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 Tinkletop's crime, &c. 
 
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'IT WAS A TRYING POSITION.' 
 
 [A 19- 
 
TINKLETOP'S CRIME 
 
 &*c. 
 
 S 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MARY JANE'S MEMOIRS,' ( ROGUES AND VAGABONDS, 'HOW THE POOR LIVE, 
 
 ( THE DAGONET KECITER,' ETC. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 CHARLES L. WEBSTER & COMPANY. 
 
 189 1. 
 
Copyright, 1891, 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 
 {All rights reserved.') 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 Jenkins & McCowan, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TINKLETOP'S CHIME « . • 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 THE 'ALLIGATOR* BABIES • 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED 
 
 
 
 32 
 
 PUNCH AND JUDY 
 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 THE LITTLE GUT 
 
 
 
 
 85 
 
 BISMARCK IN LONDON - 
 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 THE LOST AUTHOR 
 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 THE CHINA FAIRY 
 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 A CHANGED MAN 
 
 
 
 
 175 
 
 THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN 
 
 
 
 
 188 
 
 MISS PBISOILLA 
 
 
 
 
 206 
 
 THE MURDERER'S DOG - 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 217 
 
 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY 
 
 
 
 
 227 
 
 JOHN HARBINGER 
 
 . ' • • 
 
 
 
 ■ 238 
 
 HIS WEDDING-DAY 
 
 
 
 
 248 
 
 A TALE OF KHARTOUM 
 
 
 
 
 - 262 
 
 A PRIZE POEM • 
 
 
 
 
 . 274 
 
 master's friend 
 
 • * ■ • 
 
 
 - 282 
 
 'COME TO ME' 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 - 299 
 
TINKLETOP'S CRIME. 
 
 Me. Jeeemiah Tinkletop was a very nice old gentleman. 
 He had commenced life as a stable-boy ; he had acquired an 
 extensive and peculiar knowledge of life in an atmosphere 
 redolent of artfulness ; he had drifted on to the turf, first as 
 tout and runner to a bookmaker, then he had become the 
 bookmaker's clerk, and then the bookmaker's partner, and 
 eventually he had finished up by being a bookmaker abso- 
 lutely on his own account. In the practice of his calling he 
 had acquired a large fortune, and having come to sixty 
 years of age without experiencing the tender passion, he 
 had settled down into the typical nice old boy — fond of a 
 good dinner, fond of good company, and ever ready to beam 
 on those around him with that benevolent smile which is so 
 easy when you have a good balance at the bank and a large 
 fortune safely invested in sound securities. 
 
 Everybody liked ' Old Jerry Tinkletop,' as he was 
 familiarly called ; ' Good old Tinkletop !' the young fellows 
 always said when they spoke about him. Ever ready with 
 a kindly word, and never backward in putting his hand in 
 his pocket for a deserving case, what wonder that he was a 
 popular old gentleman, and much run after by the people 
 who are always hanging about the residence of Dives on the 
 look-out for crumbs ? 
 
 Having said all this in Tinkletop's favour, I am, compelle 
 
 1 
 
2 TINKLETOPS CRIME. 
 
 by the necessities of my narrative to say a little on the 
 other side. But if I show Mr. Tinkletop in a light which 
 would not recommend him to the Archbishop of Canterbury 
 as a bosom friend, I do so with a full sense of my responsi- 
 bility. Parents who read this true story aloud to their 
 children will, I am sure, be gratified by its moral ; for its 
 moral is irreproachable. Mr. Tinkletop — he was old enough 
 to know better — occasionally kept doubtful company. It 
 was very wrong of him ; but look at the bringing up which 
 he had and the whole surroundings of his life ! Don't 
 imagine for one moment that I am attempting to defend 
 him. On the contrary, T am going to show what happened 
 to him in consequence of his keeping doubtful company in 
 order that it may be a warning to all old gentlemen of the 
 same age. 
 
 When I say ' doubtful ' company I do not wish to be mis- 
 understood. Where I think Tinkletop was wrong — and I 
 have argued the matter -out with some of the best men in 
 the country who knew him — was in allowing fighting men, 
 boxing men, and the inferior kind of racing men to be too 
 familiar with him. He should have kept them at their 
 distance. 
 
 If he had become a churchwarden or a vestryman, and 
 interested himself in parochial matters, he might have 
 passed his evenings in very different company. 
 
 Still, we know that Fate moves in a very mysterious 
 way, and it is quite possible that Mr. Tinkletop was 
 meant to do as he did, in order to ' point a moral and adorn 
 a tale.' 
 
 One evening, then — the date is quite unnecessary — Mr. 
 Tinkletop, having been invited to join a nice little party at a 
 famous restaurant, which has gorgeous rooms upstairs and a 
 cafi and a bar below, put on his dress-coat, placed a beauti- 
 ful ' malmaison ' in his button-hole, and sallied forth. 
 
TINKLETOP'S CRIME. 3 
 
 The dinner was charming, and so was the company. 
 There was Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines and Mrs. 
 Jinks, and Tom Cobblestone, the gentleman who had begun 
 life as a 'bus-driver, and was now the owner of a score 
 of racehorses and the luckiest man on the turf ; there was 
 Professor Pot Walloper, the celebrated master of the noble 
 art of self-defence, who taught all the nobility how to box ; 
 there was young Lord De Juggins, who had just inherited a 
 couple of millions and the title from his grandfather ; there 
 was Miss Lola D'Arcy, a charming pretty songstress out 
 of an engagement for the moment in consequence of the 
 Frivolity season being over; and there was her brother, 
 Jack Smith, whose occupation was unknown to anyone but 
 himself. Besides these there were several ladies and gentle- 
 men who were less known to fame, but they were all excel- 
 lent company. 
 
 Tinkletop sat next to Miss D'Arcy, and he thought she 
 was very charming. She was very nice and affable, and 
 her conversation was bright and cheery, and she didn't snub 
 Tinkletop in the least because he was old. 
 
 As the dinner progressed the good-fellowship increased all 
 round, and a happier, merrier party never assembled under 
 the roof of the famous restaurant. 
 
 When dinner was over the company began to separate. 
 Some had engagements elsewhere. Some were going to 
 the theatre, and others to their clubs. Presently Miss 
 D'Arcy and Tinkletop, and Professor Pot Walloper and 
 Miss D'Arcy's brother, were the only ones left at the table. 
 Suddenly Tinkletop had an idea. 
 
 ' Let's all go to the opera,' he said ; ' I'll take a box. 
 It's "Faust " to-night, and they say Gus Harris has put it 
 onAl.' 
 
 ' Oh, I should like it immensely !' said Miss D'Arcy. 
 ' The De Eeszkes are splendid. Shall we go, Jack ?' 
 
 1—2 
 
4 TJNKLETOP'S CRIME. 
 
 ' Certainly,' replied Jack ; ' you three go first, and I'll 
 follow you.' 
 
 ' Eight, my boy !' exclaimed Tinkletop, delighted. 
 
 He thought an evening at the opera, with the pleasure of 
 Miss D'Arcy's society, would be magnificent ; and he was 
 quite radiant with dinner and delight when he rose to get 
 his overcoat. 
 
 Jack, the brother of Miss D'Arcy, had gone out of the 
 room; Miss D'Arcy was just going to get her cloak, and 
 Professor Walloper was pouring the Chartreuse into his 
 coffee-cup, as he found the liqueur-glass so absurdly small 
 to drink out of, when there entered suddenly a handsome 
 young gentleman in faultless evening dress. 
 
