 veneering, and a shabby carpet, which had been worn 
 threadbare in other service ; not a very attractive room, 
 but comfortable enough in Polly's eyes, to whom a chest 
 of drawers was an unwonted luxury, and who was used 
 to bare white boards in her bedroom at Mrs Willet's, 
 only modified by an old hearthrug, so worn that you 
 always caught your foot in one of its numerous holes if 
 you stepped on it in the dark. 
 
 "Put your things down on the bed for now," said 
 Kate. "You can put them away after. I've left half 
 the drawers empty — the two little ones and the top long 
 one." 
 
 Kate did not mention that the former , cook had 
 claimed the two large lower drawers as her right, and 
 that she (Kate) had grumbled much, and the moment 
 the cook departed had moved all her things into them, 
 hoping that the new cook would not notice how much 
 more they held than the others. 
 
 Polly saw well enough, but she had a large indifference 
 
6 Polly. 
 
 to small ways, and felt no' desire to quarrel over trifles, 
 so they went down and took their tea together amic- 
 ably. 
 
 Then Mrs Simpkins came in to interview the new 
 cook, and Polly just caught herself in time, or she would 
 have courtsied to the parson's wife, as she was taught to 
 do at school ; but instead, she stood awkwardly, with her 
 hands hanging at her sides, and her eyes on the floor. 
 However, Mrs Simpkins, a thin, fair lady, with a hesitat- 
 ing manner, was nearly as much embarrassed as Polly, 
 and only got as far as a hope that she would be comfort- 
 able, and that E^ate would show her where everything 
 was kept, and that she would send up the meals punctu- 
 ally, as Mr Simpkins was very particular about that. 
 
 "Master ain't a bad sort," said Kate, when Mrs 
 Simpkins had, to her manifest relief, got herself out of 
 the kitchen. " I likes him better than I do missus ; 
 though he do talk if dinner isn't ready to the minute he 
 don't mean any harm." 
 
 " I don't like the men interferin'," said Polly. 
 
 The first few weeks slipped by. Polly worked with a 
 will, complaining that her predecessor "must 'a bin a 
 ■dirty slut," and amazing Kate with her " notions '' about 
 clean corners, for with Kate out of sight was out of 
 mind ; and Ted, who came in to do the boots and 
 knives, and to have his tea when the carriage was out or 
 company in, saw that work was as nothing to Polly, and 
 tKac though her manners were blunt and hard, she was 
 always ready to lend a hand with Kate's work or his, or 
 to make soups and puddings for the sick folks~ in the 
 village. 
 
 So one Saturday night, when he was in cleaning the 
 boots for Sunday, and she, all her premises being, as 
 
Polly. 7 
 
 shining as soap and water could make them, took the 
 boots from him as he blacked them and put such a 
 polish on them that an ebony Polly looked back at her 
 from their surface, he ventured — 
 
 " Be you goin' for a walk or anythih' o' that to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " Don't know," said Polly shortly. 
 
 "I say, be you keepin' comp'ney with e'er a chap? 
 You don't mind my asting ? " 
 
 "Yes, I be. He lived close 'andy, and we alius 
 walked out Sundays." ' 
 
 " I thought p'r'aps you did, but there wa'n't no 'arm 
 in astin' — leastways I di'n't mean no 'arm." 
 
 " He works for Willet's. I thinks I shall stick to 'im." 
 
 " That's right, my gal ; daun't you go for to give 'im up 
 if you likes 'im." And, the boots being finished, he 
 wished her "good-night" with as cheerful a face as 
 ever. 
 
 Kate, who had tried all her arts on Ted in vain, had 
 overhead a part of this from the kitchen, and when 
 Polly came in, after taking off her rough apron 
 and washing her hands, she attacked her with — 
 
 " What call had you to tell him you'd got a young 
 man ? You can't go out walking without a chap, and 
 t'other'd never know.'' 
 
 "That wouldn't do for me, Kate. I promised 'im 
 true and honest, and we're going to be married when — 
 when there's a cottage." 
 
 Somehow, since she had been from home she had 
 felt a little remorse about wanting the cottage from old 
 Mother Bennell, and the thought had come that perhaps 
 some day some one would be waiting to get that very 
 cottage from her. 
 
8 Polly. 
 
 One cold morning, early in the following year, Polly 
 came out of the dairy carrying a large earthenware jar 
 full of cream, and calling out to Kate to fill the large 
 pan with hot water for her to stand it in, as it was much 
 too cold to churn. 
 
 Kate did so, and the cream jar was just placed in it 
 when the postman's ring was heard. Polly was "no 
 scholar," could only just spell out the meaning of a 
 letter, and could not write, so rarely received one ; but 
 this morning Kate came back with one in her hand, 
 after going to the dining-room with her master's. 
 
 " Here's a letter for you, Polly." 
 
 "For me? Give us 'old of it. It's from Tom ; he do 
 write beautiful. I wonder now if that cottage is empty." 
 ^ The bell from the dining-room called Kate away, 
 and Polly held the letter in her hand unopened for 
 a few minutes, with a strange mixture of feelings — 
 pleasure, at the thought of leaving service and marrying 
 Tom, and pity for old Mother Bennell, who, perhaps, 
 had finished the life she was eager to begin, and a half 
 fear— was it worth while? 
 
 Mother Bennell had lived in that cottage, wife and 
 widow, for fifty years. It had been a sore strife, the 
 bringing up of her " long " family, and one by one they 
 had left her to end her life alone in the old place in her 
 helpless, feeble old age — was it worth while ? 
 
 But she shook oif these thoughts with a murmured 
 " It is fate," only she expressed it, " That as is to be 'uU 
 be," and opened her letter, and this is what she read : — 
 
 "Wentford, Saterday. 
 " My Dear Polly, — i rite thes few lines hopping 
 they finds you well, i am sorry to tell you i fell of the 
 
Polly. 9 
 
 reek las week and hurted the spin of my back, the 
 pane is not so bad now, but the doctor says as how i 
 shant never be fit for work no more, so its no use for 
 we to think of gettin' marid. ole mother Benel dide on 
 Teusday and is bein' beryd to-day so no more at present 
 from — Yours afTectionate T. Wise." 
 
 Polly was some minutes before she took in the sense 
 of the letter, being accustomed to hear of calamities by 
 word of mouth, and when she did take it in her fiirst 
 thought was — 
 
 " Wonder if that was along of our wantin' ole Mother 
 Bennell's cottage?" and her next; — "Wonder who'll 
 have it now ? " 
 
 ^ She accepted her fate as fixed and sealed all the more 
 readily that it had come to her in writing. No hope 
 that it might not be so bad after all arose to break the 
 forcfe of the blow. Here it was — he would " never be 
 fit for work no more." 
 
 After her first dumb acceptance there came to Polly a 
 terrible feeling of rebellion. Why should this thing have 
 happened to her Tom ? How she wished she had never 
 left home to earn this money which would never now 
 be wanted for their furnishing. If she were at home she 
 could at least go in and see him. 
 
 Then Kate came back, and seeing the cream still in 
 the hot water exclaimed, 
 
 " Why, Polly, you'll have that cream too hot now ! " 
 
 " I don't care if I do ! " said Polly fiercely, but 
 snatched' up the jar and marched down to the dairy with 
 it, where she plumped the cream straight into the churn 
 and churned away furiously. 
 
 The butter came in a few minutes, but came in a soft 
 
lo Polly, 
 
 white mess, more like curds than butter, x This made 
 Polly still more angry, and she banged about the dairy, 
 and threw a lot of ice-cold water over the butter, so that 
 it hardened into little lumps, very hard outside and very 
 sticky inside. Poor Polly got crosser and crosser. The 
 butter stuck to the beaters, and then, just as she thought 
 she had beaten it into a firm block, it would all fall 
 apart into grains. 
 
 Kate offered to^ scald the beaters for her again to 
 prevent their sticking, and got sipall thanks. 
 
 Mrs Simpkins, hearing unusual noises, came to ask 
 what was the matter, and got a rough answer. 
 
 " It's this dratted butter ; it sticks to everythin' but 
 itself; I can't do nothin' with it." 
 
 "Why, what can' be the cause of that?" said Mrs ■ 
 Simpkins mildly. 
 
 Polly had an inspiration : 
 
 " It's all that 'orrid separator, m'm, as master brought 
 'ome last week. No one can't make good butter with 
 the cream as thin as thin, and shut up like that there it 
 can't rise natural. I don't want to see no better butter 
 than Mrs Willet's — alius got extry for it at the shop she 
 did, and she never used none of they things as messes 
 the cream all up and spiles it, it do." 
 
 Mrs Simpkins wisely retired to let Polly cool down, 
 for she valued her services and did not want-to part with 
 her ; and Polly, after wrestling with the butter till it was 
 made up in some sort of a form, shed a few tears into 
 the churn as she scrubbed it, and at last told her trouble 
 to Kate, who sympathised with her so much that she 
 felt impelled to tell the whole story to Ted Lawrence, 
 and Ted showed his sympathy by keeping out of her 
 way as much as possible. 
 
Polly. 1 1 
 
 " Stands to reason/' he said to himself, " that must 
 aggerawate her, seein' other chaps well and strong, and 
 knowin' as hern's done for." 
 
 When Polly had her week's holiday the next summer 
 she found. Tom, bent and ill -looking, creeping about the 
 roads on a stick. They walked together in the evenings 
 as far as he could manage, and then sat on a sheltered 
 bank and talked. Talked of many things — of how hard 
 it was to live on parish allowance, and how odd that 
 Mother Bennell should have died just after he was hurt ; 
 and perhaps 'twas as well it happened when it did, for 
 there was only himself to keep ; and what a good thing 
 he did not belong to the neighbouring union, for they 
 would give no outdoor relief, but would have forced him 
 and his old mother to go to the " House.'' And Polly 
 told of Ted's overtures to her when she first went to her 
 place, and how he'd never breathed such a word since ; 
 and Tom said 'twas a pity she shouldn't have Ted, for 
 he'd never be of any use again. 
 
 And so years went by. Each summer's visit showed 
 Polly a little improvement in Tom, a little more strength 
 creeping slowly back, till at last he could dig the garden 
 or chop wood or do any odd jobs for his mother and 
 even for the neighbours, though this was concealed as 
 much as possible that the parish allowance might not 
 be stopped. And each year Tom urged Polly to wait 
 for him no longer, and asked about Ted. 
 
 " He never says nothing," said Polly. 
 
 " But do 'ee walk with any other gal ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, Pplly, I should take 'im if I was you. I'll 
 never be man enough to 'am a livin' for 'ee, and it do 
 seem 'ard to keep you single for me, and 'im there as 
 could 'arn a livin' for 'ee." 
 
12 
 
 Polly -^ 
 
 "Well, I'll see," said Polly; and that time her fare- 
 well was more than usually affectionate. 
 
 Ted met her at the station as usual on her return,, 
 and as usual asked after Tom. 
 
 "He gets a bit stronger, but he won't never be well," 
 she said as usual ; and then added, " He keeps on so he 
 don't want me to keep single for 'im." 
 
 " Well, come to think on it, that don't seem much use 
 now, do it?" said Ted, his tongue unloosed at last. 
 " I — don't want t' interfere with no one — wot I means 
 I shu'n't say nothing, not if 'twas any use waitin' — but,; 
 when it ain't no use — you mid as well — take up wi' 
 some one else — that wot I thinks, but I won't be sure.'' 
 ' " P'r'aps I might some time — not just yet though.'' 
 
 Ted waited patiently for six months more, and then 
 urged his suit again. He was getting good wages 
 — ^could have a house for the asking, and had saved 
 money. 
 
 Kate, who was now " walking with " a boy of eighteen 
 with no prospects, could not think how Polly could 
 hesitate, and Polly wondered at herself till she gave 
 way, and wrote home that she was coming to get her 
 clothes ready and be married. 
 
 Ted' wanted the banns put up at once, but she 
 refused to have it done till she had been a week at 
 home : "he'd waited so long, he could wait a bit longerj 
 surely." 
 
 Mrs Simpkins parted from . her with regret, but was 
 glad that Ted should get such a good wife, and to 
 Wentford Polly came the first week in February. 
 
 She arrived on a Friday night, and the next morning 
 went straight to the cottage where Tom and his old 
 mother lived. 
 
Polly. 1 3 
 
 Tom was weeding the front garden, and kept on his 
 knees, with his back to her till she spoke. 
 
 "Torn," she said. 
 
 Then he got up and came to the fence. 
 
 "Well, Polly." 
 
 " You know I'm goin' to be married ? " 
 
 "Yes." I 
 
 "Do you mind?" 
 
 "No, o' course not; what right 'ave I got to mind?" 
 
 " I wouldn't 'a done it if you 'adn't said so." 
 
 " No, I know that. Come for a walk with us Sunday 
 evenin', Poll. He didn't ought to grudge me that." 
 
 " I don't care if he do." 
 
 From that walk Polly came in gloomy and wretched. 
 She had no mother, and her father did not usually 
 take much interest in his children, being harsh and hard ; 
 but to-night he was gentler than usual. 
 
 " What's amiss. Poll ? " he asked. 
 
 To his surprise she burst out crying. 
 
 " Come, come. Poll, doan't 'ee cry now. Can't fancy 
 parting wi' Tom, eh ? Well, it do seem 'ard.'' 
 
 She cried on without a word, grateful for his unwonted 
 gentleness and clumsy caresses. Then she said she 
 would go to bed. 
 
 Next morning she came down very early, got her 
 father his breakfast before he went out to work, and 
 announced that she was going back to her place. She 
 knew Mrs Simpkins would be glad to have her, for she 
 had not engaged any one else. Her father heard the 
 announcement without surprise; though feeling more 
 practical and less sentimental on a workaday morning, 
 he told her she was a fool " to chuck away the chance 
 of a good husband." 
 
14 Polly. 
 
 But Polly tramped off the six miles to the railway 
 station, and arrived at Mrs Simpkins's just as that lady 
 was cutting the bread and butter for tea, Kate being 
 quite incapacitated with a raging toothache. She was 
 too glad to have Polly back to say much to her 
 about her change of mind, and poor Ted took it very 
 quietly. 
 
 " I couldn't make up my mind to it when I seen 'im," 
 was all she said ; and Ted understood. 
 
 Three years passed. Polly did not go home for her 
 holidays. She was trying to make up her mind to 
 part finally from Tom, and would not trust herself to 
 see him. 
 
 The faithful Ted and she were "keeping company" 
 again, for, though she felt that it was hard on him to 
 wait so long, he liked her all the better that she found it 
 hard to give Tom up. 
 
 But three years of absence had done their work ; 
 and when summer came again Polly once more left her 
 place, and told her father she was coming home to be 
 "asked in church." 
 
 She came, and had the banns put up the first Sunday 
 after ; and, though her feet nearly took her there against 
 her will, she kept away from Tom's cottage, and he 
 did not come to her. 
 
 On the third Sunday morning she was "asked" for 
 the last lime. Ted had been staying there off and on 
 to make one "asking" do for both. He was there then, 
 and the wedding was to be on Monday. 
 
 On the Sunday evening she slipped off alone, and' 
 went down the green, rutty lane, where she and Tom 
 had always walked — along up to the top and slowly 
 back again. 
 
Polly. 1 5 
 
 But as she came back she saw a bent figure, leaning 
 on a stick, coming towards her. Was not this what she 
 had expected ? 
 ."Well, Polly?" 
 
 "Well, Tom?" 
 
 " Sha'n't us set down on the bank a bit ? " 
 
 "All right." 
 
 They sat down. 
 
 " Well, 'ee's a good chap to wait for 'ee all these 'ears, 
 and I wish 'ee happy." 
 
 " I don't know as I cares much about it." 
 
 " Never you fret about me. I shu'n't want to think 
 as 'ow I stopped 'ee from gettin' a good man." 
 
 " 'Ee is a good man, and no mistake." 
 
 " Ah, I knows that. But I wisht 'twas me. Awever, 
 I didn't ought to say that.'' 
 
 She stood up. 
 
 " Good-bye, Tom." 
 
 "Good-bye, Polly." 
 
 He rose and stood looking at her. The setting sun 
 lit up his poor, bent figure and her strong handsome 
 one. 
 
 Ted came in sight up the lane. They stood till he 
 came close, and then she turned away. 
 
 " I'd give 'im a kiss if I was you, Polly," said Ted ; 
 and he turned his back on them and strolled slowly 
 back. 
 
 She joined him a moment later, walking home beside 
 him silently with bent head. 
 
 Tom sat down again on the bank and watched them 
 out of sight. 
 
 They were married the next day. 
 
MY LOST HOME. 
 
 JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD. 
 
 In the still hours of the night, in the evening rest from 
 labour — when the twilight shadows darken my solitary 
 room, and oftentimes in the broad glare of day, amongst 
 •the eager, busy merchants upon 'Change — it comes 
 before me — the picture of my lost shadowy home. So 
 dim and indistinct at times seems the line that separates 
 my past from my present self — so dream-like seem the 
 events that have made me the hunted outcast which I 
 am — that, painful as my history is, it is a mental relief 
 to me to go over it, step by step, and dwell upon the 
 faces of those who are now lost to me for evermore. 
 
 It seems but yesterday — although many years have 
 passed away — that I was in a position of trust in the 
 counting-house of Askew, Dobell, & Picard. I entered 
 the service of these merchants about the age of sixteen, 
 fresh from the Blue-Coat School ; a raw, ungainly lad, 
 with no knowledge or experience of the world, and with 
 a strong letter of recommendation from the head-master, 
 which procured me a junior clerkship. Our business 
 was conducted with a steady tranquillity — an almost holy 
 calm — in harmony with the place, which had the air of 
 a sacred temple dedicated to commerce. I rose step by 
 
1 8 My Lost Home. 
 
 step ; till at last, about the age of thirty, I attained the 
 position of first-class clerk. My advance was not due 
 to any remarkable ability that I had displayed, rlori 
 because I had excited the interest of any member of 
 the firm, for I seldom saw the faces of my employers. 
 It was purely the result of a system which ordained a 
 general rise throughout the house when any old clerk 
 died or was pensioned off. 
 
 The third partner in the firm, Mr Picard, was a man 
 of a very different stamp from the other two. At one 
 period he had been our managing clerk, and he obtained , 
 his share in the busin,ess in the same year that I entered 
 the house. He was of French extraction ; thin, sallow, 
 with small grey eyes, and light sandy hair. His age at 
 the time I am writing of must have been near fifty. 
 Although his origin was very obscure — some of our old 
 clerks remembering hirn walking about the docks in an 
 almost shoeless state — his pride was very great, and his 
 harshness, sternness, tod uneasy, fretful, and ever-con- 
 scious attempts at dignity, were a painful contrast to 
 the quiet, offhand manner of Mr Dobell, or the vener- 
 able and dreamy calmness of old Mr Askew. He was 
 a bad-hearted, cold, calculating man — a man with a 
 strong reckless will, who allowed nothing to stand 
 between him and his self-interest. When he came into 
 authority, and had his name put up as one of the firm, 
 his humble relations were removed to a distance ; and a 
 poof old Irishwoman, who had kept a fruit-stall upo« 
 sufferance under our gateway for many years, was swept 
 away, because he felt that she remembered him in the 
 days of his poverty. 
 
 My position and duties required me to live in the 
 house, and to take charge of the place. When I married, 
 
My Lost Home. 19 
 
 I took my wife, Esther, to our old City home, and our 
 one child, Margaret, was born there. The child was a 
 "little blue-eyed, fair-haired thing ; and it was a pleasing 
 sight to see her, between two and three years of age, 
 trotting along the dark passages, and going carefully up 
 and down the broad oaken stairs. On one occasion she 
 was checked, by the order of Mr Picard, for making a 
 noise during business hours ; and, from ten to five, she 
 had to confine herself to her little dingy room at the top 
 of the house. She was a great favourite with many of 
 the old childless clerks, who used to bring her presents 
 of fruit in the summer mornings. Scarcely a day passed 
 but what I stole an hour — my dinner-hour — to play 
 with her ; and in the long summer evenings I carried 
 her down to the river to watch the boats. Sometimes, 
 on Sundays, I took her out of the City into the fields 
 about Canonbury, and carried her back again, loaded 
 with buttercups. She was a companion to me, often- 
 times my only companion, with her innocent prattle 
 and gentle, winning ways ; for my wife, Esther, was cold 
 and reserved in her manners, with settled habits, formed 
 before our marriage. She was an earnest Baptist, and 
 attended regularly, three times a week, a chapel for that 
 persuasion in Finsbury. My home often looked cheer- 
 less enough when little Margaret had retired to bed, and 
 my wife's empty chair stood before me ; but I did not 
 complain ; it would not have been just for me to do so, 
 f«r I knew Esther's opinions and habits before I married 
 her. Yet I thought I discerned, beneath the hard sectarian 
 crust, signs of a true, womanly, loving heart ; signs, 
 amongst the strict faith and strict principles, of an 
 affection equal to my own. I may have been mistaken 
 in her, as she was mistaken — oh, how bitterly mistaken 
 
20 My Lost Home. 
 
 — in me ! Her will was stronger than mine, and it 
 fretted itself silently, but incessantly, in vain endeavours 
 to lead me along the path she had chosen for herself. She 
 may have misunderstood my resistance, as I may have mis- 
 apprehended her motives for desiring to alter my habits 
 and tone of thinking. There were probably faults and 
 errors on both sides. 
 
 Thus we went on from day to day ; Esther going in 
 her direction, and I going in mine, while the child acted 
 as a gentle link that bound us together. 
 
 About this time Mr Askew finally retired from 
 business, and there was a general step upward through- 
 out the house — Mr Picard getting one degree nearer 
 absolute authority. The first use that he made of his 
 new power was to introduce an only son into the count- 
 ing-house who had not been regularly brought up to the 
 ranks of trade ; but who had received, since his father's 
 entrance as a member of the firm, a loose, hurried, 
 crammed, half-professional education, and who had 
 hovered for some time between the choice of a, lawyer's 
 office and a doctor's consulting-room. He was a high- 
 spirited young man, whose training had been of that 
 incomplete character which had only served to unsteady 
 him. He had his father's fault of a strong, reckless will, 
 unchecked by anything like his father's cold, calculating 
 head ; though tempered by a virtue that his father never 
 possessed — an open-hearted generosity. As he had 
 everything to learn, and was a troublesome pupil, he was 
 assigned to my care. His writing-table was brought into 
 my office, and I had plenty of opportunity of judging of 
 his character. With all his errors and shortcomings — 
 not to say vices — it was impossible not to like him. 
 There is always a charm about a free, impulsive nature 
 
My Lost Home. 21 
 
 that carries the heart where the judgment cannot 
 follow. ■ Although more than ten years his senior, I held 
 and claimed no authority over him j his more powerful 
 will and bolder spirit, holding me in subjection. I 
 screened the fact of his late arrivals and his frequent 
 absences by doing his work for him, and for anything that 
 Mr Dobell or his father knew, he was the most promising 
 clerk in the house. Little Margaret soon found him out 
 and took a childish liking to him. He was never tired 
 of playing with her, and seldom a week passed that he 
 did not bring her something new in the shape of toys or 
 sweetmeats. My evenings at home, which used' to be 
 solitary, were now solitary no longer ; either he came 
 and kept me company, unknown to his father, who 
 would have been indignant at his associating with one of 
 his ordinary clerks ; or (which was most frequently the 
 case) I accompanied him in his evening rambles about 
 town. The gulf between me and Esther was greatly 
 widened. 
 
 Thus our lives went on in the old City mansion, 
 with little variety, until our child completed her third 
 year. 
 
 Young Mr Picard had been absent from the office for 
 more than a week, and illness as usual was pleaded as 
 the cause. In about four days more he returned, looking 
 certainly much thinner and paler than usual. I did not 
 question him then as to, the real cause of his absence, 
 for there were arrears to work up, and he did not seem in 
 a communicative humour. This was on a Saturday. 
 On the following Monday, at about two o'clock in the 
 afternoon, he brought in a cheque for five hundred 
 pounds, drawn upon the firm by our bankers, Messrs 
 Burney, Holt, & Burney;, of Lombard Street. This, he 
 
2 2 My Lost Home. 
 
 told me, was an amount he had got his father and Mr 
 Dobell to advance him for a short period, to enter upon 
 a little speculation on his own account, and he gave it to 
 me to get changed when I went .down to the, bankers to 
 pay- in money on the same afternoon. In the mean- 
 time, he induced me to give him two hundred pounds 
 on account out of the cash that I, as cashier, had received 
 that day. Shortly afterwards he went away, saying he 
 would receive the other portion in the morning. 
 
 I went to the bank that afternoon, cashed the cheque 
 for five hundred pounds, returned the two hundred to 
 my cash charge, paid it into the credit of the firm, and 
 returned to the oflSce with the three hundred pounds in 
 my possession in bank-notes for young Mr Picard, when 
 he came in the morning. I never saw him again, and 
 never shall, in this world. 
 
 As to the cheque, it was a forgery. The bankers had 
 discovered it later in the evening, and I was taken into 
 custody, with the bank-notes in my pocket-book, by a 
 Bow Street officer, acting under Mr Picard, senior's, 
 orders. My wife was not at home. Casting, therefore, 
 one hurried glance at my poor, unconscious, sleeping 
 child — a glance in which were concentrated the love and 
 agony of a lifetime — I turned my back upon the old 
 house to go with the officer to the appointed prison. 
 
 The next morning, at the preliminary examination 
 before a magistrate, the charge was made out. I gave 
 my explanation, but young Mr Picard was not to be found, 
 and unsupported as I was by any evidence, with a string 
 of circumstances so strongly against me, what was I to 
 expect? I was duly committed, and removed to New- 
 gate, to await my trial at the ensuing Sessions. 
 
 Prostrated with grief and shame, I passed the first 
 
My Lost Home. 23 
 
 night in my dismal cell in stupor rather than sleep, 
 broken by thoughts of my lost home. My poor dear 
 child seemed to me to be removed to an immeasurable 
 distance, to belong to another world, and even my cold, 
 passionless wife appeared in warmer and more wifely 
 colours, and my heart was softened towards her. I felt 
 as if I had left her in the morning full of health and 
 strength, and had returned at nightfall to find her dead. 
 
 The first morning, at the visiting hour, I was stopped 
 in my short impatient walk by hearing my name called 
 by the turnkey. My wife had come to see me. I went to 
 the grating, where stood many of my fellow-prisoners 
 talking to their wives and friends, and, making room 
 against the bars, I brought myself face to face with 
 Esther. There, outside another barrier, between which 
 and my own walked the officer on duty, she stood, with 
 her cold, passionless face looking sterner and paler than 
 usual; her thin lips firmly compressed, and her keen 
 grey eyes fixed upon me with , a searching, dubious 
 expression. Thinking of the place I was in, and the 
 character of my (Ampanions, whose voices, without one 
 tone of sorrow or remorse, were busy around me ; feeling 
 cold, dirty, and miserable, and looking from all this upon 
 Esther, as she stood there before me in her Quakerish dress, 
 and neat, clean respectability, I wavered for a moment 
 in the belief of my innocence, and felt that there was an 
 impassable gulf between us, which my desponding heart 
 told me would never be bridged over. 
 
 " Esther," I said, " has young Mr Picard been heard 
 of? Is little Margaret well? Do my employers really 
 believe me guilty ? " 
 
 " Randall," she answered in a calm, clear voice, "your 
 own heart must tell you whether young Mr Picard will 
 
24 My Lost Home. 
 
 ever be found. Our child, thank God, is well, and too 
 young to know the great grief and shame that have 
 fallen on us. Mr Dobell has carefully avoided speaking 
 to me upon the subject of your suspected crime, but Mr 
 Picard believes you guilty." 
 
 Though I could not clearly see the expression of her 
 face, broken up as it was into isolated features 
 by the double row of intervening bars, I felt that her 
 eyes were fixed curiously upon me, and the tone of her 
 voice as she said this told me that I was suspected — 
 suspected even of crime far deeper than forgery ! A 
 cold shudder passed across my heart, and the old feeling 
 of antagonism came back again to burden me. 
 
 " Randall," she continued, in the same motionless tone, 
 " some money that I had saved for the child I have 
 devoted to your defence, and to procuring you certain 
 comforts which you will sadly need here. If you are 
 guilty, pray to be forgiven ; if you are innocent, pray — as 
 I and Margaret will pray — that this dark cloud may pass 
 from us." 
 
 Twice again Esther visited me ; still with the same 
 story — for young Mr Picard had not been found; still 
 with the same tone ; still with the same look. At length 
 the day of trial came. As I stood in the dock, the first 
 person my eyes fell upon in the Court was Mr Picard ; 
 his sallow face looking sallower than ever ; his small grey 
 eyes peering quickly and sharply about him. He was 
 there to watch over his family honour, to obtain a con- 
 viction at any cost, and to favour the belief that I had 
 either murdered his son, or had compelled him to keep 
 out of the way. Esther was there too, following the 
 proceedings with quiet intensity ; her face fixed as marble, 
 and her eyes resting upon me the whole time without 
 
My Lost Home. 25 
 
 a tear. It was all over at last — the long painful trial, and 
 I was convicted ; sentenced to transportation for life. I 
 saw the triumph on Mr Picard's features ; and with glazed 
 eyes I saw Esther leave the Court, with her dark veil 
 closely drawn over her face. She stooped, and, I thought, 
 sobbed; but I saw. her no more. In a few weeks I was 
 on the high seas, proceeding to a penal settlement. 
 Often in the dead of night the vision of my fatherless 
 child, weeping in the gateway of the old mansion, passed 
 before me, and sometimes I heard her little gentle voice 
 in the wailing of the wind. The veil had fallen over my 
 lost home never to rise again— never but once — years 
 after. 
 
 Our vessel never reached her destination. She was 
 wrecked in the third month of her voyage, and all on 
 board, except myself and another convict, were lost. 
 We were picked up by an American vessel ; and keeping 
 our secret as to what we were, we were landed safely in 
 New York. My companion went his way, and I entered 
 the service of a storekeeper, and. worked steadily for four 
 years — four long years, in which the vision of my lost 
 home was constantly before me. Any feeling of resent- 
 ment that I may have had at the suspicions of my wife, 
 and at her seeming indifference to my fate, was now com- 
 pletely obliterated by the operation of time and distance, 
 and the old love I gave to her as a girl came back in all 
 its tenderness and force. She appeared to me as the 
 guardian and protector of my dear fatherless child, whom 
 I had left sleeping innocently in her little bed on the 
 night when the door of my lost home closed upon me. 
 My dreams by night, my one thought by day, grew in 
 intensity, until I could resist the impulse no longer. 
 Risking the chance of discovery, I procured a passage. 
 
26 My Lost Home. 
 
 and landed in London in the winter of the fifth year from 
 that in which I had left England. 
 
 I took a lodging at a small public-house at Wapping, 
 near the river, and I neglected no means to escape 
 observation. I waited with a beating, anxious heart, 
 impatiently for pight ; and when it came, I went forth, 
 well disguised, keeping along the line of the docks and 
 silent warehouses, until I reached the end of the lane in 
 which the old mansion stood. I did not dare to make 
 any inquiry to know if Esther and the child were still at 
 the old home ; but my knowledge of the character and 
 prospects of my wife told me that, if the firm , allowed 
 her to stay, she would have accepted the offer, as her 
 principles and determination would have sustained her 
 under any feeling of disgrace. I walked slowly up the old 
 familiar lane, until I stood before the gateway. It was 
 near eight o'clock, and the gate was closed, but it looked 
 the same as it did when I first knew it as a boy ; so did 
 the quaint oak carving, and the silent courtyard seen 
 through the small grating. There were no lights in the 
 front, and I went cautiously round, up a side lane, and 
 along a narrow passage that ran between the churchyard 
 and the back of the house. At that moment the church 
 clock struck eight, and the bells chimed the Evening 
 Hymn, slowly and musically, as they had done in the days 
 gone by, while I sat at the window with little Margaret in 
 my arms, ntirsing her to sleep. A flood of memories 
 came across my heart. Forgetful of the object that had 
 brought me there, I leant against the railings and wept. 
 
 The chimes ceased, and the spell was broken. I was 
 recalled to the momentous task that lay before me. I 
 approached, with a trembling step, the window of what 
 used to be our sitting-room, on the ground floor, I saw 
 
My Lost Home. 27 
 
 lights through the crevices of the closed shutters. 
 Putting my ear closely against the wall I heard the hum 
 of voices. Faint, confused, and indistinct, as the sound 
 was, something— perhaps the associations of the place — 
 made me feel that I was listening to my wife and child. 
 I was startled by the sound of footsteps ; and turning 
 my eyes in the direction of the entrance to the passage 
 (it had but one entrance) I saw approaching an old man, 
 who had been in the service of the firm as house-porter 
 for fifty years. He was called "Blind Stephen," for though 
 not totally blind, his eyes had a stony, glazed appearance. 
 He had lived so long in the house that he would have 
 died if he had been removed, and in consideration of 
 his lengthened services, he was retained by Mr Askew's 
 special commands. This was before I left, and I pre- 
 sumed, from finding him there, that he was still at his 
 old duty — coming round to see, or rather feel, that all 
 was secure before retiring for the night. I shrank against 
 the wall with the hope of avoiding discovery ; not that I 
 feared the consequences of being recognised by Stephen, 
 for I had many claims upon his kindness and sympathy 
 — but that I dreaded, although I longed, to hear what he 
 might have to tell me. He came directly towards me, as 
 if by instinct — for I was perfectly breathless still — and 
 paused immediately opposite to where I was partially 
 hidden, under the shadow of the wall. He seemed to 
 feel that someone was there, and his glazed eyes were 
 directed full upon me,' looking now more ghastly than 
 ever as they glistened in the light of the moon, which, 
 just then had passed from behind a cloud. Unable to 
 restrain myself, I uttered his name. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! Mr Randall, is it you ? " ,he ex- 
 claimed with a start, recognising my voice. " We 
 thought you were drowned ! " 
 
2 8 My Lost Home. 
 
 " It is, Stephen," I replied, coming forward. " Tell 
 me, for mercy's sake, are Esther and the child well ? " 
 
 " They are." 
 
 " Are they here ? " 
 
 " In that room, Mr Randall," he said, pointing to the 
 one at which I had been listening. 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " 
 
 "They are much changed, Mr Randall, since you — 
 since you went away," he continued in a sorrowful 
 tone. 
 
 " Do they ever speak of me in your hearing, Stephen, ' 
 when you are about the house ? " 
 
 " Never now, Mr Randall." 
 
 There was something in the tone of Stephen's voice 
 that weighed upon my heart. He always was a kind 
 old fellow, with a degree of refinement above his class ; but 
 now his voice was weak, and sad, and tremulous ; more 
 so than what he told me seemed to demand. I conjured 
 him to tell me all. With considerable hesitation and 
 emotion, he complied. 
 
 " None of us in the ofiSce thought you guilty of the 
 forgery, sir, not one ; and the principal clerks presented 
 a note of sympathy and condolence to your good lady. 
 Mr Picard became, as he is now, more harsh and disagree- 
 able than ever ; and at .one time we thought Mrs Randall 
 would leave the place; but Mr Dobell, we fancy, per- 
 suaded her to stay. She was always, you know, sir, of a 
 very serious turn, and she now went more frequently 
 to chapel than ever. She took on a great deal, we 
 fancy, at first ; but she is a lady, sir, of great spirit and 
 firmness, and she concealed her feelings very well, and 
 held herself up as proudly as the best of them.'' 
 
 " And poor little Margaret, did she miss me much ? " 
 
My Lost Home. 29 
 
 " Indeed, sir, she did at first. Poor little dear, I often 
 heard her crying after you in the morning ; and for many 
 weeks not even the fear of Mr Picard could keep her 
 from going down in the daytime to the gateway, and 
 standing there, looking up and down the lane, until she 
 was fetched gently back by me. God forgive me for the 
 many falsehoods I told her, sir, about your coming back ! 
 But I could not bear to see her crying about the great, 
 lonely house, and she always asked after you in such a 
 lovely, innocent, sorrowful way." 
 
 Poor old Stephen's narrative was here stopped by 
 tears ; as for me, I sobbed like a child. 
 
 " Many of the gentlemen, sir, would gladly have taken 
 her to their own homes ; but your good lady would not 
 part with her. I used often to go up to her little room 
 at the top of the house, and play with her as I had seen 
 you do, sir, in the middle of the day. She was always 
 very glad to see me, and sometimes she would take me 
 to the window when the noonday chimes of our old 
 church were playing, and pointing up to the sky above 
 the tower, would fancy she saw you there. By degrees 
 her inquiries after you became less frequent, and when 
 the intelligence of the wreck of your ship arrived, and 
 your good lady put her into mourning, supposing you 
 dead, she had ceased to ask about you." 
 
 " Has she grown much ? " 
 
 " Very much, sir. She is a dear, sweet, - gentle thing. 
 We all respect your good lady ; but we love little 
 Margaret, and although I lost my sight entirely four 
 years ago, and am now stone blind, I know her 
 height to a hair, for there is not a night that she does 
 not kiss me before she goes to bed, and I have had 
 to stoop less for the kiss every week all that time." 
 
30 My Lost Home. 
 
 "Has young Mr Picard ever been heard of?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir. We beheve he was found murdered 
 in some low house in a remote part of the town ; but 
 Mr Picard, senior, hushed the matter up, so that we 
 never clearly knew the facts." 
 
 "I thought he would never have allowed me to 
 suffer for him," I returned, " if he had been on this side 
 of the grave." 
 
 " No, that he would not," replied Stephen. 
 
 I felt from Stephen's manner that there was yet some 
 disclosure which his nerve was scarcely equal to make.. 
 Painful or not, I again conjured him to tell me all. 
 After much entreaty, I learned from him the dreadful 
 truth that my wife had married again. It was many 
 minutes before I recovered from the shock. My lost 
 home stood before me, and I was an outcast wanderer 
 on the wide earth. 
 
 " They have been married about a twelvemonth," 
 continued Stephen, " and although I can only feel 
 what kind of a man he is, I don't think they are happy." 
 
 " Is he kind to the child ? " I inquired, almost 
 sternly. 
 
 "I don't think he is positively unkind; but he is 
 very strict. He was a member of the chapel that your 
 good lady used to go to, and he tries to mould little 
 Margaret after his own heart. I fear they are not happy. 
 Your good lady is less reserved before me, as I am 
 blind, and I, feel sometimes that, when she is reading, 
 she is thinking of you." 
 
 " Stephen," I replied, sadly and firmly, " I have only 
 one more request to make of you before I leave the 
 country again for ever. Keep my secret, and let me 
 for one minute see Esther and the child." 
 
My Lost Home. 31 
 
 "I will," returned Stephen, weeping bitterly, "that 
 I will ; and may Heaven sustain you in your trouble." 
 
 He threw the old wooden shutter' back, which was 
 not fastened on the inside, and exposed the long, deep, 
 narrow recess, closed in at the end with red curtains 
 glowing with the fire and light within. 
 
 " I will now go into the room," he said, " and 
 deliver my keys ; and while there, I will contrive to 
 hook back the curtain." 
 
 I thanked him with a silent pressure of the hand, 
 and he went. Just then the deep church bell struck 
 nine, and every stroke sounded like a knell upon my 
 beating heart. I watched — oh, how intensely I watched 
 — grasping the window-sill with my hands. At length 
 the curtain was drawn back, and the vision of my 
 lost home stood before me. • They were engaged in 
 evening prayer. My child — my dear lost child — now 
 grown tall and graceful, was kneeling at a chair, her 
 long golden hair falling in clusters over her, slender 
 folded hands. Esther was also kneeling with her face 
 towards me. It looked more aged and careworn than 
 I expected to see it, but it was still the old pale, 
 statue-like face that I had cherished in my dreams, and 
 that had nestled on my shoulder in the days gone by. 
 
 He who now stood in my place as the guardian of my 
 lost home was kneeling where I could not see his face ; 
 but I heard his voice faintly muttering the words of 
 prayer. Did anyone in all that supplicating group think 
 of the poor, wretched, convict outcast? Heaven alone 
 knows ! The curtain closed, and shut out my Lost 
 Home from my dimmed sight for evermore. 
 
TWO STROKES OF THE PEN. 
 
 HENRY HERMAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Don't fret, darling. Better times are in store for us. 
 There is a break in the clouds already. Have patience 
 dearie, a little more patience." 
 
 A pair of mournfully lustrous eyes looTced at him 
 from the deep bluish sockets of a white face — a face upon 
 which cruel pain and prolonged suffering had writ their 
 mark, and yet had been unable quite to efface the traces 
 of delicate beauty that once had radiated there — a 
 patient, pitiful face, soft in its creamy pallor. The half- 
 open lips quivered, and the eyes roamed vacantly, 
 as if the load of anguish were too hard to bear. 
 
 " I am patient, Willy," she breathed, " but it is hard 
 — almost beyond my strength. I don't mind for myself, I 
 will soon be past it, but you — you." 
 
 He gripped the thin white hand nervously. 
 
 " Don't speak like that, darling," he replied in a hoarse 
 whisper. "For Heaven's sake, don't! We will fight 
 through it. Dark is the hour before the dawn, but the 
 sunrise is all the more welcome." 
 
 He was a stalwart young fellow of five or six and 
 twenty, perhaps, though his pale cheeks and bloodless 
 lips betokened a life of privatioh. The room in which 
 
 c 
 
34 Two Strokes of the Pen,": 
 
 he sat by the suffering woman's bedside was of the 
 poorest. No carpet clothed the floor. The old deal 
 table, and the rickety chairs were such as no second-, 
 hand dealer would have bought. It was winter-time, 
 and the snow lay thick on the house-tops, but the grate 
 was black and empty, and the breath clouded into the 
 air of the room like steam. 
 
 The man, seeing that his ailing wife shivered beneath - 
 the thin old woollen coverlet, quietly walked to the 
 door, took hft overcoat from the peg on which it hung, 
 and silently spread it over her and tucked it in where he 
 could, for additional warmth. 
 
 "There now," he said, "you'll be better like that, and 
 when I come back I shall have money to buy coals and 
 food, and medicine ; you see if I don't ! " 
 
 She looked at him with a frightened pleading in her 
 big, deep-sunken eyes. 
 
 " You are not going out like that without your over- 
 coat?" she asked piteously; "in this fearful weather, , 
 too." 
 
 She made a feeble movement to disembarrass, herself 
 of the additional coverirlg, but he replaced the garment, 
 and stroked her dark tresses, and pressed a kiss. upon' 
 her forehead. 
 
 " t)on't you trouble yourself about me, my darling," he 
 remonstrated softly. " I can run to keep myself warm, 
 I should be so hot that an overcoat would be a regular^ 
 nuisance, that it would. Good-bye, dearie. God bless 
 yOu — God bless you ! " 
 
 Another kiss, and he had taken his hat and was gone, 
 before she could stay him by loving chiding. The pain- 
 stretched face darkened as that beam of light and hope 
 had departed from the chamber, and left it cold indeed. 
 
Two Strokes of the Pen. 35 
 
 ^ Once in the street the man walked rapidly, swinging . 
 his arms to and fro in the effort to warm himself. , 
 
 "I wonder whether that man really means business 
 this time?" he said to himself. "He has deceived me 
 so often, and I did not even dare to tell poor Nellie that 
 I have had a letterfrom him. Another disappokitment 
 like the last might kill her. But I'll make him buy the 
 thing. I'll sell it to him for whatever he'll give. A five- 
 pound note might save poor Nellie's life, and that'? 
 worth a couple of years' work at any time." 
 
 The steaming odour of a coffee-shop reached his 
 nostrils, and he inhaled it with a longing relish, as" if it 
 were meat and drink. He put a fumbling hand into his 
 trousers pocket, withdrew it in trembling disappointment, 
 and searched his waistcoat pockets, and withdrew it 
 again. 
 
 " I haven't a brown," he muttered, "not a red cent. I 
 should have so liked to have a cup of coffee." He drew 
 himself up on a sudden. " Never mind," he said to 
 himself cheerfully ; " we shall have two or three when 
 Mr Wilkins has stumped up." 
 
 II. 
 
 Mr Daniel Wilkins was "something in the City." 
 He was a man of means, and was known to be always 
 ready to purchase any invention, property, or thing which 
 could be turned to use in the promotion of limited 
 liability companies. His actual style of business had 
 never been defined. ^Some people thought he was a 
 financial agent; others believed him to be a solicitor; 
 
36 Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 others still knew him to be a director of various com- 
 panies, but all and sundry who knew him vowed and 
 declared that he was a "hard riut to crack." He was a 
 tall man, with closelyTCut iron-grey hair, and ' a stubby 
 iron-grey moustache, which gave him a military air, and 
 had earned him among his intimates the sobriquet of 
 "Captain." His office, on the third floor of a great 
 house in Cannon Street, was of the well-furnished and 
 comfortable order, its principal feature being a multitude 
 of clerks whose main business, to impartial observers, ;, 
 seemed to be to get into one another's way. t 
 
 Many a poor inventor, his heart full of unrealizable' 
 hopes ; many a struggling owner of unsaleable property, 
 who imagined that the magic spell of capital could 
 stimulate his barren soil into harvests of gold ; many a 
 former of schemes, practical and impractical, clever and 
 foolish, had mounted those three flights of stairs to 
 Mr Wilkins' office, and had descended with heavier 
 heart and not much heavier purse. Mr Wilkins was 
 known to have a quick eye for a good thing, and he 
 was credited with a faculty for keeping the good things 
 for himself, and leaving a mere crust to the founders 
 of his feasts ; yet — such is human gullibility — though 
 Mr Wilkins' character was broadly known, the stream 
 of flies never ceased to wend its way Cannon Street- 
 ward to the spider's parlour. 
 
 It was early on that wintry Saturday forenoon when 
 Mr William Ross, the young man who had vainly 
 searched his pockets for a penny wherewith to buy 
 himself a cup of coffee, timidly entered Mr Wilkins' 
 office, and in a voice of nearly trembling emotion, asked 
 a cheeky-looking young gentleman, who, with his legs 
 dangling, sat astride a high stool, if Mr Wilkins Was in. 
 
Two Strokes of the Pen. 37 
 
 The cheeky-looking young gentleman took no notice 
 of the question, being deeply interested in a game of 
 throwing paper pellets at another clerk at the further end 
 of the room. 
 
 , Mr Ross repeated his question, and after a while, 
 succeeded in eliciting the reply that Mr Wilkins was in 
 his office. 
 
 " Can I see him ? " the visitor inquired diffidently. 
 
 " You can't ! " was the curt answer. 
 
 Hunger and cold are not stimulants to pugnacity, but 
 Mr Ross felt his ire slowly rising apace. He knew, 
 however, that it was useless to show temper. 
 
 " I have come here by appointment," he said. " Mr' 
 Wilkins wrote to me last night, asking me to call here 
 this morning.'' 
 
 "Then why didn't you say so before?" sharply 
 demanded th^ cheeky-looking young gentleman, at the 
 same time taking the letter which Ross handed him 
 across the partition. " If people who have got business 
 here only were to state their business,'' he snarled, 
 " business would be got through much more quickly." 
 
 Having delivered himself of this sentence, in the 
 composition of which he seemed to take a defiant pride, 
 he shook his head disapprovingly, and sliding from his 
 high stool, vanished behind the door at the further end 
 of the room. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards he reappeared. 
 
 " Mr Wilkins," he said, " can give you a minute, and 
 a minute only, before he leaves the office. It's Saturday, 
 and he's got a dozen people to see before he can see 
 you, and he has a train to catch at 1.30." 
 
 There was no course open but to wait patiently. The 
 young man's heart was full. His limbs were cold, and 
 
38' Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 hunger gnawfed savagely in his stomach. The moments 
 became hours, the minutes days, whilst one person after 
 another was called into the presence of the great man, 
 and his turn still came not. No time passes so slowly 
 as that spent in anxious waiting. Every moment has its, 
 added drops of gall. 
 
 But then there was the picture of that pale, patient, 
 suffering face to remind him that forbearance and fortitude 
 were the best aids to success. If he succeeded, there 
 was life and hope for his darling wife. If he failed— 
 he would never have forgiven himself had he failed 
 through any fault of his own — well, he dared not think 
 of that. 
 
 Men came and men went — to the poor waiting 
 petitioner they seemed an army. He had grown so 
 numb and cold, and he felt such a dull weight dragging 
 at his heart, that his sight seemed to fail him, and he 
 could scarcely believe his ears when he heard his name 
 shouted at the further end of the room. 
 
 " Mr Ross ! Where is Mr Ross ? " 
 
 He looked up, and to be sure, there stood the great man 
 himself, already dressed in his fur overcoat, and hat on 
 head. The young man's heart went pit-a-pat in a riot of 
 tumultuous excitement. 
 
 "Come here, Mr Ross," Mr Wilkins went on; "I can 
 give you five seconds and no more." 
 