 Miss D'Arcy started. 
 
 'Oh, Captain Jones!' she said. 'I am so sorry. I'd 
 forgotten all about you.' 
 
 ' I thought so,' replied the Captain. ' I met your brother 
 outside, and he told me you were here. Are you ready?' 
 
 ' Quite ready,' said Miss D'Arcy. Then turning to 
 Tinkletop, she said, with a sweet smile, ' I'm so sorry, 
 Mr. Tinkletop ; but I'd quite forgotten that I'd promised to 
 go to the Lyceum this evening with Captain Jones. It's all 
 Jack's fault — he ought to have reminded me.' 
 
 Another smile, a little nod of the head, and the vision of 
 beauty had gone — and so had Captain Jones ! 
 
 Tinkletop fell back heavily into a chair, one arm in his 
 overcoat and the other arm out. 
 
 ' Well !' he yelled ; ' of all the cool impudence ! The idea 
 of that fellow daring to walk in here and take Miss D'Arcy 
 off before my very eyes !' 
 
 ' Why didn't you give him one over the nose ?' said 
 Professor Walloper, putting half a dozen big cigars into 
 his pocket. 
 
 ' Why didn't I ?' exclaimed Mr. Tinkletop, almost in a 
 
TINKLETOP'' S CRIME. 5 
 
 white heat with rage, ' because I'm old enough to be his 
 father, and my boxing-days are over. But I'd give a 
 hundred to have been young enough to do it.' 
 
 ' Give a tenner,' said the professor, • and somebody else'll 
 do the job for you.' 
 
 ' Give a tenner to have that fellow taught manners ? 
 Wouldn't I ! Bather !' 
 
 ' Give us your tenner,' said the professor, ' and consider 
 it's done.' 
 
 ' No violence !' exclaimed Tinkletop, as he put his hand in 
 his waistcoat-pocket. 
 
 ' Lor' bless you, no. Look here : you just want his hat 
 knocked over his eyes and his shirt-front spoilt, to teach 
 him not to be so jolly fast a-coming into private rooms and 
 taking the company away. That's it, ain't it ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tinkletop, ' that's it. Make him look ridicu- 
 lous in Miss D'Arcy eyes, that's all.' 
 
 ' Don't you fidget yourself,' said the professor, grabbing 
 the tenner from the hesitating fingers of Mr. Tinkletop ; 
 ' it's only a little lesson he'll get. There's two or three 
 of the division downstairs that'll be glad of the job, and 
 do it well.' 
 
 Professor Walloper stuffed the note into his pocket and 
 went downstairs, leaving Tinkletop alone with the head 
 waiter, who had just come in with the bill, the rest of the 
 company — including the donor of the dinner — having quite 
 forgotten that it wasn't settled. 
 
 When Tinkletop went downstairs he met the professor 
 standing in the doorway. 
 
 ' It's all right, guv'nor,' said Walloper ; ' the three chaps 
 I've given the office to are gone to the Lyceum. They know 
 their man, and when he comes out they'll give him a little 
 lesson in good manners.' 
 
 Mr. Tinkletop said nothing, but went off home in a very 
 
6 TINKLE TOP'S CRIME. 
 
 bad temper. Long before he reached his residence he was 
 sorry that he had said anything to Walloper at all. Sup- 
 pose the three roughs hurt the young fellow ! Oh, non- 
 sense ; he wasn't going to worry himself about that. He 
 had three whiskies and five pipes and went to bed, and had 
 an exceedingly bad night; for he dreamt that he was stand- 
 ing at the altar with Miss D'Arcy, who was just about to 
 say ' I will,' and become Mrs. Tinkletop, when a young 
 fellow came up from a trap in the floor, and, seizing her. 
 bore her away through the roof before his very eyes. 
 
 About half-past ten the next morning Mr. Tinkletop was 
 having his breakfast when the servant came in and said 
 that a gentleman wanted to see him on a very important 
 matter. 
 
 ' Show him in,' said Tinkletop. 
 
 The gentleman came in, and proved to be Professor 
 Walloper. 
 
 The professor's features were distorted with anxiety. 
 
 ' Good heavens, Walloper !' shrieked Tinkletop, as he saw 
 the expression of the professor's face, ' what's the matter? 
 There was no — no mischief done last night, was there ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied the professor, his voice gruff and gloomy, 
 and his face as long as a farthing kite, ' no mischief ; only 
 them blessed fools went and killed the capting, that's all.' 
 
 ' What ! No, no 1 You have not come here to tell me 
 the poor young fellow is dead ?' 
 
 The professor shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' That's the size of it, guv'nor,' he said. ' They hit him 
 on the 'ed as he was going along the Embankment, mean- 
 ing only to bash his hat in, and he went down like a log, 
 and when they felt his 'eart he was dead. It's a very orful 
 thing.' 
 
TINKLETOP'S CRIME. 7 
 
 'Awful!' exclaimed Tinkletop, mopping his brow, 'it's 
 terrible ! it's ruin — ruin to us all I' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know about that,' said the professor : ' it 
 mightn't come to hanging, if we're careful.' 
 
 ' Hanging ! Oh, don't, don't I' moaned Tinkletop, as he 
 buried his face in his hands ; ' have the — the police — found 
 the body?' 
 
 ' No ; not yet. My chaps tied a brick round the capting's 
 neck, and threw him into the river.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, oh dear I' gasped the old gentleman, ' how 
 shocking ! That makes it look like a deliberate crime. Poor 
 young fellow ! I wouldn't have had it happen for twenty 
 thousand pounds.' 
 
 ' Well, what are you going to do ?' 
 
 ' I — er — I don't know. I'm overwhelmed. Help me to 
 think.' 
 
 ' Well, you see, it's like this. You're all right if it 
 never comes out as it was you as paid to have the captain 
 
 mur , I mean bashed ; but them three young fellows 
 
 as done it — you ought to think o' them. One of 'em's 
 conscience is pricking him already ; and he says he'll go 
 and make a clean breast of it to the police, and say it was 
 your gold as tempted him ' 
 
 ' What ! If he does that, I'm lost 1' yelled Tinkletop. 
 
 ' So I said,' replied the professor. ' And I argeyed it 
 out with him, and I got 'em all to agree to get out of the 
 country and lie quiet, till they see if the body's found, or 
 the captain's friends inquire about it. It might blow over, 
 you know, in time ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, quite right ; and will they go ?' 
 
 ' Well, you see, guv'nor, they're poor fellows ; they ain't 
 got the coin to spare, and they've got mothers dependin' 
 on 'em.' 
 
 ' I'll pay all expenses.' 
 
8 TINKLETOP'S CRIME. 
 
 ' I told 'em you would ; so they said a hunderd ud do 
 it, and they're waitin' in a place of safety. Give me the 
 hunderd, and I'll go and ship 'em off to Spain at once.' 
 
 ' Here you are — here's the hundred-pound note. Go, go 
 at once !' 
 
 The professor took the hundred pounds, groaned in- 
 wardly, and left the room. Then Tinkletop buried his 
 face in his hands, and shed scalding tears. He would 
 have given all his vast wealth and gone back to be a 
 stable-boy again if he could only have undone that dark 
 night's work. 
 
 ***** 
 
 For a week Jeremiah Tinkletop was like a man in a 
 dream. He couldn't eat or sleep, for murder was on his 
 soul and terror in his heart. He trembled at every sound. 
 When he met the hangman in a public thoroughfare he 
 always blushed and looked the other way. A fortnight 
 after the first interview the professor turned up again- 
 ' One of the young fellows had got home-sick, and was 
 coming back. He couldn't stand Spain. If he could go 
 
 to Australia It was the one that wanted to make a 
 
 clean breast of it.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; let him go to Australia ; let 'em all go,' mur- 
 mured Tinkletop ; ' the farther away they go, the better I 
 shall like it.' 
 
 It was two hundred pounds that the professor took away 
 to send to Spain that day. It would just pay the fares of 
 the three accomplices to Australia, and leave them a little 
 to live on when they got there. 
 
 Six weeks afterwards the professor came again. This 
 time he only had another hundred for the poor young 
 fellows, but in about six months Mr. Tinkletop's crime 
 had cost him £1,000. 
 
 It might have cost him more ; but one afternoon while 
 
TINKLE TOP'S CRIME. 9 
 
 walking down Eegent Street, he came suddenly upon Miss 
 Lola D'Arcy, and she was leaning on the arm of the mur- 
 dered man ! At first Tinkletop thought it was a ghost, 
 and his knees trembled under him. 
 
 He was to be haunted ! I ! 
 
 But presently, as he was wiping the heavy drops of per- 
 spiration from his brow, he saw the murdered man and Miss 
 D'Arcy go into a jeweller's shop. 
 
 They asked to see some wedding-rings. The young lady 
 tried one on, and the murdered man put down a hundred- 
 pound note to pay for it. 
 
 Tinkletop was looking through the window and saw the 
 number of the note. It was the number of the note he had 
 only that morning given to the professor for those poor 
 young fellows in Australia. With a wild cry of rage Tinkle- 
 top turned away, and, hailing a passing omnibus, went home, 
 and tore up the confession of murder which he had left in a 
 secret drawer of his writing-desk, to be opened with his 
 will 
 
 ***** 
 
 Professor Walloper only grinned when he met the in- 
 furiated Tinkletop that evening. He said it was a rattling 
 good ' barney ' — whatever that may mean — and everybody 
 who was in the know, and a good many were, laughed too, 
 and said it was the finest practical joke they'd heard for 
 years. 
 
 It had all been got up for Tinkletop by his ' friends,' and 
 the captain had never even been followed. The money 
 obtained of the amorous bookmaker had been equally 
 divided among the merry conspirators, and on their share 
 of the ' joke ' Miss D'Arcy and the captain had arranged to 
 get married. 
 
 In honour of their benefactor their first little boy had 
 ' Tinkletop ' given to it as a Christian name 
 
io TINKLETOP'S CRIME. 
 
 In the course of time Mr. Tinkletop sufficiently recovered 
 his equanimity to tell the story himself, and now he laughs 
 as loudly as anyone at the terror he experienced in conse- 
 quence of his share in the ' crime.' 
 
 But he is more careful than he was about the company 
 he keeps, and there is a whisper in the neighbourhood in 
 which he lives that next year he will stand for church- 
 warden, and devote his leisure to parochial affairs, and 
 spend his evenings at the local club, where everybody is 
 eminently respectable and the whisky unimpeachable. 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 A STEANGE WINTEB. 
 
 It was a Strange Winter. 
 
 Everybody said that it beat the summer, and that had 
 been strange enough in all conscience. The month of June 
 had been chiefly remarkable for a three weeks' fall of snow, 
 during which many villages were buried ; and railway com- 
 munication was interrupted to such an extent that all ex- 
 press correspondence had to be sent by balloons, and a 
 special corps of aerial postmen were drilled in the use of 
 the parachute by Professor Baldwin. 
 
 The month of July saw a change. Thunder and light- 
 ning took the place of the snow, which, melting somewhat 
 rapidly, caused serious floods and inundations. So serious 
 were they in the Metropolis, that half the town was under 
 water, and the delivery of letters had to be undertaken by 
 experienced watermen. 
 
 It certainly was, all circumstances considered, a strange 
 summer. But this Winter 
 
 Was it a Strange Winter ? 
 
 Was it not ! ! 1 
 
 All through November the sun shone brilliantly. The 
 heat was so intense that several coal merchants turned 
 
1 2 THE ' A LUG A TOR ' BA BIES. 
 
 their businesses into public companies, and with the capital 
 thus obtained, started in the ice trade and realized fortunes 
 in an incredibly short space of time. 
 
 The pawnbrokers had to enlarge their premises to take 
 in overcoats and blankets, and an enterprising draper, who 
 made a corner in summer costumes, had to be bought out 
 by the Government in order to avoid a general uprising of 
 the people. 
 
 In December the suburbs of London were ablaze with 
 roses and pinks and blue forget-me-nots ; and strawberries, 
 on Christmas Day, were only sixpence a basket, and so 
 plentiful that in all the workhouses they were given away 
 to the pauper inmates with cream. 
 
 It was a Strange Winter ! 
 
 But it is not at present with the Strange Winter that we 
 are concerned, but with something stranger still, viz., an 
 event which occurred in the Mediterranean Sea on or 
 about the 21st of January, 188 — , an event which affected 
 the after-lives of many people to whom the reader has yet 
 to be introduced. 
 
 It had been a glorious day in the Bay of Naples, and the 
 officers of H.M.S. Alligator were spending the evening on 
 deck, smoking cigarettes and talking over the events of the 
 week. 
 
 In the distance Mount Vesuvius was smoking his evening 
 pipe, and in another direction the beautiful blue island of 
 Capri nestled on th i bosom of the ocean like a tired child 
 asleep upon its mother's breast. 
 
 Presently the swift dusk of an Italian night descended 
 upon the scene, then the stars came out, and then, one 
 by one, the officers of the Alligator commenced to turn in. 
 
 Only two were left — Admiral the Earl of ■ and Lieu- 
 tenant Vere de Lacy, affectionately called ' Tootles ' by all 
 his comrades. 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 13 
 
 Both sat and looked at the stars, and presently both 
 heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 ' Belay there, admiral !' exclaimed the lieutenant ; ' it 
 seems to me that you have little to sigh for. A peer 
 of the realm, an admiral of the fleet, a member of the 
 Carlton, owner of the horse of the century, who has won 
 ninety-nine races and never known defeat, and one of the 
 few noblemen admitted behind the scenes of the Marionette 
 Theatre at the Italian Exhibition — it seems to me that you 
 can have no cause to sigh.' 
 
 ' My dear Tootles,' replied the admiral, ' every heart 
 knoweth its own sorrow. I am far from happy, and I 
 don't feel very well. This Mediterranean fish is very 
 pretty to look at, but I have my doubts about it if kept 
 too long. But it is not digestion which troubles me now, 
 but conscien ' 
 
 ' You, an earl and an admiral, have a conscience ?' 
 
 'Yes, Tootles, I confess it with a certain amount of 
 diffidence; and I have also had domestic circumstances. 
 You are aware that I married in early youth a beautiful 
 Lady Bope Walker, whom I met at Charlton Fair when 
 the fleet was anchored in the Thames.' 
 
 ' Yes, it was in the society papers at the time,' said 
 Tootles. 
 
 'The marriage was a most happy one. Except for a 
 strange desire at times to put up a rope in our grounds 
 and go for a walk upon it, my dear Annetta was all that 
 an English countess should be. It was, alas ! in attempting 
 to renew the feats of her youth, at the age of forty-five, that 
 she overbalanced herself and fell to the ground.' 
 