 Ross advanced palpitatingly. His pale face had gone 
 white. 
 
 "But you sent for me, Mr Wilkins," he whispered 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " I know I did," the financier replied sharply. " But 
 our business must be yea or nay. I'll give you twenty 
 pounds for your machine if you like." 
 
Tiuo Strokes of the Pen. 39 
 
 The anxious husband knew not whether or not some 
 blessed relief had been sped to him from Heaven. 
 Twenty pounds ! What did it not mean to him just 
 then ? He forgot for the moment his two years of 
 patient labour spent upon his handiwork in hopes of 
 a brighter future, his dreams .of name and of fame. At 
 that moment twenty pounds was wealth. It brought the 
 seemingly unpurchasable within reach, and made him 
 rich indeed. . 
 
 " I'll accept it, Mr Wilkins," he answered. " I'll accept 
 it thankfully." There was such a depth of gratitude in . 
 the young man's words that the City man for a moment 
 half repented of his bargain, and doubtfully stroked his- 
 chin. The bargain was a remarkable one, however, 
 even in the city of great bargains, and Wilkins, re-enter- 
 ing his private office, wrote out his cheque and returned' 
 with the bit of paper in his hand. 
 
 "Here's your money, Mr Ross," he said. THeh 
 addressing one of his clerks, "Take a receipt from Mr 
 Ross, and also an undertaking to execute all necessary 
 documents that may be required. Good morning, Mr 
 Ross." 
 
 The young man signed the receipt and signed the 
 undertaking without knowing what he signed. To get 
 that money at that hour he would have signed anything. 
 
 Life had not seemed so .bright, the winter sun so 
 glorious, nor the air so brisk and enlivening, he did not 
 know for how long. As he flew along the crowded 
 streets to the bank, he formed plans what he would do . 
 with the golden coins that were to be his. He would 
 order some coals and wood iminediately^that was the 
 first thing, of course. Then he would get some extract 
 of beef, and some port wine; the doctor had ordered 
 
40 , Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 these specially, and they had been unattainable. And 
 there was that prescription, too, for which the chemist 
 had asked two and sixpence, and he had been penniless. 
 And he would buy a pair of blankets, as soft and warm 
 as could be got ; his darling should be as snug as the 
 richest lady in the land, if he could make her so. 
 Twenty pounds ! Twenty golden sovereigns ! what 
 would he not be able to do with these? They say 
 mon^y cannot bring happiness, but how black is the 
 night where there is no money at all, and what a gleam 
 of sunshine can be brought by the sheen of a sovereign ! 
 
 He had entered the great bank where Mr Wilkins 
 kept his account, and nervously wrote his name at the 
 back of the cheque. A big crowd encumbered the 
 ,. paying cashier's desk, and a seemingly endless time 
 elapsed before Ross could approach the oflScial and 
 hand in the magic slip of paper. 
 
 The man took it, looked at it, and returned it to him. 
 
 " That can only be paid through a bank," he said. 
 
 The poor young man's heart seemed to stop. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he stammered. 
 
 "I mean what I say," the clerk replied, none too 
 courteously. " The cheque is crossed, and has to be 
 presented through a bank." 
 
 " Good God ! " Ross exclaimed desperately. " I 
 must have the money to-day. How am I to get it ? " 
 
 " Go back to Mr Wilkins and get him to uncross it. 
 That's your only way," the clerk rejoined, and went on 
 with his business. 
 
 Ross dashe4 back through the crowd to Cannon Street, 
 bustling and jostling people, reckless of consequences. 
 He flew up the three flights of stairs and stood panting 
 in the doorway, holding the cheque in his hand. 
 
Two Strokes of the Pen. 41 
 
 " What's the matter now ? " the cheeky-looking young 
 gentleman demanded. 
 
 " Mr Wilkins ! I must see Mr Wilkins," Ross said 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " He is on the road to Reading by this time. He has 
 gone these ten minutes past," was the apparently derisive 
 answer. 
 
 " But I must see him — I must ! " the young man cried 
 in his anguish. " It is a matter of life and death to me. 
 I must see him to uncross this cheque." 
 
 "Then you must get/ him to do it on Monday morning 
 at ten o'clock. He won't be here before then," the 
 cheeky-looking young gentleman retorted, and turned 
 his back. 
 
 in. 
 
 A BIT of paper worth ;^2o, and yet, for the moment, not 
 worth a penny ! 
 
 William Ross was at the end of his tether, and had 
 been, for the matter of that, this year past. Friends he 
 had none. Relatives were nearly as poor as himself, 
 and they were hundreds of miles away. Bit by bit, the 
 jewellery first of all, then the Jcnick-knacks, then clothing, 
 underlinen, and finally even bedding, had been taken to 
 the sign of the three golden balls, and after that even the 
 tickets had been pawned or sold to purchase food. 
 What little credit there had been with the tradesmen was 
 used up long ago, and William Ross, without much fault 
 of his, had come to be looked upon as a man who 
 promised a great deal and fulfilled none of his promises. 
 
42 Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 At last not as much as a loaf would be sent up to Ms 
 room unless he paid for it beforehand. He was a lazy 
 dreamer, people said, who wasted his substance over 
 purposeless, useless inventions, which seemed to brings 
 good neither to him nor to anybody else. They pitied 
 the sick wife, but refused to trust the anguished husband 
 with medicine to save her from dying. 
 
 Ross called at a dozen places with that strip of paper, 
 and was met with .distrust — derision even. Nobody 
 seemed to know Mr Wilkins, and even those who had 
 heard the name knew not the signature. - Ross begged 
 with tears in his eyes for the loan of a sovereign upon that 
 security, but-could not obtain it. Acquaintances pursed 
 their lips, and found to their astonishment that they had 
 not more than a few shillings, which they required for 
 themselves, "and the banks close, you know, at two 
 o'clock on Saturdays, and I am so sorry. I would oblige 
 you if I could, but how can I?" and all the rest of 
 like heartless, cynically suave, polite nothings. Ross 
 preferred the brutal refusals of the tradespeople to- the . 
 hypocritical phrases of acquaintances — they wfere less i 
 galling ; and the result of both was equally bitter. 
 
 A kindly-hearted woman was living on the same floor 
 with the Ross's, and though she was nearly as poor as 
 the wretched husband and wife, being a widow who had 
 to support three ravenous children by the bitter wage 
 earned by her needle, she still found leisure in the good- 
 ness of her heart to sit at times by the suffering woman's 
 bedside, and to bring her such comfort as kindly words 
 and a face smiling in spite of trials could bestow. Mrs 
 Blake had shared her drop of tea with the sick woman,., 
 but the feeble strength had dwindled beyond such aid as 
 she could, give, - and ■ the . frail, form had become more 
 
Two Strokes of the Pen. 43 
 
 emaciated still ; the dark eyes were shining with' an 
 uncanny lustre, and the thin white lips moved in un- 
 speakable tremor, so that the good woman was crying 
 bitterly when Ross re-entered the chamber of the sick. 
 
 "I don't know what's got over her for the last hour or 
 so," she whispered, while the hot tears rolled down her 
 face. "She is so wjiite, and so cold, and so quiet." 
 
 The husband waited not to hear the last of her words, . 
 but flew to the bedside, and quietly inserting his arm 
 beneath the pillow, drew the white face towards him. 
 
 " Speak ! For God's sake, speak," he cried, " that I 
 may know you are alive ! Whisper one word, dearie." 
 
 He jumped up with a savage glow in his face. 
 
 "O God!" he cried, "and they say it's wrong to 
 steal. I am to let my darling die and stand helplessly 
 by!" 
 
 He wrung his hands and gnashed his teeth in his 
 despair, whilst Mrs Blake stood by, crying as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 " She is dying of starvation, Mrs Blake," he exclaimed, 
 " dying for want of food and fire, and there is nothing 
 left to sell, nothing to pawn — nothing ! " 
 
 He stopped short, as if remembering something^ and 
 taking off his coat, relieved himself of his waistcoat. He 
 looked at the latter garment nervously, holding it up in 
 the light, then he slowly wrapped it in an old newspaper, 
 and buttoning his coat up to his throat, went out with 
 the parcel under his arm. 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards he returned with a 
 small basket full of coal, some firewood, and a tiny jar 
 containing a brownish substance. 
 
 " I managed to get fifteenpence, Mrs Blake," he said. 
 " Now, we'll have a fire, and make her some strong beef- 
 
44 Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 tea. Thank God that I thought of it. If we can only 
 tide over to-day and to-morrow, on Monday I shall have 
 twenty pounds — twenty sovereigns, Mrs Blake, and then 
 I shall be able to repay some of your kindness." 
 
 Mrs Blake smiled incredulously. She had often heard 
 from her young friend similar stories of golden hope, 
 every one of which had resulted in nought. Her heart 
 was too heavy, and she pitied Ross too deeply, to give 
 expression to her thoughts. 
 
 The cheerful fire soon warmed the room into comfort, 
 and Mrs Blake's kettle was steaming there. A grateful 
 odour of food pervaded the chamber, and reminded the 
 young man that he himself had not broken his fast that 
 day. The wife was safe for the moment in Mrs Blake's 
 care, so he went out, hoping against hope that he might 
 yet persuade somebody to lend him a trifling sum until 
 Monday, Upon the security of his precious cheque. The 
 butcher, whose unprofitable customer he had been when 
 times were still a trifle better, returned to him the bit of 
 paper with a gruff " What next ? " and eyed him up and 
 down as if he were a thief. The chemist sneered at him. 
 "No, thank you, Mr Ross. I have been had that way 
 before. Once bit, twice shy." And so on at all the 
 places where he thought his previous trading warranted 
 his request. 
 
 Heavy-hearted and weary-eyed he returned, forgetting 
 his pain, forgetting his hunger, forgetting everything but 
 that pale, suffering face that lay there, so quiet, one might 
 have thought life had . fled from it already. Mrs Blake 
 brought him a cup of weak tea and a slice of plain bread, 
 which she had saved from her own poor meal. He 
 ate and drank listlessly, unthinkingly, not knowing that 
 he ate and drank. 
 
Two Strokes of the Pen. 4 c 
 
 All he was able to see was the gentle movement which 
 the weak life still left in the feeble form. He watched it 
 as the shipwrecked sailor watches the approaching white 
 speck on the horizon line. But what was he to do? 
 Tied hand and foot, helpless for nearly two days at least ; 
 and yet they say money is dross — money cannot bring 
 happiness. Ask those who have passed two days without 
 food, without fire, and without a penny, and then phrase 
 your dainty sayings, you well-fed philosophers 1 
 
 How he passed that day and that night, and the next 
 day and the next night, William Ross never knew. The 
 only memory of that terrible time was impressed upon 
 him by that white face shining like cathedral marble, and 
 by those mournfully lustrous black eyes. " Monday 
 morning at ten o'clock — Monday morning at ten o'clock," 
 he kept babbling to himself. His icy despair had so 
 frozen his heart that it felt not its own pain. All that he 
 noticed was that the breathing had become less audible, 
 the movements less perceptible, and that the lips seemed 
 unable to form speech. Mrs Blake came to him from time 
 to time, and spoke words of hope and cheer, but he 
 remembered them not the moment she was gone. 
 
 Monday morning dawned brisk and bright, a cheery 
 English winter morn. Long before ten o'clock William 
 Ross was waiting in Mr Wilkins' office with haggard 
 face and eyes so ghastly staring that the clerks imagined 
 him to be intoxicated. He sat down sullenly in the 
 corner, and his mien was so stern and desperate that 
 the cheeky-looking young gentleman forebore to ridicule 
 him. He looked like a man who was dangerous. 
 
 Mr Wilkins came at last, and when a few trembling 
 words had explained to him what Ross wished him to 
 do, he uncrossed the cheque with an unmeaning grin 
 
' 46 Two Strokes of the Pen. 
 
 and a grunt about being bothered with such 
 trifles. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards the young husband rushed up 
 to the room where his wife lay, with his arms laden 
 with the luxuries that had so long been denied to him 
 and to her. 
 
 Mrs Blake stopped him on the threshold and burst 
 into tears. He looked at her vacantly for a moment 
 or two, -and allowed his treasures to slide on to the 
 ground. Then his gaze travelled towards the bed, 
 and he saw that a sheet had been thrown over the 
 form that lay there. He rushed towards it, and throw- 
 ing off the covering, saw the white face smiling placidly 
 as in sleep.- Barely knowing what he did, he touched it, 
 and felt it cold — icy cold. 
 
 Then a yell surged to his lips, such as the anguished 
 soul finds only in the deepest recesses of grief, and 
 tearing a handful of sovereigns from his pocket, he flung 
 them about the room in his despair. 
 
A GUILD CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 W. MOY THOMAS. 
 
 The office of clerk to the Carvers' Company has been 
 filled by members of my family for more than a hundred 
 years. My great-grandfather was elected in the year 
 1749. After him came his younger brother, and when he 
 died, my grandfather was chosen by nine votes out of 
 twelve ; after that all opposition vanished. Our dynasty 
 was established. When my grandfather died, my father 
 went through the ceremony of calling, upon the members 
 of the Court of Assistants, and soliciting their votes ; and 
 afterwards — the formality of a show of hands being 
 past — he was declared, as every one knew he would be 
 who was aware of the existence of the Carvers' Company, 
 the successor of his father. The transition from him to 
 myself was so easy as to . be hardly felt. When I threw 
 aside my yellow breeches, and came out' of the " Blue 
 Coat School," with some little Greek, and very little skill 
 in penmanship, I was at once transplanted to a stool at 
 my father's desk, which stood railed off, in a corner of 
 the great hall, under the stained-glass window. 
 
 The Master and twelve senior liverymen, who formed 
 What is called the Court of Assistants, saw me there when 
 they met together ; and one patted me on the head, and 
 
48 A Guild ClerMs Tale. 
 
 prophesied great things of me, while I sat, very red in the 
 face, wondering who had been talking to him abput me. 
 Another, who had himself worn the girdle and blue 
 petticoats some half a century previously, examined my 
 classical knowledge, and finding himself somewhat at 
 fault, remarked that he was not fresh from school like 
 me. At length, my father and I attended their meetings 
 alternately ; and as he became old and infirm, the duties 
 devolved entirely upon me. When he died, therefore, 
 there was no change. The twelve liverymen held up their 
 hands, and my election was recorded on the minutes. 
 
 Carvers' Hall was a place not very easy to find out 
 for any but the warder and twelve liverymen ; but few 
 people else ever had occasion to find it out. f The 
 portion of the City in which it stood had escaped the 
 Fire of London, which took a turn at a short distance, 
 owing, perhaps, to a change in the wind, and left the 
 Hall and some adjacent courts untouched. ,In 
 order to arrive there, it was necessary, first, to pass 
 through a narrow passage running up from Thames 
 Street, then along a paved yard, by the railing of a 
 church, and lastly down a court, at the bottom of 
 which stood the antique gateway of Carvers' Hall. 
 Over the doorway was a curious carving of the 
 Resurrection in oak, which must have cost some 
 ancient member of the Worshipful Gfiild considerable 
 time and trouble. There were represented graves 
 opening, and bald-headed old men forcing up the lids 
 of their family vaults — some looking happy, and some 
 with their features distorted by despair. Out of others, 
 whole families — mother, father, and several children — 
 had just issued, and were standing hand in hand. Some, 
 again, were struggling, half buried in the ground ; while 
 
A Guild Clerics Tale. 49 
 
 others, already extricated, were assisting their kinsmen 
 in their efforts to disinter themselves. The scene was 
 made a section, in order to give the spectator a view of 
 an immense host of cherubim above, sitting upon a 
 massy pile of cloud, through which — the middle 
 point of the picture — the summoning angel was 
 throwing himself down, with a trumpet in his hand, 
 which, according to the relative scale of the work, must 
 have been several leagues at least, in length. Having 
 passed under this gateway, you entered a small square 
 yard, paved with black and white stones, placed 
 diamond-wise; and facing you was the Hall itself, up 
 three stone steps, and with a wooden portico. 
 
 This solitary building, silent and retired, though in 
 the heart of a crowded city, has been my home for 
 nearly sixty years. I have become 'assimilated to the 
 place by long usage. I am myself silent, retired, and 
 tenacious of old habits, though I do not think this is 
 my natural disposition. But why do I talk of natural 
 disposition? Are we not all moulded and made what 
 we are by time and outward influences? Yet, when 
 I was at school, I was a cheerful boy, though the 
 monastic life of Christ's Hospital is not calculated to 
 improve the spirits. It was only on entering my father's 
 office that I began to be subdued to the formal being 
 that I have since become. The portraits of my pre- 
 decessors hang in the Hall ; they are exactly alike both 
 in features and in dress, except that the first two wore 
 haiivpowder. It was my father's pride that he clung to 
 the style of dress which was prevalent when he was a 
 young man, which he considered to be in every way 
 superior to all modern inventions. I was only released 
 from the absurd dress of the blue-coat boy to be put 
 
 D 
 
50 A Guild Clerk's Tale. 
 
 into garments equally provocative of remarks from 
 ■impertinent boys. The family costume is imprimis, 
 a pair of knee-breeches with buckles ; then a blue coat 
 with metal buttons; and a large white cravat, spread 
 out over the whole chest, and ornamented in the middle 
 with a cornelian brooch. The same brooch appears in 
 every one of the portraits. I have worn this dress all 
 my life, with the exception of a short period when I 
 changed it, to return to it shortly again. 
 
 If happiness consists in having many friends, I ought 
 to have been a happy man. Old Carvers, neighbours, 
 pensioners of the Company, and Tom Lawton, my only 
 clerk, spoke kindly of me. Theirs was no lip service. 
 I knew they liked me in their hearts. The world, too, 
 had gone smoothly with me. I knew nothing of the 
 struggles for bread, the hardships and wrongs which 
 other men endure ; they appeared to ^me even fabulous 
 when I read of them. The means of getting my living- 
 were put into my hands, and the Company seemed 
 almost grateful to my father for bringing me up to the 
 office. My income was two hundred pounds per annum, 
 as well as the house to live in, and coals and candles, 
 which was more thanl needed for my support, though I 
 always found means of disposing of the surplus, and 
 never saved anything. But I was not a happy man. I 
 •had always the feeling of a spirit subdued to a life to 
 which it was not suited. I do not say that in another 
 sphere I should have led a boisterous life. My mind 
 was, perhaps, more prone to reflection than to action, 
 although I felt that if I had been more in the world, if 
 I had known more of life and change, I should have 
 been happier. But from my earliest days the vanity of 
 life and the virtue of keeping aloof from temptation, were 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. 51 
 
 instilled into me. "A rolling stone gathers no moss," 
 was the first proverb which I heard from my father's 
 mouth. These principles, implanted early, took deep 
 root, though perhaps in an unfavourable soil. Living 
 also under the same roof with my father, I felt alarmed 
 at all whisperings of my own inclinations which were 
 opposed to his wishes, and strove to subdue them, as 
 if I were struggling with the evil portion of my nature. 
 Thus, in course of time, I became what I am — not a 
 misanthrope, thank God, but a timid and somewhat 
 melancholy man. 
 
 We had no mirth-making in our household, except at 
 Christmas-time, when we feasted in good earnest. My 
 father loved at that time to display a rough hospitality. 
 We had generally two or three nights of merry-making, 
 at which were both young and old people, all Carvers or 
 the children of Carvers ; and after his death I continued 
 the custom. Often, as I sat with my happy friends 
 about me, some sweet young woman would give me a 
 sly hit upon my apparent determination to die a lonely 
 bachelor; little thinking that her heedless words could 
 give me pain, though they cut me deeply, and set me 
 looking at the fire with a thoughtful face. I might have 
 married, perhaps, if I had found a partner ; my income 
 was not large, but many men run the risk of a family 
 with less means to support one than I had ; but somehow 
 I found myself at forty-five years of age unmarried, slim, 
 and prim — the very type of an old bachelor. It was not 
 from indifference, for I was by nature sensitive and 
 affectionate. For women I had a kind of reverence. I 
 pictured them to myself all that is noble an,d good ; yet, 
 in their presence, I only looked upon them timidly — 
 -speaking little, but thinking .of them perhaps long after- 
 wards when they were gone. 
 
52 A Guild Clerk's Tale. 
 
 One result of my reputation for gravity was a number 
 of executorships which had been imposed upon me by 
 deceased friends. Anyone would have thought that there 
 was a conspiracy abroad to overwhelm me with proofs 
 of confidence.- My stock of mourning rings is consider- 
 able. The expression, " Nineteen guineas for his 
 trouble," had to me an old familiar sound with it. At 
 length I was obliged to hint to any old Carver who 
 waxed sickly, that my duties in that way were already as 
 much as I could fulfil. There was, however, an old 
 grocer of my acquaintance, named Cawthorne, who would 
 make me executor of his will, in spite of my remon- 
 strances, relieving my scruples by assuring me that he 
 had named another friend for my colleague, who, it was 
 understood, was to undertake, if we survived him, the 
 greater part of the duties, including the guardianship of his 
 daughter Lucy. We did survive him; and the other execu- 
 tor entered upon his office, seldom troubling me except 
 when absolutely necessary. Thus he went on for some 
 years. The daughter had become a fine young woman of 
 nineteen, with blue eyes arid fair hair, rippled like the 
 sunlight upon water touched by a light wind. I saw her 
 often in the house when he was taken ill, and thought her 
 very beautiful. I fancied, sometimes, how she would 
 look clad in pure white, and holding in her hand an 
 olive branch, as I had seen some angels carved -in stone. 
 I have met her ascending the stairs with a candle in her 
 hand, the light striking upward, like a glory on her face, 
 and she seemed to me not to mount from step to step, 
 but slowly to ascend without a movement of the feet. 
 So beautiful, indeed, she was that my feeling with regard 
 to her almost amounted to a superstitious awe. I seldom 
 spoke many words to her; and I think, at first, she 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. 53 
 
 thought me harsh and cold. At length her guardian 
 died ; and although I had known from the first that in 
 that event his duty would devolve upon me, the fact 
 seemed to take me by surprise. I could hardly believe 
 that thenceforth, for some time, she would look to me as 
 her sole protector. But in a short time the affairs of my 
 deceased colleague were set in order, and she came to 
 reside with me in the old Hall. 
 
 She soon forgot her first antipathy, and we became good 
 friends together. I took her over the old place, and showed 
 her the library and the paintings, and everything there 
 that was quaint and curious. We had a garden, at the 
 back of the Hall, in which she sat at work on fine days. 
 It was not large, but it was, nevertheless, a garden, and 
 in the midst of London. It was planted with shrubs, 
 and contained two or three large trees, as well as a rustic 
 seat upon a grass-plot; though the grass was not very 
 thriving on account of the trees shutting out the sun 
 and air. Sitting here, the back of the Hall had a 
 picturesque look, half covered with the great leaves of a 
 fig-tree nailed against the wall, and with its worn stone 
 steps guarded on each side by an aloe in a green tub. 
 This was her favourite place. She worked or read there 
 in the morning, and in the afternoon she taught two 
 little nieces of the housekeeper to read and write. Some- 
 times, in the evening, I got an old book from the library, 
 and read to her, and made her laugh at its quaintness. 
 I remember one translation of a Spanish novel in folio, 
 printed in the seventeenth century, which amused her, 
 very much. The translation occupied one-half of the 
 book, and the prefaces the other. There was the trans- 
 lator's " Apology for his Labour ; " "A Declaration for 
 the Better Understanding of the Book ; " "A Printer's 
 
54 A Guild Clerk's Tale. 
 
 Defence of Errors;" an address "to the Learned 
 Reader;" and another "to the Discreet and Courteous 
 Reader ; " and another " to the vulgar Reader ; " with 
 some more ; and finally, the Spanish novel itself was 
 ushered in by a number of verses in English and Latin, 
 laudatory of the book and the translation by celebrated 
 men of the period. 
 
 On Sundays we sat at church, in the same pew, and I 
 forgot my own devotions in listening to the earnest tones 
 with which she said the prayers. I thought that she, 
 of all that congregation, was best fitted to speak these 
 words of Christian love. I was vexed to hear an old 
 overseer- of the parish, whom I knew to be a bad and 
 worldly man, in the next pew repeating the same words 
 in a drawling tone ; and I could almost have requested 
 him to say them to himself. 
 
 Thus, ours was not a very cheerful way of life for a 
 young maiden ; but she seemed always happy and con- 
 tented. For myself, though I was sorry for the death of 
 my co-executor, I blessed the day when she came into 
 the house ; and I grieved that I had objected to become 
 her guardian from the first, for she might have grown 
 up from childhood with me, and learned to look up to 
 me as a father. Living with her dail)', and noting all 
 her thoughts and actions, sometimes even when she did 
 not suspect that I observed her, I saw her brighter than 
 the brightest of my own ideals. My feeling was almost 
 an idolatry. If I had, at forty-five years of age, still any 
 thoughts of marrying, I renounced them for her sake, and 
 resolved to devote all my care to her, until such time as 
 she should find a husband worthy of her. 
 
 By an ancient bequest to the Company, we distributed 
 on the day before Christmas Day, to twenty-four poor 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. 55 
 
 people a loaf of bread, a small bundle of wood, or bavin,- 
 as we called it, and the sum of two shillings and tenpence 
 to each person. The recipients were all old, decrepit 
 men and women. There was an ancient regulation, still 
 unrepealed, that they should all " attend on the following 
 court-day, at noon precisely, to return thanks for the 
 same ; " though that performance of mechanical gratitude 
 had been allowed to fall into disuse by a more philoso- 
 phical generation. The first Christmas after Lucy came 
 there, she begged me to let her distribute these gifts, and I 
 consented. I stood at my little desk at the end of the Hall, 
 with my face resting upon my hand, watching her, and 
 listening to her talking to the old people. Next to the 
 pleasure of hearing her speak to little children, I 
 delighted to hear her talk with very aged folks. There 
 was something in the contrast of the two extremes of life — 
 the young and beautiful maiden, and the bent and wrinkled 
 old people — that pleased me. She heard all their oft- 
 repeated complaints, their dreary accounts of their coughs 
 and rheumatics, and consoled them as well as she could ; 
 and, with some of the very old, she took their brown 
 and sinewy hands in hers, and led them down the steps. 
 I did not'know what ailed me that day. I stood dreaming 
 and musing, till I seemed to have lost that instinctive 
 dexterity with which we perform the simple operations of 
 our daily life. Some accounts lay before me which I 
 was anxious to cast, but several times I essayed, and 
 seemed incapable of doing so. As the simple words of 
 our daily language, which issue from our lips simul- 
 taneously with the thought, become vague and indistinct 
 if we muse upon their origin, and repeat them several 
 times to ourselves, so by dwelling long upon the idea of 
 the work before me, it seemed to have become confused 
 
56 A Guild ClerMs Tale. 
 
 and difficult. I handed them over to my clerk, Tom 
 Lawton, who sat opposite to me. 
 
 Poor Tom Lawton ! I thought I saw him looking 
 anxiously at me, several times, when I raised my eyes. 
 No being upon earth ever loved me more than he. It 
 is true I had done him some acts of kindness, but I had 
 often done as much for others who had forgotten it 
 since ; whereas his gratitude became a real affection for 
 me, which never failed to show itself each day that he 
 was with me. He was a fine young man, and a great 
 favourite with the housekeeper, who said " she liked him 
 because he was so good to his mother, as she thought 
 her poor son would have been if he had lived.'' Tom 
 was fond of reading, and sometimes wrote verses, of 
 which he made copies for his friends in a neat hand. 
 He was a shrewd fellow in some things, but in others 
 he was as simple as a child. His temper was the 
 sweetest in the world— the children knew that. No 
 diving into his coat pocket ever ruffled him ; no pulling 
 his hair could ever induce him to cry out. 
 
 Tom was to spend his Christmas Eve with us, and to 
 make "toast and ale," as was our custom; so when the 
 gifts were all distributed, he left me, and ran home to 
 dress himself smartly for the occasion. I stood at my 
 desk, still musing, till the evening closed upon the short 
 and wintry afternoon. Lucy came and called me, saying 
 the tea was on the table. 
 
 "We thought you were fallen asleep," said she. 
 " Mr Lawton is come." 
 
 We sat round a large fire in the old wainscoted 
 sitting-room, while Lucy made the tea — and would have 
 made the toast too, but Tom said he would sooner 
 burn his eyes out than suffer her to do so. The house- 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. cy 
 
 keeper came up; and afterwards came an old Carver 
 and his daughter. We sat till after midnight. The old 
 Carver told some anecdotes of people whom my father 
 knew; and Tom told a ghost story, which kept them 
 all in breathless terror, till it turned out, at last, to be a 
 dream. 
 
 But I was restless and spoke little. Once, indeed, I 
 answered the old Carver rather sharply. He had patted 
 Lucy on the head, and said he supposed she would soon 
 be getting married, and leaving us old people. I could 
 not endure the thought of her leaving us ; though I 
 knew that she would so, probably, one day. She had 
 never looked to me more interesting than she did that 
 evening. A little child, worn out with playing, had 
 fallen asleep with its head upon her lap ; and, as she 
 was speaking to us, her hand was entangled in its hair. 
 I gazed at her, and caught up every word she spoke ; 
 and when she stopped my restlessness returned. I 
 strove in vain to take part in their mirth. I wanted to 
 be alone. 
 
 When I sat that night in my little bedroom, I was 
 still thinking of Lucy. I heard her voice still sounding 
 in my ears ; and when I shut my eyes, I pictured her 
 still before me, with her dear sweet face, and her little 
 golden locket hung upon her neck. I fell asleep, and 
 dreamed of her. I woke, and waited for the daylight, 
 thinking of her still. So we passed all the Christmas 
 holidays. Sometimes it was a happy feeling which 
 possessed me; and sometimes I almost wished that I 
 had never seen her. I was always restless and anxious ; 
 I knew not for what. I became a different man to that 
 which I had been before I knew her. 
 
 When, at last, I concealed from myself no longer that 
 
58 A Guild ClerJis Tale. 
 
 I loved her fondly, deeply — more deeply, I believe, than 
 ever man has loved — I became alarmed. I knew what 
 people would say if it became, known. She had some 
 property, and I had nothing ; but, what was worse, I was 
 forty-five years of age, and she was only twenty. I was, 
 moreover, her guardian ; and she had been consigned to 
 my care by her dying father, in confidence that if she 
 came under my protection I would act towards her as 
 he himself would have acted if he had lived j mot dream- 
 ing that I should encourage other thoughts than those of a . 
 protector and a friend. I knew that I should have been 
 jealous, angry, with any one who evinced a liking for 
 her ; and yet I asked myself whether it, was right that I 
 should discourage any one who might make her happy ; 
 who, perhaps, would love her nearly as much as I did, 
 and" be more suited for her, by reason of his youth and 
 habits ; not like mine, sedate and monkish. Even if 
 I eventually gained her affections, would not the world 
 say that I had exerted the undue influence of my 
 authority over her; or that I had kept her shut 
 up- from society ; so that, in her ignorance of life, she 
 mistook a feeling of respect for a stronger sentiment ? 
 And, again, if all these things were set aside, was it not 
 wrong that I should take a young and beautiful girl, and 
 shut her up in that old place for ever — checking the 
 natural gaiety of youth, and bringing her by slow 
 degrees to my old ways ? I saw the selfishness of all 
 my thoughts, and resolved to strive to banish them for 
 ever. 
 
 But they would not leave me. Each day I saw some- 
 thing in her that increased my passion. I watched her 
 as she went from room to room. I walked stealthily 
 about the place, in the hope of seeing her somewhere 
 
A Guild Clerfis Tale. 59 
 
 unobserved, and hearing her speak, and stealing away 
 again before she saw me. I walked on tiptoe once, and 
 saw her through the open door, thoughtful — looking at 
 the candle — with her work untouched beside her. I 
 fancied to myself what thoughts possessed her ; perhaps 
 the memory of a friend, no longer of this world, had 
 touched her suddenly, and made her mute and still ; or, 
 perhaps, the thought of some one dearer. The idea ran 
 through me Uke a subtle poison, and I shuddered. I 
 thought she started. I believe it was a fancy, but I 
 stole away again hurriedly, on tiptoe, and never 
 looked, behind me till I reached my corner in the 
 Hall. 
 
 Every One remarked a change in me. Lucy looked at 
 me anxiously sometimes, and asked me if I was not ill. 
 Tom Lawton grieved to see me so dejected, till he 
 became as grave as an old man. I sat opposite to Lucy 
 sometimes with a book in my hand. I had ceased to 
 read 'aloud ; and she, seeing that I took no pleasure in 
 it, did not press me to do so. I looked at the pages, 
 without a thought of their contents, simply to avoid her 
 looks. I thought at last that she grew vexed with my 
 neglect. One night I suddenly threw down my book, 
 and looking at her boldly and intently, to observe the 
 expression of her features, I said — 
 
 " I have been thinking, Lucy, that you grow weary of 
 my dull ways. You do not love me now, as you did 
 some months ago." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she replied, "indeed I do. I do not 
 know what makes you talk like this, unless I have 
 offended you in something. But I see it now," she said. 
 " I must have said something that has given you pain, 
 though it was never in my thought to do so. And this 
 
,6o A Guild ClerMs Tale. 
 
 is why you treat me coldly day by day, and never let me 
 know what I have done." ' 
 
 She came over to me, and took my hand in hers ; and 
 with tears in her- eyes, begged me to tell her what it 
 was. 
 
 " I know," she said, " I have no friend more kind and 
 good than you. My father died before I knew how 
 great a friend I had in him ; but had he lived, I never 
 could have loved him more than I love you." 
 
 " Well, well, Lucy," said I ; " I did not mean to hurt 
 you. I hardly know why I reproached you. I am not 
 well, and when I feel thus, I know not what I say.'' 
 
 " Kiss me, then,'' said she, " and tell me that you are 
 not angry with me, and do not think now that I am 
 tired of living here with you. I will do everything to 
 make you happy. I will not ask you to read. I will 
 put away my work, and read to you in future. I have 
 seen you silent, looking unhappy, and have said nothing, 
 thinking that was best, as I did not know what it was 
 that made you so ; and you have thought perhaps, that I 
 was vexed with you, and wished to show it by a sullen 
 air. But now I will strive to make you cheerful. I will 
 read and sing to you, and we will play at draughts some- 
 times, as we used to do. Indeed, I like .this old place, 
 and all that live in it, and never was so happy in my life 
 as I have been since I came here." 
 
 I placed my hand upon her head, and kissed her on 
 the forehead, saying nothing. 
 
 "You are trembling,'' she exclaimed; "this is not 
 merely illness. You have some sorrow on your mind that 
 haunts you. Tell me what it is that ails you ; perhaps 
 I may be able to console you. I have not so much 
 experience as you ; but sometimes a young mind can 
 
A Guild Clerks Tale. 6i 
 
 advise the oldest and the most experienced. Perhaps, 
 too, you magnify your trouble by brooding over it ; you 
 think upon it till your mind is clouded, and you cannot 
 see the remedy, which I, looking at it for the first time, 
 might see directly. Besides," she said, seeing me 
 hesitate, "if you do not tell me, I shall always be 
 unhappy — imagining a hundred evils, each perhaps 
 more serious than the truth." 
 
 " No, Lucy," said I, " I am unwell ; I have felt thus 
 for some time, and to-night I feel worse. I must go to 
 bed; I shall be better after a night's rest." 
 
 I lighted a candle, and bidding her good-night, left her 
 and stole up to my bed, afraid to stay longer, lest 
 I should be tempted to reveal my secret. Oh, how 
 could I endure the thought of her kind words, more 
 painful to me than the coldest scorn ! She had said she 
 loved me as a father. In the midst of all her kindness 
 she had spoken of my age and experience. Did I, then, 
 look so old so that ? Yes ; I knew that it was not my 
 years which made me old; it was my staid manners, 
 my grave and thoughtful face, which made me seem 
 an old man, even in my prime. Bitterly I complained 
 of my father who had shut me out from the knowledge 
 of all that makes life beautiful ; who had biassed me to 
 believe that such a life as his was best, by hiding from 
 me all comparison ; till now, when I perceived my error, 
 it was too late to repair it. ^ surveyed my antiquated 
 garments with disgust ; my huge cravat ; the very hair 
 of my head, by long training, had become old-fashioned 
 beyond all reclaiming. My whole appearance was that 
 of a man who had slept for half a century, except that 
 I was without a speck or soil. I believe they would 
 have admitted me to a masquerade in such a dress 
 
62 A Guild Clerk's Tale, 
 
 without' a single alteration, and think that I had hired 
 it for the occasion. But a new hope sprang up within 
 me. I would change my way of life ; I would try to be 
 more cheerful, I would wear more modern clothes, and 
 endeavour, at least, not to make myself appear older than 
 I was. 
 
 I had known nothing like the peace of mind which 
 these thoughts brought me for many days. I wondered 
 that what was so obvious had not occurred to me before. 
 I had gone about dreaming in my absent way, brooding 
 unprofitably over my troubles, instead of devising some- 
 thing practical and useful. But I would act differently, 
 I would not despair. Five-and-forty years was, after 
 all, no great age. I recalled to my mind many instances 
 of men marrying long after that time with women 
 younger than themselves, and living afterwards very 
 happily. I remembered one of our wardens who married 
 at sixty a young and very beautiful woman, and every 
 one saw hpw happy they were, and how she loved her 
 husband for years, till a rascal, by slow and artful steps, 
 won over her affections, and she ran away with him. 
 But Lucy would not do that ; I knew too well the 
 goodness of her nature to have any fear of such a 
 result. Then I thought how kind I would be to her, 
 studying every way that could amuse and please a 
 youthful mind ; till she, seeing all my life was devoted 
 to her, would come to leve me in the end. I planned 
 out minutely our way of life. I would invite more friends 
 to visit us, and we would go out and visit others. 
 We would play at our old game of draughts together 
 in the winter evenings, and sometimes I would take her 
 to the theatre. In the summer we would go into the 
 country, lingering all day long in quiet shady places, 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. 63 
 
 and returning about dusk. Sweet thoughts, that held 
 my mind until I slept, and lingered, breeding pleasant 
 dreams ! 
 
 The next day I visited my tailor, who took my orders 
 with evident astonishment. My clothes were brought 
 home in a few days, and I threw off my knee-breeches, 
 as I thought, for ever. I felt a little uneasy in my new 
 attire ; my legs had been so long used to feel cool and 
 unrestrained, that the trousers were irksome. How- 
 ever, I supposed I should soon become accustomed to 
 them ; and they really made me look some years 
 younger. What would my father have said if he had 
 visited the earth that day and seen me ? My hair, 
 . however, was less manageable ; in vain I parted it on the 
 right side, and brushed it sideways instead of backwards 
 as I had hitherto done. For five-and-forty years it had 
 been brushed in one direction, and it seemed as if 
 nothing but five-and-forty years' daily brushing in the 
 other could ever reverse it. 
 
 I descended from my room, trying to look uncoriscious 
 of anything unusual in my appearance. It was court- 
 day ; the Warden and assistants stared at me, and would 
 have laughed, no doubt, if most of them had not left off 
 laughing for many years. Some of them, however, 
 coughed; and one addressed to me some simple 
 questions, evidently intended to test my sanity. I 
 felt a little vexed ; for I thought it was no concern of 
 theirs if I chose to adopt some alterations in my dress. 
 However, I said nothing, but went quietly through my 
 duties. 
 
 Tom Lawton was there. It should have been a joyful 
 day for him, for they increased his salary at that court. 
 But he lopked at me compassionately, and evidently 
 
64 A G^tild Clerks Tale. 
 
 thought, like the rest, that I was going mad. I was, 
 however, amply consoled — for Lucy was pleased to see 
 the change in my dress and inanners. I laughed and 
 chatted with her, and she read to me, and sang, as she 
 had promised. Thus I went on for some time, when 
 something of my old restlessness came back. I saw how 
 little she suspected that I loved her more than as a 
 friend ; and fearing still to let her know the truth, I felt 
 that I might go on thus for years to little purpose. So, 
 by degrees, I returned to my former sadness, and became 
 again reserved and thoughtful. One night I descended 
 from my little room into the garden, and walked about 
 with my hat in my hand, for I felt feverish and excited. 
 Night after night my sleep had been broken and dis- 
 turbed by dreams, that glided from my memory when I 
 awoke, but left a feeling of despondency that followed me 
 throughout the day. Sometimes I thought myself that 
 my reason was deserting me. We were very busy at 
 that time, and Tom Lawton and I were to have worked 
 together all the evening, but I had left him, utterly 
 unable to fix my attention upon what I set before me. I 
 paced to and fro several times, when, passing by the 
 window where I had left him at work, I heard him 
 speaking with someone. A word which I caught made 
 me start, for the sliding pane of glass which served to 
 ventilate the Hall had been pushed back, and I could 
 hear voices distinctly. The light being inside, I could 
 not be seen, although I could see his desk. The lamp 
 was shaded and the window was of stained glass, so that 
 I did not see very clearly. But I had a quiek vision for 
 such a scene as that before me. 
 
 That form standing beside Tom Lawton, with its hand 
 in his, was Lucy's ! The blood rushed to my head. A 
 
A Guild CTerMs Tale. 65 
 
 thousand little lights were dancing before my eyes. I 
 felt myself falling, but I made an effort, and clutched the 
 window-sill. It was Lucy's voice that I heard first. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said, " I heard a noise ; there is some- 
 one coming. Good-night ! Good-night ! " 
 
 "No, no," said Tom; "it is the wind beating the 
 leaves against the window." 
 
 They seemed to listen for a moment, and then he 
 spoke again. 
 
 " Oh, Lucy ! do not run away before we have talked 
 together a little. I see you now so seldom, and when I 
 do there are others present, and I cannot speak to you of 
 what is uppermost in my thoughts. I think of you all 
 (Jay, and at night I long for the next morning,' to be in 
 the same house with you, in the hope of seeing you before 
 I go, though I am continually disappointed. ' I think I 
 am unfortunate in all but one thing, though that con- 
 soles me for the rest. I think, you love me a little, 
 Lucy." 
 
 "Yes, Tom, I do; a great deal. I have told you so 
 many times, and I am not ashamed to repeat it. I would 
 not hide it from anyone, if you did not tell me to do so. 
 But why do you tease yourself with fancies, and think 
 yourself unfortunate ? I do not know why we should not 
 tell him all about it. He is the kindest being in the world, 
 and I know he would not thwart me in anything that 
 could procure my happiness j and then again, you are a 
 favourite of his, and I am sure he would be delighted to 
 think that we loved each other." 
 
 "No, no, Lucy, you must not say a word about it. 
 What would he think of me, with nothing in the world 
 but .my small salary, encouraging such thoughts towards 
 you, who are rich, and going on like this — laying snares, 
 
66 A Guild Clerk's Tale. 
 
 as he would say, for months, to gain your affection, and 
 never saying a word about it; bringing, too, disgrace 
 upon him, as your guardian, that he had suffered a poor 
 clerk in his office to find opportunities of speaking to 
 you alone, and at last persuading you to promise to 
 become his wife one day ? " 
 
 " All this you have told me many a time ; but indeed 
 this need not be an obstacle. I wish that I had not 
 sixpence in the world. My money is become a mis- 
 fortune to us, instead of a blessing, as it should be. I 
 wish I might give it away, or renounce it altogether. I 
 am sure we should be as well without it, one day ; and 
 if we had to wait a long time, we should still be able to 
 see one another openly, and not to have to watch for 
 secret opportunities, as if we were doing wrong. You 
 do not know, Tom, how unhappy the thought of all this 
 makes me. I never had a secret before that I feared to 
 tell before the whole world ; and now I sit, night after 
 night, with him .from whom I should conceal nothing, 
 and feel that I am deceiving him. Every time he looks 
 at me, I fancy that he knows all about it, and thinks me 
 an artful girl, and waits to see how long I shall play my 
 part before him. Many times I have been tempted to 
 tell him all, in spite of your injunction, and beg him not 
 to be angry with me because I had not dared to tell him 
 before. I would have taken all blame upon myself, and 
 said that I had loved you secretly before you had ever 
 spoken to me about it — anything I would have said, 
 rather than feel myself deceitful as I do ! " 
 
 "Lucy," exclaimed Tom in a broken voice, "yoa 
 must not — you must not, indeed, ever give way to such 
 an impulse. I know not what might come of it if 
 he knew. It wou.ld ruin us — perhaps be the cause of 
 
A Guild Clerks Tale. 67 
 
 our being separated for ever— make him hate us both, 
 and never pardon me — at least, while he lives. Oh, 
 Lucy ! I have not told you all. Something yet more 
 serious remains behind." 
 
 " Tell me — what is this, Tom ? — you alarm 
 me ! » 
 
 " Come here, then, and bring your ear closer. No — I 
 will not tell you. Do not ask me again. It is perhaps 
 only a fancy which has come into my head, because I 
 am anxious about you, and imagine all kinds of mis- 
 fortunes that might arise to make us wretched. But 
 oh ! if I am right, we are, indeed, unfortunate. No 
 misfortune that could befall us could be equal to 
 this ! " 
 
 Lucy's eyes were filled with tears. " I do not like to 
 go back into the parlour," she said, " lest he should be 
 there, and ask me why I have been crying. He was in 
 his room upstairs, I think just now, and he may have 
 come down, and I am sure I could not stand before him 
 as I am. You have indeed made me miserable. Oh ! 
 Tom, Torii, do tell me what this is ! " 
 
 " I cannot tell you," he replied ; " it would not be 
 right to breathe a word about it till I have surer ground 
 for suspicion. Let me dry your eyes, and now go back 
 into the parlour, or your absence will be observed." 
 
 Twice he bade her "good-night" before she left him, 
 and each time I saw him put his arms around her and 
 kiss her, and then he called after her — 
 
 " Lucy ! " 
 
 She turned back and ran up to him. 
 
 " I hardly know why I called you back. Only I may 
 not see you again for some time, and it may be many 
 days before I can speak to you alone." 
 
68 A Guild Clerk's Tale. 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Hark ! I thought I heard something moving. Go, 
 go ! " said Tom. " Good-night, good-night ! " ' And she 
 glided across the Hall, and was gone in a moment. 
 
 In the eagerness with which I had.listened to. their con- 
 versation, I had not had time to feel the blow which I 
 had received. It was only when the voices ceased that I 
 felt how all my. hopes had been shattered in a moment. 
 I relaxed my hold, and walked again to and fro, but 
 more hurriedly than before. I had never dreamed of 
 this — Tom Lawton ! 
 
 I sat down upon the garden-seat and wept and sobbed 
 like a child — the first time for many years. I could not 
 help feeling angry with them both. " Oh ! " thought I, 
 " Tom Lawton, you were right in thinking that I should 
 never pardon you for this. You have taken away the 
 one hope of my life. I shall hate you while I live. 
 Lucy, also, I blame ; but my anger is. chiefly with you. 
 In order to shield you, she would have told me, poor 
 child, that she only was to blame; but I know better. 
 You have laid snares for her and inveigled her ; your 
 heart told you that you had when you put my words into 
 my mouth." 
 
 I walked about and sat down again several times. I 
 groaned aloud, for my heart was swelled almost to bursting. 
 So I continued for some time, fiercely, denouncing my rival 
 to myself; but that night, upon, my .bed, when I was 
 worn out with my passion, a better. feelingcame upon me. 
 I grew more calm. and resigned to my misfortune; I 
 saw how useless — nay, how wrong — would be all per- 
 secution; and I felt that it was natural that the young 
 should love the young before the old. So with a sorrow- 
 ful and humbled spirit, I resolved, to encourage them, 
 
A Guild Clerk's Tale. 69 
 
 and bring about their union. God knows how much 
 the resolution cost me • but it brought with it a certain 
 peace of mind, a corisciousriess of doing rightly, which 
 sustained me in my purpose. I would not delay a day 
 lest my resolution should waver. In the morning I 
 walked into the parlour, and bidding Tom Lawton 
 follow me, stood there before him and Lucy. Tom 
 looked pale, as if he dreaded my anger. 
 
 "I expect," said I, "a direct answer to what lam 
 going to ask. Have you not given your faith to one 
 another ? " 
 
 ■Tom turned paler still ; but Lucy answered before he 
 could say a word, and confessing all, said she took the 
 blame upon herself, but Tom interrupted her, exclaiming 
 that he only was to blame. 
 
 "There is no blame attached to either," said I, 
 "except for a little concealment, for which I pardon 
 you." 
 
 Thus far had I done the duty which I had set before 
 me ; but I did not feel it to be completed till they were 
 married. ' 
 
 About three months after, I gave my permission, and 
 the day was fixed. I saw them the happiest creatures 
 upon earth. They never knew my secret. That Tom 
 had suspected it, and that it was to that he referred 
 when speaking to Lucy in the Hall, I had never doubted, 
 though the readiness with which I had befriended them 
 had deceived him, He had taken a small house, and 
 everything was ready. But on the day before the 
 wedding my heart failed me. I knew then that I had 
 never ceased to love her, and I could not endure the 
 thought of her marriage. I felt that I must go away 
 until the day was past, so I gave out that it was my wish 
 
70 , A Guild Clerk's Tale.. 
 
 that the marridge should not be delayed on that accxiunt. 
 That night I went away, not caring whither. 
 