 ' Poor girl I' exclaimed Tootles, wiping away a glistening 
 teardrop with the back of his hand. 
 
 ' She left me two sons, who grew up in course of time ; 
 one, the eldest, and my favourite, I lost sight of for many 
 
14 THE ' ALLIGA TOR ' BABIES. 
 
 years, and didn't know what had become of him until I was 
 sent for late one night to bail him out at Bow-street. He 
 didn't thank me, but walked away, and when the case was 
 called on he didn't turn up, so my bail was estreated. Poor 
 Fred I he was always a bad one for keeping appointments. 
 He eventually committed Brandycide.' 
 
 ' Poor Fred 1' exclaimed Tootles, with a sympathetic sigh, 
 adding, as soon as he had recovered himself, ' and your 
 other son, what became of him ?' 
 
 ' Don't mention him in my hearing,' exclaimed the 
 admiral angrily, bringing his telescope down with a bang 
 on the taffrail. ' Hugh was a bad fellow ; he disgraced 
 the family by marrying a governess who taught at the 
 Bast-End of London — Bethnal Green or some dreadful 
 place, I believe. But pass the rum bottle. I'll have just 
 one more tumbler, and then I shall turn in.' 
 
 The lieutenant hastened to pass the rum bottle, for the 
 admiral was as hasty and irascible an old sea dog as there 
 was in the service. As soon as the admiral had mixed 
 himself a jorum, he turned to the sympathetic lieutenant 
 and said : 
 
 • And you, Tootles : there is something in your life that 
 makes you sad, is there not ?' 
 
 'There is, my lord,' replied Tootles; 'there is the 
 memory of other days.' 
 
 • A love affair, eh, Tootles ?' 
 
 ' Yes, my lord— a love affair,' replied Tootles, gazing far 
 away over the Mediterranean to the distant shores of 
 Algeria. ' I loved Marion Grey with a love that nothing 
 can alter, but she refused my hand and disappeared. She 
 refused it with tears, and said there was a reason. You 
 knew Marion Grey, my lord ?' 
 
 ' What, the pretty little girl who used to be behind the bar 
 at the Three Jolly Tars at Plymouth ! — do you mean her ?' 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 15 
 
 ' Alas ! yea. When I spoke to her of marriage she shed 
 tears and declared that it could never be. A week after- 
 ward she was gone, and none knew whither ; and from that 
 day to this I have heard nothing of her, and it is now more 
 than five years ago. Poor Marion I' 
 
 ' Well, Tootles, it is no good regretting the past,' ex- 
 claimed the admiral, emptying his glass ; ' we must think 
 of the future. If we are going ashore the first thing to- 
 morrow, and going to walk up to the top of Vesuvius, we'd 
 better turn in and get a good night's rest.' 
 
 Tootles thought so too, so, bidding his superior officer a 
 hearty good-night, he went downstairs to his berth. 
 
 When he pushed the door open he uttered an exclama- 
 tion of astonishment. He rubbed his eyes, unable to 
 believe that he was awake. 
 
 For sitting up in his bunk was a lovely little girl of about 
 three, with golden hair and deep violet eyes. She had 
 Tootles' full-dress cap on her head, and she had made a 
 dolly of Tootles' sword. 
 
 ' What the deu ' exclaimed Tootles. Then he stopped 
 
 short. The little girl looked up at him and laughed, and 
 said : ' Baby Dolly. Baby Dolly ' 
 
 ' Confound it 1' yelled Tootles ; ' this is a nice go I What 
 the dickens is the meaning of it ? It's a nice trick to play 
 a fellow to go and put a baby in his bed. And where the 
 dickens does she come from? there's not a female about 
 the ship.' 
 
 Presently he approached the child, and noticed that a 
 piece of paper was attached to her dress by a pin. 
 
 He took it off and read it : 
 
 ' I have not the means to support our child any longer, 
 so I return it to its unnatural father.' 
 
 'Oh, blow it alljl' yelled Tootles; ' I'm hanged if I can 
 
16 THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 stand that; I'll throw it overboard, or there will be a 
 scandal.' 
 
 He picked the little intruder up in his arms and was 
 about to put it through the porthole, when the child, with 
 a merry laugh, flung her arms about his neck and kissed 
 him. 
 
 ' I oo baby — oo dear ickle baby. I Miss Champignon,' 
 she said, and then, laying her little golden head upon his 
 shoulders, she fell fast asleep. 
 
 Tootles was conquered. He sat down gently on the edge 
 of the bed, and rocked the baby to and fro, as he had seen 
 young mothers do, and began to sing ' Hush-a-bye, baby,' 
 and so much was he taken up with his new occupation, 
 that he didn't notice that the admiral, followed by several 
 of his officers, had burst into his room, until the admiral 
 yelled out : ' Why, hang me, if there isn't another of 'em 
 here I* 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 SOMETHING FOE THE ADMIEAL. 
 
 Poos Tootles blushed crimson as he found himself in the 
 presence of his comrades with a child in his arms, but he 
 put his finger to his lips and said, ' Don't make a noise, or 
 else you'll wake the baby,' and, instantly, all the brave 
 fellows were as silent as mice, and walked about Tootles' 
 cabin on tiptoe. All except one, Lieutenant Grimthorpe, 
 who curled his lip, and made a very objectionable remark 
 about brats being brought on board to disturb the harmony 
 of the ship. 
 
 He was speedily scowled down by the other officers, and 
 then the admiral told Tootles the object of his visit. He 
 had come to inquire if he, Tootles, had seen anybody put a 
 little boy in his, the admiral's, cabin. 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 17 
 
 ' A little boy ?' exclaimed Tootles, ' you don't mean to say, 
 my lord, that there is a little boy in your cabin ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do, Tootles — a little boy rather older than your 
 little girl.* 
 
 ' Don't say my little girl, if you please. I assure you that 
 I never saw the child before ' 
 
 ' Or her mother either,' said Lieutenant Grimthorpe with 
 a grin. 
 
 ' Shame on you, Grimthorpe,' exclaimed the other officers, 
 as they handed Tootles' Baby from one to the other, and took 
 it in turns to walk up and down with it and hush it to sleep. 
 
 ' Come with me, Tootles,' said the admiral, ' and see the 
 boy ; perhaps he is meant for you, too 1' 
 
 Tootles followed the admiral to his cabin, and there, sure 
 enough, fast asleep in the admiral's bunk, lay a beautiful 
 little fellow of about six. He was neatly dressed in a black 
 velvet suit, and had long golden curls. 
 
 ' It is a most extraordinary thing,' said the admiral, ' and 
 I can't think how he got here.' 
 
 ' Very odd,' said Tootles, ' that I should have a little girl 
 put into my bed at the same time.' 
 
 ' Odd 1' exclaimed the admiral, ' it's inf ' 
 
 ' Hush 1' said Tootles, putting his hand over the admiral's 
 mouth. ' Not before the boy.' 
 
 At that moment the dear little fellow opened his big blue 
 eyes and woke up. 
 
 ' Now, then, young shaver I' exclaimed the admiral, * who 
 are you ?' 
 
 'If you please,' said the little boy, getting up and 
 arranging his curls in front of the looking-glass, 'if you 
 please, I'm a publican.' 
 
 ' A what ?' roared the admiral. 
 
 ' A publican. At least, that's what Mr. 'Obbs is, and me 
 and Mr. 'Obbs are friends.' 
 
 2 
 
i8 THE ' ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 ' Oh, you're a publican, little boy, are you ? And what's 
 a publican, pray ?' 
 
 ' A publican is a man wot cuts kings' throats and 'ates 
 the haristocracy.' 
 
 ' Good gracious !' said the admiral, ' this child means that 
 he is a Eepublican. At his age it is very awful.' 
 
 ' It is very, very awful,' sighed Tootles. ' I trust, admiral, 
 that you will put him ashore at once. He might poison the 
 mind of the little girl in my cabin.' 
 
 ' You young rascal !' roared the admiral ; ' how dare you 
 come on board one of Her Majesty's ships and talk treason ? 
 You shall have the cat.' 
 
 ' Oh ! thank you, sir. I am very fond of cats. My 
 mamma has one. Do you drown your cat's kittens ?' 
 
 The admiral laughed till he was black in the face. 
 
 ' You're a rum little codger,' he said. ' What's your 
 mamma's name, pray ?' 
 
 ' I always call her " Duckey." ' 
 
 ' Humph I That's a nice name for a boy to call his 
 mother.' 
 
 ' My papa always called her Duckey, and I thought that 
 was her name.' 
 
 ' Ho ! ho 1' said the admiral, ' so you've got a pa and a 
 ma also ?' 
 
 ' No, sir; my papa is dead. Duckey told me so.' 
 
 ' And pray, young shaver, how did you come on board 
 this ship?' 
 
 ' I was brought by a lady. She was coming from London 
 with a little girl she wanted to leave with its papa, who was 
 in a ship here ' — the admiral looked hard at Tootles, who 
 turned the colour of a peony — ' and my mamma heard of it, 
 and asked her if she would bring me and leave me with my 
 grandpapa at the same time, as I was getting a big boy, and 
 my education ought to be seen to.' 
 
THE ' ALLIGA TOR ' BA HIES. 1 9 
 
 ' Your grandpapa 1' exclaimed the admiral ; ' is he on 
 board this ship ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. He is Admiral the Earl of , and I am 
 
 Little Lord Folderoy.' 
 
 In a moment the admiral realized the position. This was 
 his grandson — the child of the son he had cast from his 
 hearth and home — the child of poor dead Hugh. But he 
 was a proud old man, and checked his emotion. The keen, 
 gray eyes glistened under his shaggy eyebrows, and though 
 he was proud of the boy, yet he wouldn't show it. 
 
 ' So you are my grandson,' he exclaimed ; ' very well, I 
 must take care that proper respect is shown you. You must 
 be officially received.' 
 
 At a signal from the admiral all hands were summoned, 
 and the electric light having been turned on, the admiral 
 made a short speech. 
 
 ' Officers and men of the AlUgator, this little boy is my 
 grandson, Lord Folderoy. You will, in future, receive his 
 orders as though they were mine.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, sir.' 
 
 It was a trying position for a child reared in lowly cir- 
 cumstances, as little Hugh had been. His mamma lived in 
 two rooms in the Bethnal Green Eoad, where she gave 
 lessons on the piano to the shopkeepers' daughters, but, 
 having American blood in her veins, nothing could make her 
 anything but a lady by birth. The child, reared amid these 
 surroundings, had certainly learnt to drop his h's, but 
 nothing could alter his noble bearing or his aristocratic 
 breeding. 
 
 ' Men of the Alligator,' he said, in his childish treble, 
 after they had all saluted him, ' I am very glad to meet you. 
 I 'ope we shall all be great friends. I shan't like you better 
 than Mr. 'Obbs, the pork butcher, but I may like you as 
 well, and I 'ope you are all publicans.' 
 
 2—2 
 
zo THE ' A LL/GA TOR ' BA BIES. 
 
 The bo'sun stepped forward. 
 
 ' Asking your young honour's pardon,' he said, ' we ain't 
 all publicans, but we're all jolly good customers to 'em when 
 we are ashore, and maybe that'll do as well.' 
 
 ' You don't understand me, I fear,' replied the little lord, 
 putting his hands in the pockets of his black velvet knicker- 
 bockers. ' I mean, I 'ope you all 'ate the haristocracy, and 
 would cut a king's throat if you got the chance.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, your honour, that we would,' replied the men. 
 
 ' What, you dogs 1' yelled the admiral, and he instantly 
 ordered every man to receive a hundred lashes. 
 
 The men fell on their knees and begged for mercy. They 
 declared that they had acquiesced in his young lordship s 
 sentiments involuntarily ; but the admiral swore that 
 discipline must be maintained. 
 
 The first man was led forward, and was about to be 
 flogged. The cat-o'-nine-tails was in the air, and about to 
 descend on the poor wretch's back, when there was a cry 
 from Tootles. 
 
 He had brought the little girl up to see the reception of 
 the little lord, and she had stolen away and climbed up on 
 the side of the vessel, and her hat had blown off. In trying 
 to save it she overbalanced herself and fell into the sea. 
 
 In a moment every man rushed to the side of the vessel, 
 but, before a boat could be launched, the little lord, flinging 
 off his velvet jacket, had jumped upon the bulwarks and 
 plunged into the ocean. 
 
 In a moment he had Tootles' Baby in his arms, and, 
 seizing a rope which was thrown to him, was dragged on 
 deck. 
 
 With tears in his eyes the old admiral embraced him, and 
 even the most hardened of the common sailors wept. 
 
 ' My boy 1 my boy 1' said the admiral, ' I am proud of you. 
 I shall die happy now, knowing that my title and my 
 
THE ' A LLIGA TOR ' BA B1ES. 2 1 
 
 estates will pass to one who will worthily uphold the honour 
 of our race.' 
 
 Before the men went back to their berths a double allow- 
 ance of rum was served to each, and then, with three times 
 three, they drank the health of Little Lord Folderoy and 
 Tootles' Baby, and the old admiral was so affected that 
 he borrowed Tootles' pocket-handkerchief, and, burying his 
 weather-beaten face in it, sobbed like a child. 
 
 CHAPTBE III. 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED ON VESUVIUS. 
 
 On the following day a party of English naval officers sat 
 together near the edge of the crater on the summit of Mount 
 Vesuvius. They had come up by the Funicular Eailway 
 to the cone, and had completed the rest of the journey on 
 foot. Lieutenant Grimthorpe was of the party, so was 
 Tootles, and so was the admiral. 
 
 Little Lord Polderoy and Miss Champignon were playing 
 about on the crater, watching, with childish glee, the stones 
 which the great volcano hurled ever and anon into the air. 
 
 ' What are you going to do with that brat, Tootles ?' said 
 Grimthorpe presently, as Miss Champignon came playfully 
 behind him and dropped some hot lava down the back of 
 his neck. 
 
 Tootles' face went crimson. 
 
 ' I'll thank you to mind your own business, Lieutenant 
 Grimthorpe,' he exclaimed angrily. 
 
 ' It is my business,' replied the lieutenant. ' The kid's 
 an infernal nuisance.' 
 
 Little Lord Folderoy had overheard the conversation. 
 His fair young face was scarlet with indignation, and his 
 
22 THE '■ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 big blue eyes sparkled as he rushed up to Grimthorpe and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' How dare you speak so of Miss Champignon in my pre- 
 sence, sir ?' 
 
 Grimthorpe looked down at the lad contemptuously 
 
 ' Go away, little boy,' he said. 
 
 ' Not till you apologize,' and the lad drew himself up to 
 his full height. 
 
 ' And if I refuse ?' 
 
 ' I will wait till I am a man, and then I will fight you 1' 
 
 The old Earl of , who had been having forty winks 
 
 with his handkerchief over his face, leapt up and caught 
 the boy in his arms. 
 