 When I returned, the 'Hall was silent — Lucy was gone ; 
 and I was again in the old place. 
 
 I remain there. 
 
" B I L L." 
 
 THE STORY OF A BOY WHOM THE GODS LOVED. 
 
 BARRY PAIN. 
 
 Bill came slowly up the steps from a basement flat in 
 Pond Buildings, crossed the pavement, and sat down on 
 the kerbstone in the sunshine, with his feet in a delightful 
 puddle. He was reflecting. 
 
 " All that fuss about a dead byeby ! " he said to 
 himself. 
 
 He was quite a little boy, with a dirty face, gipsy eyes, 
 and a love for animals. He had slept the deep sleep of 
 childhood the night before, and had heard nothing of 
 what was happening. In the early morning, however, 
 he had been enlightened by his father — a weak man, 
 with a shuffling gait, who tried to do right and generally 
 failed. 
 
 " Bill, cummere. Last night there was a byeby come 
 to be your sister if she'd grow'd. But she didn't live 
 more'n hour. An' that's why your aunt's 'ere, an' mind 
 yer do whort she tells yer, an' don't go into the other 
 room, an' don't do nothin' 'cep whort yer told, or I'll 
 break yer 'ead for yer, sure's death, I will ! " 
 
 Then Bill's father had gone away to his work, being 
 
^2 ''BitV' 
 
 unable to afford the loss of a day ; and Bill's vehement, 
 red-haired aunt had come into the kitchen, and shaken 
 him, and abused him, and given him some breakfast. 
 Bill's aunt was one of those unfortunate people who 
 cannot love one person without hating three others to 
 make up for jt. Just at present she was loving Bill's 
 mother, her sister, very much, and retained her self- 
 'respect by being very strict with Bill's father, with Bill 
 himself, and with the doctor. She instructed Bill that 
 he was not to go to school that morning. He was to 
 remain absolutely quiet in the kitchen, because he might 
 be wanted to run errands and do odd jobs. For some 
 time Bill had obeyed her, and then monotony tempted 
 him to include the little yard at the back in his definition 
 of the kitchen. All the basement flats in Pond Buildings 
 have little yards at the back. Most of the inhabitants 
 use them aS drying-grounds. In some of them there is 
 a dead shrub or the remains of a sanguine geranium 
 that faded ; in all of them there are cinders and very 
 old meat-tins. Now, when Bill went out into the yard, 
 he found the black cat, which he called Simon Peter, 
 asleep in the sun on the wall. Simon Peter did not 
 belong to anyone; she roamed about at the back of 
 Pond Buildings, dodged anything that was thrown at 
 her, and ate unspeakable things. She had formed a 
 melancholy and unremunerative attachment to Bill ; her 
 name had been suggested to him by stray visits to a 
 Sunday School, forced on him during a short season 
 when his father, to use his own phrase, had got religion. 
 
 " Siming Peter," said Bill, as he scratched her gently 
 under the ear, "Siming Peter, my cat, come in 'ere 
 along o' me, and 'ave some milk.'' 
 
 It is not at all probable that Simon Peter was deceived 
 
^Biiir 
 
 n 
 
 by this. She must have known that, with the best 
 intentions in the world, Bill could not do so much as 
 this for her. Yet she blinked at him with her lazy green 
 eyes, and followed him from the yard into the kitchen. 
 Bill filled a saucer with water, and put it down on the 
 ground before her. "There yer are, Siming Peter," 
 he said ; " and that's better for yer than any milk." Simon 
 Peter put up her back slowly, mewed contemptuously, 
 and trotted out into the yard again. Bill, dashing after 
 her, trod on the saucer and broke it, and overturned a 
 chair. In another moment he was in the clutches of 
 his fierce aunt. 
 
 " Do you want to kill your blessed mother, you devil ? 
 Didn't I tell yer to sit quoite? An' a good saucer 
 broke, with the poor dead corpse of your byeby sister 
 lyin' in the next room. Go hout ! You're more 
 nuisance nor you're worth. See 'ere. Don't you show 
 your ugly 'ead 'ere agin afore night. An' when yer 
 comes back I'll tell yer father of yer, an' 'e'll skin yer 
 alive. Dinner? Not for such as you. Hout yer 
 git!" 
 
 So Bill had been turned out, and now sat with his 
 feet in a delightful puddle, reflecting for a minute or 
 two on dead babies, injustice, puddles, and other things. 
 It was a larger puddle, as far as Bill could see, than 
 any other in the street, and it was this which made it so 
 charming. But a puddle is of no use to anyone who 
 has not got something to float on it. If you have some- 
 thing to float on it you can imagine boats, and races, 
 and storms, and it becomes a magnificent playground 
 for the imagination; otherwise the biggest puddle is 
 simply a puddle, and it is nothing more. So Bill 
 started down the street to look for something which 
 
74 ''^ill-' 
 
 would float — a scrap of paper or a straw. He was 
 stopped by a lanky, unkempt girl with yellow hair, who 
 was leaning on a broom that was almost bald, outside 
 an open door. She was four or five years older than 
 Bill, and she was very fond of him. The girls of the 
 wretched neighbourhood for the most part petted Bill ; 
 they did so, without knowing their reason, because he 
 was quaint, and pretty, and idle. He was rather dirty, 
 it was true, but then so were they; and for the most 
 part they were not so pretty. 
 
 " Bill," said the yellow-haired girl, " why awn't yer at 
 school? You'll ketch it. Bill." 
 
 " No, I 'ont. They kep' me, 'cos we've got a byeby, 
 an' the byeby's dead. Then they turned me out for 
 breakin' a saucer when I was goin' after Siming Peter 
 what I were feedin' ; an' I ain't to 'ave no dinner, ah' I 
 ain't to come back afore night, and when I do come 
 back I'm goin' to be walloped. I wish I was 
 dead ! " 
 
 " Oh, Bill, you are a bad boy ; what are yer goin' to do ? " 
 
 " Play ships at that puddle. I was lookin' for sutthin' 
 what 'ud do for ships, an' can't find nothin'." 
 
 " An' what'll yer do about dinner ? " 
 
 " I ain't goin' to 'ave no dinner," said Bill solemnly. 
 " I'm goin' to starve. They don't keer. ]!)ead byebies is 
 what they like." 
 
 The lanky girl leaned her broom 'against the wall, sat 
 down on the doorstep, and commenced the research of 
 a pocket ; the pocket yielded her one penny. 
 
 "Look 'ere, Bill," she said, "you take this and git 
 yourself sutthin' to eat.'' 
 
 Bill shook his head, and pressed his lips together. 
 He was much moved. 
 
" I 'ad it give me a week ago, and I sived it 'cos there 
 warn't nothin' that I wanted. So you take it. I don't 
 want it. If yer like, yer can give me a kiss for it." She 
 pressed it into his hand. "There ain't no other little 
 boy I know what I'd give it to," she added rather incon- 
 sistently. 
 
 Bill nodded his head, and the lips grew a little tremu- 
 lous. He had been treated cruelly all the morning, and 
 this sudden change to sympathy and generosity was 
 almost too much for him. He kissed the yellow-haired girl 
 — once timidly, and then suddenly with great affection. 
 
 " Why, Bill," she said, " I ain't done nothin' to 'urt 
 yer, yer look ommust as if yer was goin' to cry." 
 
 "No, I ain't," replied Bill, finding words with diffi- 
 culty — "but — but I 'ate ev'rybody in the world 'cep' 
 you." 
 
 Then he walked away with great dignity, and every 
 nerve in his excitable little body quivering. He felt on 
 the whole rather more wretched than before. The 
 contrast made him feel both sides of it more deeply. 
 He had forgotten now about the beautiful puddle and 
 his intention to play at ^hips. He wandered down the 
 main street, and then down a side street which led 
 behind a grim, frowning church. And here he found 
 something which attracted his attention. It was a dirty 
 little shop which a small tobacconist, and an almost 
 microscopical grocer had used successively as a last step 
 before bankruptcy. It had then remained for some time 
 unoccupied. But now the whole of the window was 
 occupied with one great bright picture, before which a 
 small crowd had gathered. It represented a beautiful 
 mermaid swimming in a beautiful sea accompanied by a 
 small octopus and some boiled shrimps. Her hair was 
 
76 ■ "BiW 
 
 very golden and very long ; her eyes were very blue ; she 
 was very pink and very fat. Underneath was the 
 announcement— 
 
 THE MERMAID OF THE WESTERN PACIFIC ! 
 
 POSITIVELY TO BE SEEN WITHIN ! ! 
 
 FOR A FEW DAYS ONLY.' 
 ADiSlSSION ONE PENNY. 
 
 An old man was standing in the doorway, with a 
 tattered red curtain behind him, supplying further 
 details of the history and personal appearance of the 
 mermaid. He looked slightly military, distinctly intem- 
 perate, and very unfortunate ; yet he was energetic. 
 
 " What it comes to is this — for a few days only I am 
 offering two 'igh-class entertainments at the price of one. 
 The performance commences with an exhibition by that 
 most marvellous Spanish conjurer, Madumarsall Rimbini, 
 and concludes with that unparalleled wonder of the world, 
 the Mermaid of the Western Pasuffolk. I have been 
 asked frequent if it pays me to do this. No, it does not 
 pay me. I am doing it entirely as an advertisement. 
 Kindly take notice that this mermaid is not a shadder, 
 faked up with lookin' glasses. She is real, solid, genuine, 
 discovered by an English officer while cruisin' in the 
 Western Pasuffolk, and purchased direct from him by 
 myself. The performance will commence in one minute. 
 If any gentleman is not g,ble to stay now, I may remark 
 that the performances will be repeated agin this evenin' 
 from seven to ten. What it comes to is this — for a few 
 days only, etc." 
 
 Of course. Bill had seen shows of a kind before. He 
 had seen a 'bus horse stumble, and almost pick itself up, 
 
'Biiir 
 
 77 
 
 and stumble again, and finally go down half on the 
 kerbstone. That had been attractive, but there had been 
 nothing to pay for it. Again, in his Sunday School days, 
 he had been present at an entertainment where the 
 exhilaration of solid buns and dissolving views had been 
 gently tempered by a short address. That, too, was 
 attractive, but it had been free. And now it would not 
 be possible to see this beautiful buoyant creature in clear 
 shrimp-haunted waters unless he paid a penny for it — 
 the only penny that he possessed. Never before had 
 he paid anything to go anywhere. The temptation was 
 masterful. It gripped him, and drew him towards the 
 tattered red curtain that hung over the entrance. In 
 another minute he had paid his penny, and stood 
 within. 
 
 At the end of the shop a low stage had been 
 erected. On the stage was something which looked like 
 a large packing-case with a piece of red baize thrown 
 over it. There was a small table, on which were two 
 packs of playing-cards, and a brightly-coloured pill-box, 
 and a tired, fat woman in a low dress of peculiar frowsi- 
 ness. As the audience- entered she put a smile on her 
 face, where it remained fixed as if it had been pinned. The 
 performance commenced with three clumsy card-tricks. 
 Then she requested someone in the audience to put a 
 halfpenny in the painted pill-box, and see it changed 
 into a shilling. The audience' felt that they had been 
 weak in paying a. penny to see the show, and on this 
 last point they were adamant. They would put no half- 
 pennies in no pill-boxes. They werenow .firm. So also 
 was the Spanish conjurer, and this trick was omitted. 
 She intimated that she would now proceed to the second 
 part of the entertainment — the exhibition of the Mermaid 
 
78 ^^Bilir 
 
 of the Western Pacifia She removed, dramatically, the 
 red-baize cover, disclosing a glass-case. The audience 
 pressed forward to examine its contents, ^he case was 
 filled for the most part with those romantic rocks and 
 grasses which conventionality has appointed to be a suit- 
 able setting for stuffed canaries, or stuffed dogs, or anything 
 that is stuffed. There was a background of painted sky 
 and sea ; and in the frdnt there was a small, most hor- 
 rible figure, looking straight at Bill out of hideous, green, 
 glassy eyes. It was not the lovely creature depicted in 
 the window outside. It was a monstrous thing, a con- 
 temptible fraud to the practised intelligence, but to 
 Bill's childish, excitable mind a thing of unspeakable 
 horror and fascination. The lower half was a wilted, 
 withered fish ; then came a girdle of seaweed, and then 
 something which was near to being human, yellow, and 
 waxy, with a ghastly face, a bald head, and those eyes 
 that would keep looking at Bjll. He shut his own eyes 
 for a second ; when he opened them again the monstrous 
 thing was still looking at him. 
 
 There were two men standing near to Bill. One of 
 them was a very young and very satirical carpenter, with 
 a foot-rule sticking out of his coat-pocket. " So that's 
 a mermaid ? " he remarked. " Yer call that a mermaid ? 
 oh, indeed, a mermaid — oh, yes ! " 
 
 "Seems to me," said the other man, middle-aged, 
 cadaverous, and dressed in rusty black, " that it's a sight 
 like a dead byeby." 
 
 "Well, you ought to know," replied the satirical 
 carpenter, grinning. 
 
 Bill heard this. So in that basement flat in Pond 
 Buildings, Bill's home, there was something lying, quite 
 still, and waiting for him, to frighten him ! He had never 
 
''Bill." 79 
 
 thought what a dead baby would be like. His mind 
 began to work in flashes. The first flash reminded him 
 of some horrible stories which his red-haired, vehement 
 aunt had told him, to terrify him into being good. He 
 had objected at the close of one story that dead people 
 could not walk about. 
 
 "You don't know," his aunt had replied, "nobody 
 knows, what dead people can do." In the second 
 flash he imagined that he had gone home, had been 
 lectured by his aunt, and beaten by his father, and had 
 cried himself to sleep. He would wake up at night, 
 when all was quiet — he felt sure of it — and the room 
 would not be quite dark. He would see by the white 
 moonlight a horrible yellow waxy thing crawling across 
 the floor. It would be his dead baby sister, and it 
 would have a face like the face of the mermaid, and it 
 would stare at him. He would be unable to call out. 
 It would come nearer and nearer, and at last it would 
 touch him. Then he would die of fright. 
 
 No, he would not go home, not until the dead baby 
 had been taken away. 
 
 As the audience crowded out through the narrow 
 doorway, Bill touched the man in shabby black — 
 
 "Please Sir, 'ow long is it afore they bury dead 
 babies?" 
 
 The man stared at him searchingly. •' What do yer 
 want to know that for ? Depends on the weather partly, 
 and on the inclinations of the bereaved party. ' Soon 
 as possible' 's alius my advice, but they let it go for days 
 frequent.'' 
 
 Bill thanked him, .and walked aimlessly away. He 
 could not get the terror out of his mind. He walke-'- 
 through street after gtreet, so absorbed in horrit 
 
8o - ''BilV 
 
 thoughts that he hardly noticed what direction he was 
 taking,, and only just escaped being run over. He had 
 been wandering for over an hour when he came across 
 two boys, whom he knew, playing marbles. This was 
 companionship and diversion for his thoughts. For 
 some time he watched the game with interest, and then 
 one of the players pulled from his pocket two large 
 marbles of greenish glass, and set them rolling. Bill 
 turned away at once, for he had been reminded of those 
 green eyes. He imagined that they were still looking at 
 him ; but, in his imagination, they belonged, not to the 
 mermaid, but to the dead baby. He wished again and 
 again that he had never been to that show. He was 
 growing almost desperate with terror. Of course his 
 state of mind was to some extent due to the fact that he 
 had eaten nothing for eight hours. But then, Bill did 
 not know this. Suddenly he gave a great start, and a 
 gasp for breath, for he had been touched on the shoulder. 
 He looked up and saw his father. Now Bill's father had 
 drunk two glasses of bad beer during his dinner-hour, 
 and, in consequence, he was feeling somewhat angry and 
 somewhat self-righteous, for his head was exceedingly 
 weak and poor. He addressed Bill very solemnly. 
 
 " Loit'rin' in the streets ! loit'rin' and playin' in the 
 streets ! What's the good o' my bringing of yer up in 
 the fear of Gawd ? " 
 
 Bill had no answer to make ; so his father aimed a 
 blow at him, which Bill dodged. 
 
 "All right," his father continued, "I'm sent out on a 
 jorb, and I ain't got the time to wallup yer now. But 
 you mark my words — this very night, as sure as my 
 name's what it is, I'll knock yer blasted 'ead off ! " 
 
 At any other time this would have frightened Bill, 
 
"^z"//." 8 1 
 
 but now it came as a positive relief. There is no fear so 
 painful, so maddening, as the fear of the supernatural. 
 The promise that he should have his head knocked off 
 had in itself but little charm or attraction. But in that 
 case he knew what to fear and from whence to fear it. 
 It took his thoughts away for a few minutes from the 
 horror of that dead baby, whose ghastly face he pictured 
 to himself so clearly. But it was only for a few 
 minutes; the face came back again to his mind and 
 haunted him. He could not escape from it. He was 
 more than ever determined that he would not go home ; 
 he dared not spend a night in the next room to it. 
 Already the afternoon was closing in, and Bill had no 
 notion where he was to go for the night. For the 
 present he decided to make his way to the green ; he 
 would probably meet other boys there that he knew. 
 
 The green to which he went is much frequented by 
 the poor of the south-west. The railway skirts one side 
 of it, and gives it an additional attraction to children. 
 Bill was tired out with walking. He flung himself down 
 on the grass to rest. His exhaustion at last overcame 
 his fears, and he fell asleep. He slept for a long time, 
 and in his sleep he had a dream. 
 
 It was, so it seemed to him in his dream, late in the 
 evening, and he was standing outside the door of the 
 basement flat. He had knocked, and was waiting to be 
 admitted. Suddenly he noticed that the door was just 
 ajar. He pushed it open and entered. He called, but 
 there was no answer. All was dark. The outer door 
 swung to with a bang behind him. He thought that he 
 would wait in the kitchen by the light of the fire until 
 someone came. He felt his way to the kitchen and sat 
 down in front of the fire. 
 
 F 
 
82 ''Bill:' 
 
 It had burnt very low, and the furniture was only just 
 distinguishable by the light of it. As he was waiting he 
 heard very faintly the sound of breathing. It did not 
 frighten him, but he could not understand it, because, as 
 far as he could see, there was no living thing in the 
 room except himself. ■ He thought that he would strike 
 a light and discover what it was. The matches were all 
 in a cupboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace. 
 He could only just reach the fastening, and it took him 
 some little time to undo it. The moment the fastening 
 was undone the door flew open, and something yellowish- 
 white fell or rather leapt out upon him, fixing little quickly- 
 moving fingers in his hair. With a scream he fell to the 
 floor. He had shut his eyes in horror, but he felt 
 compelled to open them again to see what this thing was 
 that clung to him, writhing and panting. A little spurt 
 of flame had shot up, and showed him the face. Its 
 eyes were blinking and rolling. Its mouth moved 
 horribly and convulsively, and there was foam on the 
 white lips. The face was close to his own; it drew 
 nearer ; it touched him. It was wet. 
 
 Bill suddenly woke up and sprang to his feet, shivering 
 and maddened with terror. The green was dark and 
 deserted. A cold, strong wind had sprung up, and he 
 heard it howling dismally. An impulse seized him to 
 run — to run for his life. For a moment he hesitated; 
 and then, under the shadow of the wall, slinking along in 
 the darkness, he saw something white coming towards 
 him, and with a quick gasp he turned and ran. He paid 
 no heed to the direction in which he was going; he 
 dared not look behind, for he felt sure that the nameless 
 horror was behind him ; he ran until he was breathless, 
 and then walked a few paces, and ran again. As he 
 
crossed the road, at the outer edge of the green, a police- 
 man stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Bill did 
 not even see the policeman. His one idea was escape. 
 
 It happened that he ran in the direction of the river. 
 He had left the road now, and was following a muddy 
 track that led through some grimy, desolate market- 
 gardens. All around him there was horror. It 
 screamed in the screaming wind with a voice that was 
 half human ; it took shape in the darkness, and lean, 
 white arms, convulsively active, seemed to be snatching 
 at him as he passed ; the pattering of blown leaves was 
 changed by it into the pattering of something ghastly, 
 coming very quickly after h ira . For onesecondhe paused 
 on the river's brink; and then, pressing both his 
 hands tightly over his eyes, he flung himself into the 
 water. 
 
 And the river went on unconcerned, and the laws of 
 Nature did not deviate from their regular course. So the 
 boy was drowned. It was a pity, for he was in some 
 ways a lovable boy, and there were possibilities in him. 
 
 Bill's aunt was putting the untidy bedroom straight 
 when his mother, opening her eyes and turning a little in 
 the bed, said, in a low, tired voice — 
 
 " I want Bill. Wheere's Bill ? " 
 
 " I sent 'im out, dearie ; 'e'll be back d'rectly. Don't 
 you worry yourself about Bill. Why, that drattid lamp's 
 a-shinin' strite onto your eyes. I'll turn it down." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, while the vehement 
 woman — quiet enough now — arranged the lamp and took 
 her place by the bedside. She smoothed the young 
 mother's faded hair with one hand. "Go to sleep, 
 dearie," she said. 
 
84 ''Bilir 
 
 Then she began to sing in a hushed, quavering voice. 
 It was a favourite hyrnn, and for devotional purposes she 
 rarely used more than one vowel sound — 
 
 " Urbud wuth me ! Fust-fulls the uvvun-tud ! " 
 
SLIGHTLY DEAF. 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG. 
 
 Mr Lloyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at The 
 Lodge, Norwood. He had amassed a fortune of thirty 
 thousand pounds in the grocery business, principally by 
 sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other 
 little tricks of the trade. Yet he went to church every 
 Sunday with a clear conscience. At the time I introduce 
 him to you he was a widower, with one son, Joseph, 
 aged eighteen. 
 
 Joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the mis- 
 fortune to be deaf. " Slightly deaf," his father called 
 him, but he grew worse instead of better, and threatened 
 to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time. Of 
 course, his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employ- 
 ment for he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous 
 and sometimes aggravating nature. Add to this that 
 Joseph was very lean and his father very fat, and you will 
 understand why people called them " Feast and Famine," 
 or "Substance and Shadow." 
 
 One morning after breakfast, Mr Lloyd, who had 
 been looking over some paid bills, exclaimed "Joe ! " 
 
 Joe was reading the paper, and made no answer. 
 
 " Joe ! " thundered his father. 
 
86 Slightly Deaf. 
 
 This time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and 
 Joseph got up, walked to the window, and looked out. 
 * " What are you doing ? " shouted Mr Lloyd. 
 
 " I thought I heard the wind blow," replied Joseph. 
 
 " Well ! I like that. It was I calling." 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear 
 anybody, for he was ashamed of his deafness, but he 
 often fell into a brown study and was as deaf as an 
 adder. 
 
 Besides this, he was more deaf on one side than on 
 the other, as is often the case, and he happened to have 
 his very bad ear turned to his father, 
 
 " Why don't you speak out ? " said he. 
 
 " I did," replied Mr Lloyd. 
 
 "Yoil ^Iways mumble." 
 
 " I holloaed loud enough to wake the dead." 
 
 "You know I'm slightly deaf," 
 
 " Slightly ! You'll have to buy an ear-trumpet." 
 
 " Trumpet be blowed ! " answered Joseph. 
 
 "Here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed Mr 
 Lloyd, pointing to the bundle. 
 
 Joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and 
 deliberately threw them into the fire, where they were 
 very soon blazing merrily. 
 
 Mr Lloyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran 
 to the grate, but he was too late to save them. 
 
 "You double-barrelled idiot !" he cried. 
 
 " AVhat's the fuss now ? " asked Joseph calmly. 
 
 He always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what 
 he did. 
 
 "You'll never be worth your salt." 
 
Slightly Deaf. 87 
 
 "What's my fault?" 
 
 " I said salt." 
 
 " Keep quiet, and I'll get you some.' 
 
 " No ! " roared Mr Lloyd. 
 
 " What did you say so for then ? It seems to me you 
 don't know your own mind two minutes together." 
 
 Mr Lloyd stamped his foot with impatience on the 
 carpet. 
 
 " Oh dear ! what a trial you are ! " he exclaimed. 
 " They are receipted bills, and I told you to put them 
 on the file. F-I-L-E. Do you hear that ? " 
 
 " I hear it now," responded Joe. " It's a pity you 
 won't speak up." 
 
 "Sol do." 
 
 " They'll never call you leather-lungs." 
 
 " Oh, Joe, Joe, you'll be the death of me ! You're a 
 duffer, and it's no use saying you're not. I was going to 
 tell you I had got a berth for you, but I'm afraid you 
 could not keep it." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Clerk in the office of my old friend, Mr Maybrick, 
 the stockbroker.'' 
 
 " Eh ! " said Joseph. " What's a mockstoker ? " 
 
 " A stockbroker 1 " shouted Mr Lloyd. 
 
 " Why didn't you say so at first ? Do you think I 
 don't know what that is ? I'm not quite such a fool as 
 that comes to." 
 
 " You'd aggravate a saint, Joe ! " 
 
 " Paint your toe ! Have you gone mad ? " 
 
 " Great heavens ! I shall hit you ; get out ! " shrieked 
 his father. 
 
 " Got the gout 1 Oh, that's another thing. I thought 
 you'd have it. You drink too much port after dinner." 
 
88 ' Slightly Deaf. 
 
 "I say, Joe," cried Mr Lloyd, "are you doing this on 
 purpose ? You don't understand a word I say ; in fact, 
 you misconstrue everything." 
 
 " If that is so, I can't help it." 
 
 "You're getting worse." 
 
 " Don't do that," replied Joe gravely. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Don't curse me. If I'm deaf — that is to say, slightly 
 deaf — it is my misfortune, not my fault. You ought to 
 make allowance for me, and speak louder." 
 
 " Do you want me to be a foghorn or a river steam- 
 tug?" 
 
 " Certaijily not." 
 
 " Or a cavalry man's trumpet, or a bellowing bull ? " 
 
 " No, father." 
 
 "Or," continued Mr Lloyd, with rising temper, "a 
 spouting whale, an Old Bailey barrister, a town-crier, a 
 grampus, a locomotive blowing off steam, an Australian 
 bell-bird, or a laughing jackass ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I never laugh, so you needn't fling that at 
 me." 
 
 "I wish you were dumb as well as deaf !" groaned 
 Mr Lloyd. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I might then get you into the Asylum." 
 
 " File 'em," muttered Joseph. " He's still thinking of 
 the bills." 
 
 " Confound him ! " muttered his father. "He's worse 
 than a County Court Judgment. I don't know what to 
 do with him." 
 
 To soothe his nerves he lighted a cigar, and looking in 
 the fire puffed away at the weed, while Joe again took 
 up the paper and went on reading. 
 
Slightly Deaf. 89 
 
 Half-an-hour passed. 
 
 Then Mr Lloyd said, " You know you're getting worse, 
 but you're so obstinate that you won't admit it, and it's 
 six to four you'll not yield." 
 
 Joseph looked up with irritating calmness. 
 
 " No, thanks," he exclaimed. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I never bet." 
 
 " Who talked about betting ? " yelled his father. 
 
 "You offered six to four on the field, and " 
 
 " I didn't. Yah ! " 
 
 " Never mind ; I shan't take you," replied Joseph. 
 
 Mr Lloyd got up and did a war dance. 
 
 " Who asked you to ? " 
 
 "You did. It only wants six weeks to the Derby, 
 and " 
 
 Mr Lloyd lost all control over himself for the moment. 
 He took up the coal-scuttle and threw it at his son, 
 which was a very reprehensible thing to do ; but it did 
 not hurt Joseph, for that intelligent youth saw it coming, 
 and ducking his head, it went with a crash through the 
 window into the street. 
 
 "That's a clever thing to do !" said Joseph, without 
 so much as winking. " You needn't get mad because 
 I won't bet." 
 
 His father shook his fist at him. 
 
 "You'll be my death," he replied, sinking into a 
 chair with a gasp. 
 
 " I can't help it if I am deaf," rejoined the imperturb- 
 able Joseph. 
 
 " You're sharper than a serpent's tooth." 
 
 " It wasn't very sharp of you to break the window." 
 
 " Go to Putney ! " 
 
go Slightly Deaf. 
 
 " Where am I to get putty ? " said Joseph. " Send 
 for a glazier." 
 
 " Bless us and save us ! " groaned Mn Lloyd. 
 
 " There isn't much saving in having a broken window 
 to catch a cold by." 
 
 Mr Lloyd rushed into the hall, and taking down his 
 hat and coat from the rack, put them on. 
 
 " Come up to town at once," he exclaimed. " We'll 
 go and see MrMaybrick." 
 
 "What's the good of a hay-rick?" asked Joseph 
 simply. 
 
 " Eh ! " 
 
 " You can't stop a hole in a window with a hay-rick." 
 
 " I said Maybrick, the broker," roared Mr Lloyd, 
 putting his hands to his mouth. 
 
 " I do wish you'd speak out." i 
 
 " Get a trumpet. Yah ! " 
 
 " Trump it ? We're not playing whist ! " 
 
 "Oh, dear!" sighed Mr Lloyd. "He must be 
 apprenticed to Maybrick. I'll pay a premium, if it's a 
 hundred pounds. I'm not a hog, and don't want to 
 enjoy this all by myself. I'll share it with another. It's 
 too much for one to struggle with. I can't undertake the 
 worry single-handed ; it's too much." 
 
 He. had to go close up to Joseph and bawl in his ear 
 to make him understand what he wanted, for he had 
 never found his son's deafness so bad as it was that 
 day. 
 
 Joseph was quite willing to go, and quitting the house, 
 they took the train, and went to town together. 
 
 It was yet early in the day, and they reached the 
 broker's '■office about twelve, finding him in and at 
 leisure. During the journey, Mr Lloyd had impressed 
 
Slightly Deaf. ' 91 
 
 upon Joseph the necessity of keeping his ears open as 
 well as he could ; for if he made any mistakes he would 
 soon get "chucked," as they say in the City, and Joe 
 promised to be as wideawake as his infirmity would 
 permit him. 
 
 How wideawake this was we shall see. 
 
 Mr Maybrick had done business with Mr Lloyd for 
 many years, and received him into his private office with 
 all the cordiality of an old friend. 
 
 " Brought my boy to introduce to you," exclaimed the 
 retired grocer. 
 
 " Very glad to know the young gentleman," replied Mr 
 Maybrick. "Take a chair. Have a cigar. Quite a 
 chip of the old block, I see ; what's his name ? " 
 
 " Joseph. Joe for short." 
 
 " Very good. Now what can I do for you ? Are you 
 going to open stock ? " 
 
 " Not to-day." 
 
 " Markets are very firm." 
 
 " I didn't come for that purpose, Maybrick. I want 
 to get the youngster into your office." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " answered the broker. " I forgot. You 
 spoke about it a little while ago." 
 
 "Last time I was up, when I bought those 
 ' Russians.' " 
 
 "Against my advice, and burnt your fingers over 
 them." 
 
 " True." 
 
 " Well, I'll take him. One hundred pounds premium, 
 no salary first year, then seventy pounds and an annual 
 rise, according to ability,'' 
 
 " That will do." 
 
 " I hope he's smart ? " 
 
92 Slightly Deaf. 
 
 " Smart as a steel trap, though sometimes he's a little 
 absent-minded, and you've got to speak loudly, maybe 
 more than once ; but that's only now and again. I'll 
 write you a cheque, and leave him here, so that he will 
 know the ropes." 
 
 " Very well. I dare say we shall get on. I've ten 
 clerks, and I've only changed once in ten years.'' 
 
 " That speaks well for you.'' 
 
 " I read character, and I'm kind," said Mr Maybrick. 
 " Sit at my iable ; you'll find pen and ink." 
 
 While Mr Lloyd was getting out his cheque-book, and 
 writing the draft, Mr Maybrick turned his attention to 
 his new clerk. 
 
 " Have you ever been out before?'" he queried. 
 
 " Go out of the door?" replied Joe. "Yes, sir, if you 
 want to say anything of a private nature, I'll go with 
 pleasure.'' 
 
 " No, no ! Do you understand work ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I shan't shirk anything." 
 
 "Bless me!" cried the broker. "I mean, do you 
 know business ? " ' 
 
 " No business ? " answered Joseph, with a solemn 
 shake of his head. " I'm sorry for that. Times are 
 dull, though, all round." 
 
 " I've got plenty. You mistake me. Don't run away 
 with that idea; you won't find this an easy place.'' 
 
 " Got a greasy face, have I ? " responded Joseph. 
 " It's not very polite of you to tell me that." 
 
 "What the " began Mr Maybrick, when Joe's 
 
 father handed him the cheque. 
 
 " There's the needful," exclaimed Mr Lloyd. 
 
 " Thanks," said the broker, adding, " I say, old friend, 
 isn't Mr Joseph a little hard of hearing?" 
 
Slightly Deaf. g3 
 
 " Oh ! ah ! not that exactly." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " He's. got a cold in his head," 
 
 " Is that all ? " 
 
 "Yes; he got his feet wet," said Mr Lloyd con- 
 fidentially, "and I had to bawl at him this morning." 
 
 " I thought he was — ahem ! a little deaf." 
 
 " Bless you, no ! Raise your voice ; that's all you've 
 got to do." 
 
 " Ah, I see. It's bad to be like that," answered Mr 
 Maybrick, whose doubts were removed. " The weather's 
 been so bad, everyone has had a cold, more or less." 
 
 Telling the intelligent Joseph that he should expect 
 him home to dinner at seven, Mr Lloyd took leave 
 of the broker, who gave his new clerk some accounts 
 to enter in a book, saying that he might sit in his office 
 for the remainder of that day, and he would find him 
 desk-room on the morroyv; after which he hurried 
 away to see what was going on in the general room. 
 
 ^Joseph hung up his hat and coat, and set to work. 
 He certainly meant to do his best. They say a certain 
 place, which the Hebrews call Sheol, is paved with good 
 intentions ; anyhow, the fates were against him. Never 
 before had his deafness been so bad. It seemed to 
 have swooped down upon and swamped him all at 
 once. ' 
 
 Scarcely had he begun his work then he was startled 
 by the ringing of a bell. 
 
 It was just over his head, and proceeded from the 
 telephone. 
 
 Now Joseph knew just about as much about a telephone 
 as he did about the phonograph, or the dot-and-dash 
 system of telegraphy. 
 
94 Slightly Deaf. 
 
 He sprang from his chair, turned ghastly pale, and 
 fancied it was an alarm of fire. 
 
 What should he do ? 
 
 For fully a minute he stood gazing vacantly at the box 
 and the bell. 
 
 Then it rang again. 
 
 Joseph jumped half a foot in the air. 
 
 Then he rushed into the general room where he found 
 Mr Maybrick talking to a client. 
 
 "Please, sir, can I disturb you for a moment?" he 
 said. 
 
 " I'm very particularly engaged, Lloyd," replied the 
 broker. 
 
 " Excuse me, but " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "There's a bell ringing." 
 
 "Oh, the telephone. I forgot to tell you to attend 
 to it." 
 
 " It's rung twice." 
 
 "Then somebody is in a hurry. Answer and come 
 and tell me what it is." 
 
 " How do you do it, sir ? " 
 
 "Speak through the instrument, ask who it is, and 
 what he wants, and put the tube to your ear." 
 
 The fright had somewhat stimulated Joseph's powers 
 of hearing, for he caught these instructions and hastened 
 back to the inner office. After a little experimenting 
 he put himself in communication, and the following 
 colloquy ensued. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Joe. 
 
 "Oliphant," was the reply. 
 
 " Elephant ! '.' mused Joe. " That's funny ! " 
 
 But he went at it again. 
 
Slightly Deaf. 95 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 "By one o'clock, sell 10,000 Mex. .Rails." 
 
 Joe heard this order imperfectly. 
 
 " Buy 10,000 ox tails," he said to himsel.f". " This is a 
 queer business ! " 
 
 Yet he was not discouraged. 
 
 Joe had not come into the City for nothing. He 
 meant to do his duty, or perish in the attempt. 
 
 "Right ! " he answered. " Is that all ? " 
 
 "Yes ; I'll call after lunch for the contract note." ' 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 Having received his instructions, Joe, very proud of 
 his success in manipulating such a peculiar instrument 
 as the telephone, sought his employer. 
 
 "Well, Lloyd?" exclaimed that gentleman. 
 
 " It's all right, sir," replied Joe. 
 
 " What is ? " 
 
 "The elephant wants you to buy him 10,000 ox tails.'' 
 
 Mr Maybrick elevated his eyebrows. 
 
 " Who did you say ? " he demanded in a loud voice. 
 
 " The elephant." 
 
 "Mr Oliphant, I suppose you mean?" 
 
 " Ah ! It might have been Oliphant, or Boliphant ; it 
 was something like that." 
 
 " Ox tails ? Why not Mex. Rails ? — .Mexican Railways, 
 you know ! " 
 
 " Humph ! " said Joe ; " very likely." 
 
 " Are you sure he said ' Buy ? ' " 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir; that was distinct enough. And he 
 said he'd come after lunch for the distracting note." 
 
 " Contract note ? " 
 
 " It may be that. The gentleman did not speak very 
 distinctly." 
 
96 Slightly Deaf. 
 
 " Oliphant has a low voice," said Mr Maybrick 
 -thoughtfully, "but he's, one of my best customers. 
 Perhaps he's heard something ; he must have got some 
 information. I'll have a bit in this myself. Oliphant 
 is a very shrewd and careful speculator. That will do, 
 Lloyd." * 
 
 Joseph departed, highly delighted. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Mr Maybrick, when Joe had 
 gone ; " my new clerk is an odd one. ' Buy 10,000 ox 
 tails for the elephant.' That's good. I must tell that 
 story in the House." 
 
 He beckoned to his manager, who was, a man named 
 Mappin, and told him to buy the required quantity of 
 Mexican Railway Stocks. 
 
 "Market's very weak, sir. It's fallen to-day one 
 half already in anticipation of a bad dividend," replied 
 Mappin. ' 
 
 " Can't help that," was the rejoinder. 
 
 Mappin went away to execute the order. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and a special edition of an even- 
 ing paper was brought into the office. It contained 
 a telegram from Mexico, stating that there had not 
 been one revolution and two earthquakes in that 
 country before breakfast, as usual, that morning. 
 The railway dividend was remarkably good, and 
 Mexican Preference Stock went up five per cent., at 
 which price the broker took upon himself to close the 
 account, thinking his client would be well satisfied with 
 his profits. 
 
 " Clever fellow Oliphant ! " muttered Mr Maybrick, , 
 up to every move on the board. Deuced clever ! " 
 
 At that moment Mr Oliphant, who was" a stout, red- 
 faced man, inclined to apoplexy, rushed into the office. 
 
Slightly Deaf. o^ 
 
 He was agitated, and looked as if he was going to 
 have a fit. 
 
 " Close the account," he gasped. 
 
 " I have done so," was the reply. 
 
 "What at?" 
 
 " A rise of five per cent." 
 
 " It will ruin me ! " groaned Oliphant. 
 
 " How ? You telephoned me to buy ! " 
 
 " I said sell." 
 
 " Then my clerk made a mistake ! " exclaimed Mr 
 Maybrick ; " but it's a lucky mistake for both of us, for 
 I followed your lead." 
 
 " You're joking ! " 
 
 " Never was more serious in my life. I'll give you a 
 cheque at once." 
 
 Mr Oliphant's face brightened. 
 
 " And I'll give your wooden-headed clerk a ten-pound 
 note," he said. 
 
 "That may console him for his dismissal," said Mr 
 Maybrick drily. 
 
 " Are you going to get rid of him ? " 
 
 " Most decidedly. I can't afford to keep a clerk who 
 makes mistakes of that kind. This time it has come out 
 all right ; next time it may be all wrong." 
 " Just so," replied Mr Oliphant. 
 He handed Maybrick the ten pounds, which the 
 broker gave to Mappin, telling him to present it to 
 Joseph, and inform him that his services would not be 
 required any longer, and the premium his father had 
 paid should be returned by post. Then the broker gave 
 Mr Oliphant his unexpected profits, and they went out to 
 have a bottle of champagne together. 
 Mappin sought Joseph. 
 
9 8 Slightly Deaf. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " he asked. 
 
 "Doing sums," replied Joe, which was his idea of 
 book-keeping. 
 
 "Well, you need not do any more." 
 
 " No, I don't think it a bore," said Joe. " It's all in 
 the day's work, don't you know ? " 
 
 "You're not wanted here." 
 
 " Can't I hear ? What do you know about it ? " 
 
 " Tlie fool's deaf ! " cried Mappin, raising his voice. 
 " Take this tenner, and go ! " 
 
 Joe heard this plain enough. 
 
 " Sacked ! " he said laconically. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mappin, nodding his head vigorously. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Playing the fool with the telephone. We've no use 
 for you.'' 
 
 " Oh, very well. I thought I shouldn't answer.'' 
 
 "You see, we don't run our business on the silent 
 system." 
 
 Joe put on his hat and coat, with that perfect uncon- 
 cern which always distinguished him. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said, pocketing the note. "I 
 say, I don't think much of telephones. Do you ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's a very clever invention." 
 
 " Ah ! there's no accounting for taste." 
 
 With these words Joseph quitted the office, and took a 
 walk in the City. 
 
A BREACH OF PROMISE OF 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 
 
 It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the 
 life of one patient is no more to a medical man than that 
 of another; knd the great physician had several urgent 
 cases to see before he could use the special train placed 
 at his disposal by Hazel's elderly lover, who had never 
 left the station all the morning, and had given instructions 
 that the starting of the train should be telegraphed to 
 him from the terminus in town. 
 
 In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of 
 Feelier's brother, who came to and fro every hour to 
 where Mr William Forth Burge was walking up and 
 down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge 
 on the patient's state. 
 
 One of those messages was to the effect that the local 
 doctor had been, and said that there was no change ; and 
 that he was stopping at home on purpose to meet the 
 great physician when he came. 
 
 So was Mr William Forth Surge's carriage, and so was 
 a group of the tradespeople and others — for in the easy- 
 going life of a little country town the loss of a day was 
 as nothing compared to the chance of seeing the Queen's 
 own physician when he came down. 
 
lOO A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 
 
 At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the 
 lightning message speeding along the wires: "Special 
 left King's Cross, 3.30 " ; and then how slow seemed the 
 rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its 
 way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station 
 master said, perhaps two hours, even at express speed. 
 
 And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and 
 would have taken nothing but for the thoughtfulness of 
 the station-master's wife, who brought him some tea. 
 
 " No, sir, not yet ; that's the fast down j " or, " No, 
 sir, not yet, that's only the afternoon goods ; " or again, 
 " No, sir ; that's only the slow local. They'll wire me from 
 Marshton when she passes.'' 
 
 This from the chief official ; but at last the wired 
 message came, and after what seemed to be an intermin- 
 able time, a fast engine, tender, one saloon carriage and 
 brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet, dark 
 man stepped out as the door was held open by the 
 station-master, waiting ready to do honour to the man 
 greater in his power than the magician kings of old, but 
 , very weak even then. 
 
 "Mr William Forth Burge? Thanks. Carriage 
 waiting ? Tha,nks. Now tell me a little of the case.'' 
 
 This was mastered principally by questions as they 
 drove to the cottage. 
 
 " Yes,'' said the great man, " I see. The old thing 
 my dear sir. What can you expect with sanitary arrange- 
 ments such as these ? " 
 
 He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr 
 
 William Forth Burge suddenly checking the driver, as 
 
 they were about half-way, to pick up Dr Bartlett, the 
 
 resident medical man. 
 
 Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping- 
 
A Breach of Promise of Marriage. loi 
 
 room of the cottage, the great doctor treating his humble 
 brother with the most profound respect, and then they 
 went up to the bedroom, and Httle Miss Burge came 
 down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors de- 
 scended, the two occupants of the room gazing up at 
 them with appeal in their eyes as they vacated their chairs 
 in the great man's favour. 
 
 "I can only say, Mr WilHam Forth Burge, that we 
 must hope," said the great baronet. "It is the most 
 ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must have its 
 course. I may add that I almost regret that you should 
 have called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort 
 to you ; for I can neither add to nor detract from the 
 skilful treatment adopted by my conjrhe Doctor Bartlett, 
 who is carefully watching the case. What we want is 
 the best of nursing ; and at any cost, let the poor girl be 
 taken to some light, wholesome, airy room." 
 
 " Might we risk moving her ? " panted Mr Burge. 
 
 "It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with 
 the greatest care, under Doctor Bartlett's instructions; 
 for I have no hesitation in saying that if our patient 
 stays here she will die." 
 
 "God bless you. Sir Henry; I'd have given all I 
 possess for that ! " gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of 
 paper in the doctor's hands. 
 
 There was the drive back to the station ; the little 
 train steamed out, and that evening while poor Feelier 
 Potts slept. Hazel .Thome was carried down to the 
 Burges' carriage, and lay that night in the west room, to 
 keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who 
 had been so noble, so true, and good, and to make 
 appeals to him for his forgiveness, as she now knew how 
 to value his honest love. 
 
T02 A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 
 
 Hazel seemed to have borne the moving weH, and the 
 doctor smiled his satisfaction at seeing his patient in 
 such light and cheerful quarters ; but the days had gone 
 on without change. Night and day there had been the 
 same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain, the 
 same constant talking of the troubles of the past ; and 
 little Miss Burge sobbed aloud sometimes as she 
 listened to the revelations of Hazel's breast. 
 
 " Poor dear ! " she said ;' and she strove to give the 
 sufferer the rest and ease that would not come, as hour 
 by hour she watched the terrible inroads the fever 
 made in her careworn face. 
 
 "She's getting that thin, doctor, it's quite painful," 
 she said ; but only to receive the same answer. 
 
 " Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear 
 madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you 
 shall see her gain strength every hour." 
 
 But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of 
 every care Hazel's state grew critical indeed. 
 
 "If I might only see her, dear," said Mr William 
 Forth Burge; "if I might only speak to her once. 
 I wouldn't want to come in." 
 
 " No, Bill, dear," said the little woman firmly ; " not 
 yet. The doctor says it is best, not, and you must 
 wait." 
 
 " Does — does she ever in the wanderings — a — a — 
 does she ever speak about me, Betsey ? " 
 
 " Yes ; sometimes she says you must have been very 
 kind." 
 
 " She has said that ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but she is not herself, Bill, dear; she's 
 quite off her head. I wouldn't build up any hopes upon 
 that." 
 
A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 103 
 
 " No, . I won't," he said xhastily. " I don't expect 
 anything, only to see her well again; but it does me good 
 to think she can think of me ever so little while she is 
 ill." 
 
 "You see, dear, it's her wandering," said his sister; 
 " that's all." 
 
 " But, tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she 
 will get over it ? " he said imploringly. 
 
 She looked at him with the tears trickling down her 
 face, but she did not answer. ■ 
 
 " He comes, you see, and smiles, and rubs his hands, 
 and says, ' She's no worse — she's no worse, Mr William 
 Forth Burge, sir ' ; but I can't trust him, Betsey, like I 
 can you. There," he cried, " see, I'm quite calm, and 
 I'll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she'll get 
 over it ? " 
 
 " Bill, dear, I can't tell you a lie, but I don't think 
 there's any present danger. I do think, though, you 
 ought to send for the poor girl's brother, and let him be 
 here." 
 
 William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read 
 the worst in his sister's eyes. 
 
 " I'll send for him directly, dear," he said, and he rose 
 and staggered from the room. 
 
 It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to 
 come down at once was sent ; after which, in a dull, 
 heavy way, Burge stood staring before him, trying to get 
 his brain to act dearly, as he asked himself what he 
 ought to do next. 
 
 " I think I ought to go down to her mother," he said 
 softly; "and I will." 
 
 In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when 
 little Miss Burge came hastily down the stairs, and 
 
I04 A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 
 
 her brother gasped as he placed one hand upon his 
 side. 
 
 " Bill — Bill," she whispered excitedly, " she is talking 
 sensibly, and she wants to see you." 
 
 "Wants to see me?" he panted. "No, no, she is 
 wandering, poor girl." 
 
 "No, no, dear," cried little Miss Burge, clinging to 
 his arm ; " she has asked for you hundreds of times 
 when she was wandering, and I wouldn't tell you — I 
 thought it wouldn't be right; but now she's quite 
 herself, and she's asking for you to come." 
 
 " But ought I ? " he said, " in my own house ? " 
 
 "Yes — now,'' whispered back his sister. "But, Bill, 
 dear, she's wasted away to a shadow ; she's weak as weak, 
 and you must not say a word more to her than if she was 
 a friend, or you were her brother." 
 