 ' My brave boy,' he cried, ' how proud I am of you I' 
 
 ' Are you, grandpapa ? I am so glad. I shall tell Mr. 
 'Obbs that there is some good in Hearls after all.' 
 
 The admiral laughed. 
 
 ' Where does Mr. Hobbs live ?' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, just opposite Duckey. I'll introduce him to you 
 when I get home, and perhaps he'll take you one Sunday 
 afternoon to a meeting of the Democrackik Fed — something 
 — it's a very hard word — they meet in Hyde Park and 
 Trafalgar Square, and you'll learn a lot about haristocrats 
 there ' 
 
 The boy and his grandfather were talking, and Tootles 
 was listening to them. The other officers were playing 
 cards, and no one noticed Grimthorpe, who had strolled 
 away towards the edge of the crater, where little Miss 
 Champignon was playing at hopscotch. 
 
 A piercing cry made everybody spring to their feet, and 
 glance in the direction of the sound. 
 
 There, on the edge of that seething caldron, stood Grim- 
 thorpe — in his arms he held Tootles' Baby, little Miss 
 Champignon. A terrible look was on his face. 
 
THE ' ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 23 
 
 ' Curse you 1' he cried ; ' why did your mother bring you 
 on board the ship ? — your fate be on her head !' 
 
 Then he hurled Tootles' Baby from him, and down she 
 went, golden curls, and blue eyes, and pretty ways and all, 
 into the burning fiery furnace. She had been swallowed up 
 in the crater of Mount Vesuvius. 
 
 Strong arms seized the wicked lieutenant, and he was 
 instantly bound, and two marines were ordered to mount 
 guard over him. 
 
 Tootles rushed to the edge of the crater, and tried to peer 
 through the sulphurous smoke. He saw only the awful 
 abyss vomiting flames and lava, and sulphurous fumes. 
 Then he fell on his face in a fit, and knew no more. 
 
 The officers agreed that nothing could be done, and were 
 about to descend the mountain with the prisoner, when the 
 admiral cried out, ' Where is Lord Polderoy ?' 
 
 Nobody knew. 
 
 The boy had disappeared. 
 
 Suddenly the truth burst upon them — Little Lord Folderoy 
 had gone after Miss Champignon. 
 
 The admiral in his despair threw his cocked hat on the 
 ground and jumped upon it, and then he bit the buttons of 
 his uniform and went off in a strong fit of hysterics. 
 
 And while they were all wondering what they should do, 
 a little voice was heard to proceed from the midst of the 
 smoke on the summit of the mountain. 
 
 ' Grandpa !' 
 
 The voice was Little Lord Folderoy's. 
 
 The officers rushed to the spot, and peering down into the 
 crater beheld a little form dressed in black velvet hanging 
 on by a rock, and supporting the fainting form of little Miss 
 Champignon. 
 
 A rope was procured and thrown to him, and presently 
 the children were drawn up again safe and sound. The boy 
 
2 4 THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 had gone down hand over hand into the mouth of the crater ; 
 there he had found Tootles' Baby lying on a ledge of rock, 
 and then he had climbed up with her till he could go no 
 further, and had to shout for help. 
 
 She was all right again in a few minutes, and so was he, 
 only the beautiful black velvet suit was scorched all over, 
 and Little Lord Folderoy would never be able to wear it 
 any more. 
 
 ' My dear boy,' said the admiral, as soon as he had 
 mastered his emotion, ' what can I give you for this brave 
 deed ? Shall I buy you a pony ?' 
 
 ' No, grandpapa ; I couldn't ride it on the Alligator. If 
 you must reward me for a deed which any gentleman would 
 have done under the circumstances, promise that when I 
 am old enough I shall marry Miss Champignon.' 
 
 ' Tootles,' said the admiral, ' do you consent ?' 
 
 ' I could wish my baby no better fate than to be your 
 lordship's granddaughter-in-law,' replied Tootles, and taking 
 Miss Champignon's hand, he was about to place it in that 
 of Little Lord Folderoy, when Grimthorpe, who was lying 
 bound upon the ground, leapt to his feet. 
 
 ' I forbid the banns I' he cried in a voice of thunder. 
 
 ' You do ! and by what right, sir ?' exclaimed the admiral, 
 his voice quivering with indignation. 
 
 ' By every right, sir. Miss Champignon is my child ; her 
 mother is my wife.' 
 
 If an eruption of Vesuvius had taken place there and 
 then, it could not have caused more surprise to the officers 
 of H.M.S. Alligator. 
 
 ' 'Tis false I' cried Tootles, feeling that he must say some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' 'Tis true I' replied Grimthorpe. ' I was married secretly, 
 and I didn't send my wife my pay, so she brought the child 
 to Italy, and put it in my bed on board the Alligator. When 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 25 
 
 I found it there, I picked it up and put it in Tootles' bed 
 instead. Now, do with me as you will, but while I live, my 
 daughter shall never be the bride of Little Lord Folderoy.' 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE PKISONEB IN IBONS. 
 
 Late that night the admiral and Tootles sat together in 
 the admiral's cabin. Griinthorpe was a prisoner and in 
 irons, and the question to be decided was whether to hand 
 him over to the Neapolitan authorities for the attempted 
 murder of his child, or to court-martial him and then 
 dismiss him from the navy, and let him go upon condition 
 that he resigned all claim to Miss Champignon. 
 
 The sailors adored Miss Champignon. "When they heard 
 of the attempted crime, they were with difficulty restrained 
 from keel-hauling the delinquent. Miss Champignon was 
 everybody's pet. She spoke to the man at the wheel. She 
 had the big guns fired off for her amusement, and, dressed 
 in a sweet little naval costume, she stood on the bridge with 
 a little telescope under her arm, and gave orders which the 
 men obeyed with a hearty ' Ay, ay, missie,' and they blessed 
 her ' purty face,' and were her humble slaves. 
 
 The admiral was for hanging Grimthorpe to the yard-arm 
 and saying nothing about it, but Tootles wished to know a 
 little more about Miss Champignon's mamma first. 
 
 So, obtaining the admiral's consent, he went to the place 
 in which Grimthorpe was confined, and interviewed him. 
 
 ' Grimthorpe,' he said, ' you are a bad fellow, but if you 
 make a clean breast of it, I will intercede for you. Who is 
 Miss Champignon's mamma ?' 
 
 Grimthorpe eyed his interlocutor with a fierce eye that 
 glistened with hate. 
 
26 THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 ' Can't you guess?' he said. 
 
 A fierce pang shot across Tootles' breast. He had been 
 wondering whose face the child's reminded him of. Grim- 
 thorpe's ' Can't you guess ?' was a revelation to him. 
 
 ' Not Marion Grey ?' he cried ; 'don't say it is Marion Grey !' 
 
 ' Her name was Marion Grey. It is now Marion Grim- 
 thorp' ' 
 
 At last poor Tootles knew the truth. Marion had refused 
 his love because she was the wife of another. And that 
 other had basely and cruelly deserted her and her child — 
 the child that he, Tootles, now loved as his own daughter. 
 
 ' Grimthorpe, you are a villain.' 
 
 Grimthorpe shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' There must be villains in the world,' he said, ' and,' he 
 added, looking straight at Tootles, ' there must be fools.' 
 
 "Without noticing the covert insult, Tootles continued : 
 
 ' Where is Marion now ?' 
 