 " I won't," he said hoarsely. 
 
 "Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it 
 may do her good." 
 
 Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge 
 softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile 
 and look composed, so as to present an encouraging 
 aspect to the invahd, telling himself, heartsore though he 
 was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good 
 effect ; but as he entered the room and saw the change 
 that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood 
 as if nailed to the floor. 
 
 For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were 
 sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the 
 restless, pained expression had passed away, and the 
 light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise 
 one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet. 
 
 He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he 
 
A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 105 
 
 stood there by the door. This brought him back to 
 himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside. 
 
 " It was selfish of me to ask you to come," she said 
 softly ; " but you have both shown that you do not fear 
 the fever.'' 
 
 " Fear it, my dear ? No ! " he said, taking her thin 
 white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it 
 reverently back upon the coverlet ; but the fingers closed 
 round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as 
 it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to 
 him. 
 
 " How am I ever to thank you enough ? " she said in 
 a faint whisper. " Why have you brought me here ? It 
 troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer." 
 
 " But you mustn't talk now, my darling," whispered 
 little Miss Burge. "Wait till the doctor has been, and 
 only be still now and rest your poor self" 
 
 "Yes — rest," she said feebly; "rest. I feel so easy 
 now. All that dreadful pain has gone.'' 
 
 " Thank God ! " 
 
 She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful 
 look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the 
 chair by the fireside. 
 
 " Don't leave me," she whispered. " Yes ; keep hold 
 of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see 
 it all now so plainly." 
 
 " But, my darling, you must not talk. There, just say 
 a word or two to him, and then he must go. I'm going 
 to ask the doctor to come and see you now." 
 
 "No; let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps 
 to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wander- 
 ing on and on amongst my troubles once more." 
 
 " Then you will be very still, dear ? " 
 
To6 A Breach of Promise of Marriage. , 
 
 " Yes ; I only want to lie and rest. Don't leave me, 
 Mr Burge. Hold my hand." "^ : 
 
 There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she 
 lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly 
 grasped hers, and her eyes half closed as if in sleep. 
 
 From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged 
 glances with his sister, but the looks he received in 
 return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care- 
 worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling suprerpely 
 happy. 
 
 An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and 
 then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper. 
 
 "I've been thinking about the past," she said, "and 
 recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk 
 much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don't— don't 
 think me ungrateful." 
 
 " No, no," he whispered, as he bent down and kissed 
 her hand ; " I never could." 
 
 " I was thinking about — about when you asked me — 
 to be your wife.'' 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear," he said eagerly; "but I was 
 mad then. It was only an old fellow's fancy. I could 
 not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known 
 better. But we know one another now, and all you've 
 got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find 
 out that William Burge is man enough to do what's right." 
 
 She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt 
 
 that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand 
 
 closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild 
 
 throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his 
 
 , hand to her cheek and held it there. 
 
 "I was very blind then," she said in her whisper; 
 " but I ain not blind now." * 
 
/i Breach of Promise of Marriage. 107 
 
 She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look 
 intensifying as the time glided on. 
 
 After a while the woman who assisted as nurse 
 announced the coming of the doctor, who brightened up 
 and looked pleased as he saw the change. 
 
 " Yes," he said ; " the fever has left her. Now we must 
 build her up again." 
 
 And after satisfying himself about his patient's state, 
 he beckoned Miss Burge from the room, and gave the 
 fullest instructions as to the course to be pursued, 
 promised to come in again that evening, and went away. 
 
 The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his 
 place by the bedside, feeling that it was his by right, and 
 then at times suffering from a terrible depression, as he 
 told himself that he ought to go, and not presume upon 
 the weakness of one who was in his charge. Hazel lay 
 with her eyes half closed, apparently in a calm, dreamy 
 state, rousing herself a little when her tender nurse 
 administered to her food or medicine, and then turning 
 her eyes for a few moments to the occupant of the chair 
 by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a 
 restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand. 
 
 " I should like to have seen my little sisters," she said 
 once softly, "and my poor mother; but it would be cruel 
 to bring them here. I should like to kiss poor Ophelia, 
 too." She laughed faintly here, as if amused. "Poor 
 child ! — so good at heart. Poor child ! " 
 
 There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, 
 which lasted until evening when Hazel awoke with a 
 frightened start, crying out painfully. 
 
 " What is it, my pet ? " whispered little Miss Burge, 
 bending over the bed, and parting the hair from Hazel's 
 hot, wet brow. "There — there; you're better now." 
 
io8 A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 
 
 The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, 
 clear look at the speaker, then turned excitedly to the 
 bedside where William Forth Burge still sat holding her 
 hand. 
 
 The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, 
 and she began speaking in a quick, excited way. 
 
 " I have been dreaming. I thought I had told him it 
 was impossible again — that I could not; for I loved ' 
 someone else. But I do not. It was a weak girl's fancy. 
 Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear ; but it would 
 be unkind. Touch my face — my lips — with your fingers." 
 
 "My darling, I have no fear," sobbed the little 
 woman; and she bent down and kissed the poor girl 
 passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and make a sign 
 to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was 
 about to rise and seek for help ; but Hazel clung to his 
 hand in alarm. 
 
 " No, no ; don't go ! " she said hoarsely. " I could 
 not bear it now." 
 
 " I'll run. Bill," panted Miss Burge ; but a word from 
 Hazel stayed her. 
 
 " No, stop ! " she whispered. " God knows best, Mr 
 Burge. Lift me a little more. Let my head rest on 
 your shoulder — so ! " 
 
 William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form 
 tenderly and reverently, till Hazel's head rested upon 
 his broad shoulder, and he held her there ; but she was 
 not satisfied until he had placed her arm so that it half 
 embraced his n^ck ; and there she lay, gazing with her 
 unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great 
 tears slowly welled over their bounds and tricked down 
 his heavy face. 
 
 "Miss Burge," she said again, and there was some- 
 
A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 109 
 
 thing very strange and wild in her voice, " I was weak 
 and foolish once ; but now it is too late. I have grown 
 wiser — ^just at last. This is going to be my husband. 
 In his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him 
 now — with all my heart ! " 
 
 She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a 
 sound little Miss Burge stretched out one hand to the 
 bell, making a sign to the nurse who answered, and then 
 glided away. There was a long, deep silence then, 
 broken only by a sob from Miss Burge, who now sank 
 upon her knees by the bedside. 
 
 Hazel's eyes opened again, and she gazed about her 
 wildly, and as if in fear ; but the restful smile came back, 
 and she sighed as if relieved ; and again there was a long 
 silence, during which the watchers waited impatiently for 
 the doctor's step. 
 
 And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on 
 apace — a night they felt would be black and deep, for all 
 hope was gone. 
 
 Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer 
 and more distinct. 
 
 " I shall not hurt you now," she said softly, and her 
 thin, wasted hand rose from the counterpane, seemed 
 to tremble in the air for a moment, and then nestled 
 in William Forth Burge's breast. " Kiss me," she said 
 softly ; " think that — at last — I loved you. So tired — let 
 me sleep ! " 
 
 Is there any truth in the old superstitious stories that 
 we hear ? True in their spiritual sense or no, just then a 
 black pigeon that had hovered about the house for 
 days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle of 
 its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive 
 stillness of that evening. • 
 
no A Breach of Promise of Marriage. 
 
 From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came 
 mellowed and sweet, and from the wood behind the 
 house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the passing 
 day, while, as the west/ grew less ruddy, the soft dawn- 
 like light intensified in the north. 
 
 It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of 
 the time, and that was the heavy knell of the church- 
 bell, which rang out the curfew, as it had announced 
 the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and 
 blessed, and holy hands first hung it there. 
 
 Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation 
 of relief, for there was a quick step upon the gravel; 
 but ere it reached the door there was a deep sigh in the 
 shadowed room. Hazel's large soft eyes grew dilute, and 
 their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had 
 snatched her from her simple-hearted lover's arms — and 
 that bridegroom was Death ! 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF ANNA 
 IVANOVNA. 
 
 H. SUTHERLAND EDWARDS. 
 
 There is something in the marriage of a very pretty girl, 
 which, except perhaps to the bridegroom, is not alto- 
 gether agreeable. The husband of the charming Anna 
 Ivanovna seemed quite to understand this, and he took 
 but little pains to conciHate the friends whom she had 
 invited to the wedding. He, indeed, so far forgot him- 
 self as to insist on dancing the first quadrille with her, 
 a privilege which rightly belonged to a personage who, 
 in default of a better name, may be described in English 
 as the bride's best man. 
 
 This functionary, chosen by the bride herself, had 
 certain interesting but unimportant duties to perform, 
 such as holding her gloves in church at the critical 
 moment when she uncovers her hands to exchange 
 rings with her future husband ; carrying home for her the 
 piece of carpet on which she has knelt to receive the 
 nuptial benediction; distributing money in her name 
 to the poor who say they will pray for her ; collecting 
 money for the musicians when the dancing is at an 
 end, with other slender services of a like honourable 
 nature. 
 
112 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 
 
 There were, moreover, two wax candles to take charge 
 of — symbolical tapers which, alight, signify aspiration, and, 
 extinguished, should remind the bride for ever after- 
 wards of certain exhortations addressed to her conjointly 
 with her husband, as, lighted candle in hand, they knelt 
 at the altar. Then there was a crown of massive gold, 
 or perhaps it was gilt, richly adorned' with rubies and 
 pearls, which may not have been real ; and it was the 
 duty of the bride's special attendant to walk close 
 behind her round the altar, bearing above her head 
 this emblem of unspeakable glory. To do this in a 
 becoming manner, without treading on Anna Ivknovna's 
 white satin dress, and without spoiling her wreath of 
 lilies and orange blossoms, was no easy matter. 
 
 The ceremonial of the Orthodox Church required that 
 the crown shoiild be held just above the bride's 
 head. The purity and perfection of Anna IvS,novna's 
 toilette demanded, on the other hand, that her head- 
 dress should not in the slightest degree be disarranged, 
 and that not even the hem of her garment should be 
 touched. The general public did not appreciate this 
 respect for the personal appearance of a young girl who 
 had a right on such an occasion to look her best, and 
 had fully profited by the privilege. "Any one," they 
 said, " could perceive that the man was a schismatic. 
 He was not fully penetrated with the importance of 
 the work in which he was engaged. He bore him- 
 self like a heretic, and carried the crown like an 
 infidel." 
 
 Meanwhile the virgin with the crown, duly attended 
 by her crown-bearer, made three timesj in token of the 
 Trinity, the circuit of the altar. She knelt down with 
 her husband on the before-mentioned piece of carpet, 
 
The Marriage of Anna Ivdnovna. 1 13 
 
 and being the first to touch it secured for herself,- 
 accordi»g to the popular belief on the subject, the 
 direction of the household. She drank, too, with her 
 husband from a goblet of wine presented to them by 
 the priest, as a sign that she shared with her spouse 
 the cup of eternal love. All these things she did 
 gracefully and composedly. Her face was not with- 
 out expression, but there was no trace of agitation in 
 her demeanour, except that, in that portion of the 
 service where she had to hold the lighted candle, it 
 could be seen from the flickering of the flame that her 
 hand trembled a little. 
 
 The ceremony was full of meaning, full of beauty, and 
 more than one person present must have fancied that, 
 with such a bride as Anna Ivanovna, he would not mind 
 going through it himself. ' 
 
 When the service was at an end, there was a shawl 
 which the groom of the bride (who had no hope of 
 being mistaken for the bridegroom) had to carry home. 
 The shawl, like the wax-lights, the crown, the cup, and 
 many other objects, was symbolical ; though what it 
 symbolised it would be difficult at this distance of time 
 to remember. But everything meant something; and 
 the shawl had to be claimed and given up with certain- 
 forms, on an outward indication of some moral and 
 spiritual fact. Altogether there was a good deal of 
 light porterage to be done ; and the man who did 
 it ought, according to the custom of the country, to have 
 been rewarded by the bride's giving him her hand for 
 the first dance. 
 
 Anna Ivanovna, with all her good qualities, was not 
 what the heartless world would have called a young lady. 
 
1 14 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 
 
 So much the better. Indeed, had she belonged to what 
 the heartless world considers good society, her wedding 
 would have been far less picturesque, and infinitely less 
 syinbolical than it in fact was. Nor, if she had been 
 perfectly well brought up,' would she have allowed a 
 stranger, however well introduced, to call upon her a 
 few days before her marriage for the purpose of seeing 
 her trousseau. It seemed a very good trousseau, as far 
 as dresses were concerned, which was all she thought fit 
 to exhibit. She had light silks, thick silks, and brocaded 
 silks, besides other dresses, and some handsome furs 
 for winter. But among the dresses, the silks and satins 
 were the only ones to which she attached any import- 
 ance. They had all been given to her by her future 
 husband, whose liberality seemed to have made a good 
 impression ufton' her. But the wedding of Anna 
 Ivanovna was not a typical wedding ; and it must not 
 be supposed that it is customary in any class of Russian 
 society for a young woman to gef married without a 
 dowry of some kind. Anna Ivknovna's portion con- 
 sisted of her own personal graces, and with these 
 she was richly endowed. That, however, as a rule, 
 would not be considered enough in Russia ; and Anna 
 Ivanovna's betrothed deserves, perhaps, a word of 
 honourable mention for having shown himself , superior 
 to the prejudices among which he had been brought up. 
 Having shown her dresses, and declined to put them 
 on, Anna Ivanovna added that she should wear them 
 all on the night of the wedding; this being, among 
 persons of Anna Ivanovna's class, an essential part of 
 the celebration. She was quite content with the series 
 of brilliant costumes furnished to her by her future 
 husband, and said in his praise that he refused her 
 
The Marria ge of Anna Ivanovna. 1 1 5 
 
 nothing. It seemed that he had been in Siberia, not 
 as a political exile, and, of course, not as a convict, but 
 as a clerk in the administration of the Government gold 
 mines. Such posts are often lucrative. Perhaps his 
 familiarity with gold had bred in him a contempt 
 for the vile metal, and led him to choose a wife for 
 her own intrinsic worth, and not for the sake of her 
 pecuniary belongings. 
 
 Anna Ivanovna was a dressmaker; and invitations to 
 her wedding were issued to a few English friends through 
 a lady for whom she was in the habit of working, and at 
 whose house she had been seen, observed, and admired. 
 The guests were to be at a certain Moscow church by 
 seven in the evening, and we afterwards learnt that we 
 should be expected to go there not only in wedding 
 garments, but in a wedding carriage. Resolved to 
 penetrate the mysteries connected with a Russian 
 wedding, even to their innermost recesses, I went to 
 a yard where carriages deemed suitable to the great 
 events of life could be hired. It was also necessary 
 to choose the horses ; forj in Russia, to hire a carriage 
 without choosing the horses, is to ensure the worst 
 horses in the stable being sent to you. All this, like 
 the Russian system of bargaining in shops, involves 
 much loss of time, which, to a person not engaged in 
 studying the customs of the country, and prepared, there- 
 fore, to take the bad with the good, must be very 
 irritating. 
 
 The "wedding equipage," as it was called, had an 
 imposing appearance. It was somewhat in the style of 
 the Lord Mayor's coach, but less gorgeous, by reason of 
 the gildirig or gold paint having faded. It was the sort 
 of vehicle in which an ex-sheriff would probably have 
 
r 1 6 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 
 
 felt at home ; and after the usual discussion about terms, 
 the price agreed to for its hire seemed moderate enough. 
 The light chestnut horses selected were declared by the 
 proprietor to have a gay, jubilant bearing, quite appro- 
 priate to the occasion. 
 
 The livery-stable keeper had said something in the 
 course of conversation about a so-called " svacha " with 
 whom he had frequent dealings, and to whom he thought 
 he might be indebted for his new customer. The 
 " svacha " is a sort of matrimonial medium ; not a 
 spiritualistic medium, but a simple go-between of the 
 terrestrial world, with few pretensions to a knowledge 
 of the unseen, except such as may be derived from 
 cards distributed and combined according to the most 
 approved rules of fortune-telling. Anna Ivanovna had 
 not got engaged through the agency of a " svacha," who 
 does not care to have portionless girls on her books — 
 though she will readily interest herself in the fate of any 
 one who is prepared to give her a fee in advance. The 
 " svacha " is something between a witch and a notary ; 
 and as she is the means of bringing a good many 
 couples together, and thus causes a great deal of happi- 
 ness and unhappiness, she would perhaps be justified in 
 giving herself some unnatural airs. Some say that it is 
 not safe to get married without her ; and that to those 
 who dispense with her services, she behaves like the 
 wicked stepmother of the fairy tales, whom the beautiful 
 princess forgets to ask to her wedding. 
 
 The marriage was to take place on the following day, 
 and it was impossible not to look forward to it with 
 some interest. To see picturesque manners of any kind 
 it is necessary now to go to the East of Europe, where, at 
 
The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 1 1 7 
 
 a distance of not more than fifteen pounds from London, 
 the traveller may find in Russia the popular customs of 
 the Middle Ages, in Bosnia the general habits of Asiatic 
 barbarism. The marriage service, too, of the Greek 
 Church is more dramatic, and much fuller of significant 
 details than is the marriage service of the Catholic 
 Church, which is rich and elaborate compared with the 
 marriage service of the Church of England ; which is 
 gorgeous , compared with the unceremonious form of 
 union adopted by the German and other Protestants ; 
 which, finally, is solemn and impressive compared 
 with marriage before a registrar. 
 
 A piece was at that time being played at the Little 
 Theatre of Moscow, which lasted the whole evening, and 
 consisted entirely of marriage ceremonies. " A Russian 
 Wedding of the Olden Time '' it was called ; and the 
 first act was devoted to the offer of marriage, the second 
 to its acceptance, the third to its celebration. The bride, 
 according to a well-known dramatic custom which has 
 its counterpart in real life, had fallen in love secretly, and 
 without the permission of her parents. The bridegroom 
 had acted in like manner, and as the fathers and 
 mothers arranged everything in the most despotic 
 fashion, and as the bride in those days was kept closely 
 veiled until after the conclusion of the service, it was 
 only when the two were actually husband and wife that 
 the bridegroom found he had married his own Chosen 
 bride, and the bride her own chosen bridegroom. 
 
 All marriage negotiations do not end so happily, and 
 •there is a comedy by the Russian novelist and satirist, 
 Nicholas Gogol, in which a cowardly bachelor, who has 
 somehow got engaged, becomes so alarmed at the idea 
 of his approaching subjection to woman, that, at the 
 
1 1 8 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 
 
 last moment he escapes from the wedding party, and, 
 pursued by his mother-in-law in expectation, regains his 
 liberty by leaping from a window into the street. It 
 was quite certain Anna Ivanovna's betrothed would do 
 nothing of that kind. 
 
 Theri there is a tale by the poet Poushkin, which 
 opens with a Russian officer on his way to his regiment, 
 arriving one evening during a terrible snow-storm outside 
 a little dimly-lighted village church, where, seeing a 
 wedding-party at the altar, complete but for the absence 
 of the bridegroom, he hastens forward, and kneeling 
 with downcast face by the side of the trembling bride, 
 gets married in place of the missing man. But the 
 ex-clerk of the Siberian gold mines would not be kept 
 back by a snow-storm, however severe ; and the Moscow 
 church would be properly lighted ; and Anna Ivanovna 
 had nothing to be afraid of, and would certainly be able 
 to look her companion at the altar in the face. 
 
 At the appointed time the wedding-coach arrived, and 
 its occupants were duly put down at the house of Anna 
 Ivanovna's parents. When the bridegroom came to 
 claim his bride, she fell on her knees before her father 
 and mother, and begged them to forgive' whatever 
 offences she might have committed against them. They 
 raised her up, kissed her, offered her bread and salt, 
 as signifying the necessaries of life, and when she went 
 out did not close the door upon her. Their home was 
 still hers. 
 
 What took place at the church has been already 
 indicated, if not fully described. It should have been 
 mentioned, however, that the service was performed with 
 a full choir. No instrumental music of any kind is 
 
The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 1 19 
 
 allowed in the Russian Church, nor is woman suffered 
 to raise her voice. The choir consists of men and boys ; 
 and though the Russians possess hymns and religious 
 services by Bortniansky, Lvoff, aijd other composers, 
 one rarely hears any music in a Russian church eicept 
 the simplest responses recited to the accompaniment of 
 the three most familiar chords sustained by four sets of 
 voices. This, one would think, must soon become 
 monotonous. But it somehow does not. 
 
 The religious ceremony being at an end, Anna Ivkn- 
 ovna was taken to the house of her husband, where she 
 was welcomed by his parents, ^bearing the eternal bread 
 and salt. It often happens to a young Russian wife to 
 have to live with her husband's family, and she 
 seldom likes it. In many a Russian popular song, 
 serious complaint is made of the mother-in-law; and the 
 mother-in-law in these cases is the mother-in-law of the 
 wife. Anna, however, was not going to live with her 
 husband's parents, and their appearance, in obedience to 
 an old usage, on the threshold of their son's house, with 
 an offering pf bread and salt, was only meant as an ex- 
 pression of good will. 
 
 As it is the first duty of a narrator to be accurate, it is 
 as well to explain that what has been called the husband's 
 house was one or more sets of apartments in a house. 
 He seemed for that night to have secured the run of the 
 entire building. But this he had arranged by inviting to 
 the wedding-party all his fellow-lodgers. Two of them 
 were sub-lieutenants of a regiment stationed at Moscow, 
 whose uniforms gave brilliancy to the scene. Another 
 effect, too, was produced by the presence of these 
 gentlemen. The neighbours wondered at seeing them, 
 and, annoyed at not having been asked themselves, went 
 
I20 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 
 
 about saying that the retired clerk was entertaining 
 generals. Perhaps the two subalterns were really thought . 
 to be generals, for they talked French ostentatiously, and 
 held themselves proudly aloof from the rest of the 
 company. 
 
 The wedding-carriage, moreover, produced only too 
 good an impression. It was said to have held ambas- 
 sadors. 
 
 With ambassadors and generals for guests, it ought 
 not to have surprised anyone that Anna Ivknovna's 
 husband should have caused champagne to be handed 
 round. This, at all events, he did ; and the health was 
 drunk of the newly-married pair. The neighbours were 
 now looking in at the windows, and the sight of the 
 effervescing wine, poured out by servants dressed like 
 gentlemen, did not please them. - If to think of happiness 
 that has fled gives pain, to witness rejoicings which are 
 actually going on, but in which one is not allowed to 
 take part, may also be a source of sorrow. The neigh- 
 bours evidently regretted their exclusion very much 
 indeed ; and when champagne was sent round a second 
 time, some of them began to howl. 
 
 Now the bride entered, wearing no longer her wedding- 
 dress of white satin, but attired m mauve silk, and looking 
 prettier than ever. Her husband, who, never having 
 been married before, pretended not to know the etiquette 
 of the ceremony, insisted absolutely on dancing with her 
 himself. It was partly, perhaps, for this that he was 
 punished later on. 
 
 When the musicians struck up, comments were made 
 outside on the expensive character of the band. 
 
 After the first quadrille, Anna Ivanovna disappeared. 
 Caviare, smoked salmon, pickled mushrooms, and similar 
 
The Marriage of Anna Ivanovna. 121 
 
 xlelicacies were now produced, with sherry, Madeira, 
 Kiimmel, and various preparations of vodka. 
 
 Then another Anna Ivanovna came in, dressed in blue 
 and gold. This was an improvement, even on the 
 previous apparition. But it lasted scarcely more than 
 the duration of a quadrille. Refreshments were again 
 offered to the guests. 
 
 Soon there was again a rustling of silks, and in came 
 a third — or was this not the fourth? — Anna Ivanovna, 
 clad in pink, and blooming like a rose. Dancing, 
 mysterious disappearance of the bride, and refreshments 
 as before. 
 
 The next Anna Ivanovna wore black and silver, land 
 was as beautiful as a moonlight night. 
 
 There were more Anna Ivknovnas, and there was a 
 magnificent supper, which called forth ironical cheers 
 from the outside mob, now grown savage. Then some 
 healths were drunk, a collection was made for the 
 musicians, who had already begun to play out of tune, 
 and it was time to go. Festivities, however, were still 
 being kept up, and seemed likely to get more and more 
 animated. The last of the Anna Ivknovnas was in some 
 sort of white, and looked a good deal like an angel. 
 
 After going home in the state coach, and dreaming of a 
 whole series of Anna Ivanovnas (and yet there were not 
 seven Anna Ivanovnas, but one Anna Ivanovna), I was 
 awakened next morning by the sound of dismal chants, 
 and going to the window saw a very grand funeral pro- 
 cession passing. Besides a number of persons on foot, 
 there were carriages, one of which I recognised as my 
 "wedding equipage" of the night before, with black 
 horses in lieu of the chestnuts. 
 
122 The Marriage of Anna Ivanovnd. 
 
 I went an hour or two afterwards to see the lady through 
 whose good otifices I had been invited to Anna Ivanovna's 
 wedding, and there found Anna Ivanovna herself, crying, 
 but also — when she was called upon to explain — showing 
 a strong inclination to laugh. The generals, the foreign 
 ambassadors, the champagne, the orchestra, the supper, 
 the brilliant dresses of the bride, had at last proved more 
 tljan the jealous neighbours could bear. They went to 
 the police, reported that a petty clerk, formerly in the 
 administration of the gold mines of Siberia, was spending 
 thousands of roubles in giving an entertainment, the like 
 of which had never been seen even at the house of the 
 Governor-General, and suggested that he must have been 
 robbing the Government. On this hint the alguazils — 
 seeing ransom money in the immediate future — acted 
 without delay; and for his imprudence in not inviting 
 his neighbours, the husband of Anna Ivknovna was con- 
 demned to pass his wedding-night in the cell of a prison ! 
 
AN ODD FIX. 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON. 
 
 When it came to asking Samuel Rowley's consent to 
 pay my addresses to, his ward, I knew it was all over 
 with me. I felt that it was all over directly [ was 
 shown into the library, where Samuel Rowley sat before 
 the fire, toasting his gouty feet, and reading his Times 
 newspaper. I felt that it was so completely over with 
 me that I would very gladly have backed myself out of 
 the room without entering into any particulars as to the 
 object of my visit. I would have cheerfully informed 
 him that I was an agent for Boshiter's Hair Restorer, 
 and had called with a sample, which might be returned 
 if not approved of after one day's rubbing. But he 
 knew me and I knew him. He understood perfectly 
 well why I had solicited the honour of an interview with 
 him at twelve o'clock a.m. ; he was a sharp old gentle- 
 man who had had his eyes on me for some time, and was 
 not to be imposed upon. 
 
 He said : " Take a seat, Mr 1 forget your name ; " 
 
 and then he fumbled with his glasses and referred to my 
 polite epistle which lay on the table near him. 
 
 I took a seat and nursed my hat. I perspired a little. 
 I had a tremulous motion of my knees come on, which 
 
124 ^^ ^^'^ ^''■^• 
 
 made me look ridiculous. I waited for him to begin, 
 but he did not. I began myself, after one or two secret 
 encounters in my throat with something which felt very 
 much like a cork out of a soda-water bottle. 
 
 "You are not aware — that is, you cannot but be aware 
 
 — that I have long regarded your ward Clara with 
 
 Did you speak, sir ? " 
 
 "No, sir, I did not speak." 
 
 He had given an awful cough of a double-knock 
 character — that was all. He kept his glasses on his nose, ^ 
 and focussed me, and the operation was unpleasant. 
 He was not pleasant in his reception of my statement 
 either; he was decidedly unpleasant, not to say 
 desperately disagreeable. But then he was a cross, ill- 
 grained old fellow; everybody knew it in Wolverston, 
 a:nd I have no particular reason to disguise it here. 
 
 I recommenced my statement. I poured forth the best 
 feelings of my heart, and with an eloquence that might 
 have melted adamant, I confessed to him that Clara 
 was my one atnbition. As I have said already, I knew 
 that it was all over with me, but I was poetic even in the 
 midst of my despairing consciousness. 
 
 Mr Rowley set aside his newspaper, drew his chair an 
 inch or two closer to me, put his great hands — rather 
 disposed to be gouty, like his feet — upon his knees, and 
 surveyed me from head to foot contemptuously. 
 
 " May I ask your age, young man ? " he said. 
 
 This was my weak point of defence, but I told him. 
 
 " Seventeen." ■ 
 
 " And how did you first become acquainted with my 
 Clara, who is a year your junior, the hussy ? " 
 
 "Well, Mr Rowley, it has been a long attachment; my 
 finishing school at Beestorough was situated opposite 
 
An Odd Fix. 125 
 
 her finishing school, and we saw each other at church, 
 and I think " 
 
 " I think that you both ought to be horsewhipped ! " 
 he said fiercely, interrupting me ; " and as for my con- 
 sent to Clara's engagement to a boy like you — I will 
 even go so far as to say a whipper-snapper like you " 
 
 " A whipper-snapper, sir ? " 
 
 "I repeat it, a whipper-snapper !" cried old Rowley, 
 becoming very red and apoplectic in appearance. ' " I 
 decline to listen to your preposterous proposal for one 
 instant. Clara is only sixteen, and does not know her 
 own mind — she is a mere child." 
 
 " But we shall both grow older, Mr Rowley." 
 
 " Ah, and more sensible, I hope. Good-morning." 
 
 " Good-morning, sir." 
 
 I did not wait to tell him of my expectations from my 
 grandmother, or to reason with^ him on his want of 
 justice and consideration. I went away crestfallen and 
 heart-broken. I dashed from the library in despair, and 
 brought my forehead against that of my beloved with a 
 concussion that was nearly the means of stretching our 
 senseless forms outside the tyrant's den, the victims of 
 his cruel obduracy. Clara, naturally interested in the 
 result of my interview with her guardian, had forced her 
 pure but anxious soul to listen at the library keyhole. I 
 had retired in haste, and floored her. 
 
 "Oh, my gracious!" she sobbed forth, "I did not 
 know you were coming' out like that ! Oh, my head ! — 
 oh, how dreadful! Oh, Alphonse, we must part for 
 ever ! " 
 
 She rested her head on my shoulder and shed many 
 tears. I kissed away her tears. I patted her head 
 fondly, keeping clear of the bumps which I had raised 
 
126 An Odd Fix. 
 
 there. I could scarcely see '■her golden hair for tears 
 myself — the water had risen into my eyes immediately 
 we had met each other. I sought to calm her emotion. 
 I bade her be firm, and I recftmmended vinegar and 
 brown paper for her damaged brow. I said that I 
 should try them myself when I got home. I told her 
 that I would die rather than relinquish her ; she said the 
 same thing in a burst of uncontrollable emotion ; we 
 renewed our vows of eternal fidelity, and tore ourselves 
 from each other's arms, crushed in spirit, but strong still 
 to resist unjust oppression. 
 
 I told all my troubles to Jack Edwards, my bosom 
 friend and adviser. Jack and I had been schoolfellows 
 together; we were going into the medical profession 
 together presently ; my father had resolved that I should 
 walk the hospitals instead of the rosy path of love. ' 
 Jack heard my story, and said that he would not have 
 stood half of old Rowley's nonsense ; but what he would 
 have done under the circumstances he did not impart to 
 me at the time, and I forgot to ask him afterwards. 
 
 Clara and I met clandestinely. We were lovers — we 
 had been lovers from our youth — the flinty heart of a 
 guardian who had outlived mortal passion was not to 
 stand between our fresh young souls. 
 
 I met Clara in the village; I scaled the park fence 
 and met her in the green woods ; and Jack, good fellow, 
 kept watch on the door of thf Hall and_ old Rowley's 
 library windows with a telescope, lest we should be 
 surprised at any moment. Clara and I passed much of 
 our time talking of what we would do when she came 
 into her property at twenty-one, and my grandmother 
 favoured me by departing from this earthly sphere ; but 
 it was a sharp winter, and our teeth chattered over 
 
An Odd Fix. 
 
 127 
 
 our prospects. Clara and I arranged our meetings in 
 this wise. Clara had a confidant in the gamekeeper, 
 Peter Stokes, an invaluable man, with a weakness for 
 tobacco, and with a heart all charity towards his fellow- 
 creatures. Peter was always getting up subscriptions for 
 his fellow-creatures in the village, and what with his 
 subscriptions and his tobacco, my pocket-money knew 
 but little rest. Still, he had a good heart, and was kind 
 to us. He took charge of our correspondencCj which 
 was carried on by a circumlocutory but sure process. 
 Clara gave it to her maid Selina — another confidante, 
 who, alas ! proved herself a perfidious snake — and 
 Selina entrusted it to Peter, who took it to a gnarled 
 monarch of the forest — an oak tree, in fact^ — and 
 concealed it from all human gaze in a small hollow 
 cavity some ten feet from the ground, where, at a 
 later hour, I found it, and deposited my answer, to be 
 conveyed by the same process into my dearest Clara's 
 hands. 
 
 Peter was a lank old man, and very wiry ; he could 
 climb a tree like a squirrel, and I was agile myself The 
 whole conception was romantic, if you will, but grand ! 
 I thought so — Clara thought so — Peter thought so. 
 The idea was from Millais's picture, which we had both 
 carefully studied ; and if Peter had not generally 
 deposited his small notes to myself at the same time, 
 asking my "kind considerashun, as a gentleman born 
 with a warm hart, to an afflicting kase in the parissh,'' 
 the romance would have been pure and unalloyed. 
 
 Clara defied the obdurate guardian for two months; 
 it was in February when Selina Muggins betrayed us. I 
 was advancing in an innocent and unsuspecting manner 
 to the secret post-office in the wood, half a mile from Mr 
 
128 An Odd Fix. 
 
 Rowley's house, when I became conscious of the whole 
 perfidy. I was close upon the tree— that brave old oak 
 which had held so many secrets — when voices in another 
 direction filled my soul with horror. They were the 
 voices of Samuel Rowley, Esq., J. P., and Peter Stokes, 
 my Mercury. I sank down in the long grass — there was 
 a rapid thaw that morning, and the damp struck to 
 me at once — and trembled for my love. I was not an 
 instant too soon; their footsteps were upon me. Mr 
 Rowley's right foot was nearly upon me also; he 
 shaved my features by a hair's - breadth, and passed 
 on. The harsh tones of his voice.rang in my ears soon- 
 afterwards, 
 
 " You don't consider yourself an abominable scamp, I 
 suppose," Mr Rowley said; " an unprincipled old vaga- 
 bond, to act as a go-between to a silly school-girl and that 
 idiot of a boy ! You never thought of the harm of 
 encouraging this, did you ? " 
 
 " I'm werry sorry, sir," whimpered Peter. 
 
 " Teaching my ward to be deceitful, for the sake of a 
 few sixpences, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I never had a ha'penny, your honour, much more a 
 sixpence." i 
 
 Neither had he. They were generally half-crowns he 
 was in the habit of receiving from me. 
 
 "You deserve to be kicked out of my service, Stokes 
 — drummed out cif the village, for a wicked old 
 hypocrite ! " 
 
 " They were werry fond of each other, sir, and Miss 
 Clara used to ask me so beseeching like ; and when I told 
 her it was wrong to write to; Master Huskisson with- 
 out her dear gardewan's knowing anything about it, she 
 allers said it was for the last time, sir — really ! " 
 
An Odd Fix. 129 
 
 "If it were not for yopr age, Stokes, I'd send you 
 about your business this^Very day.'' 
 
 " I'm werry sorry, sir," Stores said again, shedding 
 many tears. ' ' 
 
 " Is this the tree ? " ' 
 
 " Yes, sir, that's the tree." 1 
 
 " And Clara's last letter is up there now, eh ? In that 
 hole ? Now, no more lies ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir, in that hole." 
 
 " How on earth do you get at it ? " 
 
 " Master Huskisson climbs up there, sir, for his 
 answers. I'll go up and fetch down Miss Clara's lettei 
 in a minnit." 
 
 There was a small epistle of his own he wished to 
 oBtain as wfell, perhaps, or it was possible that his noble, 
 mind had suggested some scheme to save dear Clara's 
 missive from sacrilegious eyes. But Mr Rowley sus- 
 pected the old servitor. 
 
 " Stop where you are, Stokes ! " he roared forth ; " I'll 
 have no more of your monkey tricks. Give me a back." 
 
 " Give you a wot, sir ? " 
 
 " Bend your back, you rascal, and I'll jump on it, and 
 get the letter myself" 
 
 " Jump on it ! " repeated Stokes, with a look- of .dismay 
 at Mr Rowley's portly figure ; " it don't strike me that 1 
 can bear your weight, master." 
 
 " It will be only for a minute," said Mr Rowley, quite 
 brutally ; " and if I break your,back, it will serve you 
 right enough. I'm not an elephaW:,|man, and I'll have 
 no more of this nonsense." '■*: 
 
 Mr Stokes resisted no further. He made his back as 
 if about to commence a game of leap-frog with a Justice 
 of the Peace; and with more agility than I had given Mr 
 
 I 
 
130 An Odd Fix. 
 
 Rowley credit for, the guardian was aloft, and within an 
 inch or two of our letter-box. 
 
 " O, lor ! shall you be long, sir ? " asked Mr Stokes, 
 groaning softly to himself. 
 
 " Raise your shoulders, you rascal, a little more," cried 
 his employer. 
 
 Stokes did so, and from my hiding-place I saw the 
 hand of Mr Rowley strive, with some difficulty — for it 
 was a fat, gouty hand, I have already said — to force itself 
 into that casket which had contained so many of my 
 dear Clara's epistles. Samuel Rowley was an excitable 
 man, for he swore a little in his efforts, and turned 
 very red, and moved his feet restlessly upon poor Stokes's 
 back. I 
 
 " I have got it ! " he cried at last. " The artful jadft ! 
 the cunning, plotting, little minx, to serve her own 
 
 guardian in this Oh ! " 
 
 " What's the matter, sir ? " 
 
 "Wait a moment, Stokes — don't shake. O, lor! 
 have mercy upon us ! Oh, damn it ! Oh dear, what 
 is to be done ? " 
 
 " Is anythink partickler the matter, sir ? Not a 
 hadder, I hope, or a nest of serpents, or anythink?" 
 And old Stokes hid his head a little more — " tucked in his 
 tuppenny," we called it at school — to conceal his laughing 
 and sardonic countenance. 
 
 "No, Stokes; it's something much worse, I'm sorry 
 to say." 
 
 "Wus, sir?" said Stokes, who left off laughing 
 immediately. 
 
 " Yes. I — I can't get my hand out ! " 
 
 "The devil you can't, sir ! " cried Stokes in dismay. 
 
 " It's twisted somehow, or swollen, or the wood has 
 
An Odd Fix. 131 
 
 gripped me. Wait a moment, Stokes. Oh ! it's all up 
 with me ! I can't ! " 
 
 "Take it quiet, sir. Keep cool, or you'll never do it; 
 don't hagitate yourself, but for Gawd's sake look sharp ! 
 I'm a-cracking ! " 
 
 " Don't move, Stokes, as you are a man, don't move ! 
 If you were to drop, I cannot imagine what would 
 become of me. It will be all right in a minute." 
 
 "Make it less, if you can," groaned Stokes; "all the 
 blood's fizzing into my head orful ! O, lor ! what is to 
 be done ? Are you out, sir ? " 
 
 "No, I'm not; I'm fixed, Stokes. I'm a dead man, 
 if you move ; I am indeed." 
 
 Stokes burst into tears, and howled with all his might, 
 and Mr Rowley shouted a great deal, and swore a great 
 deal too. Stokes would have run for it, probably, for he 
 was fast succumbing to the dead weight above him, had 
 not Mr Rowley held him by the throat with his boots, 
 and fixed him too. In another moment I had sprung to 
 my feet, and was rushing to the rescue. 
 
 " I'm really very sorry, Mr Rowley ; can I be of any 
 assistance ? " 
 
 " Assistance, you — you — you young dev — ! Yes, you 
 can, my dear child. Run for- a ladder, or a saw, or 
 something, as quick as lightning, to the house." 
 
 " Hi — hi — hullo ! " shrieked Stokes, as I prepared to 
 obey Mr Rowley's commands ; " don't run ; come here, 
 and let me run, or bust up I must. O lor ! Master 
 Huskisson, don't leave me any longer ; do come and take 
 a turn ! He's not so heavy when you're used to him — 
 he isn't indeed ! " 
 
 I saw the necessity of advancing to the rescue at once, 
 and so did Mr Rowley. I was tall for my age and 
 
132 An Odd Fix. 
 
 tolerably strong, and I hastened to take the place of Mr 
 Stokes, which I did with great caution on all sides. 
 Behold me at last bearing the guardian of Clara on 
 my shoulders, and feeling terribly the weight of my 
 responsibility, as he stood with his face to the tree, 
 still exercising his ingenuity to get his hand out of the 
 trap. 
 
 " I hope I'm not too heavy for you, Master Huskisson," 
 he condescended to say politely, for the sight of me was 
 even pleasant to witness. 
 
 " Not at all," was my cheerful answer. " You'll make 
 yourself as light as you can to oblige me, I'm sure ?"" 
 
 I had not done growing, and man is fragile during 
 that process. Mr Rowley was very heavy, and Stokes 
 was wrong in his assertion— wickedly Wrong. 
 
 " This is all your fault, mind you, Huskisson. This 
 might have been my death," he said reproachfully. 
 
 " Yes, Mr Rowley, if I hadn't beeri in the way,'' was 
 my happy rejoinder. 
 
 '"Ah! but " he looked round with difficulty, and 
 
 found Stokes still there, making every human effort to 
 straighten his back before flying on his mission. " Curse 
 it, Stokes, run for your life ! don't stand there, you 
 wretched lunatic, another instant ! " 
 
 Stokes ran away, and I was left as the one support of 
 Mr Rowley. Stokes had not been gone more than a 
 minute and a half when I wished that he had remained 
 and shared the weight with me. I tried to keep firm, 
 but the difficulty was immense. 
 
 "Boy, you're giving 1 Don't shake so. Keep your- 
 self more against the tree,'' Mr Rowley called down. 
 
 " All right. I'll do it for Clara's sake, if it's possible ; 
 but if I snap " 
 
An Odd Fix. 1^3 
 
 Then I remembered that he had called me a whipper- 
 snapper ; and so did he too, I think, and was sorry. 
 
 "Oh, you'll keep up," he said, offering me every 
 encouragement in his power. "You're a big boy for 
 seventeen, and I'm only twelve stone ten — not a great 
 weight. I've seen people in a circus do this kind of 
 thing for hours, you know." 
 
 It was a gross exaggeration, and I felt it to be so. I 
 was getting faint also. I had undertaken too much, and 
 his language at times was still violent, as he endeavoured 
 to extricate his hand. 
 
 "If I should die, sir," I said feebly, "will you please 
 give my love to Clara ? Tell her I did all I could to 
 bear up, and to bear you up. Oh, dear ! did you say twelve 
 stone ten ? 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "I should have thought you had been twenty," I 
 murmured. 
 
 " You're giving ! " he roared again, with a vehemence 
 that revived me. "Keep up a little longer, my dear 
 boy. I can hear them coming in the distance." 
 
 Which was another falsehood — but no matter. Mr 
 Rowley was not a truthful man. I set myself firmly 
 against the tree, according to his instructions, but it was 
 of no avail. My heels in a few more minutes would 
 slide gracefully away from me, I was certain, and the 
 guardian of my Clara would be swinging about by one 
 arm, like an early Christian martyr. His blood would 
 be on my head, and so would he, if he came down 
 with his whole weight — perhaps armless — on the top 
 of me. 
 
 " Keep up ! " he cried, in a great fright now. " You 
 shall see Clara when you like, my boy. I will not 
 
134 An Odd Fix. 
 
 say a word against the match any more. You're a 
 fine, strapping, brave fellow, that you are — a young 
 Hercules ! " 
 
 "Thank you, Mr Rowley," I answered; and his 
 wtords did sustain me a little, and helped me to 
 sustain him. 
 
 But I was sliding, slowly but surely, from under his 
 feet, when assistance arrived — men with ladders, and 
 saws, and chisels ; and Clara too, wild with fright, and 
 with tears streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, my poor gardy ! " she cried. " Oh ! you wicked 
 Alphonse ! it's all your dreadful fault ! " 
 
 This was the last feather on the camel's back. I fell 
 forwards, and a grand rush of the servants at Mr 
 Rowley's legs only saved the guardian from summary 
 dislocation on the spot. He was got down with difficulty, 
 and once down, he was not grateful. 
 
 "A pretty fool you have made of me," he said to 
 Clara, as he walked away rubbing his wrist; "and a 
 pretty pair of fools you and that boy are too ! " 
 
 Still, after all, he was not so bad as I had expected 
 to find him. He was a man who kept his word, and 
 for that I have always respected old Rowley. Clara and 
 I saw each other in a more rational manner. I went 
 to the Hall once or twice ; she was at my house on my 
 eighteenth birthday, at a little party which my mamma 
 absurdly called "juvenile" in the invitations; and there 
 Jack Edwards was too attentive to Clara, and raised a 
 jealous demon in my breast. 
 
 I went to London shortly afterwards. Clara and I were 
 to be engaged when I " passed," and if we were of the 
 same mind, her guardian said. But we were not. 
 Whilst I was walking the hospitals a fellow in the tallow 
 
An Odd Fix. 135 
 
 trade walked off with Clara, and I do not think she 
 resisted in the least. 
 
 'It was an excellent match, though he was forty-seven, 
 and very stout. I went down to the wedding, and 
 returned thanks at the breakfast for the bridesmaids/ 
 one of whom has promised to be mine when I set up in 
 business for myself. 
 
A CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. 
 
 BRANDON THOMAS. 
 
 When I was a child Tom Sayers was the Champion of 
 England. 
 
 In those days every schoolboy knew how to " square 
 up like Tom Sayers." I remember well my grandfather 
 — -an enthusiast upon the subject — lifting me on to the 
 dining-room table, placing my feet, arms, and head into 
 the correct attitude, and saying "That's it, my lad ; now 
 you're Tom Sayers ! " 
 
 One day a circus came to the outskirts of the town, a 
 grand affair, with never-ending attractions, and — greatest 
 of all — -Tom Sayers was to box during every performance. 
 
 I begged my grandfather to take me. Under the 
 quick glance of my grandmother (a tall, somewhat com- 
 manding old lady, with fine dark eyes) he replied 
 promptly, "No." But for all his couldn't-do-such-a- 
 thing tone, he put down his paper, took off his glasses, 
 and stared with a disappointed twinkje into the fire. 
 
 I was about to renew my entreaties when my grand- 
 mother said, " Don't be a hypocrite, Walter. If thou " 
 (there was a bit of Quakerism about her in her softer 
 moments) "wants to go, goy the lad will never be 
 satisfied until thou does, with thy boxing. If I wasn't 
 a woman," she added, as she left the room, " I'm not 
 sure I shouldn't like to see the fellow mygelf." 
 
138 A Champion of England. 
 
 Hooray !■ we went, granddad and I — two of the merest 
 children in the country that day. ■ 
 
 Passing down one of the principal streets the carriage 
 stopped in front of an excited crowd. On enquiry we 
 found that a little child, stooping to reach something it 
 had dropped, had fallen into the gutter and been killed 
 by the wheel of a passing waggon. The mother, who 
 had turned for an instant, had fainted, and was lying 
 as one dead. My grandfather hastily gave his card 
 to the policeman taking particulars, asking him to let 
 him know if the poor woman required pecuniary help, 
 and bade the coachman to "drive on — get away quick 
 —for God's sake ! " 
 
 It put a damper on our drive. 
 
 But the sky was bright, and the air fresh, and a call at 
 the club (" One moment, my lad "), and away we went 
 until we came to the great travelling circus— a wonderful 
 commotion of canvas, ropes, flags, brass instruments, 
 drums, horses, riders, clowns, ringmasters, sawdust, 
 grooms — and Tom Sayers ! 
 
 We saw him ! We sat in the centre of the front row, 
 granddad and I. 
 
 " Now, my lad, you see I Look how he stands ! Look 
 how he holds his arms, and his head ! It's a fine science, 
 a noble art ! And, best of all, it keeps down the knife ! " 
 
 "JVow," said my white-haired, gallant old granddad, 
 when all was over, "if an old man's card and a few 
 smooth words will do it, we'll go and shake hands with 
 him." 
 
 And we did ! 
 
 The man at the door of the private tent touched 
 his hat to the venerable old gentleman, as almost every 
 one did whom he chose to speak to, and took in the card. 
 
A Champion of England. 1 39 
 
 " Why, cert'nly," said a hearty, American voice inside, 
 " dee-lighted ! " and a handsome, clean-shaven man, 
 evidently the owner of the voice, dressed in somewhat 
 picturesquely cut black clothes and a profusion of 
 diamonds, came out and said, " Come in, sir. I'll find 
 Tom. He'll be proud. He's been talking about you, 
 sir, and the little man. If I'm not mistaken, he's done 
 the whole show to-day, sir, to you two." 
 