 ' Be good enough not to call my wife by her Christian 
 name.' 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Grimthorpe now ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, and I don't care. I only know that it was 
 like her impudence to put the brat in my bed.' 
 
 ' That did not give you the right to put it down the crater 
 of Vesuvius.' 
 
 ' A man can do what he likes with his own.' 
 
 ' No, not according to the law of civilized nations. For 
 the attempted murder of your child yc i can be severely 
 punished.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I can't be hanged. So Mrs. Grimthorpe won't 
 be a widow. Aren't you sorry ?' 
 
 ' Listen, Grimthorpe. I scorn your vulgar insinuations ; 
 but I have a proposition to make to you. Leave this ship, 
 abandon all claim to Miss Champignon, and you shall be set 
 at liberty.' 
 
THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 27 
 
 ' I certainly can't leave the ship till I am set at liberty.' 
 
 •Promise to do as I say and your irons shall be. removed.' 
 
 ' I'll see you ' 
 
 At that moment Little Lord Folderoy came running in. 
 
 ' Hush 1' exclaimed Tootles, ' not before the boy." 
 
 ' Tootles,' said the little lord, ' grandpapa has just 
 promised me that when we get back to England, Duckey 
 — that is my mother — shall live in one of the labourers' 
 cottages on his estate rent-free. Isn't it good of him?' 
 
 ' Very,' sneered Grimthorpe. ' Will he give her the 
 washing from the Hall as well ?' 
 
 ' How dare you insult my mamma I' said Little Lord 
 Folderoy, stamping his foot. ' She is a lady, and never 
 washes herself.' 
 
 ' You mean, dear, that she never does her own washing,' 
 interrupted Tootles gently. 
 
 ' Yes, that's what I mean. Please come away and leave 
 this bad man alone. Grandpapa wants you to come and 
 help him with another bottle of rum.' 
 
 ' I'll join the admiral presently,' replied Tootles. 
 
 And getting rid of the boy, he once more endeavoured to 
 come to terms with Grimthorpe. But Grimthorpe was 
 obstinate. He vowed that they might do what they liked 
 with him, but he would never resign his authority over little 
 Miss Champignon. 
 
 CHAPTBE V. 
 
 THE STEEPLECHASE. 
 
 Six months had passed away, and H.M.S. Alligator had 
 returned home and been paid off. Grimthorpe had been 
 released by the admiral, who, after thinking the matter out, 
 had decided that if Miss Champignon was to become Lady 
 Folderoy, and eventually Countess of , it was just as 
 
28 THE 'ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 
 
 well that her father should not be a convicted felon. So 
 the matter was hushed up, and Grimthorpe was allowed to 
 retain his rank. But the other officers treated him with 
 marked coldness, and the men despised him. 
 
 It was the day of the naval and military steeplechases at 
 Kempton Park. In the members' enclosure were Tootles, 
 Miss Champignon, Little Lord Folderoy, and Admiral the 
 Earl of . 
 
 Duckey was on the course in a carriage which her son 
 had provided for her. He ran across and kissed his mamma 
 after every race, but the admiral declined to be introduced 
 to her, as she was only an East-end governess, of American 
 descent. 
 
 ' Don't you think Duckey is very pretty ?' said Little Lord 
 Folderoy one day to his grandpapa. 
 
 ' Yes, my boy ; she's an exceedingly pretty young 
 woman, but she does not belong to my set. I wish her 
 to have everything that is right, but don't introduce me 
 to her.' 
 
 So Duckey, although she was never invited to the Hall, 
 had her cottage on the estate kept in good repair. And 
 when the Hall cat had five kittens the earl ordered four to 
 be drowned, and one to be sent to his son's wife with his 
 compliments ; and the gardener was instructed to leave a 
 cabbage or a vegetable marrow now and then, and in various 
 little ways such as these the earl showed that his love for 
 his grandson was gradually softening his heart towards the 
 pretty governess. 
 
 It was the great race of the day. The numbers had gone 
 up, and the jockeys' names were being put beside them. 
 The riders were all gentlemen and officers of the army or 
 navy. Tootles looked through his glasses in order that 
 Miss Champignon might mark her card. When he got 
 to ' No. 15, Captain Jones's Eoyal Commission, bv Lord 
 
THE ' ALLIGATOR' BABIES. 29 
 
 Randolph out of Bribery,' he uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise. The jockey was Lieutenant Grimthorpe. 
 
 The horse was first favourite for the race, and Miss 
 Champignon's father was its rider. 
 
 The admiral saw it, too, and both men looked long and 
 earnestly at each other. 
 
 The bell rang, and the course was cleared. The horses 
 went to the post, and started. On they came, nearer and 
 nearer; over the hurdles and over the ditches they flew, and 
 suddenly there was a cry. A little boy had got on the 
 course right in front of the horses — right in front of the 
 last hurdle. 
 
 The people shouted. The boy, terrified, stood still. Eoyal 
 Commission was about to clear the hurdle. Seeing the 
 horse so close to him the boy threw up his hands. Eoyal 
 Commission swerved and came down with a crash, his rider 
 falling under him. 
 
 The boy was Little Lord Folderoy. He was dragged out 
 of danger by a beautiful young woman who had run on to 
 the course. It was Duckey. 
 
 But Lieutenant Grimthorpe didn't move, and he was 
 carried off on an ambulance. 
 
 That afternoon the earl drove home in Duckey's victoria, 
 with Little Lord Folderoy between them. 
 
 ' Madam,' he said, ' henceforth I shall receive you at the 
 Hall and treat you as an equal, for you have saved my 
 grandson's life.' 
 
 And the same afternoon Tootles was fetched in a hurry to 
 the bedside of a gentleman jockey who had broken his neck 
 n three places. 
 
 ' Tootles,' said the unhappy man, ' I want you to forgive 
 me, for I can't last long. Marion's address is No. 739 
 Peabody's Buildings, Farringdon Eoad. When Miss Cham- 
 pignon is Lady Folderoy, tell her that her father was sorry 
 
30 THE ' ALLIGA TOR ' BABIES. 
 
 for what he had done, and give her my blessing. You'll 
 find a judgment summons for £58 10s. in my coat-pocket. 
 If you would like anything to remember me by, Tootles, 
 you can have that.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 Twelve months afterwards, Lieutenant Tootles, E.N., 
 was married at St. George's, Hanover Square, to Marion 
 Grimthorpe, and Miss Champignon and Little Lord Fol- 
 deroy were at the wedding ; and so was the earl, and so 
 was Duckey, who is a great lady now, and resides at the 
 Hall, and is treated with the greatest respect by everybody. 
 
 Miss Champignon is staying there while Tootles and her 
 mamma are away on their honeymoon, and the little lord is 
 her devoted cavalier. He has already greatly improved the 
 estate, and the earl does nothing without consulting him. 
 
 Mr. 'Obbs has cut the Social Democratic Federation, and 
 has been made an honorary member of the Carlton Club, 
 where he spends his evenings reading the Morning Post; 
 and during the recent riots in Trafalgar Square he was 
 sworn in as a special constable, and had his head broken by 
 his former comrades, of which he is very proud. 
 
 Miss Champignon is idolized by the earl's tenantry, and 
 when she and Little Lord Folderoy gallop by on their 
 ponies, with their grooms behind them and sixteen dogs 
 scampering in front of them, the villagers all look after 
 them and say : ' Bless their pretty hearts, what a nice 
 young couple they will make, surely !' 
 