 At which I felt deeply impressed, and my grand- 
 father beamed and bowed his proudest bow, equally 
 gallantly returned by the handsome American. It was a 
 bit of old-time courtesy left over — from both sides of the 
 water. 
 
 The next moment the square, deep-chested, closely- 
 set figure of Tom Sayers filled the tent, as he entered 
 buttoning a grey dust-coat, after changing his things. 
 I say "filled the tent," for he blotted out everything in 
 the world from me just then. 
 
 After the first few words of explanation and compli- 
 ment from my grandfather, the champion bent down and 
 lifted me on to a barrel, out of the way of an over- 
 playful mastiff he had with him, and in answer to my 
 looks of curiosity, he showed me, engraved upon the 
 dog's collar, the proud legend, " I am Tom Sayers's dog ; 
 whose dog are you ? " 
 
 Suddenly a clown burst into the tent, tears streaming 
 down his face, washing the paint into ghastly streaks as 
 he sobbed forth to the American proprietor, " My God ! 
 governor, I can't go in the ring — I can't go in the ring 
 again to-day ! " 
 
 " No, Billy, no." 
 
 " My child, my lovely little child, killed before its poor 
 rnother's eyes ! God ! governor, what am I to do ? " 
 
1 40 A Champion of Englanii- 
 
 " Just as you like, Billy ; the show's your own to-day." 
 
 The American "accent" can be the most tender 
 language in the world when it chooses. 
 
 " God love you, governor. My poor wife — after all 
 our troubles, this — on the top of all ! It'll kill her. She'll 
 blame herself all her life — the best woman, the best 
 mother alive ! " Sobbed the clown, as he sank into 
 a painted wooden ring-chair from which he had per- 
 formed some of his most comical tricks. 
 
 Both my grandfather and I recognised the sequel of 
 what we had witnessed a little while before. 
 
 But the man beside me. His" great hand closed 
 gently about mine as he glanced sternly at the stricken 
 man, then he undid his eoa.t, took from his pocket- 
 book a bundle of bank-notes, and crushed them into the 
 clown's hand, saying in a monotone, "All right, Bill, 
 don't say anything; come to me if you want more; 
 remember me to the missus ; God bless you both ! " 
 
 Then the fighting man re-buttoned his coat, shook 
 hands with my grandfather and with me, and, as an after- 
 thought, bent his honest, scarred, and battered face 
 forward and kissed me, and, as he did so, the hottest, 
 biggest tear I have ever known fell upon my cheek ; and, 
 as he passed away, the American proprietor said : "Great 
 Creation ! He's only just got that money from me for 
 his own troubles. That man has a heart as big as a 
 pumpkin ! " 
 
 And the big yellow dog — the same that followed 
 him to his grave — ambled after Tom out of the grey tent 
 into the shining sunlight, and the brightest diamonds I 
 have ever seen were the tears that day in the eyes of 
 the Champion of England ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A 
 MELODY. 
 
 LEOPOLD WAGNER. 
 
 I HAVE just paid my last respects on earth to Isidore 
 Latour. As I sit here alone, I ask myself, "Will he 
 ever speak to me from the unseen world?" If, as I 
 believe, spirits do hold communion with the inhabitants 
 of this mundane sphere, then surely he, who was my 
 more than friend, will manifest himself to me sometimes, 
 perhaps through the medium of that divine Art at whose 
 shrine we both worshipped. 
 
 I am brought to these thoughts by the recollection 
 how I was once made the instrument of tranquillising a 
 poor spirit, whose mortal personality I had never so 
 much as heard of. This singular incident my friend 
 explained by the supposition that my spiritualised being 
 was en rapport with the disembodied spirit. Often we 
 dwelt upon it ; and now, since he himself has been taken 
 to the spirit-world, I feel assured that our happy com- 
 munion will not cease, even though the grave lies 
 between us. 
 
 But who am I that speak of communing with the dead ? 
 
 By my neighbours I am regarded as a crazy old 
 
142 The Romance of a Melody. 
 
 musician. True, I am devoted to my violin. But I pride 
 myself on being something more than a mechanical 
 executant. I am an enthusiast. Directly I commence 
 to play one of the masterpieces of Corelli, Viotti, or 
 Spohr, I feel my whole being lifted beyond the sordid 
 things of earth ; and the ecstacy I enjoy finds expression 
 in the music that my bow produces. Original composi- 
 tion I have never attempted. Once, however, I com- 
 mitted to paper a' work which was truly an inspiration. 
 And yet I did not consider it my own. It belonged to 
 another, as the following confession will show. The 
 present condition of my mind, induced by meditating on 
 the loss of my esteemed friend Isidore, offers itself 
 most opportunely for recalling the particulars. 
 
 On the twenty-ninth of March 1S67 — a day which 
 will always live in my memory — I established myself in a 
 .wretched garret in Paris.' That night I heard in my 
 sleep, or let me say rather, in a semi-conscious state into 
 which I was plunged, a melody so sweet and plaintive, 
 so soft, ethereal, and far-away, yet, as it seemed, intended 
 for my ears alone, that it held me enchanted the whole 
 night through. In the morning I remembered the~ 
 incident distinctly, but could not recall a single bar of 
 the music. Soon after I had laid myself down to rest 
 on the second night, I again fell into a state of trance, 
 when I heard the. melody repeated exactly as before. 
 Once more I strained every effort to recall it, but without 
 success. Again the stillness of night gave birth to the 
 delicious flow of melody ; and when morning dawned I 
 asked myself whether I had listened to some of that 
 celestial music in which it is believed the angels delight. 
 
 An uncontrollable desire now seized me to reproduce 
 this melody on my violin. Leaping out of bed, I took 
 
The Romance of a Melody. 143 
 
 the instrument down from the wall ; but the first stroke 
 of the bow drew forth sounds so harsh and offensive, 
 following the exquisite tones that still lingered in my 
 mind, though I was unable to determine their order, that 
 the attempt to proceed was not to be endured. In 
 disgust I laid the instrument aside. Nevertheless, during 
 the whole of that day my thoughts wandered back to 
 those delightful strains which had now become my 
 nightly solatium. How fondly I wished to commit them 
 to paper ! This feeling grew so strong upon me that I 
 determined to rise during the night and set them down 
 while I listened to them, Before retiring at my usual 
 hour, therefore, I placed the table ahd writing materials 
 close to my bedside. The anxiety with which I awaited 
 the nocturnal harmony, however, prevented my mind 
 from entering that peculiar semi-conscious state which 
 alone favoured it. For a long time I lay, straining my 
 ears and gazing vacantly at the flickering flame of the 
 candle, as it was fanned by the air that stole into the 
 chamber through the broken window-pane. At length I 
 became aware of some strange influence under which I 
 rose from my bed, and took my place at the table. 
 Thus seated, with my eyes still riveted on the flame, I 
 fell into a deep reverie. Presently my whole soul was 
 filled with ecstacy, and again I heard the mysterious 
 melody well out in all its simple beauty. At the same 
 time, I felt my hand travel swiftly over the paper without 
 experiencing the least sense of effort, and obedient to no 
 will of my own. 
 
 How long I remained under the spell I cannot say. 
 When I came to myself the sun was streaming into my 
 garret, for it was broad daylight. The candle had 
 burned itself out, deep into the socket, so that I must 
 
144 '^^^ Romance of a Melody. 
 
 have fallen asleep over my midnight task. In front of 
 me lay the sheet of music-paper, whose whole surface, 
 with the exception only of the last stave, I now found 
 to be covered with notes in my own unmistakable 
 caligraphy. 
 
 Here, then, was the melody, I had so much longed 
 to possess! Instantly I flew to my violin. Strangely 
 enough, the sounds I now produced seemed no longer 
 harsh, but clear, soft, magnetic, and delightful. Still, 
 though my eyes followed the music all through, I fancied 
 myself listening to another's playing rather than riiy own. 
 No need had I to make the notes. My bow and fingers 
 performed their functions of their own accord. I played 
 without being aware of the act. The sensation was 
 indescribably delicious. In the matter of execution, too, 
 I fairly excelled myself. I had never played with such 
 expression before. I felt that music ; it stirred every 
 chord and fibre of my heart. My whole spirit was 
 poured out through ■ that entrancing melody. At last, 
 the final cadence reached, my arms dropped helplessly 
 to my sides, I sank into a chair, and burst into tears. 
 
 Some time elapsed before I could compose myself 
 sufficiently to follow my ordinary occupation. How 
 cornmonplace all existing forms of music now seemed ! 
 I cawld scarcely believe that the power of reproducing 
 that captivating melody had been given to me at last. 
 Never, I thought, would its repetition pall upon me. It 
 permeated my entire existence ; it entered into every 
 phase of my work. At times, when playing an admired 
 sonata by one of the old masters, I found myself 
 suddenly drifting into that delightful melody. One day 
 also, after re-tuning my violin at rehearsal, I electrified 
 the entire orchestra by my involuntary performance. 
 
The Romance of a Melody. 145 
 
 until some rude shock aroused me out of my reverie. 
 Then it was that I witnessed the effect I had produced. 
 The conductor glared at me in amazement, while most 
 of my fellow-musicians shook their heads dubiously, 
 though they said nothing. Maybe they regarded me as 
 a madman suddenly inspired. 
 
 Weeks passed. The opera season was over, and one 
 by one the theatres closed their doors for the summer 
 recess. Even music-copying failed me now. As the 
 only resource left me, I took my violin one evening, and 
 posted myself at a populous street-corner in the character 
 of an itinerant. I cannot remember what I played ; in 
 all likelihood I indulged my habitual fondness for classical 
 compositions. Perhaps if I had rolled' out some popular 
 airs I might have received a few sous for my pains. 
 Upwards of an hour I must have played without 
 receiving the least reward. I was just about to move 
 away, heartsick and in despair, when my eyes encoun- 
 tered one who was evidently paying me some attention. 
 He was between thirty-five and forty years of age, dressed 
 in faultless style, and gave me the impression of a musical 
 amateur of independent means. Encouraged by the 
 thought of having found an appreciative auditor after all, 
 I recommenced to play ; and to him, without the Jfeast 
 preparation, I poured out my whole heart through that 
 ravishing melody. When I had finished I looked up, 
 to find the stranger standing beside me. 
 
 " My good friend," said he, gently laying his hand upon 
 my shoulder ; " this is no place for music such as yours. 
 Oblige me with your company to my hotel. I wish for 
 a little conversation." 
 
 Mechanically I followed him beyond the crowd, where 
 he hailed a cabriolet. Not a word was spoken while we 
 
146 The Romance of a Melody. 
 
 rattled through the gaily-lighted streets. Very soon I 
 found myself in an airy apartment whose appointments 
 betrayed the musical tastes of its occupant. My strange 
 custodian now led me to a chair, bade me favour him by 
 throwing off a tumbler of wine, and then opened the 
 conversation. 
 
 ." Why do you prostitute your Art in the streets ? " he 
 demanded, somewhat abruptly. 
 
 " Because I am reduced to the extremity of playing for 
 bread," I answered. 
 
 " Pah ! poverty should be unknown in your experience 
 while you can produce music like to that I heard just 
 now. Who taught you r But why such a question ! 
 The gift of musical expression cannot be communicated, 
 unless both master and pupil alike yield their hearts to a 
 common sorrow. For you have suffered much, I know.'' 
 
 I simply bowed my head, and drew a long deep sigh. 
 "1 " And I have suffered too," he continued ; " so there 
 is that between us which should make us friends. But 
 you play like one inspired from Heaven, and every heart 
 that is capable of emotion must be stirred by music such 
 as yours. No need to tell me your life's history ; mine 
 however, you may one day learn. Meanwhile, let us 
 come to a friendly understanding. The want of money 
 you shall not know again now that 1 claim your acquaint- 
 ance. Only, I implore you, accept me for your pupil. 
 Teach me to play and feel as you do. Above all, teach 
 me that beautiful melody with which you have enchanted 
 me. Am I right in assuming that it is your own ? " 
 
 " It was a nocturnal inspiration," I replied. 
 
 " Then why not publish it ? " he suggested. 
 
 "I have not thought of that," I said. "And, now 
 that you have mentioned it, I question whether I could 
 
The Romance of a Melody. 147 
 
 take such a liberty with a work which, under all the 
 circumstances, I can hardly claim to be my own." 
 
 Then I told him the whole story. 
 
 " It is indeed strange," he said, when I had finished. 
 "There is in all this something of the supernatural. 
 Indeed, one can well believe that that sublime melody 
 did not originate on earth — at least not in these prosaic 
 days. But your manuscript ? Can I prevail upon you 
 to entrust it to me for a while ? Or will you have the 
 kindness to make me a copy — two copies if you will, one 
 for my own use, the other so that I may submit it to a 
 musical acquaintance? I should much like to see it 
 published. Not that I believe anyone else will ever be 
 able to play it with half your feeling ; but, no matter. I 
 have some little interest with a publishing house, and 
 unless my judgment is greatly at fault, this composition 
 cannot fail to be instantly approved and set before the 
 world. Promise me that you will devote yourself to 
 the task of supplying me with a couple of copies without 
 delay." 
 
 " I shall be only too delighted to carry out your wish," 
 I returned. 
 
 Presently we parted on terms of exceeding good 
 fellowship. My heart was light now, since I had no 
 longer to cast about me for the bare means of subsistence. 
 Every day I was to consider myself the companion of 
 Isidore Latour. He even pressed me to take up my abode 
 with him entirely ; but this, with all the respect due to 
 his generosity, I declined. In truth, I would not at that 
 time have exchanged my garret-lodging for a palace. 
 
 A few days after I had placed the music in his hands, 
 Isidore, on greeting my arrival, observed, " I have just 
 come back from my friend the publisher. This morning 
 
1 48 The Romance of a Melody. 
 
 I received an urgent request to call upon him. As I 
 expected, he is quite enthusiastic over your composition, 
 and proposes to bring it out at once. But an extra- 
 ordinary coincidence has occurred, which made a 
 consultation necessary. Just cast your eyes over this 
 piece of music ; or rather let me hear what you make of 
 it on the instrument.'' 
 
 Saying these words he placed in my hands an old 
 manuscript. It bore traces of long neglect, and the ink 
 presented a faded appearance. The title was comprised 
 in the simple word " Melodie ; " while in the top right- 
 hand corner there stood a perfectly legible name and 
 date — '^ Alphonse Dori, 1847." 
 
 Receiving the proffered violin, I commenced to play ; 
 but, after passing the first half-dozen bars, I no longer 
 followed the notes. With closed eyes I listened in 
 rapture to the sweet, soul-stirring melody that I know 
 so well. 
 
 When my playing came to an end Isidore observed ; 
 " I have followed the instrument note for note. But I 
 had already compared the two manuscripts at the instance 
 of the publisher. Of course you admit that the music. 
 is the same ? " 
 
 " There is not the slightest doubt of it," I muttered. 
 " But how can such a thing be ? " I added, stupefied with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " First let me tell you whence came this manuscript," 
 said Isidore, with perfect composure. " For many years 
 it has lain forgotten and neglected; but yesterday a 
 trifling accident brought it to the Ught of day. Acting 
 out of sheer curiosity. Monsieur le Publisher at once 
 caused it to be tried over ; and the result was that he 
 discovered it to be identical with the one which, but 
 
The Romance of a Melody. 149 
 
 a few minutes before, he had determined to accept for 
 publication.'' 
 
 "It is very strange ! " was all the reply I could 
 make. 
 
 " Not at all, now that we have this original manuscript 
 to guide us." 
 
 " Can you offer any explanation, then ? " I asked. 
 
 " I believe I can," he returned. " Alphonse Dord, the 
 real composer of this bewitching melody — though Heaven 
 only knows how he derived his inspiration — is dead. 
 He must have died poor and in obscurity. And all these 
 years his spirit has been troubled by the knowledge of 
 his buried treasure ; has been wandering in search of 
 some sympathetic soul as yet confined to earth, by 
 whose agency his sublime melody might be rescued out 
 of the limbo of oblivion. Now, do you understand ? " 
 
 " It seems, then, I must be a spirit medium ! " I said, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Unquestionably." 
 
 " Yet how can you account for his music haunting me 
 only in my present lodging ? " 
 
 " Easily enough : he may have lived and died there, 
 in your very chamber. But let us go and interview the 
 concierge," he added quickly. 
 
 In less than twenty minutes our cabriolet drew up in 
 front of the house which contained the miserable garret 
 I occupied. Alighting, Isidore pursued his inquiries at 
 the porter's lodge, quite irrespective of my presence. 
 
 " How long have you had the care of these premises ? " 
 he asked, slipping a five-franc piece into the man's hand 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Ever since my father died. Monsieur. I was born 
 here," was the answer. 
 
1 50 The Romance of a Melody. 
 
 "Does your memory extend back twenty year 
 or so?" 
 
 " Possibly, Monsieur." 
 
 " What I wish to learn is this. Had you ever under 
 this roof a musician by the name of Dord — Alphonse 
 Dorfe?" 
 
 The concierge thought for a moment, and then said, 
 " I cannot answer for the name, Monsieur, but there 
 was a poor musician — a violin player, who lived for 
 some time in one of the garrets, about a score of 
 years ago. I recollect him well, because my mother 
 — God bless her!— often sent me up to him with 
 some food, until at last he disappeared quite suddenly ; 
 and I heard a few months afterwards that he had died 
 in one of the hospitals. That is all the information I 
 can give you. Monsieur." 
 
 " Thanks ; I am perfectly satisfied," said my friend, as 
 he turned to leave. 
 
 When we were again seated in the cabriolet he broke 
 the silence by observing, "You see my conclusion has 
 proved correct ! It was the spirit of the dead musician 
 speaking to you through his melody ! " 
 
 "Very true," I returned. "But now, if the 'Melodie' 
 be published, it must appear under no other authority 
 than that of Alphonse Dord. From this moment I 
 relinquish all claim to it. My duty is discharged, in 
 that I have proved the means of bringing the work of this 
 dead genius to the light of day." 
 
 These were all the words that passed between us on 
 the homeward journey ; for, in truth, we were both 
 deeply absorbed in our own thoughts. The next morning 
 Isidore waited on the publisher, and made all necessary 
 arrangements. In the fulness of time the "Melodie" 
 
The Romance of a Melody. 1 5 1 
 
 was given to the musical world. It did not become the 
 rage for a brief season — a comic song or a flimsy waltz 
 might do that ; but a work of genius, destined to endure, 
 asserts itself upon the public mind somewhat tardily. 
 Nevertheless, it ranks high in the estimation of all 
 musicians; and many a one has wondered whether 
 its gifted composer ever produced any other work. I 
 do not think this could have been the case. His 
 whole being must have been centred in that inspired 
 melody. 
 
 I need say no more, further than to place on record 
 the fact that, from the day on which the "Melodie" 
 was pubhshed down to the present time, my nightly 
 slumbers have never once been attended by the music 
 of another world. The spirit of the departed genius 
 is now at peace. But his music lives, and will not 
 perish. 
 
 Truly, a beautiful thought is never lost ; like the soul 
 of man, it is immortal ! 
 
* THE EPISODE OF THE PILOT 
 
 Reprinted from F. C. Burnand's " Rather at Sea." By 
 permission of the Author, and of Messrs Bradbury, 
 Agnew dr» Co. 
 
THE EPISODE OF THE 
 PILOT.* 
 
 R C. BURNAND. 
 
 " The piano's out of tune," says Crayley, with his nose 
 close to the music, picking out the notes of The Lost 
 Chord through his eye-glass. 
 
 " Of course it is," retorts Killick, " with you thumping 
 on it all the morning." 
 
 In Melleville's absence ashore I come in as peace- 
 maker. I throw oil on the troubled musicians. 
 
 " Let's," I say, as suggesting something, very slily, 
 " let's get it tuned." 
 
 " How ? " asks Crayley. 
 
 "By a tuner, of course," answers Killick, immediately 
 adding, " You don't think anyone was going to ask you 
 to do it ? " 
 
 Crayley pretends to ignore Killick's question, and 
 appealing to Heaven by a slanting upward glance through 
 his eye-glass at the cabin skylight, he asksi me — 
 
 " Is there a tuner on shore ? " 
 
 " I should think so,'' I reply. I had for the moment 
 forgotten that we were at sea. 
 
 " Well, I'm not so certain of that," says Kjllick. " We're 
 
154 The Episode of the Pilot. 
 
 in Scotland, you know, and the national instrument is 
 the bagpipes." 
 
 " Well, bagpipes are tuned," says Crayley superciliously. 
 
 "You don't know that" returns Killick. " You don't 
 play them, thank goodness ! And if there is a tuner 
 for bagpipes only, he won't be able to do the piano." 
 
 After some argument, we settle to go ashore and hunt 
 up a tuner. 
 
 " Don't bother the Commodore about it," says 
 Killick. " There's a lot of trouble on the old man's 
 mind " — (he's quoting a comic song ; his own words 
 and music perhaps) — "this morning about the necessity 
 of having a Pilot." 
 
 This is news to me. I had associated Pilots only with 
 "fearful nights," with Bays of Biscay, with Arctic ex- 
 peditions, with shipwrecks, lifeboats, and, in fact, with 
 marine dangers of an aggravated and alarming character 
 generally. 
 
 It is news to Crayley too. Killick is master of the 
 situation so far as knowledge of the subject goes, and he 
 avers, on the authority of the Captain, and from having 
 been in these waters before (so I understand him to say), 
 that a Pilot in the Hebrides is a necessity, and without one we 
 shall probably come to grief. By all means, then, a Pilot. 
 
 Melleville has already gone ashore to secure one ; so, 
 as he is fully occupied, we agree to start on a secret 
 mission, say nothing to anybody, and have the piano 
 tuned in Melleville's absence, so that at night he will be 
 both gratified and astonished. 
 
 On landing we flatten our noses against various shop 
 windows, and hesitate on various doorsteps, not being 
 quite certain, in the absence of any evidently musical 
 establishment, where to go for what we want. 
 
The Episode of the Pilot. 155 
 
 Killick suddenly calls to mind that when he was last 
 here, the place to get a pianoforte-tuner was either at the 
 chemist's, or at some toy-shoj). He is very nearly right. 
 The chemist directs us to the toy-shop. 
 
 There are dolls, carts, wooden soldiers, tin sailors, 
 comic white rabbits playing tambourines, baits for fish- 
 ing, conjuring tricks, tackle, walking-sticks, books, 
 puzzles, stationery, magic-lanterns, and nothing, except 
 some toy musical instruments, such as drums, trumpets, 
 and musical glass-boxes, to suggest that a pianoforte- 
 tuner is anywhere on the establishment, unless the man 
 behind the counter is himself of that persuasion. But 
 he doesn't look it. He hasn't got a tuning face. 
 
 Crayley undertakes to conduct the negotiation on con- 
 dition that Killick doesn't interfere. 
 
 Killick confides to me his opinion that Crayley is 
 " sure to make some muddle of it." 
 
 Crayley commences the business he has in hand by 
 inquiring the price of fishing-tackle. From this by easy 
 stages up to musical toys, without buying anything, he is 
 about to arrive at the inquiry as to a pianoforte-tuner, 
 when Killick, no longer to be repressed, cuts in with 
 the question point-blank. Crayley, thus interrupted, 
 stares at him sideways through his eye-glass, as if he 
 had never seen him before in all his life, and were 
 resenting the impertinent interference of an utter 
 stranger. 
 
 The proprietor of the shop doesn't know where the 
 tuner is at present. As far as I can make out, he is 
 either on a tuning voyage, calling in at the dififereht 
 islands and tuning the pianos of the inhabitants, or he is 
 on the same errand inland, and is touring about tuning 
 everywhere, and restoring harmony generally. When he 
 
156 The Episode of the Pilot. 
 
 will return there is no knowing. He is absent at pre- 
 sent, and " it may be for years, or it may be for ever.'' 
 There is not another pianoforte-tuner to be had at this 
 minute. There may be others, but the proprietor of the 
 shop — and presumably of the pianoforte-tuner — is not 
 aware of their existence. However, " all that can be done,'' 
 politely intimates the shopkeeper, " shall be done,'' and if, 
 in the meantime, we can console ourselves with some 
 newly-invented spinning-bait, or a book of views of the 
 country (where the pianoforte-tuner has gone), or any- 
 thing in the toy line, why, there is an almost inexhaustible 
 store at our disposal. We thank him, linger over a few 
 toys, inspect a brown horse on wheels dubiously, and 
 gradually retire. That toyman will not bless us ; but 
 perhaps he will make up for our want of enterprise in 
 sticking it on to the tuner's charge should he'ever appear, 
 which is of all probabilities the most improbable. 
 
 Further inquiry is - useless. We give up the piano- 
 forte-tuner and return to the ship. 
 
 Here we find Melleville. He has Pilot on the brain ; 
 and he has rather a headache in consequence. He is 
 evidently much bothered and anxious. The Captain 
 seems a bit fidgety. So we say nothing about our search 
 for a tuner, and, after sympathising with Melleville, we 
 descend to our cabins. 
 
 There is a gloom over us. If the Pilot doesn't appear 
 we shall remain here ever so long ; if he does,, we are off 
 at once. 
 
 The Commodore has issued orders to this effect, and 
 the Captain, who is a man of few words, and always 
 ready to make himself agreeable and useful, cheerfully 
 assents. The Captain, it appears, is not personally 
 acquainted with the Pilot who is to come aboard at some 
 
The Episode of the Pilot. 157 
 
 time or other. Melleville has not seen him ; he is taking 
 him on trust, and, as lie tells us, in all his experience 
 of yachting, he has never yet had a Pilot on board. 
 
 I am reading Clarissa Harlowe, Vol. II. (latest edi- 
 tion), and beginning to think that that smug old Richard- 
 son, author and Tunbridge-Wells shopkeeper, must have 
 had exceptional views on the best way of inculcating 
 morality, when a noise attracts my attention. A boat is 
 alongside ; and I catch the sound of Melleville's voice 
 welcoming some new arrival. 
 
 I tumble up the companion to see what is going on. 
 The Commodore is speaking to a respectably-dressed 
 man of a rather nautical appearance. He catches sight 
 of my head, and beckons me to him. 
 
 " Just pay the cab — I mean the boat," he whispers to 
 me ; "it's the Pilot. I'm going to have a talk with him.'' 
 And so saying, he takes the nautical-looking person down 
 the companion, showing him every possible attention ; 
 for, as Melleville has before explained to us all — and this 
 is, now I come to think of it, what has contributed to 
 his nervousness and anxiety on the subject — a Pilot is a 
 sort of Master of Arts, so to speak, of his craft. He is 
 obliged to pass an examination ; he has taken his degree ; 
 and he holds a rank which temporarily places him, when 
 on board a ship delivered over to his control, above 
 owner, captain, admiral, or anyone ; and, of course, 
 though paid by the week, and his fee or honorarium, so 
 Melleville politely puts it, being exceptionally high, he 
 has to be treated as an Eminent Expert. Knowing that 
 these are our Commodore's opinions as to the status of a 
 Pilot, we all bow to his decision, and are prepared to 
 imitate our host's example. 
 
 First, then, I pay and dismiss the boatman who brought 
 
158 The Episode of the Pilot. 
 
 him. The boatman asks if he shan't wait. " Certainly 
 not ! " I reply, as I know that the Commodore's orders 
 are to " sail at once," and already the Captain has given 
 the word, and the anchor — only one out, and at no 
 great depth — is being weighed. 
 
 It is all being done-'' with a will," and as we are " taut 
 and trim," and " ready, aye ready " for sailing, literally 
 at a moment's notice, it will be less than half-an-hour 
 before we are actually off. A nice breeze is springing 
 up, which will take us away ; and the Pilot's duties will 
 not begin until we are well outside, and shaping our 
 course for Tobermory. We enter the cabin one after 
 the other. Melleville is talking with the nautical-looking 
 man, and a decanter of sherry and glasses are on the 
 table. 
 
 We have no formal introductions from Melleville to 
 the nautical person, but the latter acknowledges each 
 one of us with a sort of polite inclination as we drop 
 into the conversation in turn. The introduction, of 
 course, would be impossible, as Melleville doesn't know 
 the Pilot's name, and, as he is a person of "some 
 consideration" — (this is a bit of Richardsonian, but a 
 student of Clarissa Harlowe must expect these words 
 to crop up occasionally) — there may be a certain 
 etiquette to be observed, of which introduction forms 
 no part. We have among us implicit' confidence in 
 Melleville, who, we suppose, has mastered all these 
 details, and we tacitly form ourselves into a sort of 
 Committee of Lords of the Admiralty and Elder Trinity 
 Brethren, for examining the Pilot to ascertain whether he 
 knows more than we do, or, at all events, more than the 
 Commodore does, and whether, on the whole, he is to 
 be trusted. 
 
The Episode of the Pilot. 159 
 
 "A very nice boat indeed," the nautical person is 
 saying as we enter. " Thankee, sir, I will take another 
 glass " — and he does, too, a bumper, which he sips with 
 the air of a connoisseur, instead of drinking it off at a 
 draught, as is popularly supposed to be the way with 
 the old sea-dogs. He is rather wfeather-beaten, certainly, 
 but he is not by any means "a sea-dog." He wears 
 thickish serge, a waterproof (which he has just removed), 
 and a tall hat, which he has placed on the table. The 
 tall hat strikes me at once, as reminding me of the old 
 prints of sailors at the commencement of this century, 
 and of the queer old boatmen — Deal Pilots, for aught I 
 know — who may yet be seen any day, with telescopes 
 under their arms, on the beach at Deal. 
 
 " I suppose," says Melleville nervously, but in his 
 pleasantest manner, "you know this coast — I mean all 
 about here — by heart ? " 
 
 "Well, you see, sir,'' replies the nautical individual, 
 turning his glass about, and scrutinising the sherry, as 
 if he had been tasting a sample before purchasing a 
 quantity; "you see, sir, I was born here, and I think I 
 may say I know all this part — well — about as thoroughly 
 as anyone." 
 
 He speaks with a Scotch accent, rather harrow than 
 broad. 
 
 Melleville looks round at us approvingly. His manner 
 conveys exactly what he would say, which evidently is 
 this: "This is the very man for us, gentlemen — he 
 knows his way about. First-rate fellow this ! " 
 
 I say to the Pilot diffidently, seeing that I know 
 absolutely nothing about it, and am not even quite clear 
 as to our geographical position, " Is this a very dangerous 
 coast ? " 
 
i6o The Episode of the Pilot. 
 
 "In parts it is," replies our first-rate man, "in parts. 
 At least, it is to those who don't know it." 
 
 Obviously the reference is, that to those who do 
 "know it," there is not the slightest danger, and equally 
 obvious is the next inference — that he is the man who 
 knows. 
 
 Again Melleville turns to us, and smiles complacently. 
 
 " Is there good fishing about here?" asks Killick. 
 
 We all feel that this is unfair on the Pilot. Why 
 should he be expected to know anything about fishing ? 
 He's not a fisherman. However, it turns out that he 
 is a fisherman, that he knows a good deal about it, and 
 can give his experience of several lochs. There is a 
 pause, and Melleville presses upon him another glass of 
 sherry. At this point we all join. I break through my 
 otherwise invariable rule of " No sherry," in order to do 
 special honour to the occasion. 
 
 "A very fine wine this, sir; very," says the Pilot, 
 shaking his head and smacking his lips. 
 
 " Yes, it is,'' returns Melleville, and we all smack our 
 lips more or less, having suddenly given up our rdles as 
 Elder Trinity Brethren and resolved ourselves into a 
 Tasting Committee. 
 
 " Very fine ! " repeats the Pilot, and again we all agree 
 with him. Then there is a pause. It is broken by the 
 Pilot complimenting Melleville on the yacht. " As 
 handsome a vessel as I have ever seen — and I've seen 
 lots of 'em here,'' says the Pilot. 
 
 Melleville is highly pleased and gratified. We all 
 take a little more sherry, and at this moment the merry 
 young steward appears with another bottle. Whether 
 Melleville has summoned him or not, I cannot say — 
 probably none of us could say if asked. The sherry is 
 
The episode of the Pilot. i6i 
 
 very good, and having broken through my rule — I 
 believe we all have, except Crayley, whose rule is to do 
 as he likes on all occasions, broken through some rule on 
 the subject of sherry — I am inclined to go on at all 
 hazards. 
 
 So we become communicative, and the conversation 
 becomes general. Somehow or other we get to talking 
 about the Opera ; I don't know who started it, but here 
 we are, with our Pilot, talking of the Opera and of Music 
 generally, and still shaking our heads as wisely as ever, 
 and saying, "Yes, it is capital sherry." 
 
 " A very pretty instrument you've got there, sir,'' says 
 the Pilot. He is praising everything. 
 
 "Yes, it is," replies Melleville, and opens it. Is he 
 going to play the Pilot an air? No; he is only 
 explaining its mechanism. 
 
 " You see it's a difficult thing to get this sort of piano," 
 says lyielleville. "This is specially made for a yacht." 
 
 Yes, the Pilot is aware of that ; he has seen them 
 before ; he can tell Melleville of a better contrivance than 
 this, of a new patent, and perhaps a less expensive article. 
 
 " Very superior person, this Pilot ! " we express by our 
 looks at one another. What an education he has had ! 
 Knows a little of everything. More sherry. Fine wine, very. 
 
 The Pilot looks at his watch. Just as he does so there 
 is an evident . lurch, and we stagger a bit ; it is very 
 trifling, but there it is, and we are evidently moving, but 
 so easily that no effect till now has been perceptible, and 
 even now it is only very slight. 
 
 The Pilot appears to hesitate a minute, as if he wasn't 
 exactly certain what to do. The movement has entirely 
 ceased, but from the gentle ripple which strikes my ear, I 
 am sure we are going straight as an arrow before the wind. 
 
 I. 
 
"yT-^.^!.- 
 
 162 The Episode of the Pilot. 
 
 " I'd better get to work at once, sir, if you please," 
 says the Pilot, again consulting his watch. 
 
 "But there's no necessity yet?" asks Melleville ; " is 
 there?" 
 
 "Well, you see, sir," says our superior nautical 
 authority, " I've got a lot to do " 
 
 " Which, of course," puts in Melleville, in his politest 
 manner, "I dont understand. Would you like to see 
 the Captain ? " ' 
 
 The Pilot looks a little astonished, and replies 
 hesitatingly, " No, sir — I don't see any necessity — 
 unless you " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Oh, certainly not ! " Melleville hastens to 
 say, clearly fearful of having committed some breach of 
 etiquette. 
 
 " Of course he doesn't want to see the Captain,'' we 
 whisper to one another, and are rather surprised that a 
 man of Melleville's tact and experience should have 
 made the mistake. 
 
 Melleville appears a bit nervous. He coughs two or 
 three times, and then, drawing me on one side, he says, 
 " I don't quite know where he'll sleep, I thought he 
 would arrange with the Captain — but — eh ? Beg pardon. 
 What ? " This addressed suddenly to the Pilot, who has 
 been understood to ask for a key. 
 
 " Key ? " repeats Melleville, puzzled. 
 
 " Key of the piano, sir. T think you just locked it 
 up." 
 
 " Oh yes, I did ; but " 
 
 Here we have another lurch, which brings the Pilot 
 sharply up against the further end of the piano, which he 
 seizes desperately ; in fact, he would have fallen but for 
 Qannoning against Crayley, who, being of a slight and 
 
The Episode of the Pilot. 163 
 
 fragile build, staggers backwards on to the sofa. A little 
 sherry is spilt. Alone amongst us, the swing-table with 
 the sherry decanter and one glass on it preserves its 
 equilibrium. It was apparently a sudden gust, for the 
 effect has passed, and we are going along steadily once 
 more. An expression of dismay is on our Pilot's face. 
 
 " Is the vessel sailing, sir ? " he asks with a gasp. 
 
 "Well, you see," Melleville nervously explains, fearful 
 of having done something wrong — "well, I told the 
 Captain that as your duties wouldn't commence till we 
 got outside " 
 
 " Outside ! " exclaims the Pilot convulsively. 
 
 We are afraid he is going to have a fit. An apoplectic 
 Pilot ought not to be licensed. That is our one feeling 
 on the subject. 
 
 "Yes," continues Melleville, more and more nervous 
 as the case of the Lively occurs to him (he tells me this 
 afterwards), "I thought — that — your work would begin 
 as we go up the Sound to Tobermory " 
 
 " Tobermory ! " shouts the man. " But I don't under- 
 stand. Why should I go to Tobermory ? " 
 
 "Because," replies Melleville, suddenly pulling him- 
 self together, and, so to speak, dropping the lamb to 
 assume the lion, " that is where we have arranged to go. 
 From there to Loch Scavaig, and " 
 
 " Loch Scavaig ! " the Pilot almost screams. 
 
 "Yes!" thunders the Commodore, now thoroughly 
 roused. "You said you knew all the coast, and as of 
 course you are an experienced Pilot " 
 
 " Pilot ! " cries the man in a frenzy. " I'm not a 
 Pilot." 
 
 " Not a Pilot ! " we all echo, in different tones. 
 
 " No ! " he shrieks. " I've come to tune the fiano I " 
 
ANGELA : 
 
 AN INVERTED LOVE STORY. 
 
 W. S. GILBERT. 
 
 I AM a poor paralysed fellow who, for many years past, 
 has been confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last six 
 years I have occupied a small room, looking on to one 
 of the side canals of Venice, and having no one about 
 me but a deaf old woman who makes my bed and 
 attends to my food, I eke out a poor income of 
 about thirty pbunds a year by making water-colour 
 drawings of flowers and fruit (they are the cheapest 
 models in Venice) ; these I send to a friend in 
 London, who sells them to a dealer for small sums. 
 But, on the whole, I am happy and content. 
 
 It is necessary that I should describe the position 
 of my room rather minutely. Its only window is about 
 five feet above the water of the canal, and above it 
 the house projects some six feet, and overhangs the water, 
 the projecting portion being supported by stout piles 
 driven into the bed of the canal. This arrangement 
 has the disadvantage (among others) of so limiting my 
 upward view that I am unable to see more than about 
 ten feet of the height of the house immediately opposite 
 to me ; although, by reaching as far out of the window 
 
1 66 Angela .• An Inverted Love Story, 
 
 as my infirmity will permit, I can see for a considerable 
 distance up and down the canal, which does not exceed 
 fifteen feet in width. But, although I can see but little 
 of the material house opposite, I can see its reflection 
 upside down in the canal, and I take a good deal 
 of inverted interest in such of its inhabitants as show 
 themselves from time to tim.e (always upside down) on 
 its balconies and at its windows. 
 
 When I first occupied my room about six years ago, 
 my attention was directed to the reflection of a little girl 
 of thirteen or so (as "nearly as I could judge), who passed 
 much of each day on a balcony just above the upward range 
 of my limited field of view. She had a glass of flowers 
 and a crucifix on a little table by her side ; and, as she 
 sat there, in fine weather, from early morning until dark, 
 working assiduously all the time, I concluded that she 
 earned her living by needlework. She was certainly 
 an industrious little girl, and, as far as I could judge 
 by her upside-down reflection, neat in her dress and 
 pretty. She had an old mother, an invalid, who, on 
 warm days, would sit on the balcony with her ; and it 
 interested me to see the little maid wrap the old lady 
 in shawls, and bring pillows for her chair, and a stool 
 for her feet, and every now and again lay down her 
 work and kiss and fondle the old lady for half a minute, 
 and then take up her work again. 
 
 Time went by, and as the little maid grew up, the 
 reflection grew down, and at last she was quite a little 
 woman of, I suppose, sixteen or seventeen. I can only 
 work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of 
 the day, so I had plenty of time on my hands in which 
 to watch her movements, and sufficient imagination to 
 weave a little romance about her, and to endow her 
 
Angela: An Inverted Love Story. 167 
 
 with a beauty which, to a great extent, I had to take for 
 granted. I saw — or fancied that I could see— that she 
 began to take an interest in my reflection (which, of 
 course, she could see, as I could see hers) ; and one day 
 when it appeared to me that she was looking right at it 
 — that is to say, when her reflection appeared to be 
 looking right at me — I tried the desperate experiment of 
 nodding to her, and to my intense delight her reflection 
 nodded in reply. And so our two reflections became 
 known to one another. 
 
 It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, 
 but a long time passed before I could make up my mind 
 to do more than nod to her every morning when the 
 old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the 
 window, and again in the evening, when the little maid 
 left the balcony for that day. One day, however, when 
 I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her, 
 and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several 
 times in return, and I saw her direct her mother's 
 attention to the incident. Then every morning I threw 
 a flower into the water for "good morning," and another 
 in the evening for " good night," and I soon discovered 
 that I had not altogether thrown them in vain for one 
 day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed 
 and clapped her hands when she saw the two flowers 
 join forces and float away together. And then every 
 morning and every evening she threw her flower when I 
 threw mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped 
 her hands, and so did I ; but when they were separated, 
 as they sometimes were, owing to one of them having 
 met an obstruction which did not catch the other, she 
 threw up her hands in a pretty aff'ectation of despair, which 
 I tried to imitate, but in an English and unsuccessful 
 
i:68 Angela r An Inverted jLove Story. 
 
 fashion. And when they were rudely riin down by a 
 passing gondola (which happened not unfrequently) she 
 pretended to cry, ahd I did the same. Then, in pretty 
 pantomirAe, she would point downwards to the sky to tell 
 'hie that it was Destiny that had caused the shipwreck of 
 our flowers ; and I, in pantomime not nearly so pretty, 
 would try to convey to her that Destiny would be kinder 
 next time, and that perhaps to-morrow our flowers would 
 be more fortunate, and so the innocent courtship went on. 
 One day she showed me her crucifix and kissed it, and 
 thereupon I took a little silver crucifix that always 
 stood by me, and kissed that, and so she knew that 
 we were one in religion. 
 
 One day the little maid did not appear on her 
 balcony, and for several days I saw nothing of her ; and 
 although I threw my flowers as usual, no flower came to 
 keep it company. However, after a time she reappeared, 
 dressed in black, and crying often ; and then I knew that 
 the poor child's mother was dead, and that, for aught I 
 could tell, she was alone in the world. The flowers came 
 no more for many days, nor did she show any sign 
 of recognition, but kept her eyes on her work, except 
 when she placed her handkerchief to them. And 
 opposite to her was the old lady's chair, and I could see 
 that, from time to time, she would lay down her work 
 and gaze at it, and. then a flood of tears would come to 
 her relief. But at last one day she roused herself to nod 
 to me, and then her flower came, day after day, and my 
 flower went forth to join it, and with varying fortunes 
 the two flowers sailed away as of yore. 
 
 But the darkest day of all to me was when a good- 
 looking gondolier, standing right-end uppermost in his 
 gondola (for I could see him in the flesh), worked his craft 
 
Angela: An Inverted Love Story. 169 
 
 alongside the house, and stood talking to her as she sat 
 on the balcony. They seemed to speak as old friends — 
 indeed, as well as I could make out, he held her by the 
 hand during the whole of their interview, which lasted 
 quite half-an-hour. Eventually, he pushed off, and left 
 my heart heavy within me. But I soon took , heart of 
 grace, for as soon as he was out of sight, the little maid 
 threw two flowers growing on the same stem — an allegory 
 of which I could make nothing, until it broke upon me 
 that she meant to convey to me that he and she were 
 brother and sister, and that I had no cause to be sad. 
 And thereupon I nodded to her cheerily, and she 
 nodded to me, and laughed aloud, and I laughed in 
 return, and all went on again as before. 
 
 Then came a dark and dreary time, for it became 
 necessary that I should undergo treatment that confined 
 me absolutely to my bed for many days, and I worried 
 and fretted to think that the little maid and I should see 
 each other no longer ; and worse still, that she would 
 think that I had gone away without even hinting to her 
 that I was going. And I lay awake at night wondering 
 how I could let her know the truth, and fifty plans flitted 
 through my brain, all appearing feasible enough at night, 
 but absolutely wild and impracticable in the morning. 
 One day — and it was a bright day enough for me— the 
 old woman who tended me told me that a gondolier had 
 inquired whether the English Signor had gone away, or 
 had died ; and so I learnt that the little maid had been 
 anxious about me, and that she had sent her brother to 
 inquire, and the brother had, no doubt, taken to her the 
 reason of my protracted absence from the window. 
 
 From that day, and ever after, during my three weeks 
 of bed-keeping, a flower was found every morning on the 
 
1 7o Angela .- An Inverted Love Story. 
 
 ledge of my window, which was within easy reach of any- 
 one in a boat; and when at last a day came when I 
 could be moved, I took my accustomed place on my 
 sofa at the window, and the little maid saw me, and 
 stood on her head (so to speak), and clapped her hands 
 upside down with a delight that was as eloquent as any 
 right-end-up delight could be. And so the first time 
 this gondolier passed my window, I beckoned to him, 
 and he pulled up alongside, and told me, with many 
 bright smiles, that he was glad indeed to see me well 
 again. Then I thanked him and his sister for their many 
 kind thoughts about me during my retreat, and I then 
 learnt from him than her name was Angela, and that she 
 was the best and purest maiden in all Venice, and that 
 anyone might think himself happy indeed who could call 
 her sister ; but that he was far happier even than her 
 brother, for he was to be married to her, and indeed, 
 they were to be married the next day. 
 
 Thereupon my heart seemed to swell to bursting, and 
 the blood rushed through my veins so that I could hear 
 it and nothing else for a while. I managed at last to 
 stammer forth some words of awkward congratulation ; 
 and he left me, singing merrily, after asking permission 
 to bring his bride to see me on the morrow, as they 
 returned from church. 
 
 " For," said he, " my Angela has known you very 
 long — ever since she was a child, and she has often 
 spoken to me of the poor Englishman, who was a good 
 Catholic ; and who lay all day long for years and years 
 on a sofa at a window ; and she had said over and over 
 again how dearly she wished she tould speak to him 
 and comfort him ; and one day, when you threw a flower 
 into the canal, she asked me whether she might throw 
 
Angela .- An Inverted Love Story. 171 
 
 another, and I told her yes, fCr he would understand 
 that it meant sympathy for one sorely afflicted." 
 
 And so I learned that it was Pity, and not Love, 
 except such Love as is akin to Pity, that prompted her 
 to interest herself in my welfare, and there was an end 
 of it all. 
 
 For the two flowers that I thought were on one stem 
 were two flowers tied together (but I could not tell that), 
 and they were meant to indicate that she and the gon- 
 dolier were affianced lovers, and my expressed pleasure 
 at this symbol delighted her, for she took it to mean that 
 I rejoiced in her happiness. 
 
 And the next day the gondolier came with a train of 
 other gondoliers, all decked in their holiday garb, and in 
 his gondola sat Angela, happy and blushing at her 
 happiness. Then he and she entered the house in which 
 I dwelt, and came into my room (and it was strange, 
 indeed, after so many years of inversion, to see her with 
 her head above her feet ! ), and then she wished me 
 happiness, and a speedy restoration to good health (which 
 could never be ) ; and I, in broken words and with tears 
 in my eyes, gave her the little silver crucifix that had 
 stood by my bed on my table for so many years. And 
 Angela took it up reverently, and crossed herself, and 
 kissed it, and so departed with her delighted husband. 
 
 And I heard the song of the gondoliers as they went 
 their way — the song dying away in the distance as the 
 shadows of the sundown closed around me — and I felt 
 that they were singing the requiem of the only love that 
 had ever entered my heart. 
 
A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 A. W. PINERO. 
 
 The keeper of the bookstall at a railway station once 
 told me that those novels commanded the greatest sale 
 which were fortunate enough to possess "a happy 
 ending." "Novel buyers, sir," said he to me, "at my 
 stall, at any rate, are mostly young ladies ; the gentlemen 
 go in for satirical weeklies. The young ladies gather 
 round and thumb the pages of my books' to see in what 
 way the stories terminate, and the novel which marries 
 off its hero and heroine on the last page sells amazingly. 
 One morning • last week a young party lost her train 
 through getting very deep into one of those volumes laid 
 out there — that stiff-board one, with the picture of the 
 girl with the straw hat and yellow hair. The young 
 party was going down to a situation in the north, and 
 cried at my stall for quite an hour when she found that 
 the train had crept out without her. You'll see some 
 blisters on the cover; they're her tears." 
 
 I took this lesson to heart at the time, and think it 
 polite to mention here, as a sop to the fair readers of the 
 narrative, that my story has a " Happy Ending." 
 
 Austen Landon's love affair arose out of the very 
 theatre at Chucksford about which I have spoken to you 
 
174 ^ Fallen Star. 
 
 so often. Austen was our juvenile gentleman for a 
 season, and (wonderful for the little Chucksford theatre) 
 was really juvenile and a gentleman. He was a great, 
 tall, dark fellow, and stood quite six feet high, stockings 
 or no stockings. At his own request we called him 
 Tiny, a corruption of his Christian name which he had 
 gained at home. 
 
 Tiny Landon came to us from Oxford (Magdalen, I 
 think), with ugly stories sticking to him of his having 
 been expelled from his college. The stories took various 
 shapes — debt and dishonesty, some said; and we — the 
 Chucksford Company, many of us honestly down at heel 
 and buttonless — cut him dead for a week. Bjat other 
 reports said "kicking a proctor," and, in the end, we 
 ■ gladly accepted this version, and Landon became a high 
 favourite amongst us. He had a good " swallow," i.e. 
 could study a dozen long parts in a week without turning 
 a hair (grey), was a great hand at cricket, and did . 
 wonders with a cranky boat on the narrow, muddy stream, 
 dignified in the " Chucksford Guide " by the name of the 
 river Bottlewell. 
 
 Six weeks after the commencement of the season, 
 Landon, of course, fell in love with Miss Clarissa 
 Rosinbloom, a young lady who had recently appeared in 
 town with some success, came to us as a " star," and was 
 to play Rosalind on the opening night of her engagement. 
 
 " Who is my Orlando ? " asked Miss Rosinbloom in the 
 morning of Boother, the manager. 
 
 Boother was pacing the stage restlessly, endeavouring 
 — with intervals of abuse levelled at the carpenters^to 
 recover the lines of Jacques. 
 
 " Orlando ?" repeated Boother absently, "Orlando — 
 oh, Tiny Landon." 
 
A Fallen Star. 175 
 
 "Tiny Landon!" echoed Miss Rosinbloom, opening 
 her pretty blue eyes to their fullest extent ; " Tiny 
 Landon — what a singular name ! " 
 
 " I beg pardon ?" said Landon, from the wings, over- 
 hearing his title. " Am I called ? " 
 
 "Er — um— Mr Tiny Landon, I think?" said Miss 
 Rosinbloom. " Mr Boother tells me you play Orlando 
 to-night." 
 
 Landon threw his head back and laughed — such a 
 laugh ! short and fresh and buoyant ; he may have levelled 
 the proctor, but nobody who heard his laugh could think 
 him a swindler. 
 
 "Tiny or Austen Landon," said he. "Tiny is the 
 name my friends give me. Yes, Miss Rosinbloom, I am 
 your Orlando, for want of a better. You may not know 
 that I am a novice — ^almost a novice, at any rate — but 
 awfully in earnest." 
 
 " I am sure of that, Mr Landon. You will play 
 Orlando capitally, I know." 
 
 " How kind of you to say so ! We are all delighted 
 that you have come down to us. Miss Rosinbloom ; we 
 do things rather roughly here " — Boother, who caught 
 this remark, glared at Landon, and boxed the ears of the 
 call-boy — "and a- fortnight's acquaintance with some 
 finished Art will be a tonic for us. Have you had a 
 pleasant journey down ? Isn't this a quaint little town ? " 
 Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 
 
 Landon and the little star were most friendly during 
 the rehearsal, and the remainder of the company regarded 
 him with envy. For Clarissa Rosinbloom was undeni- 
 ably charming and pretty. Naturally fair hair {naturally 
 fair ! how refreshing it is to write and to think about it ! ) 
 rolled up much against its will — for a pretty woman's 
 
176 A Fallen Star. 
 
 hair, like a pretty woman, has a will of its own — 
 and imprisoned under the dearest of little sealskin 
 caps. Such a complexion, with heaps of genuine 
 colour in it, in the right places; and such teeth — 
 not like a row of raw recruits standing at ease, but 
 as firm and as regular as the flower of the army ! 
 And possessing good features (nose the least bit in- 
 clined to turn up — well, some people have a fancy for 
 the retrousk ; I have, for instance), and a pair of 
 fathomless blue eyes, and a clear complexion. Miss 
 Rosinbloom was not afraid to smile ; that is, she could 
 afford, unlike many women, to let the muscles of her 
 face have an occasional holiday. For it is the young 
 lady with the weak points in her face who has to 
 coax her expressions so that they revolve round the 
 defects and never come near them to show theni up. 
 Clarissa Rosinbloom, under no such restraint, smiled 
 and smiled again, and her smiles in their variety were 
 graceful and quaint and frolicsome and everything in 
 turns ; a perfect display of facial fireworks, in fact — fire- \ 
 works which at that time even her tears could not have 
 dampened. 
 
 What a rehearsal it was ! How Landon did stumble 
 over the text, to be sure ! How earnest he was in the 
 love scenes, and how innocent of Shakespeare ! Oh, he 
 was rehearsing something more real than a play ! Poor 
 Tiny ! Poor Clarissa ! 
 
 Miss Rosinbloom's fortnight at Chucksford passed 
 quickly. On the last day, cold and bleak though it was, 
 with an easterly breeze whistling the overture to a hard 
 winter, Landon and she were alone in the cranky little 
 boat on the Bottlewell. 
 
 " I don't know that I am prepared to be so enthusiastic 
 
A Fallen Stai\ 177 
 
 about my profession to-day," remarked Landon gloomily. 
 " It's a poor business which teases a fellow by giving him 
 a friend for a fortnight, and then snatching the friend 
 away for ever." 
 
 " You will gain other friends in time, and grow 
 to like variety," said Clarissa, from the depths of her 
 furs. " Besides, if you care to, you can write to me 
 occasionally — I mustn't answer your letters, of course ; 
 but you may write to me any number of times before 
 the sixteenth of next November. 
 
 " What after the sixteenth of next November?" 
 
 " Oh, things will be different then. Don't you know 
 
 that I am going to be ? I mean you will have 
 
 forgotten me." 
 
 " That's not it ! " cried Landon savagely. " I believe 
 I can guess what you mean. Wait till I pull into that 
 bank." 
 
 He bent forward, looking straight into her face, and 
 with a couple of strokes sent the shivering little craft 
 among the rushes. The " Mary Jane " seemed to 
 have some loose teeth in her head, for she went with 
 a clatter and a rattle, and her ribs, too, creaked 
 piteously. 
 
 " Now," said Landon, " tell me about the sixteenth of 
 November." The tall rushes rose above them on every 
 side, and shook the drops of autumn dew on to Miss 
 Rosinbloom's pretty little head ; upon which Miss 
 Rosinbloom shivered a little, drew the furs closer to her 
 neck, and puckered up her lips as a child does when it is 
 about to cry. 
 
 "Take me out of this. Tin, dear; this rheumaticy 
 boat gives me the blues." 
 
 " I'll take you out of this when I've had a last talk 
 
 M 
 
17^ A Fallen Star. 
 
 with you. 'Rissa, I guess what you are going to tell me. 
 You are engaged to be married ? "> 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Who is the man ? " 
 
 " The gentleman is Mr Carfax, a leather merchant, of 
 Wood Street, Cheapside." 
 
 "bo you like him ? " 
 
 " How rude you are ! Of course I do." 
 
 " Love him ? " 
 
 " He's so very bandy, and only five feet five." 
 
 Landon relapses into the abstraction of gloomy 
 thoughtfulness, after ten minutes of which, Clarissa, who 
 is weary of drumming a tattoo with her feet on the bottom 
 of the boat, by way of reminder flings him her handker- 
 chief — a pretty little piece of uselessness, with a monogram 
 in the corner. He takes it, looks at the initia,ls, kisses 
 them quietly, and then crams the morsel of cambric deep 
 into his pocket. 
 
 "I suppose," said Landon deliberately, "it is too late 
 to ask you if could ever bring yourself to marry a poor 
 fellow who has nothing but steady determination and a 
 few vague prospects for his fortune." 
 
 " Really I have never been called upon to consider 
 such a question, Mr Landon." 
 
 '"Rissa!" 
 
 " But it wouldn't answer, Austen — indeed, it wouldn't. 
 I come of a poor lot, and am the general money-bag of 
 a mother and a couple of helpless sisters. I'm not 
 mightily Strong, physically or mentally, and I may break 
 up at my work at any moment, and then there is not 
 even bread and biitter for us all. When I marry Mr 
 Carfax he is to pension my folks and to get me — me, 
 with a weak head, and a monster of a cough in the winter 
 
A Fallen Siar. 179 
 
 months — for his reward. You're wrong if you envy him, 
 Austen, for I'm no good to any man ; upon my word, I'm 
 not ! » 
 
 So the tall rushes parted once more, and the cranky 
 boat groaned its way out from their midst, and left them 
 to put their heads together again — to nod and rustle in 
 conference on what they had overheard. Slowly and 
 gloomily Landon pulled home. Miss Rosinbloom looking 
 everywhere but in his face, and plucking nervously at the 
 fur which enveloped her. 
 
 " So that's over ! " said Landon, when the boat's side 
 jammed the landing-place. " 'Rissa, I hope you'll be 
 very happy all your life. Good-bye, little woman. 
 God bless you ! " 
 
 He drew a deep breath, and set his lips tightly 
 together. Clarissa looked at him for an instant, and 
 for once even the shadow of a smile faded, and her 
 eyes glistened. And there chancing to be nobody in 
 sight, they, both being of the same mind, bent forward 
 and kissed very seriously. They had known each other 
 a whole fortnight. 
 
 A kiss sometimes lasts a very long time, and this 
 identical salute lingered still fresh on Austen's lips and 
 in Austen's heart when a year had passed, and Miss 
 Rosinbloom had been rich Mrs Carfax for ten months. 
 Miss Rosinbloom, having become rich Mrs Carfax, had 
 discarded her professional vocation, and spent the 
 greater portion of her time abroad, where the little 
 gossiping papers were fond of chronicling her move- 
 ments. And so it happened that the same newspaper 
 which stated that the beautiful Mrs Carfax, nie Miss 
 Rosinbloom, was turning the heads of the Parisians, 
 also paragraphed a serious accident to Mr Austen 
 
i8o A Fallen Star. 
 
 Landon, a promising young English actor of the 
 Chucksford Theatre. 
 
 A horrible jar of the system,, a compound fracture of 
 the right leg, a contused head, with a nice little side- 
 dish in the way of a broken rib or two, formed the menu 
 of injuries of which that promising young actor, Mr Austen 
 Landon, partook with the utmost freedom. When 
 thirteen stone and upwards of "promising" humanity 
 tumble through a stage-trap into a cellar below, it 
 becomes for the moment a matter of uncertainty as to 
 how far the early promises of those thirteen stone and 
 upwards may be realised. The ripening of Mr Landon's 
 prospects was certainly in abeyance for some time after 
 his accident, and it became necessary (with the practical 
 assistance of a forgiving family, who wept in large 
 numbers at the injured man's bedside) for him to leave 
 England to pull himself — actually as well as metaphori- 
 cally — ^together. 
 
 Thus it chanced that on one evening in the month of 
 September, a little more than a year from the day 
 Austen had first met pretty Clarissa, he found himself, 
 with a cigarette between his teeth, lounging drearily at 
 the railway station at Rouen, awaiting a train to carry 
 him to Paris. With an Englishmen's customary oblivion 
 of the fact that there are two sides to a railway station — 
 an up and a down — Austen was kicking his heels on 
 the wrong platform, and did not fail to abuse the 
 railway officials in a language which, without being 
 French, was certainly not English, when he discovered 
 himself in the midst of a horde of passengers which had 
 temporarily disgorged itself from a train proceeding to 
 Dieppe. Hustled hither and thither by the excited 
 crowd, his cigarette knocked from his mouth, and his toes 
 
A Fallen Star. 1 8 1 
 
 trodden upon most unmercifully, Austen was gradually 
 extricating himself from his dilemma when he encoun- 
 tered, crouched upon a mean wooden seat, a little 
 figure, the sight of which brought him up short, with the 
 blood to his face, and his hat in his hand, in an instant. 
 
 " Clarissa ! " 
 
 And rich Mrs Carfax looked up into his face. O 
 rich Mrs Carfax, what has become of the old sparkle 
 of your eyes, and the bloom which was upon your 
 cheeks? And to what distant haven of things past 
 and irrevocable have your variety of smiles flitted ? 
 Alas ! the deep blue of your eyes has dulled itself into 
 a sober grey, like a lake with a thunder-cloud upon it, 
 and those evanescent smiles have trodden upon each 
 other's heels in their hurry to make off and leave you 
 sad and shivering on this bare wooden seat in the 
 miserable little railway station of Rouen ! No sumptu- 
 ous banquet of summer flowers has ever issued from 
 the feverish atmosphere of a dusty ballroom more faded 
 and bloomless than you have come out from your 
 few months of married life. 
 
 " Mr Landon ! " 
 
 " Good gracious ! What are you doing here ? How 
 ill you look ! " 
 
 " I am ill — ^I think I am dying." 
 
 " Dying ! " 
 
 " Yes — of disgrace and shame.' ' 
 
 '"Rissa!" 
 
 " Go away from me — don't touch me ! I am not 
 good enough for you even to look at." 
 
 " Are you alone ? " 
 
 " Alone ! Yes — alone, for I've no friend to tell me 
 how bad I am ! " 
 
1 82 A Fallen Star. 
 
 " Where is your husband ? " 
 
 " I— I don't know." 
 
 A tall man, bronzed and grey, pushes Austen aside, 
 and takes Mrs Carfax's arm. She submits quite help- 
 lessly, and Austen is left alone. In a moment, however, 
 he has recovered from his daze, and has followed and 
 overtaken the couple. The tall man has his hand upon 
 the handle of a carriage door; Austen touches his 
 sleeve. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," stammers Austen. "Are you 
 Mr Carfax?" 
 
 The tall man, without a word, assists Clarissa into 
 the carriage, and follows her. For a moment Clarissa's 
 pale face appears at the window. 
 
 "Are you Mr Carfax?" Austen repeats in a louder 
 tone, 
 
 He sees that Clarissa's white lips form the word 
 " No ! " and then there is a shrill whistle and a hubbub 
 and confusion, and he is forced away from the moving 
 train, to find himself left upon the platform with a 
 handful of people and a few porters. 
 
 " Excuse me," says an Englishman, running up to him, 
 " I see your luggage is labelled for Paris. Like me, you 
 have made a mistake, and are on the wrong side of the 
 station." 
 
 "No; I— I am not going to Paris." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon." 
 
 " What is the destination of the train which has just 
 started ? " 
 
 " Dieppe, I believe.'" 
 
 " Thank you. I am going to Dieppe." 
 
 "Yes, sir," says the proprietor of the Hotel des 
 
A Fallen Star. 183 
 
 Estrangers et Dieppe— English by nationality, Smithson 
 byname — "there is a lady in this hotel o' mine who 
 arrived here late last night." 
 
 " With a tall gentleman, with a grey beard ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; she were." 
 
 " Is the lady within ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, she are. And, what's more, she's likely 
 to be, for she's ill a-bed, and Dr Perignon is with her 
 now. My daughter-in-law is a-nussing of her, but the 
 poor thing's lonely, and yet won't let us send for a 
 friend ! " 
 
 " 111 ! Where is this lady's travelling companion ? " 
 
 " Lor, sir, he crossed to Newhaven by the late boat 
 last night. You see, sir, the young lady's cough set in 
 very bad, and Perignon wouldn't allow her to travel 
 further, so the grey gentleman swore a little in the bar 
 yonder, gave me fifty pounds in bank-notes for the use 
 of the lady, left her his best love, and caught the boat in 
 the nick of time." 
 
 " I must see the doctor. Where is he ? " 
 
 " He'll be down in a minute. Poor soul ! I got my 
 daughter-in-law to break the news that the gent had 
 gone, for, not knowing exactly how the wind lay, I was 
 fearsome for the effects of it on her. But, bless your 
 soul ! I do believe it stopped her coughing. For when 
 Celestine told her the news she had a big cry, and then 
 would insist on being held up in bed to say her prayers. 
 I took the liberty of listening at the door, and I assure 
 you, sir, I fancied I was back again by the side of my 
 old dead-and-gone mother a-sitting in the church at 
 Aylesford, where I come from — ay, thirty years ago or 
 more ! " 
 
184 A Fallen Star- 
 
 ' At sunset on the same day C^lestine is knitting in the 
 broad window recess of the capacious bed-chamber, and 
 Austen is sitting by Clarissa's bedside, holding her thin, 
 white, almost pulseless hand. 
 
 " Don't telegraph to anyone till to-morrow," begs 
 Clarissa feebly. 
 
 "Why wait till to-morrow, little woman?" 
 
 " I'm too ill to reason ; but do — do wait. I'm so 
 happy now. I know that it is all up with me, and they 
 say that death takes all the black spots out of one's soul. 
 Besides, you are near me, old Tiny, and you are the 
 best fellow I have ever known. Don't telegraph till to- 
 morrow ! " 
 
 " If you believed in me, why did you not come to me 
 for help and counsel ? " 
 
 " Because I was wicked, and I wanted to revenge 
 myself upon my husband." She raises herself upon her 
 elbow, and looks at Austen with something of the old 
 light in her eyes. " Tiny, six months after my marriage 
 he beat me, and told me that he knew I had sold 
 myself to him. It was true — oh, it was too true ! — which 
 made it all the more cruel for him to say such a thing to 
 me ! But how could I have done otherwise when 
 Minnie and Bertha at home were clamouring for silk 
 dresses and fmeries ? At last things got worse with me. 
 I became delirious — mad, and I had only one idea in my 
 head — to revenge myself upon him, and to humiliate him 
 in the eyes of his friends and the world. The man you 
 saw yesterday — his name is Brownlees, and he is a 
 friend of Gregory Carfax's — took me out of Paris 
 yesterday morning, and we were to go on board a 
 yacht lying off the English coast. Thank God, lam 
 ppt ori boar4 that yacht to-day ! " 
 
A Fallen Star. 185 
 
 " Yes, thank God for that ! You will get well and 
 strong again, 'Rissa, and you must then set this dreadful 
 business right." 
 
 "No ; I have lived my life— I have drunk it down to 
 the very dregs. Mother and Min and Bertha have 
 their home and their silks and fineries — and that is all I 
 have been reared for from childhood. They have been 
 hard on me ; but I am so sorry for them now, for who 
 will care for them when I am gone ? " 
 
 By-and-by Dr Perignon arrives to look at his patient. 
 (Frequenters of Dieppe will remember white-haired old 
 Perignon and his extraordinary English.) Perignon feels 
 her pulse, chats a little, smiles comfortably, and departs, 
 saying that Clarissa is doing extremely well ; and at nine 
 o'clock in the evening sjie — dies. 
 
 She dies with her head resting upon Austen's arm. 
 Celestine is dozing by the broad window. 
 
 "I shall be with you early in the morning, 'Rissa, 
 dear." 
 
 " Of course. And— Tiny." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " If the doctor's judgment should be wrong — if I 
 should die " 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! " 
 
 " You won't think that I died anything but penitent, 
 and a happy girl, will you ? " 
 
 " Don't talk like that— I can't bear it." 
 
 " You are by my side, and you are the best fellow I 
 have ever known. So, if the worst comes " — laying her 
 head upon his shoulder — " remember what I tell you : 
 that my life, after all its sin and misery, ends happily, 
 dear." 
 
1 86 A Fallen Star. 
 
 And he looks down and sees that it is over — all the 
 go6d and all the evil, as if it had never been ! 
 
 And Perignon declares at the funeral that this is the 
 first instance in which his judgment has been at fault. 
 But we all know what a humbug old- Perignon is. 
 Mrs Rosinbloom (a buxom widow, engaged to be 
 married to a gentleman in the English Customs) is 
 at the funeral, which takes place in Paris. Minnie 
 and Bertha are there also, looking very tasteful in 
 their mourning, and very sorrowful. And Mr Gregory 
 Carfax is there, with a troop of friends ; and the under- 
 taker considers the whole affair an enormous success. 
 And when it is over Austen is left alone beside the 
 grave, with all the bitterness of memory upon him, 
 clasping to his heart the little Anorsel of cambric with 
 the monogram in the corner. 
 
 The only intimate friend of Mr Gregory Carfax's who 
 was "unavoidably prevented" from being present was 
 his old schoolfellow. Colonel Brownlees. The gallant 
 Colonel was, at the time, enjoying a little shooting in 
 Argyllshire. 
 
THE WEARING OF THE 
 GREEN. 
 
 JUSTIN M'CARTHY. 
 
 " So you are really going to Ireland, old fellow — and at 
 such a time ? " 
 
 "Yes. Why not?" 
 
 " Look out for the Fenians ! See' that they don't 
 capture you, and keep you as a British hostage." 
 
 " Stuff 1 There are no Fenians ! " 
 
 " Oh, aren't there, though ? Yep, by St Patrick — and 
 Fenianesses, too ; just ask Gerald Barrymore ! " 
 
 " Well, I am going over to Gerald Barrymore. I am 
 going to spend the time with him — hunt, and course, and 
 fish, and all the rest of it." 
 . " Well, he says there are Fenians — no end." 
 
 " Don't believe a word of it, although I am sure he 
 thinks it if he says so. There isn't pluck enough in 
 the population to make anything like a formidable 
 movement of any kind. I'll undertake to rout any 
 band of Fenians that may come in my way with this cane." 
 
 " Misguided young man, farewell ! If you should fall 
 a victim to your rashness, I'll write your epitaph ! " 
 
 " Thank you, my dear fellow ! That is indeed adding 
 
1 88 The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 a new terror to death. It will make me doubly careful 
 of my precious existence." 
 
 So the two friends parted, smiling. This dialogue 
 took place one soft bright day of late autumn, in the 
 pleasant Temple Gardens, in the heart of London — 
 the Temple Gardens of York and Lancaster, and the 
 Red and White Roses; of Addison,' and Steele, and 
 Sir Roger de Coverley; of Ruth Pinch, and Tom 
 Pinch ; of Arthur Pendennis and Stunning Warrington. 
 
 The two friends who thus talked and parted were 
 Tom Gibbs and Laurence Spalding. Both were young 
 barristers ; both were as yet briefless ; both were 
 writers for newspapers and magazines ; both were dis- 
 tinguished and active members of the Inns of Court 
 Volunteer Corps, familiarly known as the "Devil's 
 Own." 
 
 Laurence Spalding was a tall, athletic young fellow, 
 who delighted in the drilling and the rifle-shooting, and 
 the privilege — new, strange, and dear to young lawyers 
 — of wearing the moustache. He it was who, on the 
 eve of a visit to Ireland, was speaking scornfully of 
 Fenianism, and the natives of Ireland generally. He 
 had never been in Ireland, and this was just the time when 
 the air was rife with rumours of projected Fenian in- 
 surrection, and before any actual rising had taken place 
 to divulge the real proportions of Fenianism's military 
 strength. Laurence Spalding wa.= to be a guest of his 
 old chum and fellow-student, Gerald Barrymore, a young 
 Irishman, who had eaten his way to the English Bar, and 
 hoped to distinguish himself there, although, unlike most 
 of his compatriots, he was heir to some property in 
 Ireland which was actually unencumbered. Spalding 
 was longing to see Ireland; longing to enjoy his 
 
The Wearing of the Qreeii. 1S9 
 
 dear friend's hospitality; longing to be introduced to 
 his friend's beautiful sister, of whom he had heard 
 so much. 
 
 Barrymore was going over to Ireland that night. 
 Laurence was to follow in two or three days. Barry- 
 more was to meet him in Dublin, and show him over 
 the city ; then they were to go on together to Barry- 
 more's home, in a, mountainous, sea-washed, south- 
 western county. The railway would only carry them a 
 certain way ; the rest of the distance must be performed 
 by carriage, or on horseback, over mountain roads. 
 
 Now it so happened that Tom Gibbs, who was a good 
 deal of a chatterbox, and a little of a mischief-maker, 
 met Gerald half an hour after the conversation just 
 reported, and told him, with perhaps some flourish and 
 embellishment, what Laurence had been saying about 
 Fenianism, and the dangers of Irish rebellion. Barry- 
 more's cheek reddened. He was, like most Irishmen, 
 rather sensitive of ridicule; and moreover, although a 
 loyal British subject, he had been descanting somewhat 
 largely at the dinner in the Temple Hall on the formid- 
 able nature of the Fenian movement. So he felt a good 
 deal annoyed for the moment at what Gibbs told him ; 
 but his manly good-nature presently returned, and he 
 resolved to think no more about it. Unluckily, how- 
 ever, when he got to his Irish home, he told his sister 
 something of the story, and that young lady's pretty 
 cheek and bright eye glowed with pique and resent- 
 ment. 
 
 Grace Barrymore v/as a bright, animated, beautiful 
 girl, with a noble, queenly figure and curling fair hair. 
 She was highly educated, had lived in France and Italy, 
 had all the culture of an EngHshwoman of the better 
 
1 90 The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 class, and yet retained an exquisite flavour of her own 
 racy nationality. She was a niotherless girl, and she 
 ruled her father, and the estate, and the tenantry, and 
 the whole district generally. Like many other true- 
 hearted Irishwomen who have seen other countries 
 besides their own, she scolded her compatriots a good 
 deal for their own benefit, but would not hear a word 
 said against them by a foreigner, especially a Saxon. 
 She was always warning all the boys of the place against 
 mixing themselves up with the dangerous follies of 
 Fenianism ; and she did not at present know of the 
 existence of a single Fenian in the neighbourhood ; but 
 she clenched her little fist, and bit her red lip, and 
 mentally vowed vengeance when she heard that a young 
 Englishman had dared to sneer at the courage of 
 Fenianism, and the danger of Irish insurrection. 
 
 Two or three days passed by, and Laurence Spalding 
 landed for the first time at Kingstown, where his friend 
 Barrymore received him. They spent two or three 
 other days very joyously in the pleasant city. Every- 
 where they heard talk of Fenianism, and expected risings 
 of the most dreadful kind, having for their object the 
 overthrow of Throne, Church, altar, private property, and 
 everything else that respectable persons hold sacred. 
 Gerald Barrymore shook his head gravely; Laurence 
 Spalding laughed loudly. 
 
 " Laurence, my dear fellow, I do wish I had been 
 more fortunate in choosing my time to bring you over 
 here. Down in my neighbourhood they say things are 
 beginning to look very bad." 
 
 Laurence only laughed again, and wondered at the 
 credulity of his friend. Laurence was one of that class 
 of Englishman who never beUeve'in anything unusual 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 1 9 1 
 
 until they see it ; who ride out beyond bounds in Naples 
 and Sicily, scoffing at stories of brigandism, and get 
 taken by brigands ; who ramble heedless outside the 
 lines of camps ; and bathe in shoal water where sharks 
 are said to abound, and do other such deeds of blunt, 
 bold sceptitism. 
 
 The two friends went by the railway as far as they 
 could go. Then a carriage met them, and they prepared 
 for a journey which Spalding was given to understand 
 would last a couple of days. , The carriage had a pair of 
 strong, sinewy horses. The driver and the postilion 
 were both armed with pistols. Gerald Barrymore 
 deposited two pistols in the carriage holsters. 
 
 " I wish we were safe at home, Masther Gerald," 
 observed the driver. 
 
 " So do I, Tim. How are things looking just now ? " 
 
 " Terrible bad, Masther Gerald ! " 
 
 " Thrue ' for you, boy ! " growled the postiHon in 
 assent. 
 
 " The whole side of the ccunthry is up, I'm tould," 
 said the driver. 
 
 " More power to 'em," growled the postilion. 
 
 " What nonsense ! " laughed Laurence, and he turned to 
 Barrymore. " Do you really believe such talk as this ? " 
 
 "My dear Spalding, you don't know anything of 
 this country. I only hope you may not be compelled to 
 learn by disagreeable experience." 
 
 Laurence shrugged his shoulders. His friend was 
 evidently not amenable to reason on this subject, which 
 Laurence had settled beforehand by process of intuition 
 — the best possible way of dealing with difficult political 
 and national questions. 
 
 They drove on for some hours, Spalding and Barry- 
 
192 The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 more smoking and pleasantly chatting, although Barrymore 
 was continually casting anxious glances on either side of 
 -the road, and then examining his pistols. At last they 
 came into a dark and gloomy defile, a narrow gorge 
 almost as wild as an Alpine pass, and which seemed to 
 stretch out for miles. 
 
 " If we were through this," said Barrymore, as if 
 speaking to himself, " I think we should be safe for this 
 day." 
 
 " Are there highway robbers about ? " asked Spalding. 
 
 " Highway robbers here ? Oh, no ! " 
 
 " What else, then ? " 
 
 " The Fenians ! " said Gerald in a low arid solemn 
 voice. 
 
 Laurence threw himself back in the. carriage and 
 quietly laughed. 
 
 Just at the moment a shot was heard, and the driver 
 pulled up the horses. 
 
 " Begorra, they're on us, sure enough ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " We're taken, Spalding,'' said Gerald calmly. 
 
 Laurence craned his neck out, and saw that a small 
 body of men, armed with guns, were drawn across the 
 road, and that two were at the horses' heads. 
 
 Before he could leap out of the carriage a dozen men 
 were at the side of it. • One had a sword. They wore 
 a sort of uniform, and each had a green sash. 
 
 " Surrender, gentlemen ! " said the swordsman po- 
 litely. 
 
 " Surrender to what ? " demanded Gerald. 
 
 " To the soldiers of the Irish Republic,'' was the 
 reply. " Look at our flag.'' One of the men was indeed 
 bearing a green flag. 
 
 Gerald's answer to the summons was the discharge of 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 193 
 
 one of his pistols, which, however, was discharged in 
 vain. Laurence tired the other, but it too failed of its 
 object. Then both the young men leaped from the 
 carriage, and gallantly attacked the troops of the Irish 
 Republic. Laurence hit out with good scientific aim, and 
 knocked two Republican warriors over — but ne Hercules 
 contra duos ; what could two do against twenty? Our 
 poor friends were very soon bound round the arms with 
 stout cords, and rendered incapable of resistance. 
 
 The driver and postilion had froni the beginning 
 fraternised with the Fenians. 
 
 " You see, gentlemen," said the swordsman, " how 
 useless was your resistance. If you had shot one of our 
 men, I probably could not have saved your lives." 
 
 " I suppose this means robbery," said Laurence. " If 
 so, you may as well rifle our pockets at once." 
 
 " As you are an Englishman, and, of course, ignorant 
 of Ireland," said the leader calmly, " I will excuse your 
 insolent remarks. But you had better not let any of the 
 men around hear you speak of them as robbers." 
 
 "Then, if you are not robbers and cut-throats, what 
 the devil are you ? " 
 
 " Fenians ! " 
 
 " Fenians be — blessed ! " observed our British hero. 
 
 " You had better, for your own sake, sir, be silent. 
 Get into the carriage." 
 
 Laurence and Gerald were promptly lifted in. The 
 leader and another man got in likewise. The word to 
 march was given, and the carriage went on. Laurence 
 could hardly believe the evidence of his senses. He felt 
 like a man in a dream — like the victim of a nightmare. 
 He gazed at Gerald, who sat silent and sullen, bearing 
 defeat ungraciously. As he turned round rather abruptly 
 
194 ^-^^ Wearing of the Green. 
 
 his elbow struck against something hard. It was only a 
 revolver, which one of his guards was kindly holding 
 towards his prisoner's breast as a little measure of pre- 
 caution. 
 
 " In the name of the devil, Gerald," said Laurence, 
 speaking now in French, that his captors might not 
 understand, " what is the meaning of all this ? Is it a 
 dream ? Is it a practical joke, or a piece of mummery ? 
 Who are these canaille ? " 
 
 " M. Barrymore has no difficulty in comprehending," 
 said the man with the sword, in fluent French, and 
 with an excellent accent. " He understands his country, 
 although he refuses to fight in her cause, and has 
 degenerated so far from the patriotism of his ancestors 
 as to show himself the enemy of her flag. M. Barrymore 
 was offered a command oilly the other day, and he 
 refused. He will have to answer now for his desertion." 
 
 Laurence looked at Gerald. 
 
 "They did offer me a command," said Barrymore 
 coolly. "Of course I declined. I am a loyal man. 
 Now I am in their power. Let them kill me if they 
 choose; they are quite capable of it." 
 
 Again Laurence mentally asked himself, "Am I 
 dreaming? Am I mad ? Is this the year 1867? Was 
 I reading the Times this morning ? " 
 
 He gave up the whole conundrum in despair. 
 
 A dreary hour or two passed away, and Laurence 
 actually fell fast asleep. He only awoke when some 
 of his' captors were lifting him out of the carriage. He 
 now found himself standing on the edge of a grassy 
 lawn or field, in front of a large and partly ruined castle. 
 There were cannon at the gates of the castle, and on the 
 roof, and a green flag was flying. Near the castle was 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 195 
 
 a whole mass of armed men. Laurence could see the 
 gun-barrels glittering in the autumn sunset. 
 
 " Bring up the prisoners at onst," said a messenger, 
 who came down to meet the Fenian band and their 
 captives. 
 
 " Is the chief here ? " asked the man with the sword. 
 
 " No ; the chiefs across the river. He's to attack in 
 the morning, early, I'm tould. But shis here — bedad, 
 the worse luck for some people, I'm thinking ! " and he 
 cast a glance at Laurence and Gerald. 
 
 "Gentlemen,'' said the man with the sword, "you are 
 about to be brought before the chief's daughter. In the 
 absence of the chief, she commands. For your own 
 sakes, I earnestly recommend prudence." 
 
 Gerald shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 
 Laurence began to think the whole aifair rather 
 interesting. The two young men were led between 
 armed ranks toward the crowd in front of the castle. As 
 they came near, the crowd divided, and a lady on 
 horseback rode forward, then checked her horse, and 
 with a commanding gesture indicated where the 
 prisoners were to stand. She was a young woman, 
 very handsome, with fair hair and a superb form, and 
 she sat her horse like a queen. In all his bewilder- 
 ment Laurence could observe her deep blue, lustrous 
 eyes, her clustering fair hair, her graceful gestures, her 
 full, noble bust. She wore a green riding-habit, and a 
 cavalier hat with a green feather. She had pistols in 
 her belt, and a sword hung at her side. 
 
 "Am I assisting at a scene in the Opera Comique?" 
 Laurence asked of himself. The ropes which bound 
 the prisoners were removed, and the first use Laurence 
 made of his freedom was to take off his hat and bow to 
 
196' The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 the beautiful Amazon. She acknowledged his salute 
 with grace and dignity. 
 
 " You are the Englishman ? " she asked. 
 
 " I am an Englishman, certainly. May I ask whom I 
 have the honour of addressing ? " 
 
 " All that it concerns you to know, sir, is that I am 
 at present in command of this castle and these Fenian 
 soldiers. My name your countrymen may know some 
 day." 
 
 " Pray excuse me," said Laurence, " if I ask you one 
 question. Do you really mean to tell me, madam, that 
 these fellows are Fenians — that there is a Fenian 
 army ? " 
 
 "Your ignorance, sir — the blind, perverse ignorance 
 of your countrymen — may perhaps be allowed to excuse 
 your question, but I have no time to answer such folly. 
 Look around you if you would learn. Now we have 
 something else to do. Gerald Barrymore ! " 
 
 Her loud, clear tone rang like a trumpet call. 
 Barrymore stood forward silently, and bent his head. 
 
 " Gerald Barrymore, you have openly declared 
 yourself a traitor to the cause of your country. You 
 have refused to join us ; you have done all you could to 
 betray us to the enemy ; to-day you actually dared to fire 
 upon our flag. What have you to say why you should 
 not suffer a traitor's death ? " 
 
 " Good Heavens!" exclaimed Lawrence; "can this be 
 serious ? " 
 
 " I have nothing to say," replied Gerald calmly, 
 " except that I am no traitor to my country, but a true 
 patriot. I care Uttle to say even this to you. I know I 
 can expect no mercy, and don't ask any. Do your 
 worst." 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 197 
 
 " Gerald Barrymore, I need not tell you that I would 
 spare you if I could ; that I have tried to win you to the 
 true cause you know only too well. But the time has 
 come when we can no longer hold any terms with 
 traitors. This Englishman is only a foreign enemy ; you 
 are a renegade, a deserter, a traitor — and your doom is 
 death ! " 
 
 " Heavens ! what a fury ! " thought Laurence. Then 
 he thrust his friend aside, and broke out into a regular 
 oration, addressed to the Amazon. It was a piece of 
 impassioned declamation, blended with high forensic 
 arguments. Never had Laurence before known how elo- 
 quent he was, and how he had mastered all the principles 
 of constitutional, international, and martial law. He was 
 Erskine, Choate, Daniel Webster, and Jules Favre, all in 
 one. Utterly forgetting his principles and his nationality 
 in the cause of his friend and client, the devoted advocate 
 actually besought the Judge-Amazon not to sully the 
 noble flag she had raised, not to bring dishonour on the 
 great cause she represented, by violating the fundamen- 
 tal principles of honourable warfare. He thought he saw 
 a softening expression on her features — nay, she actually 
 did for a moment cover her mouth with her handker- 
 chief — to hide her emotions, no doubt — but she controlled 
 herself, and said, with some severity in her tone — • 
 
 " In your zeal for your friend, sir, you forget yourself. 
 You forget that we have no cause, no flag, no battle- 
 field, no principles — nay, that there is no Fenianism, and 
 that there are no Fenians ! " 
 
 "The Court is against me," thought poor Laurence 
 sadly ; and abandoning the high ground of argument, he 
 was about to move simpty in arrest of judgment, when 
 the Fenian chieftainess cut him short. 
 
igS The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 " Spare your eloquence, sir. We have little time here 
 for the making of speeches. Gerald Barrymore, you 
 have until sunrise to-morrow to decide your fate. If 
 then you join our ranks, and pledge your word of honour 
 to. serve us faithfully, you shall live. If not, you shall 
 be shot at once as a traitor." 
 
 "On my word, Gerald," exclaimed Laurence, "I do 
 think you had better join these people. After all, you 
 are an Irishman, you know ; and I suppose it is some- 
 how or other your national cause." 
 
 " The Englishman," said the lady, with a sweet smile, 
 " is an honourable enemy, and teaches a recreant Irish- 
 man his duty. Remove the prisoner ! Mr Spalding — 
 that, I think, is your name ? — ^you will do me the honour 
 of dining with me. In my father's absence I am host 
 and commandant." 
 
 " Much honoured, I am sure," faltered Laurence ; 
 " but my poor friend Barrymore ! How can I leave 
 him ? " 
 
 " My invitation, Mr Spalding, is a command ! We 
 dine at seven." 
 
 She bowed, one of his captors touched him on the 
 arm, and led him away. He was conducted to a small 
 room in the castle ; he passed armed men everywhere ; 
 at seven o'clock an armed escort came for him, and led 
 him into a large dining-hall well set out and lighted. 
 He was placed at the right hand of the hostess, who 
 looked unspeakably lovely in her complete evening 
 toilette. A large , number of retainers, a few of whom 
 were the hostess's women attendants, dined at the 
 table. Laurence drank liberally of champagne, and 
 grew into a condition of woncier and ecstasy such as he 
 had not believed it possible this later age could bring to 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 199 
 
 mortal. His hostess was fascinating, bewitching. 
 Nothing could surpass her brilliancy and beauty 
 — not even her condescendiilg, encouraging, almost 
 tender friendliness. Laurence's susceptible soul was 
 melting under her sunny influence. A harper played 
 during the dinner some delicious, plaintive' Irish airs, and 
 sang Irish words to them. Laurence knew nothing of 
 music, and did not understand a word, but he demanded 
 an encore enthusiastically. 
 
 The lady talked with him frankly and fervently of 
 Fenianism, its strength and its hopes. She expressed 
 utter amazement at the ignorance that prevailed on the 
 subject in England. 
 
 " I declare to you," said Laurence, " if I were to go 
 back to-morrow, and tell the people of London what I 
 have actually seen here — seen with my own eyes — they 
 would not believe me ! " 
 
 " Extraordinary and infatuated people ! " said the lady. 
 "You shall return, Mr Spalding, and endeavour to 
 enlighten England. You shall go. I will not detain 
 you." 
 
 And he thought he heard a faint sigh ; and her eyes 
 rested for a moment on his. Alas ! by this time the 
 thought of returning was hateful to Laurence's soul. 
 
 " Not to-morrow — oh, not to-morrow ! " he pleaded. 
 " In fact you know, in order to do any good in England, 
 I ought to see a little more of the strength of your move- 
 ment. I had better wait— much better." 
 
 "To-morrow," said the lady with another half sigh, 
 "we hope for a decisive engagement. Should my 
 father drive the enemy from the field, we push forward ; 
 should he fail, we defend this castle until each man and 
 woman in it perishes amidst the ruins ! " 
 
200 The Wearing of the GreeH. 
 
 Laurence started. This exquisite creature to die, and 
 by the weapons of his countrymen ! He began to think 
 whether it would be utterly disgraceful for an English- 
 man to adopt the cause of Ireland. After all, did not 
 the Geraldines do this ? and who could be finer fellows 
 than the Geraldines ? Why, confound it all ! what was 
 Silken Thomas, of whom he had heard his friend Barry- 
 more speak in moments of exaltation ? And, by the way, 
 there was Barrymore, whose awful situation he had 
 almost forgotten ; of course, if he joined the Fenian 
 ranks, Barrymore would do the same, and his life would 
 be saved ! The only disagreeable thing would be that 
 perhaps Barrymore might become too agreeable to the 
 chieftainess. There certainly was a tender tone in her voice ' 
 that day as she addressed poor Barrymore, even while 
 she was pronouncing his death-sentence. 
 
 " No, Mr Spalding," said the lady, gracefully rising from 
 her seat, and looking at our hero with eyes of soft and 
 melancholy expression ; " you are a brave and generous 
 enemy, and I cannot allow you to peril your life, for no 
 purpose, in our dangers. Return to England; the life 
 of your friend Barrymore shall be spared for your sake 
 — return, and report us and our cause aright to the 
 unsatisfied. You are free ; you shall be safely escorted to 
 the Eriglish camp. If we triumph, you and I may meet 
 again ; if we fail, remember me sometimes as a friend. 
 Leave us, and farewell ! " 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Laurence passionately. "I 
 will stay by you — fight for you ! I renounce everything 
 for you ! I am a Fenian for your sake ; I will die for 
 you, but I will not leave you ! " 
 
 She took, without speaking, a green ribbon from 
 her corsage, and passed it through his button-hole. At 
 
The Wearing of the Green. 20 1 
 
 the same time she made a signal to one of her attend- 
 ants. Lawrence pressed the ribbon to his heart, then 
 clasped her hand, bent over it, and touched it with 
 his lips. 
 
 A peal of laughter rent the air, and Laurence, looking 
 up amazed and -angry, saw Gerald Barrymore, and 
 several men whom he had -met in Dublin, standing 
 around, and holding their sides in mirth, as they 
 pointed to poor Spalding and his green order of 
 Fenianism. 
 
 "Three cheers," cried Barrymore, "for the Fenian 
 volunteer ! " and oh, how uproariously echoed the wild 
 response to the invitation ! 
 
 The Fenian chieftainess had fled, leaving the echo 
 of a silvery peal of merry laughter behind her ! 
 
 Poor Lawrence Spalding ! Cruel, cruel Grace Barry- 
 more ! Treacherous friend Gerald Barrymore ! The 
 whole affair from beginning to end was a wicked 
 practical joke to punish Laurence Spalding for his 
 saucy sheer at Irish insurrection and the reality of 
 Fenianism. The armed Fenians were the Barrymore 
 tenantry and servants ; the man with the sword who 
 spoke French was a Barrymore cousin, and the Fenian 
 Amazon was, of course, the charming Grace herself. 
 
 Only fancy Laurence's feelings as he came down 
 to breakfast next morning, and met the laughing eyes 
 of his hostess. But he had taken heart of grace; he 
 had risen to the height of the situation ; and he appeared 
 in the breakfast-room with the green ribbon adorning 
 his button-hole. 
 
 He spent a few delightful weeks with the Barrymores, 
 and was well repaid with hospitality and friendliness 
 for his droll humiliation. And the upshot of the whole 
 
202 The Wearing of the Green. 
 
 affair was that he has turned the tables, that he has 
 made a captive of his fair captor, and that she is to be 
 Mrs Spalding ; and he vows that all his life through he 
 will be proud of his Wearing of, the Green. 
 
THE CIGARETTE. 
 
 H. SAVILE CLARKE. 
 
 Philippe de Mortemar, a T'rench gentleman, aged 
 about fifty years or more (said those who professed to 
 be knowing in such matters), lived in the village of 
 Mayford, and taught his language to the pupils that 
 fortune brought him. Why and when Monsieur de 
 Mortemar came to Mayford none seemed to know, 
 ■though many people suspected that he had once been 
 in the train of d. certain very high personage who had 
 dwelt for a time at Lulworth, in the adjacent county. 
 Thus Philippe de Mortemar had that social mint-mark, 
 which is all-important in dear England, and he could 
 indeed have had far more pupils than he chose to take. 
 
 Margaret Plowden was no relation to the family of 
 that name, or the _^eur de lis on her paternal coat-of- 
 arms might have matched the lilies of France which had 
 so often shone before the eyes of her tutor. Indeed, 
 her father, Isaac Plowden, the ironmaster, would have 
 positively resented the suggestion that he came of an 
 old family. He was a self-made man, with the usual 
 admiration of such a person for the man who had made 
 him, and he only cared for two things in the world — 
 his money and his daughter. 
 
204 1^^^ Cigarette. 
 
 Margaret Plowden in no respect resembled her father, 
 who was a stout, solid man, with much jewellery hung 
 about him, like a gilt dumpling; but she was "a 
 daughter of the gods, divinely tall," with chestnut hair, 
 and the creamy complexion that so often goes with it, 
 dark eyes, with long lashes, and a figure that was simply 
 perfect; people wondered how so lovely an offshoot 
 could come' of the very rugged family tree of Plowden. 
 She was, moreover, very romantic, and hence it came 
 about that she had not long been the pupil of De 
 Mortemar when she began to see in the grave and 
 interesting Frenchman her ideal of all that was chivalrous, 
 the hero of many a dream dangerous to maidenhood. 
 
 Such sentiments were reprehensible, and that for two 
 reasons. In the first place, our heroine was as good 
 as engaged to young Smithson, the son of another 
 millionaire, whose lands marched with her father's. 
 It was a family arrangement, made by the two old men 
 over their port, and up to this time the young people 
 had apparently acquiesced in it. Margaret had no 
 mother in whom to confide, and her father had taken 
 her consent for granted, while he would have gone well- 
 nigh mad at the idea of her marrying the penniless 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Young Smithson, for his part, was quite willing to wed 
 so charming a girl, and in the intervals of his soldier- 
 ing — he was a cornet in a cavalry regiment — he was 
 duly attentive to Margaret. The girl herself — for she 
 was only seventeen — liked Tom Smithson well enough ; 
 he was a fine young fellow, though a little rough and 
 self-assertive; and she would have gone on doing so 
 had she never known Philippe de Mortemar, with the 
 grave smile, that told of a man who had a history, and 
 
The Cigarette. 205 
 
 the charm of manner which vouched for a life spent 
 among the stately ladies of the Faubourg St Germain. 
 But a perilous intimacy resulted from the lessons in 
 French, and as Margaret thought that no language had 
 ever sounded so enchanting as that she studied under 
 such a teacher, the idea of marrying Tom Smithson 
 became extremely distasteful to her; and that young 
 man — which was certainly hard upon him — appeared as a 
 sort of bogey in her eyes. 
 
 And Philippe de Mortemar — how fared it with him ? 
 He had years ago experienced the emotions which 
 seemed so new and strange to Margaret ; he had lived and 
 had loved, and far away in that fair country which he 
 might never revisit, the tender little heart was laid to rest 
 -that when living had pulsed only for him. The page of 
 his life whereon the word Love had been written had 
 long since been turned over, and now in this quiet English 
 village was the stir and stress of passion to agitate him 
 again, the ardour of youth to be revived in a breast 
 which he had believed dead to all such emotions ? He 
 argued within himself that it could not be : he thought 
 of his age and Margaret's youth, and was quite certain that 
 he was right in fancying that he did not love her ; he . 
 recalled to his memory that grave amidst the cypresses, 
 and brought his arguments to a sound, logical conclusion — 
 he, Philippe de Mortemar, could not by any meafis be 
 in love with Margaret Plowden. A man who begins 
 arguing with himself as to whether he is in love or not, 
 may make up his mind that the afBrmative is the true 
 answer. 
 
 Next morning he came to his senses — that is to say, 
 he recognised the position and made up his mind what 
 to do fly from the temptation which he felt would 
 
?o6 The Cigarette. 
 
 prove too strong for him if he remained at Mayford, and 
 seek some other place, where it was to be hoped there 
 would be no pupil with such fatal fascinations. 
 
 And he must tell her. He could hardly go away 
 
 without doing so, though of course he could write ; but 
 
 he felt strong, and would tell her himself — that, at all 
 
 * events, would soften the blow for her, and it should be 
 
 done. 
 
 It befell in this wise. 
 
 Margaret was going to ride over that morning to take 
 away a book he had promised to lend her, and he would 
 break it to her then. Even as he made the resolve she 
 was at the door. 
 
 Margaret Plowden came in, looking lovelier than was 
 her wont, in her riding-habit, and he knew he would 
 have to summon up all his resolution to carry through 
 his plan of renunciation. 
 
 " I have come for the book, M. de Mortemar," she 
 , said gaily, " and John will carry it home for me. How 
 bright your rooms look this morning,'' she went on ; " and 
 what a charming little garden you have ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is pretty," said De Mortemar, watching her 
 as she went to the window, with eyes that lost no single 
 graceful curve of her figure, and still wondering how he 
 was to tell her. 
 
 " I%hall rob you of a rose," said Margaret, plucking 
 one ; " you have so many that you will not miss it." 
 
 " You are very welcome," he answered, and then he 
 went on with an effort ; " I should be very glad if I 
 could leave all my roses in such good hands, for I 
 must say adieu to them." 
 
 Margaret Plowden was coming forward from the 
 window with a bright smile on her face, and she held the 
 
The Cigarette. 207 
 
 rose in one hand, as she gathered up her riding-habit 
 with the other. At his words she stopped as if some 
 venomous insect had suddenly stung her; her eyes 
 opened wide, and her Hps parted as if she were gasping 
 for breath, while in a hoarse and unnatural voice she 
 almost whispered 
 
 " Adieu ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " That I am leaving Mayford ! " 
 
 It was all told now, and as she dropped the flower and 
 pressed her hand upon her bosom as if to still its heaving, 
 he turned away that she might not see the answering 
 emotion which he himself could scarcely conceal. 
 
 They stood in that position for a few moments, and, 
 as common things always impress themselves in the 
 strangest fashion on our recollection, even in moments 
 of supreme emotion, neither of them ever forgot the 
 scent of the flowers outside, the soft hum of the bees, 
 and the voices of some village children that came to 
 break that terrible silence. 
 
 At last she recovered herself, and he, too, looked up. 
 He was horrified when he did so at the change in her 
 face — it was grey and drawn, and she looked as if she 
 had just recovered from a severe illness. 
 
 With a further palpable effort, she at last spoke again, 
 saying in a tolerably firm voice, "This is a sudden 
 resolve, Monsieur de Mortemar. Is it — is it to be i)ut 
 into execution soon ? " 
 
 "Yes," he said; "I purpose leaving Mayford at 
 once.'' 
 
 " Well, I hope — I hope we shall see you again before 
 you go. You will call and see papa ? " De Mortemar 
 bowed ; he could not trust himself to speak in the face 
 of her evident agitation, and she went on, "Now I 
 
2o8 The Cigarette. 
 
 must leave you. I am to call on a friend in the 
 village.'' 
 
 '' But the book ; you will take it with you, will you 
 not ? " he said, for she was hastily leaving the room. 
 He was met by a hurried " I will send for it ; " and then, 
 though the sun still shone as brightly as ever upon his 
 window, and the roses beat against the panes, as if in 
 curiosity as to what was passing so near them, the aspect 
 of the room had grown leaden and grey ; all the sunshine 
 seemed to have died out of the place, and the flowers 
 looked dark, and of evil omen. Then, with an exceed- 
 ingly great cry, as of a strong man in his agony, Philippe 
 de Mortemar flung up his arms, and burying his face 
 in his hands, laid his head on the table, and shed the 
 bitter tears of manhood. 
 
 Monsieur de Mortemar was destined to have a still 
 stranger experience, and also another visitor that day; 
 but before we describe them, let us see how it fared with 
 Margaret Plowden. 
 
 She loved, or at all events she believed she loved, 
 Philippe de Mortemar, and she was sure in her own 
 mind also that he cared for her, but that he would not 
 speak on account of his poverty. A glow of passionate 
 feeling swept over her when she thought of that, and 
 she rushed off to a friend's and wrote a letter to him. It 
 was not easy to write without saying more than she 
 wished to say, and yet at the same time to give him a 
 certain amount of encouragement — that is an ugly word 
 to use, but it is the only one that suits the situation — 
 but at last it was done, and despatched to De Mortemar. 
 
 Philippe de Mortemar received the letter, and by the 
 intuition love gives us, he surmised what was in it, or 
 very nearly so. Had he not known of her affection 
 
The Cigarette. 209 
 
 before, Margaret's evident emotion would have betrayed 
 her, and he was at any rate certain that this letter had some 
 reference to the interview which he would fain have blotted 
 from his memory for ever. So he would spare her, and 
 not read it ; he kissed it gently, and then laid it down 
 unopened as tenderly as if it had been a living thing. 
 
 Then he had another visitor. 
 
 Tom Smithson arrived at Philippe's rooms just after 
 De Mortemar had received Margaret's letter, and was 
 wondering where he would seek the peace that had been 
 denied him in Mayford. 
 
 The Frenchman received him with all possible cour- 
 tesy, and bade him be seated. 
 
 "No, monsieur," said Tom, " I won't sit down ; I think 
 I can talk better standing, for I've something to say that 
 won't be pleasant." 
 
 " To you or to me. Monsieur ? " said De Mortemar 
 quickly, on his guard in an instant. 
 
 "For the matter of that, to both of us," said Tom 
 doggedly. He did not at all like his errand, but was 
 determined to go through with it. 
 
 " That is a pity for both of us," said Philippe ; " but I 
 am at your service, Mr Smithson — what is it about ? " 
 
 " It is about Miss Plowden." 
 
 "About Margaret?" said the other, betrayed by his 
 astonishment into the use of her Christian name. 
 
 " I said about Miss Plowden," returned Smithson 
 dryly, " and your use of her name in that way confirms 
 me in the suspicions I have to communicate." 
 
 " I am listening," said De Mortemar quietly ; but there 
 was a steely glint in his eye and a flush on his cheek that 
 might have warned Tom that he was venturing on 
 dangerous ground. 
 
 O 
 
210 The Cigarette. 
 
 "This is my business, M. de Mortemar, to come to 
 the point at once. You are too intimate — much too 
 intimate — with Miss Plowden." 
 " Well, sir, and what then ? " 
 
 "What then?" said Tom, becoming indignant. 
 " Then I have a right to complain. Miss Plowden is as 
 good as engaged to me, and report says that you are 
 surreptitiously winning her affections, and that, knowing 
 her father's wealth, you would win her for yourself. 
 
 That is all, and I must say " 
 
 " Stop ! " thundered De Mortemar. " You have said 
 enough — some people might think you had said too 
 much. Can you fence ? " 
 "Yes, a little." 
 
 "A little," said Mortemar. "That is enough." He 
 stretched his hand out to the mantel-piece, over which 
 hung a pair of foils, and took them down. " Do me the 
 favour to exchange a few passes with me." 
 
 "What do you mean, Monsieur?" said Tom, be- 
 wildered ; " you are surely not going to fight with those 
 things — with the buttons on, too." 
 
 " Fight, bah ! " cried De Mortemar scornfully. " I 
 am only going to ask you to exchange a few passes with 
 me, as I said, as if we were fighting." 
 
 "You are trifling with me," returned Tom sulkily, 
 " and I am in earnest, Monsieur." 
 
 " On the word of a gentleman, I am not," said De 
 Mortemar. "Cross swords with me, as if we were 
 fighting a duel, and I pledge you my word I will after- 
 wards be as earnest as yourself" 
 
 Tom did so, and in a moment they were actively 
 engaged, each man striving as in a real combat. It was 
 soon over. Tom did his best, but he was no match for 
 
The Cigarette. 2 1 1 
 
 his antagonist, who was evidently a most accomplished 
 swordsman, and after a few passes he found the foil 
 whirled out of his hand, and De Mortemar, lightly 
 touching him with the button of his own weapon on the 
 breast, threw his own blade down also and stood facing 
 him. 
 
 "Now, sir," said De Mortemar, "do me the favour to 
 say what would have happened had we been really 
 fighting — had that been a combat a outrance ? " 
 
 "I suppose you would have killed me," said Tom, 
 looking puzzled, and not too well pleased at his swiift 
 and total defeat. 
 
 "Just so," returned De Mortemar. "And now, sir, 
 as I listened patiently to you just now, be good enough 
 to listen to me. When your ancestors were scrubbing 
 floors or tilling fields, mine went forth from palaces 
 as the ambassadors of mighty States, and led the armies 
 of France. When you were a lad at school I lounged 
 in the ante-chambers of Versailles, and witnessed the 
 pageantry of a court ; my manhood was made illustrious 
 by the friendship of great statesmen and a seat at the 
 council board of a king. Thus, then, I should degrade 
 the name I bear by meeting you, save that you wear 
 a uniform ; but, by Heaven ! if we stood on French soil, 
 I would fling my glove in your face in return for the 
 insult you have offered me, and then, when we took 
 sword in hand, I should — as was proved by the passes we 
 exchanged just now — have written my answer on your 
 heart in blood, and laid you lifeless at my feet." 
 
 Tom Smithson was startled. 
 
 "Look here. Monsieur," he said, "while I am quite 
 willing to apologise for insinuating that you are running 
 after Miss Plowden's money, surely I have a right to 
 
212 The Cigarette. 
 
 defend my claim upon herself, and that right I do not 
 intend to forego." 
 
 " I can understand, and I can sympathise with your 
 feelings," said De Mortemar gravely, "and out of respect 
 for them I will answer you. I am not called upon to 
 explain the nature of my regard for Miss Plowden, nor 
 have I any means of knowing how far that lady honours 
 me with her esteem. But this I can say, and I do so 
 in justice to your affection for her, no word of love for 
 her has ever passed my lips." 
 
 " But she was here just now." 
 
 "She was, and I then told her that I was going to 
 .leave Mayford at once, never "—the word seemed hard to 
 say — "to return to this place any more." 
 
 "To leave Mayford?" said Smithson, in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. Now, are you satisfied?" 
 
 " Perfectly. Forgive me, Monsieur, for wronging you, 
 even in my thoughts." And Tom held out his hand. 
 As he did so, his eye fell on Margaret's note. De 
 Mortemar answered the look. 
 
 "Yes," fie said, "since she was here. Miss Plowden 
 has written to me. I have not read her letter — I do not 
 intend to read it. Now, do you understand me ? Can 
 you trust me ? " 
 
 " i can, implicitly," said Tom warmly, honest enthus- 
 iasm for the Frenchman's true nobility of heart shining 
 in his eyes; "and I am sorry I ever doubted you." 
 
 Then the two men shook hands, and Smithson went 
 away. 
 
 Shortly afterwards De Mortemar heard horses' hoofs 
 outside, and then the Plowden's servant asking for 
 the book he had promised to lend to his young lady. 
 
 He went out, and, looking steadily at Margaret, said, 
 
The Cigarette. 213 
 
 " Will you not honour me by coming in for a moment ? 
 I have something to say to you." 
 ^ She dismounted, and they went into the house. 
 
 Margaret could hardly control her agitation. Had 
 he received her letter ? and if so, what was his answer ; 
 or would he think evil of her for writing it? He 
 was Very grave as they entered his room, and she 
 could not tell from his face whether he had read the 
 letter or not. 
 
 " Will you sit down a minute. Miss Plowden ? I want 
 to tell you a little incident in the past history of a friend 
 of mine." 
 
 " Certainly," said Margaret, wondering what revelation 
 was to come. 
 
 " My friend in that fair land which I shall never see 
 again," said De Mortemar, "cherished a rare and 
 precious flower. He lavished upon it all the affection 
 you might bestow on a human being, but in the end it 
 died. I need not say how he grieved for it, but years 
 afterwards, when he came to this country, he saw one 
 who possessed, or was shortly about to possess, such a 
 flower as he had tended in other days. My friend 
 would fain have had that rare flower also, but he 
 reflected that he had been so fortunate as to possess one 
 in the time of his youth, that he was not now so skilful 
 in the tendence of such a blossom as he had been in 
 other years, and that it might wither in his hands." He 
 paused, and then added, "So he left it to his rival." 
 
 Margaret was silent for a few moments, and then she 
 said quietly, " If that were a fairy story, the flower would 
 have had a heart." 
 
 " And if it had," he answered, " it would have been 
 grateful in after years for my friend's decision, for he 
 
214 The Cjgarette. 
 
 did what doubtless cost him a struggle, because he felt 
 himself bound by his honour ! " 
 
 Margaret Plowden understood the allegory, and not 
 daring to look at him, said, "Then you are going 
 away ? " 
 
 " I am," he answered. " This is farewell ! " And 
 stooping down he took her unresisting hand in his own, 
 and kissed it. 
 
 Just then steps were heard outside, and Tom 
 Smithson burst into the room. 
 
 " I heard you were here," he said, looking at Margaret, 
 and then turning to De Mortemar, added wrathfully, 
 " So this is the reward of my trust ! " 
 
 De Mortemar looked at him scornfully. " It is. I 
 was bidding adieu to Miss Plowden when you came in, 
 and I do so again." ■ And once more he took her hand, 
 and pressed it reverently to his lips. "Now, m.ay I 
 entrust her to your care?" and as he said that, De 
 Mortemar placed Margaret's almost pulseless hand in 
 Smithson's, and they stood looking at him. 
 
 " I have Only one thing more to do," he continued. 
 " This letter " and he took it up. 
 
 Margaret Plowden saw that it had never been opened, 
 and marvelled alike at his insight and his generosity. 
 But was he going to read it now? The thought was 
 agony. She rushed forward. 
 
 "Have I Mademoiselle's permission to smoke?" 
 said De Mortemar, very calmly, as both his hearers 
 stared in wonder at the question. 
 
 " Yes, yes. But what are you going to do with the 
 letter?" 
 
 De Mortimer took a match out of a box that was 
 lying on tne table, struck it, and set fire to the letter. 
 
The Cigarette. 215 
 
 As it slowly burned away he applied it to the little roll 
 of paper and tobacco which he held in his hand, and 
 said with a grave smile — " Mademoiselle has given me 
 permission to smoke. I am going to light — my 
 cigarette ! " 
 
THE MAN IN POSSESSION. 
 
 B. L. FARJEON. 
 
 Old Ben Sparrow had genuine cause for his distress. 
 Ruin not only stared him in the face, but laid hold of 
 him with a hard grip. The landlord was as good (or as 
 bad) as his word. He called the following morning for 
 his rent, and as it was not forthcoming, he took an 
 inventory, and put a man in possession. He brought 
 this person in with him. A strange-looking man, with a 
 twelvemonth's growth of hair at least on his face and 
 head, and all of it as white as snow. -The faces of Ben 
 Sparrow and Bessie were almost as white, as they follawed 
 the hard landlord from room to room, like mourners at 
 a funeral. There was first the shop, with very little 
 stock in it, and that little in bad condition. As the 
 landlord said, how could a man expect to do business, 
 and be able to pay his way honestly, when everything 
 he had to sell was stale and mouldy? And old Ben 
 answered humbly — 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes ; you're quite right, sir. I ought to 
 have known better. It's all my fault, Bessie, my darling ; 
 all my fault ! " and felt as if, instead of an immediate 
 execution coming to him, he ought to be led off to 
 immediate execution. 
 
2 1 8 The Man in Possession. 
 
 ■ " What d'you call these ? " asked the landlord con- 
 temptuously. " Figs ! Why, they are as shrivelled as: — 
 as you are." 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes ; quite right, sir. We are, sir, we are ; 
 we ought to be put away ! We're worth nothing now — 
 nothing now ! " 
 
 After the shop came the parlour, with the furniture 
 that old Ben had bought for his wedding more than 
 forty years ago; he sobbed as the landlord called out, 
 " One old arm-chair, stuffed and rickety ! " and said to 
 Bessie, " Your grandmother's favourite chair, my darling ! " 
 The old fellow could have knelt and kissed the " one 
 old arm-chair, stuffed and rickety," he was so tender 
 about it. Then they went into the kitchen ; then up- 
 stairs to Ben Sparrow's bedroom, and old Ben cried 
 again as " One old wooden bedstead, wheezy ! " went 
 down ii^ the inventory, , then into another bedroom 
 where Bessie and Tottie slept. The man in possession 
 stooped down by the child's bed. 
 
 " What are you looking for ? " demanded the landlord 
 testily. 
 
 " I was thinking the child might be there," replied the 
 man in possession meekly ; " there is a child, isn't 
 there?" 
 
 " What if there is ! " exclaimed the landlord. " Can't 
 sell a child. There's no market for them." 
 
 Old Ben explained. "There is a child. Poor little 
 Tottie ! But we've sent her out to a neighbour's, think- 
 ing you would come." 
 
 "And might frighten her, eh?" said the landlord. 
 And shortly afterwards he took his departure, leaving 
 the man in possession with strict injunctions not to 
 allow a thing to be taken out of the house. 
 
The Man in Possession. 219 
 
 " You're accountable, mind you ! " were his last words. 
 
 Bessie and her grandfather felt as if the house had 
 been suddenly turned into a prison, and as if this man, 
 with his strange face and snow-white hair, had been 
 appointed their gaoler. As he did not appear to notice 
 them, old Ben beckoned to Bessie, and,'they crept out of 
 the parlour into the shop, for all the world as if they had 
 been found guilty of some desperate crime. In the 
 shop they breathed more freely. 
 
 " What are we to do with him, Bessie ? " asked Ben. 
 "What do they generally do with men in possession? 
 They give 'em tobacco and beer, I've heard. Oh, dear ! 
 Oh, dear ! I don't mind for myself, my darling ; I don't 
 mind for myself. It's time I was put away. But for 
 you, Bessie — Oh, my darling child ! What have I done 
 to deserve this? What have I done? What have I 
 done?" 
 
 "Grandfather," said Bessie firmly, "you mustn't go 
 on like this. We must have courage. Now, I've made 
 up my mind what I'm going to do. I'm going to take care 
 of you, dear grandfather, as you have taken care of me. 
 You know how clever I am with my needle, and I intend 
 to get work ; and you shall thread my needles for me, 
 grandfather. We can live on very little ." 
 
 Her poor white lips began to tremble here, and she 
 kissed the old man again and again, and cried in his 
 arms, to show how courageous she was. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said a gentle voice behind them. 
 It was the man in possession who spoke. " I beg your 
 pardon," he repeated. "May I beg a word with you 
 in the parlour ? " 
 
 They dared not for their lives refuse him, and they 
 followed him tremblingly. 
 
220 The Man in Possession. 
 
 " I am aware," he said then, as they stood before him 
 Hke criminals, "that I am here on an unpleasant duty, 
 and that I must appear very disagreeable in your 
 eyes " 
 
 " No, no, sir," remonstrated Ben, feeUng that his fate 
 and Bessie's were in this man's hands ; " don't say that, 
 sir ! Quite the contrary, indeed, sir ; quite the contrary ; 
 eh, Bessie ? " 
 
 And the arch old hypocrite tried to smile, to show 
 that he was delighted with the man's company. 
 
 " But I assure you," continued the man, " that I have 
 no desire to annoy or distress you. I have gone through 
 hardships myself" — with a motion of his hand towards 
 his white hair — "as you may see." 
 
 "What is it you want us to do, sir?" asked Ben 
 Sparrow. "' I am sure anything you want, such as 
 tobacco or beer — or anything that there is in the 
 cupboard " 
 
 " I want you to feel as if I wasn't in the house. I 
 know, for instance, that this is your sitting-room ; I don't 
 want you to run away from it. If you like, I will go and 
 sit in the kitchen.'' 
 
 " No, no, sir ! " implored Ben Sparrow. " Not for 
 worlds. We couldn't allow such a thing, could we, 
 Bessie? This is my granddaughter, sir; the dearest 
 child that man ever had ! " 
 
 Why, here was the man in possession, as old Ben* 
 broke down, actually patting him on the shoulder, and 
 looking into his face with such genuine sym|)athy, that 
 before Ben knew where he was, he had held out his 
 hand as to a friend ! What would the next wonder 
 be? 
 
 " That's right," said the man in possession ; " we may 
 
The Man in Possession. 221 
 
 as well be comfortable together, and I shall take it ill of 
 you, if you and your granddaughter do not use the parlour 
 just as if I wasn't here. If you don't, I shall go and sit 
 in the kitchen." 
 
 They could do nothing else after this but look upon 
 the parlour as their own again. Bessie felt very grateful 
 to the man for the sympathy he had shown to her grand- 
 father, and she took out her old workbox, and sat down 
 to mend a pair of Tottie's socks. " The way that child 
 makes holes in her toes and heels is most astounding,'' 
 Ben had often remarked. 
 
 The man in possession glanced at the little socks, and 
 then at Bessie so thoughtfully and kindly, that she gave 
 him a wistful smile, which he returned, and said — 
 
 " Thank you, child ! " in a very sweet and gentle 
 tone. 
 
 When dinner-time came, and before they could ask 
 him to share their humble meal, he went to the street 
 door and called a boy, who, in obedience to his instruc- 
 tions, bought some cold meat and bread at a neighbouring 
 shop. All he asked Bessie to give him was a glass of 
 cold water, and with this and his bread and meat he 
 made a good meal. To the astonishment of Bessie and 
 old Ben, they found they were growing to like him. 
 After dinner he seemed to be drowsy, and sat with 
 closed eyes and thoughtful face in the corner of the 
 room he had appropriated to himself, which, it may be 
 remarked, was not the warmest corner. Bessie and old 
 Ben talked in whispers at first, so as not to disturb him,, 
 but after a time his regular breathing convinced them 
 that he was sleeping ; and Bessie laid down her plans 
 to the old man. When they were turned out of the 
 shop they would take one room, Bessie said ; they would 
 
222 The Man in Possession. 
 
 be very comfortable, she was sure, if they would only 
 make up their minds to be so, and she would work for 
 all three — for grandfather, Tottie, and herself. Indeed, 
 the girl showed herself so much of a true woman in her 
 speech, that she was almost beginning to persuade the 
 old man that what had occurred was, after all, no great 
 misfortune. 
 
 " How strange that his hair should be white ! " 
 remarked Bill, looking at the sleeping man. " He does 
 not seem old enough for that. He isn't very attentive 
 to his duties, whatever they may be. Why, Bessie," said 
 the old man in a whisper, that was almost gleeful, " we 
 could actually run away ! " But his thoughts assumed 
 their sadder tenor immediately afterwards, and he sighed. 
 " Ah, Bessie ! What will George think of all this ? 
 They've had trouble at home, too, during the strike. I 
 often wished, during that time, that I could have gone 
 and sat with them, and comforted them ; and you wished 
 so too, Bess, I know." 
 
 " Yes, dear," answered Bess in a quiet tone. " I 
 wished so too. But George might have put a wrong 
 construction upon it." 
 
 " Bess, darling, tell me " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Bessie, holding up her hands 
 entreatingly, for she anticipated what he was about to 
 say. " Don't ask me, grandfather ! It can never, never 
 be ! Oh, my dear, I try to forget, but I can't ! " She 
 paused, unable to proceed for her tears, but presently 
 said, " I should be so much happier if he thought better 
 of me — although I know we can never be to each other 
 what we were ! I was angry and indignant at first, but I 
 am not so now. If he had only answered me about 
 Tottie— dear little Tottie " 
 
The Man in Possession. 223 
 
 The man murmured in his sleep, and they spoke in 
 hushed voices. 
 
 " It was wrong of me to doubt him," continued the 
 girl ; "very, very wrong ! I should have trusted him, as he 
 told me to. He can never think well of me again — 
 never, never ! But do you know, dear, that I have loved 
 Tottie more since' that time than I did before — poor 
 little motherless thing ! I shall never be happy again ! 
 Never again ! Oh, my poor heart ! " 
 
 It was Ben's turn now to be the consoler, and he 
 soothed her, and caressed her, and suddenly cried — 
 • " Bessie ! young Mr Million ! " 
 
 What itaade Bessie turn white at the name ? What 
 made her gasp and bite her lips as the young gentleman 
 entered the room ? 
 
 " I am grieved to hear of what has happened, Mr 
 Sparrow," he said, taking off his hat; "and I have come 
 at once to ask if you will allow me to assist you." 
 
 "Hush, if you please, sir," returned Ben. "Speak 
 low. That — that man in the corner has been put in by 
 the landlord, and we shouldn't like to wake him. We 
 
 are in great distress, ruined, I may say, sir " 
 
 "Then let me help you,'' interrupted young Mr 
 Million eagerly. "It will be a pleasure to me. Let 
 me pay this man off. You and Miss Sparrow will confer 
 an obligation upon me, beUeve me, if you will allow me 
 to do this." 
 
 " I thank you for your offer, sir," replied Ben, with a 
 helpless look around the humble room in which he had 
 spent many happy years, but " — something in Bessie's 
 face imparted a decision to his voice — " it can't be, sir, 
 it can't be." 
 "Why?' 
 
2 24 T^^ Man in Possession. 
 
 " Well, sir, it might get talked about, and that wouldn't 
 do Bessie any good. You see, sir, you are so far above 
 us that it's impossible we — we can mix, sir. Yes, sir, 
 that's it; it's impossible we can mix. No, sir, it can't 
 be." 
 
 Young Mr Million was silent for a few moments, and 
 tapped with his fingers impatiently on the table. 
 
 " For some time," he then said, " I have seen that you 
 and Miss Sparrow have rejected my advances, and have 
 been different from what you were. Why, may I ask 
 again ? " 
 
 " Well, sir," replied old Ben, emboldened by the ex- 
 pression on Bessie's face, " it will be best to speak plain. 
 You see, sir, the neighbours wt'l/ talk ; and when they see 
 a gentleman like you always a-visiting poor people like 
 us, they want to know the reason of it. And as we've no 
 reason to give, they make one for themselves. People 
 wi// talk, you see, sir ; and I am afraid that my Bessie's 
 name — my Bessie ! the best girl in the world, sir ; good 
 enough to be a princess " 
 
 " That she is," put in young Mr Million. 
 
 "Well, sir, as I was saying, I am afraid that my 
 Bessie's name has got mixed up with yours by people's 
 tongues in such a way as to cause sorrow to her and to 
 me. I have heard, sir, that she was seen one day — 
 nearly a year ago now — to go into your house, and that 
 has been set against her, and flung in her teeth, as § 
 body might say. Well, she did go into your house that 
 once — and only that once, mind ! — and took a letter from 
 me which you desired me to send by her last year when 
 I was in trouble. You helped us then, sir, and I am 
 grateful to you, though I can't pay you. And we've got 
 it into our heads — Bessie and me — that that, and the ear- 
 
The Man in Possession. 225 
 
 rings you gave her — for they've been talked about too, 
 and that's the reason we sent them back to you — was the 
 cause of a greater sorrow to my poor girl than she has 
 ever experienced in her life." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed young Mr Million with a slight 
 sneer in his tone, " you mean because the affair of Miss 
 Sparrow and that cub, George Naldret, has been broken 
 off." 
 
 From Bessie's eyes came such a flash that if the idle 
 young dog could have flown through the door, and have 
 disappeared then and there instantaneously, he would 
 have gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Old 
 Sparrow's blood, too, was up. 
 
 " Be kind enough to go, sir," he said, with more dignity 
 of manner than Bessie had ever seen in him; "and 
 wherever we are, either here or elsewhere, le^ve us to 
 ourselves and our troubles." 
 
 Their voices roused the man in possession ; he yawned 
 and opened his eyes. Young Mr Million saw here an 
 opportunity to assert himself as the heir of a great 
 brewery, and to indulge in a small piece of malice at 
 one and the same time. 
 
 "I must show my sense of your ingratitude," he said, 
 " by somewhat severe measures, and therefore you will 
 arrange at once for the repayment of the money I have 
 advanced to you. I must remind you that there is such 
 a thing as imprisonment for debt. As for the money 
 which your son embezzled from our firm, I must leave 
 my father to settle that with you. In the meantime " 
 
 " In the meantime," interrupted the man in possession, 
 to the astonishment of all, " I'm the master of this house, 
 being in possession, and as you're not down in the 
 inventory, I must request you to leave.'' 
 
 p 
 
2 26 The Man in Possession. 
 
 And without allowing the idle young dog to utter 
 another word, the man in possession, with a wrist of 
 iron, twisted him round, and thrust him from the old 
 grocer's shop. 
 
 So young Mr Million, for a fresh supply of wild oats, 
 had to go to another market ; and doubtless succeeded 
 in obtaining them — they are plentiful enough. 
 ' Ben Sparrow could not but thank the man in possession 
 for his friendly interference. 
 
 " Don't mention it," said the man in possession, add- 
 ing, with an odd smile, " he's not down in the inventory, 
 you know." 
 
 The interview had caused old Ben and Bessie great 
 agitation, and left them sadly distressed ; but nothing 
 could exceed the consideration of the man in possession. 
 He did i^ot ask them for a word of explanation. ' When, 
 indeed, the old man stumblingly referred to it, he turned 
 the conversation, and asked for a sheet of paper and an 
 envelope. These being supplied to him, he wrote a 
 note, and when, after putting it in the envelope and 
 addressing it, he looked up, his hitherto sad face wore 
 such a bright expression that Ben whispered to his 
 granddaughter — 
 
 "Really, Bessie, he is a good fellow, he puts- heart 
 into one " ; and said aloud, " Can I post the letter for 
 you, sir?" 
 
 " No, thank you," was the reply ; " I can send it by^ 
 a messenger. I mustn't let you out of my sight, you 
 know. The landlord said I was accountable for you." 
 
 Old Ben began to~feel as if he were in prison again. 
 
 It was dark when Tottie was brought home; she 
 ran into the, parlour calling for grandfather and Bessie, 
 and jumped into their arms, and kissed them, and 
 
The Man in Possession. 227 
 
 pulled old Ben's hair; she seemed to bring light in 
 with her. 
 
 " Is that Tottie ? " asked the man in possession in a 
 tremulous tone. 
 
 " Yes, yes, sir," replied old Ben. " Go to the gentle- 
 man, my dear." 
 
 Something like a sob came from the man in possession 
 as he lifted Tottie, and kissed her, and when, a little 
 while afterwards, the lamp was lighted, and Tottie was 
 seen curled up contentedly in the man's arms, eating 
 sweets which he was giving her — with such a sweet 
 tooth as Tottie had, it was no wonder she was easily 
 bought over — old Ben whispered to Bessie — 
 
 " Depend upon it, my dear, he has got a little daughter 
 at home, and that makes him fond of Tottie." 
 
 Everything about this strange man was s"b gentle, that 
 they actually looked upon him as a friend instead of an 
 enemy. 
 
 " It is a story about two friends- " 
 
 It is the man in possession who is speaking. Tottie 
 is lying in his arms as contentedly as if she had known 
 him all her life ; he has told her the prettiest of stories, 
 and the child has crowed and laughed over them until 
 she is almost tired with the pleasure and excitement. 
 And now, although it is very nearly eleven o'clock, and 
 time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her grand- 
 father find themselves hstening to a story which he says 
 he desires to tell them. Of course they dare not refuse 
 to listen. 
 
 " It is a story about two friends — mainly about those, 
 although the dearest hopes of others better and purer 
 than they are mixed up irilt. The story is a true one. 
 
228 The Man in Possession. 
 
 What shall I call these friends, so as to distinguish 
 them ? Shall I say George for one — what is the matter, 
 my dear ? " For Bessie has looked with a startled glance 
 into the stranger's face. " George is a common name 
 enough, and this man whom I call George is a good 
 man in every sense of the word. Say, shall I call him 
 George?" 
 
 " Yes, if you please," replies Bessie faintly, turning 
 her face from him. 
 
 " And the other— I will call him Saul." 
 
 " Bessie, my dear ! " exclaims old Ben Sparrow. " Do 
 you hear ? Saul and George ! " 
 
 Bessie's hand- steals into his, and the stranger con- 
 tinues — 
 
 "Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew 
 to manhood in just such a neighbourhood as this. 
 Saul was the elder of the two by six or seven years ; but 
 notwithstanding the difference in their ages, they became 
 firm friends. They talked much together, and read 
 together ; for Saul was a great reader, and took delight 
 in studying, and (according to his own thinking) setting 
 wrong things right. I believe that, at one time of his 
 life, he really had a notion that it was his mission to 
 redress the wrongs of his class ; at all events, it is certain 
 that he elected himself the champion of his fellow-work- 
 men, and as he had the fatal gift of being able to speak 
 well and fluently, the men listened to him, and accepted 
 his high-flown words as the soundest of logic. George 
 admired his friend, although he did not agree with him, 
 and when he was a man, he took an opportunity of 
 vowing eternal friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant 
 something more than words with George; for he was 
 constant and true to the dictates of hi^ heart. Where 
 
The Man in Possession. 229 
 
 he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where 
 he professed love, there would he feel it. And it might 
 be depended upon that neither in his friendship nor his 
 love would he ever change. He was no idle talker. 
 Saul, working himself into a state of false enthusiasm 
 respecting his mission, waited but for an opportunity 
 to raise his flag. The opportunity came. A dispute 
 arose between master and men in a certain workshop ; 
 Saul plunged himself into the dispute, and by his fatal 
 gift inflamed the men, and fanned the discontent until 
 it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters 
 would yield. A strike was the result. In this strike 
 Saul was the principal agitator ; he was the speaker, and 
 the man upon whom all depended, in whom all trusted. 
 Hear, in a few words what occurred then. After making 
 things as bitter as he could ; after making the men 
 believe that the masters were their natural eneifiies ; 
 after making a speech one night, filled with false con- 
 clusions, but which fired the men to a more determined 
 resistance; after doing all this, Saul suddenly deserted 
 his followers and left them in the lurch. He told them 
 that, upon more serious consideration, he had been led 
 to alter his mind, and that he was afraid of the misery 
 a longer fight would bring upon them and their families. 
 The men were justly furious with him ; they called him 
 names which he deserved to be called ; and the result 
 was that the men returned to work upon the old terms, 
 and all of them — masters and men — turned their backs 
 upon the man who had betrayed them. Only one 
 among them remained his friend. That one was George. 
 From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no 
 work; and he dragged down with him a woman who 
 loved him, who had trusted in him, and whom he had 
 robbed of her good name. 
 
230 The Man in Possession. 
 
 " Stay, my dear," said the man in possession, placing a 
 testraining hand upon Bessie's sleeve ; the girl had risen, 
 uncertain whether to go or stay. " You must hear what 
 I have to say ; I will endeavour to be brief. 
 
 "This woman had a child, a daughter, born away 
 from the neighbourhood in which Saul was known. 
 Her love was great ; her grief was greater. Saul showed 
 himself during this time to be not only a traitor but a 
 coward. He took to drink. What, then, did this good 
 woman — ah, my dear, how good she was only Saul 
 knows ! — what did this good woman resolve to do for 
 her child's sake ? She resolved that she would not 
 allow her child to grow up and be pointed at as a 
 child of shame ; that she would endeavour to find some 
 place where it would be cared for, and where, if happier 
 times did not come to her, the child might grow up in 
 thtejbelief that her parents were dead. Shame should 
 not cast its indelible shadow over her darling's life. 
 Saul in his better mood agreed with her. ' I have no 
 friends,' said this woman to Saul ; ' have you ? Have 
 you a friend who, out of his compassion for the child 
 and friendship for you, would take my darling from me, 
 and care for it as his own ? ' Saul had no friend but one 
 — George ! He went to George, and told his trouble, 
 and this dear, noble friend, this man, arranged with a 
 neighbour to take the child and bring her up. He 
 promised sacredly to keep Saul's secret, and only to 
 tell one person the story of the poor little forsaken one. 
 ' I may marry one day, Saul,' he said, ' and then I must 
 tell it to my wife.' In this way the mother obtained her 
 desire ; in this way came about her love's sacrifice ! " 
 
 Tick, tick, tick, comes from the old-fashioned clock in 
 the corner. Bessie has sunk into her chair, and her head 
 
The Man in Possession. 
 
 2;r 
 
 is bowed upon the table. She hears the clear tick, and 
 thinks of a 'year ago, when, standing at the door with 
 her lover, it sounded so painfully in her ears. What 
 pain, what pleasure, has this strange man brought to 
 her ! For she knows that the story he is telling is true, 
 and that Saul's friend, George, is her George, whom she 
 has loved truly and faithfully during all this sad year. 
 What pain ! What pleasure ! What pain to feel that 
 George is parted from her for ever ! What pleasure to 
 know that he is without a stain, that he is even more 
 noble than her love has painted him ! She raises her 
 head, her eyes are almost blinded by her tears ; she 
 stretches forth her arms for Tottie. 
 
 " Let me nurse her ! " she sobs. 
 
 " No, my dear," says the man in possession ; but he 
 places Tottie's lips to hers, and then stoops and kissSs 
 Bessie's tears which have fallen on the little one's face. 
 " There is more to tell. Shall I go on ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " A happy time comes to George. He falls in love 
 with a tender-hearted, pure-souled girl " 
 
 Bessie kneels at his feet, and looks in bewilderment at 
 the man's strange face, at his snow-white hair, and in 
 gratitude raises his hand to her lips. 
 
 "There, there, child!" he says, ",sit down; you 
 interrupt my story. They are engaged to be married, 
 and George is anxious to make a home for his bird. 
 But trade is slack and he can save no money. Then 
 comes a false man, whom we will call Judas, into the 
 story, who, under the pretence of friendship for George, 
 gives him. a passage-ticket to the colonies, where George 
 can more quickly save money to buy the home to which 
 he yearns to bring his bird. But on the very night, 
 
232 The Man in Possession. 
 
 within three hours of the time when George is to look 
 his last upon the little house in which he was born, he 
 learns from Saul that this pretended friend has played 
 him false, has told him Hes; and has given him the 
 ticket only for the purpose of getting him out of the 
 country, so that Judas can pay court to the girl who 
 reigns in George's heart. Other doubts and misunder-* 
 standings • unfortunately accumulate in these critical 
 moments; George learns that the girl was seen to go 
 into the house where Judas's father lives ; learns that 
 Judas has given her a pair of earrings ; learns that Judag 
 was seen by George's mother to place a letter in the girl'^ 
 hands " 
 
 " It was for grandfather ! " cries Bessie. " It contained 
 money for grandfather to help him otit of his trouble." 
 • " Hush, my dear ! What can you know of this story 
 of mine ? When George learns all this he is in an agony 
 of despair. He takes the ticket from his pocket, and is 
 about to destroy it, when Saul falls on his knees at his 
 friend's feet, and begs— entreats .in ^?j agony for the 
 ticket, so that he may go instead of George. For Saul's 
 dear woman has left him — has charged him, by his love 
 for her and for her child, to make an effort to lift them 
 from shame, and he sees no way — no way but this, which 
 is suddenly opened to him. George gives his friend the 
 ticket, and the next day Saul bids good-bye to the land 
 which holds all that is dear to his heart." 
 
 The man in possession pauses here, and old Ben 
 Sparrow gazes earnestly at him. When he resumes, his 
 voice grows more solemn. 
 
 " Saul reaches his destination, and after much wander- 
 ing finds a shelter in the mountains with a little colony 
 of gold-diggers. He makes a friend there, who 
 
The Man in Possession. 233 
 
 bequeathes his gold to him for a good purpose. Saul 
 finds gold, and thanks God for His goodness. He will 
 come home and make atonement. But little remains to 
 be told. Saul comes home bringing gold with him. 
 He seeks his dear woman. He marries her. He hears 
 that the old man and the dear girl who have protected 
 and reared his child are in trouble, that an execution is 
 to be put into the old man's shop for rent " 
 
 "And he becomes a man in possession!" cries old 
 Ben, starting up in indescribable excitement. " Oh dear ! 
 Oh dear ! He becomes a man in possession ! " 
 
 The tolling of a bell is heard. 
 
 "As you say. Is not that the Westminster clock 
 beginning to chime the hour? Listen for one minute 
 more. When Judas comes in this afternoon, do you 
 think the man in possession is asleep? No; he is 
 awake, and hears every word that passes, and such a 
 joy comes into his heart as he cannot describe — for he 
 thinks of George, that noble friend, that man ! What 
 does the man in possession do when Judas has gone? 
 He writes a letter, doesn't he ? Hark ! the last hour is 
 tolling — twelve ! " 
 
 The door opens ; Bessie, with a wild cry, moves but 
 a step, and presses her hand to her heart. George 
 stands before her, pale with the excitement of the 
 moment, but hopeful, and with love in his eyes. 
 
 " George, my dear boy ! " cries old Ben, grasping the 
 young man's hand. 
 
 " Can you forgive me, Bessie ? " asks George. 
 
 A grateful sob escapes from the girl's overcharged 
 heart, and the lovers are linked' in a close embrace. 
 
THE PURSER'S STORY. 
 
 ROBERT BARR. 
 
 I don't know that I should tell this story. 
 
 When the purser related it to nie, he said that it 
 was his intention to write it out for a magazine. 
 In fact, he admitted afterwards that he had written 
 it, and that a noted American magazine was to 
 publish it; but I have watched that magazine for 
 over three years, and I have not yet seen the 
 purser's story in it. I am sorry that I did not write 
 the story at the time ; then perhaps I should have caught 
 the exquisite peculiarities of the purser's way of telling it. 
 I find myself gradually forgetting the story, and I write 
 it now in case V shall forget it, and then be harassed all 
 through after-life by the remembrance of the forgetting. 
 
 There is no position more painful and tormenting than 
 the consciousness of having had something worth the 
 telling, which, in spite of all mental effort, just eludes the 
 memory. It hovers nebulously beyond the outstretched 
 finger-ends of recollection; and, like the fish that gets 
 off the hook, becomes more and more important as the 
 years fade. 
 
 Perhaps, when you read this story, you will say there 
 is nothing in it after all. Well, that will be my fault 
 then, and I can only- regret I did not write down the 
 
236 The Purser's Story. 
 
 story when it was told to me, for as I sat in the purser's 
 room that day, it seemed to me I had never heard any- 
 thing more graphic. 
 
 The purser's room was well forward on the Atlantic 
 steamship. From one of the little red-curtained windows 
 you could look down to where the steerage passengers 
 were gathered on the deck. When the bow of the great 
 vessel plunged down into the big Atlantic waves, the 
 smother of foam that shot upwards would be borne along 
 the wind, and splatter like rain against the purser's 
 window. Something about this intermittent patter on 
 the pane reminded the purser of the story, and so he told 
 it to me. 
 
 There were a great many steerage passengers coming 
 on at Queenstown, he said, and there was quite a hurry 
 getting therti aboard. Two officers stood at each side of 
 the gangway and took the tidkets as the people crowded 
 forward. They generally had their tickets in their hands, 
 and there was usually no trouble. I stood there and 
 watched them coming aboard. Suddenly there was a 
 fuss and a jam. 
 
 " What is it ? " I asked the officer. 
 
 " Two girls, sir, say they have lost their tickets." 
 
 I took the girls aside, and the stream of humanity 
 poured in. One was about fourteen, and the other 
 perhaps eight years old. The little one had a firm grip 
 of the elder's hand, and she was crying. The larger 
 girl looked me straight in the eyes as I questioned 
 her. 
 
 " Where's your tickets ? " 
 
 " We lost thim, sur." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I dunno, sur." 
 
The Pursers Story. 237 
 
 " Do you think you have them about you, or in your 
 luggage ? " 
 
 " We've no luggage, sur.'' 
 
 " Is this your sister ? " 
 
 " She is, sur." 
 
 " Are your parents aboard ? " 
 
 " They are not, sur." 
 
 " Are you all alone ? " 
 
 "We are, sur." 
 
 " You can't go without your tickets." 
 
 The younger one began to cry the more, and the 
 elder answered — • 
 
 " Mabbe we can foind them, sur.'' 
 
 They were bright-looking, intelligent children, and the 
 larger girl gave me such quick, straightforward answers, 
 and it seemed so impossible that children so young 
 should attempt to cross the ocean without tickets, that 
 I concluded to let them come, and resolved to get at the 
 truth on the way over. 
 
 Next day I told the deck steward to bring the children 
 to my room. 
 
 They came in just as I saw them the day before, the 
 elder tightly gripping the hand of the younger, 
 whose eyes I never caught sight of. She kept them 
 resolutely pn the floor, while the other looked straight at 
 me with her big blue eyes. 
 
 " Well, have you found your tickets ? " 
 
 "No, sur." 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Bridget, sur." 
 
 " Bridget what ? " 
 
 " Bridget Mulligan, sur." 
 
 " Where did you live ? " 
 
238 The Purser's Story. 
 
 " In Kildormey, sax." 
 
 " Where did you get your tickets ? " 
 
 " From Mr O'Grady, sur." 
 
 Now I knew Kildormey as well as I know this ship, 
 and I knew O'Grady was our agent there. I would have 
 given a good deal at that moment for a few words with 
 him. But I knew of no Mulligans in Kildormey, although, 
 of course, there might be. I was born -myself only a few 
 miles from the place. Now, thinks I to myself, if these 
 two chil'dren can baffle a purser who has been twenty 
 years on the Atlantic, when they say they came from his 
 own town almost, by the powers, they deserve their 
 passage over the ocean. I had often seen grown people 
 try to cheat their way across, and I may say none of them 
 succeeded on my ships. 
 
 " Where's your father and mother ? " 
 
 " Both dead, sur." 
 
 " Who was your father ? " 
 
 " He was a pinshoner, sur." 
 
 " Where did he draw his pension ? " 
 
 " I dunno, sur." 
 
 " Where did you get the money to buy your tickets ? " 
 
 " The neighbours, sur, and Mr O'Grady helped, sur." 
 
 " What neighbours ? Name them." 
 
 She unhesitatingly named a number, many of whom I 
 knew ; and as that had frequently been done before, I 
 saw no reason to doubt the girl's word. ^ 
 
 "Now," I said, " I want to speak with your sister. You 
 may go." 
 
 The little one held on to her sister's hand, and cried 
 bitterly. 
 
 When the other was gone, I drew the child towards 
 me and questioned her, but could not get a word in reply. 
 
The Pursers Story. 239 
 
 For the next day or two I was bothered somewhat by a 
 biglrishman, named 0'Donnell,who was a firebrand among 
 the steerage passengers. He would harangue them at all 
 hours on the wrongs of Ireland, and the desirability of 
 blowing England out of the water ; and as we had many 
 English and German passengers, as well as many peace- 
 able Irishmen, who complained of the constant ructions 
 O'Donnell was kicking up, I was forced to ask him to 
 keep quiet. He became very abusive one day, and tried 
 to strike me. I had him locked up until he came to his 
 senses. 
 
 While I was in my room, after this little excitement, 
 Mrs O'Donnell came to me and pleaded for her rascally 
 husband. I had noticed her before. She was a poor, 
 weak, broken-hearted woman of whom her husband made 
 a slave, and I have no doubt beat her when he had 
 the chance. She was evidently mortally afraid of him, 
 and a look from him seemed enough to take the life 
 out of her. He was a worse tyrant, in his own small way, 
 than England had ever been. 
 
 "Well, Mrs O'Donnell," I said, "I'll let your hus- 
 band go, but he will have to keep a civil tongue in his 
 head, and keep his hands off people. I've seen men for 
 less put in irons during a voyage, and handed over 
 to the authorities when they landed. And now I want 
 you to do me a favour. There are two children on 
 board without tickets. I don't believe they ever had 
 tickets, and I want to find out. You're a kind-hearted 
 woman, Mrs O'Donnell, and perhaps the children will 
 answer you." 
 
 I had the two called in, and they came hand in hand 
 as usual. The elder looked at me as if she couldn't take 
 her eyes off my face. 
 
240 The Purser's Story. 
 
 "Look at this woman," I said to her, "she wants to 
 speak to you. Ask her some questions about herself," I 
 whispered to Mrs O'Donnell. 
 
 " Acushla," said Mrs O'Donnell, with infinite tender- 
 ness, taking the disengaged hand of the elder girl. " Tell 
 me, darlint, where yees are from." 
 
 I suppose I had spoken rather harshly to them before, 
 although I had not intended to do so; but however 
 that may be, at the first words of kindness from the lips 
 of their countrywoman, both girls broke down and cried 
 as if their hearts would break. The poor woman drew 
 them towards her, and stroking the fair hair of the elder 
 girl, tried to comfort her, while the tears streamed down 
 her own cheeks. " Hush, acushla ; hush, darlints, shure 
 the gentlemin's not goin' to be hard wid two poor children 
 going to a strange country." 
 
 Of course it would never do to admit that the Com- 
 pany could carry emigrants free through sympathy, and 
 I must have appeared rather hard-hearted when I told 
 Mrs O'Donnell that I would have to take them back 
 with me to Cork. I sent the children away, and then 
 arranged with Mrs O'Donnell to see after them during 
 the voyage, to which she agreed if her husband would 
 let her. 
 
 I could get nothing from the girl except that she had 
 lost her ticket ; and when we sighted New York, I took 
 them through the steerage and asked the passengers^ 
 if anyone would assume charge of the children and pay 
 their passage. No one would do so. 
 
 "Then," I said, "these children will go back with me 
 to Cork; and if I find they never bought tickets, they 
 will have to go to jail." 
 
 There were groans and hisses at that, and I gave 
 
The Pursers Story. 241 
 
 the children in charge of the cabin stewardess, with 
 orders to see that they did not leave the ship. I 
 was at last convinced that they had no friends among 
 the steerage passengers. I intended to take them 
 ashore myself before we sailed ; and I knew of good 
 friends in New York who would see to the little waifs, 
 although I did not propose that any of the emigrants 
 should know that an old bachelor purser was fool 
 enough to pay for the passage of a couple of unknown 
 Irish children. 
 
 We landed our cabin passengers, and the tender came 
 alongside to take the steerage passengers to Castle 
 Garden. I got the stewardess to bring out the children, 
 and the two stood and watched every one get aboard 
 the tender. 
 
 Just as the tender moved away, there was a wild 
 shriek among the crowded passengers, and Mrs O'Donnell 
 flttng her arms above her head, and cried in the most 
 heartrending tones I ever heard — 
 
 " Oh, my babies, my babies ! " 
 
 " Kape quiet, ye divil ! " hissed O'Donnell, grasping 
 her by the arm. 
 
 The terrible ten days' strain had been broken at last, 
 and the poor woman sank in a heap at his feet. 
 
 " Bring back that boat ! " I shouted, and the tender 
 came back. 
 
 " Come aboard here, O'Donnell." 
 
 " I'll not ! " he yelled, shaking his fist at me. 
 
 "Bring thatjuan aboard." 
 
 They soon brought him back, and I gave his wife 
 over to the care of the stewardess. She speedily rallied, 
 and hugged and kissed her children as if she would 
 never part with them. 
 
 Q 
 
242 The Pursers Story. 
 
 " So, O'Donnell, these are your children ? " 
 
 " Yis, they are ; an' I'd have ye know I'm in a frae 
 country, bedad, and I dare ye to lay a finger on me." 
 
 "Don't dare too much," I said, "or I'll show you 
 what can be done in a free country. Now, if I let the 
 children go, will you send their passage-money to the 
 Company when you get it ? " 
 
 " I will," he answered, although I knew he lied. 
 
 "Well," I said, "for Mrs O'Donnell's sake, I'll let 
 them go ; and I must congratulate any free country that 
 gets a citizen like you.'' 
 
 Of course I never heard from O'Donnell again. 
 
A SILENT SACRIFICE. 
 
 W. W. FENN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Doris Holyott did not hail the prospect of her annual 
 trip abroad that summer with her usual glee. For the 
 last few years her parents had made excursions to the 
 Continent, after the fashion of quiet, well-to-do English 
 people. Mr and Mrs Holyott, with their only child 
 Doris, lived in retirement at Lanceford, a large village in 
 Surrey. She was the very idol of their hearts, and they 
 held it wise to show her a little of the world outside the 
 nai-row limits of her life, while not depriving her of their 
 anxious personal supervision. 
 
 My sister had been her schoolfellow, and the close 
 friendship then established continued for years. Infinite 
 were the confidences between the two girls, as is shown 
 by the following extract from a letter, which makes the 
 starting-point of my story. 
 
 "Bellagio, Lake of Como, 
 August \yh, 1884. 
 
 " My Dearest Lucy, — Well, we are out here in one of 
 the loveliest spots on earth, yet it fails to charm me as it 
 ought, and, as a year ago it would have done Why is 
 this, you will ask ? Indeed, I' can hardly answer ; I can- 
 
244 ^ Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 not explain it quite to myself. Oh ! how I wish you 
 were here to help me. Perhaps if I were to tell you all, 
 you would be able to understand my apathy — but then 
 so much has happened at Lanceford since we met, that 
 I know you would want to make out all sorts of ridiculous 
 :hings. With your usual mischievous fun, you would 
 want to make out that Mr Wallace is the cause — oh ! but 
 I forgot you don't know who Mr Wallace is ! He is 
 one of the things that has happened. He is our new 
 curate — a tall, pleasant, good-looking young man, and 
 
 one of the most delight but there again, if I were 
 
 to tell you what I think of him, I know that would be 
 quite enough for you to build your romance upon. You 
 would immediately say I was ' smitten,' as you call it. 
 But it is nothing of the kind — indeed it is not. I only 
 enjoy talking to him very much. He is such a contrast 
 to his predecessor. Besides, I have only seen him two 
 or three times. He had only been at Lanceford a month 
 when we came away, so one qan't be expected to have 
 any particular feeling for such a comparative stranger. 
 I suppose we shall see more of him when we go back ; 
 and then I know perfectly well he is not likely to think 
 more of me than I do of him. So it can't be Mr Wal- 
 lace who prevents my enjoying myself as I ought, Still, 
 I am quite happy, and papa and mamma, I know, are 
 equally so. They are for ever exclaiming about the 
 beauty of this place, and papa has found a companion 
 with whom he goes botanising and geologising, and all 
 sorts of things, and papa is quite in his element. This 
 gentleman is staying in the hotel ; but oh, Lucy, he is 
 one of the oddest-looking persons I ever saw. I always 
 feel inclined to laugh when I see him. He is very plain 
 and very short, and with the queerest little legs you can 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 245 
 
 imagine. They always seem to be running away with 
 him, and doing exactly as they like, rather than what he 
 likes. It is as if he wanted to go in one direction, whilst 
 his legs take him off in another. I can't attempt to 
 describe the quaint comicality of his appearance. It 
 seems papa made his acquaintance through some dispute 
 he had with one of the boatmen here, and as papa can't 
 speak a word of Italian, this Mr Bell — that is his name — 
 came to papa's rescue ; for he is very accomplished ; 
 speaks two or three foreign languages as well as his own. 
 I don't know how he pronounces them, but if they souncj 
 to the natives as his English sounds to me, one would 
 think they must have great difficulty in understanding 
 him; for he speaks so quickly, and with such a short, 
 sharp, jerky manner every now and then, that I often 
 cannot make out what he says. I don't mean that he is 
 in the least vulgar — on the contrary, he is a perfect gentle- 
 man ; but everything is so odd and funny about him. 
 However, you shall see his portrait some day, for he has 
 given papa his photograph, and evidently he is not aWare 
 of his own pecuHarities. Indeed, he must be a vain 
 little man ever to have sat for his picture." 
 
 This extract from her letter should be sufficient to 
 convey a hint of the state of Miss Holyott's mind, and 
 perhaps of her heart. The conclusion of the epistle in 
 nowise bears upon our story. 
 
 When in due time the Holyotts found themselves once 
 more within the four walls of Ashfont, their snug little 
 cottage at Lanceford, as Miss Doris anticipated, they saw 
 a good deal more of their new curate, the Rev. Mr John 
 \Vallace. After the manner of the quiet society in such 
 places, he frequently dropped in at tea-time, and ere long 
 
246 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 a visit from him at least once a week at that hour came 
 to be a matter of course. On one special occasion, 
 when the last rays of an October sun were glinting in 
 pleasantly through the half-opened lattice window 'of the 
 drawing-room, and the sweet scents of the garden were 
 borne across the room on the still, soft, autumnal' air, 'the 
 family trio were joined by their accustomed guest. He 
 took his seat with his back near the window, where, 
 whilst sipping his tea, he could, unobserved, let his eyes 
 rest constantly on the sweet face and graceful form of 
 Miss Doris. The talk, of course, turned a great deal on 
 the recent Continental trip, and in reply to Mr Wallace's 
 inquiry whether they had met many pleasant people, Mr 
 Holyott said — 
 
 " I did, a£ any rate — a moSt agreeable fellow,'' where- 
 upon Miss Doris began to titter in a way which called 
 forth a gentle remonstrance from her father. 
 
 " Oh, I grant, papa,'' says she, " he was agreeable 
 enough to talk to; but very stfenge to look at ! " 
 
 " Ah ! my dear,'' says her father, " you pay too much 
 regard to personal attractions. If I < know anything of 
 men, that young fellow, plain as he is, is a thorough 
 high-minded gentleman, and, I would be bound, true as 
 steel." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps, papa, but he has an exceedingly good 
 opinion of himself, I'm sure ; you must admit that." 
 
 " Very likely, child ; we have all our weaknesses, and, 
 like many of us, he possibly is most conceited about 
 those things for which he is least distinguished." 
 
 " Why, you know he is, papa ; did he not give you his 
 photograph ? And who would have done that but a vain 
 man, particularly such a man, and unless he had thought 
 himself at least passably good-looking ? " 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 247 
 
 " Well, I don't see that he is so very ill-favoured — at 
 any rate, in his likeness — and it is an exceedingly good 
 one. Now, I should just like to ask Mr Wallace what 
 he thinks." 
 
 Mr Holyott rose, and, crossing to his writing-table, 
 took a photograph from a drawer, and handed it to the 
 clergyman. The young man carried it to the window, 
 for the sun had set, and the fast-fading twilight was 
 beginning to envelop the little company in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 " Bless me ! " Mr Wallace exclaimed, as he looked at 
 the picture ; " is this your friend, Mr Holyott ? Why, he 
 is mine also — one of the best and dearest I ever had. 
 It's Michael Bell, is it not ? " 
 
 " That is the gentleman's name." 
 
 " What a curious coincidence ! What a small world 
 we live in, after all ! Oh ! and you met him at — where 
 did you say ? " 
 
 " We met him at Bellafio, and travelled with him on 
 to Venice eventually, wh'ere we left him." 
 
 " That's where he's hiding himself, is it ? I have been 
 wondering what had become of him, for I wanted to 
 write to tell him where I was settled. I had only just 
 taken holy orders last spring when he left England. He 
 promised to write to me, but he was never a good cor- 
 respondent.'' 
 
 " You are intimate with him, then ? " 
 
 " Dear me, yes ; he and I were college chums — 
 intimacy is hardly the word. We were one ; and I am 
 glad to have heard of him again now — and in this un- 
 expected way, too ! " 
 
 " There, you hear, child ! " said the fond father, patting 
 his daughter's hand affectionately ; " your old dad is not 
 
248 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 a bad judge of character." Then, turning to the curate, 
 he went on : "I take it that Mr Bell is a man of 
 means ? " 
 
 " Yes, truly," answered the parson. " Besides being 
 highly connected, he inherited a large property when he 
 came of age ; and never did wealth fall into better hands, 
 for although Michael is no niggard towards himself, his 
 charities are unbounded. At one time he was devoted 
 to field sports, and rather inclined to be wild ; for you 
 see, poor fellow, he lost both parents when quite a boy. 
 He got into a bad set at college, and was wasting a lot of 
 time. He declares that I rescued him, and says that, 
 but for me — but that's nonsense. I only saw what was 
 in him, and perhaps had some share in turning his vast 
 abilities into worthier channels. His capacities are great 
 in many directions, and he would have distinguished 
 himself in almost any career had he been obliged to 
 adopt one.'' 
 
 Again the father patted the daughter's hand, smiling 
 at her significantly the while. She responded with 
 loving brightness, but with a mischievous twinkle in her 
 eye, which showed that Mr Bell's appearance was still 
 his paramount " distinction " in her mind. 
 
 As Mr Wallace resumed his seat, he said, " Bell did 
 not speak of returning to England yet, of course ? He 
 always winters abroad now." 
 
 ■'On the contrary," replied Mr Holyott, "when we 
 parted he said he should, in all probability, be jn England 
 as soon as ourselves — in fact, I shouljd not pe surprised 
 to see him any day now. 1 asked him to come and stay 
 with us, and he promised to do so. I shall be right glad 
 to see hiui again, however this wicked little puss may 
 laugh at my taste ; for I flatter myself he enjoyed my 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 249 
 
 company as much as I did his. We had so many 
 interests in common." 
 
 " I don't think it was you alone, Mr Holyott, that w£ts 
 the attraction," here interposed that gentleman's kindly 
 spouse, with a significant smile. " Mr Bell evidently 
 found our company agreeable, and it is not fair of you 
 to say which of us three was the loadstone.'' 
 
 Mrs Holyott spoke little, but when she did make a 
 remark, it was generally very much to the purpose ; and 
 from her manner she seemed to think she had done so 
 now, for she said no more. 
 
 The young clergyman expressed his pleasure at the 
 prc^pect of meeting his old friend again, and as the lamp 
 was here brought in and the window closed, he thought 
 it time to take his leave. 
 
 As he shook hands with Doris, a closer observer than 
 Mr Holyott would have seen, on the faces of both the 
 young people, a key tp what was passing in their hearts. 
 Mrs Holyott, knitting quietly in her accustomed corner, 
 did see it, perhaps. She often saw much more than her 
 worthy husband, to whom, as she used to put it, with 
 good-n'atured sarcasm, she left the talking. 
 
 II. 
 
 Many days passed in the usual serene monotony that 
 characterised Lanceford, but I believe it was not very 
 long after the^olyotts' return from abroad that the Rev. 
 John Wallace solicited an interview with the head of 
 the family. I cannot pretend to reproduce verbatim 
 all that passed on that momentous occasion, but I can 
 imagine that Mr Holyott, when he heard the young 
 
250 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 clergyman's stammering explanation, of the especial 
 reason for his visit, saying — 
 
 "Well, my dear sir, you take me by surprise. Al- 
 though, of course, we feel flattered by your desire to 
 establish such a bond with my family, I really must ask 
 you to give me time for reflection. It is highly honour- 
 able and commendable of you to have come to me, as 
 you say, before speaking to Doris ; but you see, for the 
 moment, we — we are comparative strangers. You are a 
 young man ; we have not the pleasure of knowing any 
 of your family, except by name, which in itself is one 
 with which it would be ' an honour to be associated. 
 Still, we are not aware what your prospects are — or ^^hat 
 income you would be likely to possess.'' 
 
 " To be candid, sir,'' replied the clergyman, " I admit 
 that for the present my income consists of a poor curate's 
 stipend — not a penny more; but I may hope for prefer- 
 ment some day, although I grant such interest as my 
 family can command does not lie in the direction of the 
 
 Church. But— Miss Holyott "' 
 
 " Ah ! disabuse your mind of that idea at once," 
 interrupted the father ; " Miss Holyott, at the best, will 
 inherit but a mere trifle." 
 
 " Pardon me," exclaimed Wallace, colouring to the 
 very roots of his hair ; " you put a wrong construction on 
 my words. If my judgment be not utterly at fault, I 
 fancy Miss Holyott would trust me, and be prepared to 
 wait my time.'' * 
 
 " Ah ! quite so, quite so. You must wait, if you are 
 both of the same mind. In that case, although I dislike 
 long engagements, there will be no help for it. That is 
 to say, you must have patience, sir ; for I rely on your 
 honour that you do not speak to my daughter, at least 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 2 5 i 
 
 for the present.' I cannot run the risk of her peace of 
 mind being disturbed. I cannot permit anything hke an 
 engagement.'' 
 
 In the end the young man was reluctantly obliged to 
 comply with his elder's edict, and before they parted 
 he promised that no word should pass his lips to Miss 
 Holyott as to the state of his feelings. Nevertheless, he 
 felt greatly discomforted ; nor was Mr Holyott much 
 more satisfied or gratified, inasmuch as he well knew 
 words were not always necessary in these cases for the 
 conveyance of our feelings to those who are prepared to 
 understand us. 
 
 Moreover, that very morning's post had brought him a 
 letter containing another proposal almost identical with 
 that of the young clergyman, and one which found far 
 greater favour in the father's eyes. As, however, directly 
 Mr Wallace had departed, Mr Holyott took this letter out 
 of his pocket to read again, it will advance bur purpose if 
 we peep over his shoulder while he does so. 
 
 "Radley's Hotel, Jermyn Street, 
 29/10/84. 
 
 " My Dear Sir, — -I have only been in England twenty- 
 four hours ; but I feel I cannot pass another twenty- 
 four, without availing myself of your kind invitation to 
 Lanceford. Yet I hesitate, because I could not endure 
 to come to you under false colours. I am a straight- 
 forward man, I hope, and at the risk of being thought 
 very abrupt, I will at once disclose my feelings to you. 
 
 " In so many words, then, I must tell you that from 
 the first moment I had the happiness to fall into your 
 company, I was filled with admiration of Miss Holyott 
 — an admiration which, as our acquaintance increased, 
 
252 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 rapidly ripened into love. Even if I tried, I should fail 
 to express the intensity of what I feel for her. For the 
 first time in my life, I am experiencing an entirely new 
 sensation — one which I cannot describe, even to myself, 
 but which I know to be none other than love — love as 
 unalterable as it is intense. Therefore, what I ask now, 
 is that I may be allowed to plead my own cause with your 
 daughter. I am unable to divine whether she in the 
 least degree suspected my feelings. Strangers that we 
 were, I was bound, on so short an acquaintance, to 
 disguise them from her ; for I could not, in honour, let 
 her suspect anything until I had opened my mind to you, 
 and this I had not the courage to do whilst we were 
 together in Italy. Now it is different. I feel hurried on 
 by an irresistible longing to know my fate ; for until I do, 
 all my thoughts are centred on Lanceford. I shall be 
 down to-morrow evening, and shall drive straight to the 
 inn, where I will await your reply. Should it be 
 unfavourable, I feel I can hardly endure to enter your 
 door. I am aware this may be regarded as head- 
 strong conduct, and you will say I am trying to force from 
 you permission to pay my addresses to your daughter 
 before you can reasonably be expected to give it. 
 Naturally, you will desire to know a score of things about 
 me ere you could grant such a reqnest, but T seem to 
 have such confidence in the good understanding which 
 sprang up between us that I am tempted thus to set my 
 fate upon one cast ; for I have no doubt, when once we 
 enter on the matter, of being able to satisfy you com- 
 pletely as to my means and position. Forgive my 
 appearing to sprihg this mine upon you so suddenly, but 
 if you could see into my heart, I think you would find 
 there sufficient to account for my temerity. If you are 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 253 
 
 unable to write as I desire, at least let me beg the favour 
 of an interview as soon as possible after I arrive. — 
 Ever faithfully and sincerely yours, 
 
 "Michael Bkll." 
 
 III. 
 
 It was with very mingled feelings, we may be sure, that 
 Mr Wallace bent his steps homeward after his interview 
 with Mr Holyott. He lodged near the recently opened 
 railway station, and whilst he was approaching it, a train 
 arrived, depositing but few passengers. He was too far 
 away to recognise any of them, but he observed the one 
 solitary fly drive off with a passenger inside. Suddenly, as 
 it came towards him, the occupant thrust his head out of 
 the window to speak to the driver, and the curate in- 
 stantly recognised the face of his friend Michael Bell. 
 He was hardly surprised, of course, knowing that the 
 visitor might be expected any day ; but he was startled 
 into an exclamation of wonder as the fly stopped. The 
 recognition had been mutual, and amazement only faintly 
 describes the newcomer's sensation as he beheld his old 
 college chum in this unexpected place. 
 
 I think, however, we can imagine the cordial greeting 
 on both sides ; we can see Bell springing out of the 
 vehicle with the proverbial alacrity and self-willedness of 
 those little legs which provoked Doris's mirth ; we can 
 see the hearty hand-shaking, the old familiar habit of 
 slapping on the shoulders, and so on. 
 
 Explanations soon followed ; but presently Wallace 
 inquires why on earth his old chum is going to the inn. 
 
 Michael evades the question by asking another — 
 
 " You say, Jack, you knew I was coming. How on 
 
2 54 -^ Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 earth did you know it ? I hadn't an idea you were here, 
 and I've only written one letter for months " — he paused 
 — "and that was yesterday.'' 
 
 " Of course you did not know I was here," answers 
 the other ; " how should you ? But you see a little bird 
 whispered in my ear.'' Then it was his turn to pause. 
 Continuing, he said, " Not to beat about the bush in this 
 fashion any longer, those dear people, the Holyotts, told 
 me you were coming ; told me about your meeting them 
 at Bellagio ; told me everything.'' 
 
 Bell stopped instantly — they were walking back towards 
 the village — and looked up into the face of his friend with 
 ' a curious, doubtful expression. Then he looked to the 
 right and the left. The fly had driven on, according to 
 orders, with his bag, and they had the long country ro^d 
 all to themselves. Resuming his gaze at Wallace, he said 
 seriously — 
 
 "No, surely not; I don't think they told you ever)'- 
 thing. Mr Holyott didn't tell you he had had a letter 
 from me this morning, did he ? " 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 " No, I thought not, I thought not," and then Michael 
 Bell became very grave indeed. His gravity, too, seemed 
 to communicate itself to John Wallace, for he also bent 
 his eyes on the ground, and they walked on many yards 
 in silence. The curate was the first to break it. 
 
 " I never kept anything from you, old fellow," he be- 
 gan, "and I don't think, now that I see you agairj, I have 
 reason to alter my habit. In truth, I am, for many 
 reasons, more glad to see you than I can tell; but for 
 one reason especially, and that is a very selfish one. I 
 am so full of it that it is brimming over, and I must tell 
 you, Mike. I am over head and ears in love ! " 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 255 
 
 The other did not smile even. With the impulse of 
 the old familiarity, he was on the point of answering, 
 " So am I ; " but, checking himself suddenly as the words 
 rose to his lips, asked simply, "With whom?" 
 
 " Well, you know the lady, Mike." 
 
 Bell stopped again, now very suddenly, and a spasm — 
 it was more than a mere expression of anxiety — crossed 
 his face for a second ; but he asked almost indifferently — ■ 
 
 " I know the lady ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is Miss Holyott." 
 
 This time it was pain, acute, distinct, unmistakable, 
 which flashed into the uncomely though sweetly kind 
 countenance of Bell ; but he made no remark, although 
 had his friend not been too much engrossed with his 
 own feelings, he must have gathered a suspicion of what 
 effect the words had on his companion. Presently, after 
 a brief pause, he plunged headlong into a full account of 
 the true state of affairs up to that interview from which 
 he had just emerged, not forgetting a single detail, or to 
 express his despondency at the hopelessness of his 
 prospects. Michael heard him in silence, and had it 
 chanced that the friends had been arm in arm at that 
 moment, it is hardly possible that the emotion agitating 
 the whole of Bell's frame could have escaped the other's 
 notice ; he trembled^ perceptibly. 
 
 Wallace, however, was wholly unconscious of the blow 
 he had delivered, and Michael, soon discovering this, 
 did all in his power to keep him so. By a great effort 
 he bravely resumed his genial, hearty air, and spoke a 
 few words of encouragement. 
 
 "You tell me, Jack," he said, "you think Miss Holyott 
 cares for you — ^you did say so, didn't you ? " 
 
 " I am certain of it," cried Wallace. " I honestly 
 
258 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 "Hotel De Provence, 
 "Algiers, 25/10/90. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear Jack, I have had good reasons 
 for maintaining silence and keeping in the background 
 ■till now. My presence in any form could but have cast 
 a shadow over the happiness of your life, especially as 
 for the last four years my health, never of the strongest, 
 as you know, has gradually been givirig way— now it is 
 utterly broken. But I cannot bear to let the end come, 
 as I am aware it must very speedily, without bidding you 
 farewell. To feel your friendly hand-grip once again before 
 I die would, if such a thing be possible, add to the peace 
 of my final journey ; for it is entirely owing to you and your 
 affectionate counsels that I had not started on it many 
 years since. I thank God that through you He has 
 vouchsafed me time, in some degree perhaps, to atone for 
 and repent of the wild courses into which I was plunging 
 when you rescued me. You were my best and dearest 
 friend. I have none so close. You know how alone I 
 have stood, in the world from my boyhood — you have 
 never been absent from my thoughts, though, never mind 
 why, I could only of late choose to be silent. But try 
 and come to me. Jack, as soon as you can. As I write, I 
 want you more and more, and if you can bring her — 
 your wife — I should like to say ' Good-bye.' No more— 
 I am tired — but come ! — Yours ever, Mike." 
 
 " Oh, Doris ! Doris ! " exclaimed the clergyman, 
 turning to his wife as he finished reading. " It's all 
 plain to me now. Dear old Mike is our benefactor. 
 My preferment is solely due to him, depend on it. I 
 have often suspected it, as you know. Ay, and he has 
 done much more, but I cannot talk — we must go— we 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 259 
 
 must start for Algiers at once. I have not been away for 
 a day since we came, and I am sure , our friend Stewart 
 will take the duty for me for a rrionth, as he is idle just 
 now — stay, I will send a line to him at once." 
 
 Doris looked into her husband's usually calm face, and 
 was astonished at his excited, eager expression ; but she 
 knew he would explain in his own time ; at present she 
 had scarcely grasped all that the letter meant. Breakfast 
 was hurried over, arrangements made, and husband and 
 wife reached London in time to catch the Dover express 
 and cross that night. 
 
 During the journey John Wallace unburdened his 
 heart. The letter made all clear to him at last. Michael 
 Bell's abrupt departure from Lanceford immediately after 
 his arrival was explained. Yes, yes, that was it. Michael, 
 when he heard how matters stood, had renounced his 
 love, and in his heart gave up Doris to his friend in those 
 few moments in which the two had walked together 
 down that country road from the Lanceford Station to the 
 little inn, six years ago. Yes ; gave up his very dearest 
 hopes, and crowned his noble sacrifice by exerting his 
 interest to secure for his friend that living of Doringham 
 — for was not the Bishop of the diocese a close connection 
 of Bell's family, and had not the presentation been made 
 in the most sudden and unexpected manner, as one of 
 his first acts after his recent instalment in the See, and 
 when Jack did not imagine even that his Lordship knew 
 of his existence ? Yes ; it was all dear Mike's doing, 
 and there he was, alone and dying, in a foreign land 
 hundreds of miles away. 
 
 " I pray we may be in time, Doris. You can see it 
 all now, can you not ? " said John, turning to his wife, 
 whose tears were raining down her sweet face, as she 
 
258 A Silent Sacrifice. 
 
 " Hotel De Provence, 
 "Algiers, 25/10/90. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear Jack, I have had good reasons 
 for maintaining silence and keeping in the background 
 ■till now. My presence in any form could but have cast 
 a shadow over the happiness of your life, especially as 
 for the last four years my health, never of the strongest, 
 as you know, has gradually been giving way^now it is 
 utterly broken. But I cannot bear to let the end come, 
 as I am aware it must very speedily, without bidding you 
 farewell. To feel your friendly hand-grip once again before 
 I die would, if such a thing be possible, add to the peace 
 of my final journey ; for it is entirely owing to you and your 
 affectionate counsels that I had not started on it many 
 years since. I thank God that through you He has 
 vouchsafed me time, in some degree perhaps, to atone for 
 and repent of the wild courses into which I was plunging 
 when you rescued me. You were my best and dearest 
 friend. I have none so close. You know how alone I 
 have stood in the world from my boyhood — you have 
 never been absent from my thoughts, though, never mind 
 why, I could only of late choose to be silent. But try 
 and come to me. Jack, as soon as you can. As I write, I 
 want you more and more, and if you can bring her — 
 your wife — I should like to say ' Good-bye.' No more— 
 I am tired — but come ! — Yours ever, Mike." 
 
 " Oh, Doris ! Doris ! " exclaimed the clergyman, 
 turning to his wife as he finished reading. " It's all 
 plain to me now. Dear old Mike is our benefactor. 
 My preferment is solely due to him, depend on it. I 
 have often suspected it, as you know. Ay, and he has 
 done much more, but I cannot talk — we must go— we 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 259 
 
 must start for Algiers at once. I have not been away for 
 a day since we came, and I am sure , our friend Stewart 
 will take the duty for me for a month, as he is idle just 
 now — stay, I will send a line to him at once." 
 
 Doris looked into her husband's usually calm face, and 
 was astonished at his excited, eager expression ; but she 
 knew he would explain in his own time ; at present she 
 had scarcely grasped all that the letter meant. Breakfast 
 was hurried over, arrangements made, and husband and 
 wife reached London in time to catch the Dover express 
 and cross that night. 
 
 During the journey John Wallace unburdened his 
 heart. The letter made all clear to him at last. Michael 
 Bell's abrupt departure from Lanceford immediately after 
 his arrival was explained. Yes, yes, that was it. Michael, 
 when he heard how matters stood, had renounced his 
 love, and in his heart gave up Doris to his friend in those 
 few moments in which the two had walked together 
 down that country road from the Lanceford Station to the 
 little inn, six years ago. Yes ; gave up his very dearest 
 hopes, and crowned his noble sacrifice by exerting his 
 interest to secure for his friend that living of Doringham 
 — for was not the Bishop of the diocese a close connection 
 of Bell's family, and had not the presentation been made 
 in the most sudden and unexpected manner, as one of 
 his first acts after his recent instalment in the See, and 
 when Jack did not imagine even that his Lordship knew 
 of his existence ? Yes ; it was all dear Mike's doing, 
 and there he was, alone and dying, in a foreign land 
 hundreds of miles away. 
 
 " I pray we may be in time, Doris. You can see it 
 all now, can you not ? " said John, turning to his wife, 
 whose tears were raining down her sweet face, as she 
 
26o A Silent SacHfice. 
 
 realised at what a price her happiness had been secured. 
 She could only press her husband's hand, and add her , 
 prayers to his that they' might not be too late. 
 
 The weather favoured their progress, and they reached 
 the African port in the shortest possible time. At the 
 Hotel de Provence the first person John Wallace 
 encountered was Mike's faithful sei^vant, Robins. 
 
 The man recognised John in a moment, as he saifl, 
 " My master has had some rest to-day, sir ; if you will 
 come with me, I will let him know you have arrived." 
 
 They were shown into a pretty, sunny room on the 
 ground-floor, giving on to a short corridor. Robins softly 
 opened the first door on the right, closing it after hijn. 
 In a few moments he returned and beckoned to the 
 clergyman, but put up his hand to prevent Mrs Wallace 
 following. 
 
 Doris sat down again with a beating heart, thinking- 
 over the past, with ever-increasing sorrow for her light 
 and careless judgment of one whose noble act of self- 
 sacrifice had given her her life's happiness. Many times 
 her father's words recurred to her, and it was with no 
 little bitterness that she acknowledged to herself how 
 wrong she had been in allowing personal appearance so 
 to outweigh all other ideas in her judgment of mankind. 
 She remained alone, she could not tell how long, 
 •absorbed in the past, until the sun declined and twilight 
 was deepening into darkness. It seemed to her as if^ 
 her youth lay years and years behind, and that now for 
 the first time she was recognising what life really meant 
 for noble men and women ; how out of the first great 
 sacrifice of all grew the knowledge that self-renunciation 
 was the supreme secret ; that in keeping the welfare of 
 
A Silent Sacrifice. 261 
 
 others ever before us as our guiding star, our own peace 
 must ensue. 
 
 ' Doris was roused from her musings at last by the 
 entrance of her husband, who with a gentle hand took 
 hers, and led her without a word to the door of the 
 invalid's room. 
 
 "You will need all your self-control, Doris," he said. 
 " Dear Mike is terribly changed, but he craves so to see 
 you. Do not fear.'' For he felt his wife was trembling. 
 
 In a moment Doris was on her knees by the bedside. 
 She felt a hand put towards her. She took it in both 
 her own, and pressed it tenderly to her lips, but could 
 not speak. 
 
 "Nearer, please — one kiss," murmured the dying 
 man. 
 
 She raised her head, and putting an arm under his 
 pillow, drew him gently towards her, and laid her sweet 
 face beside his. 
 
 " God bless you ! " he murmured ; " God bless you 
 both!" 
 
 Then "The rest is silence." 
 
THE CHUMPLEBUNNYS ON 
 THE OCEAN WAVE. 
 
 W. BEATTY-KINGSTON. 
 
 The Chumplebunnys are the oddest people in creation. 
 Volumes might be written about their eccentricities of 
 conduct in everyday life. I have known them long, and 
 revelled in their quaintness times without number ; but 
 one of the funniest of my experiences in connection with 
 this remarkable family was that of going abroad with 
 them the summer before last to Ostend, on one of the 
 G.S.N.C.'s steamers — the Swallow. My friends are per- 
 fectly well known on board this vessel, the whole ship's 
 company of which, from skipper down to cabin-boy, does 
 its utmost to make life at sea bearable to the ladies of 
 Chumplebunny's family ; for these latter, poor souls, suffer 
 grievously and unremittently from the moment at which 
 they leave the wharf until they arrive at their destina- 
 tion. 
 
 I will try to set down as nearly as I can what I 
 remember of that humorous journey. It was, indeed, to 
 me — who am perfectly at ease upon the^ ocean, no matter 
 how turbulent the weather — a mirthful one, thanks to the 
 idiosyncrasies of my estimable but peculiar friends, the 
 Chumplebunnys. 
 
264 Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 
 
 Achitophel Chumplebunny delights in punctuality. 
 He may, without exaggeration, be said to wallow in 
 exactitude ; and habit in his case, as Regards " being in 
 time," has assumed the character of inveteracy^ I 
 cannot truthfully say as much of the partner of his joys 
 and sorrows. She, the calmest of her sex, likes to take 
 her ease in all things, and entertains a rooted objection 
 to being hurried. Moreover, she does not allow any- 
 thing to disturb her equanimity ; so that Mr Chumple- 
 bunny, when waiting to take her out to dinner, or haply 
 to the theatre, being prompted by his love of punctuality 
 to stamp and swear at the foot of the stairs, and to 
 exhort her, with stentorian outcry and passionate invo- 
 cation, to come down, elicits no answer whatsoever from 
 her ; and she presently sails deliberately down the stairs 
 in a provokingly serene manner, asking impassively, " Is 
 the cab there?" Whereupon Chumplebunny uses 
 language of more than Oriental fancifulness, combined 
 with an Occidental vigour, which renders it quite unfit for 
 publication. This incident is chronically recurrent in 
 the Chumplebunny manage, and never fails to exhibit 
 Mrs C.'s bland placidity, in soothing contrast to the 
 uncompromising fervour of her excitable spouse. 
 
 It was a fine morning on the first of September 1886, 
 when we all prepared to leave London for a month's 
 sojourn at Ostend. It is a far cry from Hampstead, 
 where my friends reside, to St Katherine's Wharf, whence 
 the Swallow was to take her flight ; and the hour of her 
 departure was fixed for i p.m. ; so that at 10.30. a.m. 
 Mr C. ordered four cabs to be fetched. The family, I 
 should perhaps mention, consists of five persons^— Mr and 
 Mrs Chumplebunny, Anastasia Chumplebunny, known 
 to her intimate friends and the family as "Tommy,"' 
 
Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 265 
 
 Chumplebunny junior (Onesiphorus), an ingenuQus lad 
 of fourteen, and the baby, or " Scratch," a powerful lassie 
 of nine. The quantity and volume of luggage which Mrs 
 and Miss Chumplebunny took with them for a month's 
 outing was simply amazjng ! They must have had 
 different dresses for every hour of every day. 
 
 When the boat was ready to start, you could see the 
 Chumplebunnys' luggage towering high above the funnel ; 
 and perched on the top of this sumptuary pile was a 
 basket outhne of a female figure, whereupon, as my fair 
 friends assured me, drapery effects might be studied to 
 the greatest advantage ! Upon my venturing to murmur 
 a feeble joke at the expense of this spectral object, I was 
 coldly informed that "no lady having any respect for 
 her appearance would think of leaving home for more 
 than a day without a dress-frame." Whereupon Chumple- 
 bunny muttered a word or two eminently calculated to 
 prejudice the prospects of his immortal part. 
 
 I must not forget to record the fact that Mrs Chumple- 
 bunny always insists upon taking all her dogs abroad, 
 steadfastly regardless of Mr Chumplebunny's entreaties 
 that she will leave them at home. Hence, on the 
 morning in question, just as we were about to start, the 
 alarming problem arose. How should we convey Hamlet, 
 a mastiff several sizes larger than a six weeks' old calf, 
 down to the wharf? After a great deal of tender persuasion, 
 Mrs Chumplebunny induced Hamlet to get into one of 
 the cabs ; but when an attempt was made to shut the 
 door upon him, he was found to be so much too large 
 for the accommodation available to him that he was com- 
 pelled to hang his formidable head out of one window, 
 while his tail flourished uneasily, more in astonishment 
 than in anger, out of the other. Punch and Judy, dogs 
 
266 Chumplebunnys on the Oceg,n Wave. 
 
 of a less roomy character, two birds, and a cat (of the 
 tailless Manx persuasion), the children, and Mrs Chumple- 
 bunny's maid were carefully packed together in the other 
 cabs ; and thus we drove off, in a somewhat impressive 
 procession, to the wharf. On arriving there, long before 
 the Swallow had completed her cargo, Anastasia found 
 on board the vessel several of her admirers, who' had 
 come thither to present her with valedictory flowers ; and 
 thanks to Chumplebunny's unflinching resolve to " be in 
 time," after unloading the cabs, taking possession of our 
 berths, and finally getting comfortably settled down on 
 deck, we had quite an hour to spare for a farewell chat 
 with our friends before the Swallow cast off her moorings, 
 and began to steam briskly down the stream. 
 
 Mrs Chumplebunny's trials now began with their 
 customary severity. No sooner had the boat started than 
 she began to' feel exceedingly squeamish. We propped 
 her up with cushions; and Mr C, with well-affected 
 sprightliness, endeavoured to call her attention to the 
 fine buildings and other objects of interest lining the 
 river-banks on either hand. But none of these things — 
 not even the shipping, in the description of which my 
 worthy friend displayed the eloquence of a professional 
 orator, and the technical knowledge of a master-mariner 
 — availed nought to divert Mrs Chumplebunny's mind 
 from the unpleasant conviction that she was " in for it." 
 
 Anastasia, too, became less and less conversational as 
 we approached the mouth of the Thames. By the tim*b 
 we had arrived within a measurable distance of the 
 buoy at the Nore, her usually cheerful countenance had 
 became " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," 
 and her freely-flowing stream of small-talk had dried up 
 into gloomy silence, broken at rare intervals by a feeble 
 
Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 267 
 
 monosyllabic croak when any question or remark 
 requiring an answer happened to be addressed to her. 
 Some might have ascribed this dismal muteness to 
 brooding regrets for " an absent one " ; but I, who knew 
 her well as " a maiden fancy free,'' could readily see that 
 Love had less to do with her unwonted taciturnity than 
 Liver. The qualms with which Neptune afflicts those 
 who worship him not were doing their wojst by Anas- 
 tasia. Mrs Chumplebunny herself was not more livid in 
 hue or sorrowful in spirit than was her usually sprightly 
 daughter, as the Swallow began to frolic with the game- 
 some waves of the Channel. Both ladies — to all 
 appearances shapeless bundles of rugs — clung de- 
 spairingly to the deck, whilst the stewardess hovered 
 round them with basins, and poor little "Scratch," all 
 her demoniac impulses quelled by incessant nausea, 
 rolled about in the wash of the scuppers, audible, but 
 unheeded, her nurse having been reduced to inarticulate 
 helplessness by the wambling of the steam-packet whilst 
 still within sight of Southend Pier. 
 
 I need scarcely say that my friend Chumplebunny all 
 this while exhibited every symptom of physical comfort 
 and psychical exhilaration ; conveying to all around him 
 the impression that his home was on the billow, and 
 that, although accident had thrust him into the dry salting 
 groove. Nature had intended him to achieve maritime 
 distinction as a " sea-dog " of the very briniest descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 As we progressed towards mid-Channel, his appetite 
 developed to formidable dimensions, laying a heavy 
 strain upon the Swallow's commissariat, and could only 
 be stayed, if not appeased, by huge wedges of household 
 bread, and blocks of pale, damp cheese, plentifully 
 
268 Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 
 
 anointed with the peculiarly scorching mustard that 
 abounds on board ship, and is so infrequently to be met 
 with on dry land. Of these dread edibles, from which 
 he would have turned with loathing and dismay had 
 they been offered to him in his own dining-room, he 
 devoured masses — and with evident relish — in the stuffy 
 cabin of the Swallow, whilst that vessel was plunging 
 and swaying like a distraught porpoise. During the 
 intervals between his amazing feats of consumption, he 
 and I and Onesiphorus paced up and down the deck, 
 trying to keep ourselves warm, or stood upon the 
 bridge, chatting with the skipper, and gazing upon the 
 wonders of the deep. 
 
 It was during orie of these brief journeys aloft, between 
 the summits of the twin paddle-boxes, that Captain 
 Butcher called our attention to Chumplebunny junior, 
 whose complexion had assumed the tint of a "short six," 
 while his demeanour betokened a profundity of thought- 
 fulness altogether foreign to his lively, and even some- 
 what rollicking disposition. As we watched him, we 
 noticed that he visibly decreased in bulk, and that his 
 head shrank between his shoulders in a strangely tortoise- 
 like manner. We set him on a camp-stool, surrounded 
 by ship's buckets, to which he immediately became an 
 apparently inexhaustible tributary. 
 
 "Now," observed the kindly skipper, "the youngster 
 is quite ship-shape and comfortable." 
 
 This may have been so. All that I can say is, that 
 he did not look the part. 
 
 But Onesiphorus endured his tribulations with singular 
 fortitude and composure. For more than an hour he 
 devoted himself to the buckets unflinchingly, losing 
 weight, but never once audibly rebelling against adverse 
 
Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 269 
 
 destiny ; after which we bore him below, " desolate but 
 all undaunted," and deposited him in a berth, with the 
 Manx cat and a cage of sea-sick canaries. Thenceforth, 
 until our arrival at Ostend on the following morning, his 
 efforts to rid himself of his vital organs by the process 
 of expulsion were eager and continuous. 
 
 When, at 6 a.m., a holy calm having succeeded the 
 agitations of the night, I exchanged the horizontal for 
 the perpendicular, and sought breakfast in the after- 
 cabin, it was a spectral Chumplebunny junior whose 
 ghastly presence I encountered, as I entered that 
 apartment. 
 
 Mrs Chumplebunny had quitted the deck at an early 
 hour of the previous evening, and had sought oblivion 
 of her wrongs in one of those malignant contrivances for 
 the prevention of slumber and the promotion of bruises, 
 called a berth. On this Procrustean couch she had 
 writhed and ached throughout the watches of the night, 
 atoning for a thousand sins of unpunctuality, and be- 
 moaning the hardness of her lot, as well as that of her 
 bed, in accents the piteousness of which might have 
 melted a heart of stone. 
 
 It has been said that a good man in adversity is a 
 sight, to move the compassion of gods and men; but, to 
 my mind, a still sadder spectacle is afforded by a con- 
 genitally calm woman racked by the throes of sea- 
 sickness. Where was Mrs Chumplebunny's impressive 
 placidity, where her imperturbable self-possession — be- 
 lieved by all who knew her to be proof against the most 
 fantastic vicissitudes of fortune — as she lay groaning 
 under the Swallow's starboard wing, complying perforce 
 with the undignified suggestions of her revolutionized 
 stomach ? On terra firma no woman living is more 
 
270 Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 
 
 capable of holding her own than Amelia Chumplebunny ; 
 out at sea, it is far otherwise with her. There she is 
 distinctly at a disadvantage ; how much so, must be 
 seen to be believed. 
 
 On the occasion referred to, however, her daughter 
 Anastasia was even more to be pitied than she herself, 
 for the following reason. The rules and regulations of 
 the Swallow not permitting dogs, however deeply beloved ■ 
 by their owners, to sojourn in the cabins by night-time, 
 it was proposed by the ship's cook, at about 7 p.m., to 
 convey Anastasia's especial pet, a large Russian poodle 
 called Punch, to a sort of cubby-hutch, hidden away in 
 the casing of the paddle-box, and there to confine him 
 in darkness and solitude until morning. The outrage 
 to her feelings involved in this heartless proposal fairly 
 roused Anastasia from the lethargy into which protracted 
 sufferings had plunged her. Nothing but death, she 
 murmured faintly, should separate her from her favourite 
 dog. A lively discussion ensued. What was to be 
 done? The night was windy, showery, and cold, as is 
 too frequently the case on the Channel in the early 
 autumn-tide ; yet Anastasia Chumplebunny, rather than 
 part with Punch, actually sat up all night on the cabin 
 stairs, steadfastly holding on to Punch's " leader," as he 
 crouched shivering beside her, and causing almost incon- 
 ceivable inconvenience to herself, her fellow-passengers, 
 and the officials engaged in the service of the cabitis. 
 It was blowing hard, and raining in torrents, but re- 
 monstrance and entreaty were alike in vain. Anastasia, 
 alias "Tommy," defied parental authority, and stuck 
 to her perch, electing to be soaked and frozen in prefer- 
 ence to incurring a brief severance from her faithful four- 
 legged companion. 
 
Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 271 
 
 When darkness covered the face of the waters, 
 and we were so far out at sea that the Foreland Ughts 
 only made themselves manifest to our gaze by an 
 occasional twinkle as the Swallow rose to the very top 
 of an exceptionally high wave, Chumplebunny and I 
 went below and called for food, stipulating that it must 
 be hot, savoury, and plentiful. A seething dish full of 
 eggs and bacon was speedily served to us, disseminating 
 a highly appetising fragrance throughout the cabin as it 
 was borne to our table from the galley. It made some 
 of our fellow-passengers, who were lying on the plush 
 couches in the poop, squirm and shudder from head to 
 foot, and turn their faces away in silent loathing. One 
 of them — a cadaverous-looking old gentleman — muttered, 
 " Disgusting brutes ! " staggered to his feet, and vanished 
 into a side cabin, where he forthwith dispelled any 
 doubts we might hitherto have entertained ,as to some- 
 thing having disagreed with him in the; course of the 
 voyage. 
 
 It was, moreover, about this time that certain plaintive 
 sniffs' and convulsive gurglings, proceeding from the 
 direction of the state-room occupied by my friend's 
 family, reached our ears. As these sounds did not 
 seem to be exclusively suggestive of unmitigated happi- 
 ness in those uttering them, Chumplebunny put his 
 head in at the door, and tried to say something kind 
 and soothing to the poor sufferers inside. He was 
 immediately reproached in mournful accents with having 
 brought his family there with the intention of killing 
 them; without incurring any legal penalty for his 
 homicidal act ; and Mrs Chumplebunny moaned, " I 
 really can't stand this awful movement any longer. / 
 must get out 1 " 
 
272 Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 
 
 It having been the Chumplebunnys' habit to pampei: 
 their domestic pets with every class of dainty, I need 
 scarcely observe that the quadrupeds attached to their 
 suite fell easy victims to the vagaries of the Channel. 
 Punch, Judy, and the tailless cat were completely over- 
 came by mal de mer, and grovelled helplessly about, too 
 weak and spiritless to utter a single yelp or mew of 
 protest. 
 
 Hamlet, however — so denominated in deference to 
 his striking resemblance to the eminent impersonator 
 of the ill-fated Danish prince, by whom, when a long- 
 legged, grave-eyed, pallid puppy, he had been presented 
 to Achitophel Chumplebunny — had been relegated to 
 solitary confinement in the paddle-box region, where 
 he had greatly distinguished himself during the night, 
 not only by producing several thousand protracted howls 
 of amazing volume and indescribable dismalness,' but 
 by emulating the historic achievements of Latude 
 and Casanova with extraordinary energy, perseverance, 
 and singleness of purpose. So well directed were his 
 efforts to break prison, that when, after our arrival in 
 harbour at dawn of day Mrs Chumplebunny was 
 conducted to the door of Hamlet's cell, she found, 
 upon that portal being thrown open at her bidding, 
 that the mighty mastiff had eaten away a considerable 
 portion of the ship — fortunately for the safety of all 
 on board, above the water-line. A little more, and 
 Hamlet would have had his nose through the sitfe 
 of the Swallow, despite the* stoutness of that good 
 pyroscaphe's frame. As it was, Chumplebunny had 
 to stand the racket of a " particular average," to which 
 class of shipping casualty the result of his favourite 
 dog's untiring industry was subsequently pronounced. 
 
Chumplebunnys on the Ocean Wave. 273 
 
 on competent authority, to belong. Mrs Chumplebunny, 
 I need scarcely say, pitied her "sweet pet" for the 
 restraint, although lightened by intelligent exertion, 
 which he had undergone, and spoke in disparaging 
 terms of the timber to which he had devoted his 
 attention so felicitously, as " Nasty, hard, dirty wood, 
 so bad for his dear teeth, you know ! " 
 
 This was the last of the contretemps that befell my 
 honoured friends the Chumplebutinys, during their 
 memorable trip to Ostend. I saw little of them 
 during the following winter, and only heard of one 
 thrilling incident in connection with their mknage — to 
 wit, that Hamlet had inconsiderately eaten a postman 
 of great bulk, the father of many children, thus unex- 
 pectedly orphaned. But the announcement of this 
 untoward occurrence reached me somewhat indirectly, 
 and was not confirmed by newspaper record. I there- 
 fore persist in cherishing the hope that it was not entirely 
 free from exaggeration, and that perhaps Hamlet — for 
 whom I entertain sincere affection and respect — may have 
 exercised a judicious and timely moderation by only 
 devouring a part — and not a vital one — of the public 
 official who is reported to have permanently vanished 
 down his capacious maw. 
 
 THE END.