 But though the little lady loves the little lord, and it is an 
 understood thing that in twenty years or so they will be 
 married, Miss Champignon never forgets her new papa, and 
 every morning, at breakfast-time, she climbs on his knee 
 and says, ' Miss Champignon loves Tootles,' and then she 
 turns to her mamma and says, ' Mamma, you love Tootles 
 too, don't you ?' 
 
THE ' ALLIGA TOR ' BA BIES. 3 1 
 
 And mamma laughs, and says, ' Yes, my dear, very much 
 indeed.' 
 
 And when the admiral, and Duckey, and Little Lord 
 Folderoy come in, there is quite a family party, and they 
 are all as happy as happy can be. 
 
 One thing, however, did upset Miss Champignon for a 
 time, and that was when she came home after a long stay 
 at the Hall and found a little dolly in long clothes on 
 Tootles' knee. 
 
 And when they told her it was Tootles' Baby, she stamped 
 her foot and said, ' No ; I'm Tootles' Baby.' 
 
 But she got used to it in time, and now she loves her 
 little brother very much. And if you want to know any 
 more about these interesting people you must pay another 
 shilling. 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 
 
 I am four-and-twenty years of age, tall, well-looking, and a 
 duke I I have not gone very deeply into the family history, 
 because I have always been afraid of what I should find out, 
 and I remember the old proverb, ' Where ignorance is bliss, 
 'tis folly to be wise.' I have no doubt that my ancestors 
 came over with the Conqueror, but I don't think they did 
 much good, as in a horrid Eadical journal which was sent 
 me anonymously by post, with a big pencil-mark to draw 
 my attention to an article on the aristocracy, I read that we 
 were not made dukes till the reign of Charles II. 
 
 I don't trouble now very much about my ancestors, but I 
 am rather concerned about myself. To tell you the honest 
 truth, I am in what my mamma, the duchess, would call a 
 ' bit of a mess.' 
 
 My mamma, the duchess, has never quite forgotten the 
 language of her youth, and her youth was passed in the land 
 of comic songs. 
 
 My mamma, the duchess, was a celebrated serio-comic in 
 her day, and my papa fell in love with her and married her 
 when he was very young. There is a portrait of her in an 
 old volume of the Entr'acte which I found in a library, and 
 from this I should think that she was very charming and 
 very ' chic ' in those days. Some of the old boys I meet 
 sometimes tell me she waB quite the rage of the music-halls 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 33 
 
 once, and that her song ' Sarah's up to Snuff ' took the town 
 by storm, and got three encores nightly. 
 
 My papa, the marquis, died at the North Pole after five 
 years of happy married life — he was sent to the North Pole 
 by my grandpapa, the duke, who thought it was the best 
 place for him. My mamma remained at home, and still, I 
 believe, continued to do ' three turns nightly ' at the principal 
 halls of the Metropolis. 
 
 Being a marchioness, she got magnificent terms. I even 
 heard that one manager paid her as much as £100 a week, 
 on condition that she would come on in her coronet to sing 
 ' Sarah's up to Snuff ' — and she did. My papa became a 
 duke while he was at the North Pole, owing to the death of 
 my grandpapa ; and then, of course, my mamma became a 
 duchess— and I was a marquis. I was a tiny baby at that 
 time and knew nothing about it. All I know I have learned 
 since. 
 
 After my papa, the duke, died there was a lot of trouble. 
 My grandpapa had, it seems, gambled very nearly all the 
 estates away, and my papa had finished the rest, so that 
 there was very little left for us — only enough to bring us in 
 a very modest income, all our property, which was not much, 
 having been parted with before we came into it. 
 
 I am not an Irish duke, as you might imagine perhaps 
 from the above, but an English one. I have taken my seat 
 in the House of Lords because mamma wishes me to do so, 
 but that is all the benefit I have derived from the position. 
 
 My mamma, the duchess, married again two years after 
 my papa died. She married Mr. Tom Lingham, a lion- 
 comique, and they made a good deal of money by appearing 
 Sogether as ' The Duchess of Shadwell and Mr. Tom 
 Lingham,' in an entertainment specially written for them, 
 and a dog who was very clever. 
 
 The dog was Mr. Tom Lingham's. We had a house in 
 
 3 
 
34 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 
 
 the Wandsworth Eoad, I remember, and there I was brought 
 up, with my younger brothers and sisters, the young 
 Linghams, and the dog. 
 
 They thought a lot of me, and so did the servants, because 
 I was a duke, and so did Mr. Lingham's and mamma's 
 relations, who used to come to tea on Sunday, and call me 
 ' your grace ' ; but my papa's relations never came to tea on 
 Sunday or any other day, and we never saw anything of 
 them at all. 
 
 Mamma said they were a stuck-up lot, and I suppose they 
 must have been ; but she said she didn't care, for she was a 
 duchess, and if they didn't like her using the coronet on the 
 stage at the music-halls, they could lump it. It was her 
 coronet, and she should do as she liked with it. Mamma 
 was very fond of her coronet ; she had it on everything. 
 
 It was awfully big on the brougham that used to take her 
 and Mr. Lingham to the Halls of an evening, and there was 
 a very big gilt one on our front door in the Wandsworth 
 Eoad ; and when we went to Margate I had a coronet on 
 my spade and bucket when I went on the sands, and mamma 
 had hers on her field-glasses, that she always wore slung 
 across her shoulders on the jetty, incase she wanted to look 
 at a man-of-war in the offing. 
 
 I remember all these things now I sit down to write the 
 history of my life, which, after going to the House of Lords 
 and mixing with other dukes, I think must have been a 
 very remarkable one. 
 
 I was a great success in the House of Lords. I didn't 
 say anything, but everybody stared at me; and in the 
 smoking-room a lot of the other lords came and talked to 
 me, and asked me questions, and they got me on to sing a 
 comic song I had learned of my mamma, the duchess. 
 
 At the time I took my seat in the House of Lords, mamma 
 had become very stout, and had retired from the profession ; 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE VNBVRKED. 35 
 
 and Mr. Lingham, who had lost his voice, had made a 
 ready-money book in the little ring at race-meetings, and 
 gone broke over it, and had started a music-hall agency in 
 the Waterloo Eoad ; and I don't think we were quite as well 
 off as we used to be. 
 
 When I had been to the House of Lords once or twice, 
 and found out how other dukes enjoyed themselves, I began 
 to feel dissatisfied with my position, and I went home and 
 had a long talk with Mr. Lingham and the duchess. It 
 was then I learnt that my papa had left me nothing but the 
 title, and that all the family property had gone to the money- 
 lenders. 
 
 I am sure that my papa must have been jolly hard up, for 
 a boy at the school I went to in Wandsworth, whose father 
 was a socialist lecturer in Hyde Park on Sunday, told all 
 the other boys that my papa had once been had up at the 
 Old Bailey for getting a thousand pounds on false pretences 
 — it was something to do with a bill — and that he had been 
 through the Bankruptcy Court and paid fourpence in the 
 pound soon after he married my mamma. We had a fight 
 and he made my nose bleed, and then all the boys came 
 round and said it was not blue blood, but red, just like a 
 greengrocer or a tailor. 
 
 I am not much of a duke, but I am duke enough to 
 know that it was not good form to wash one's family dirty 
 linen in public. I have only recalled all these circumstances 
 of my early life to let you know exactly the position I am in 
 at four-and-twenty. 
 
 It is thi3. 
 
 Mr. Lingham says he has quite enough to do to support 
 his own family, and my mamma, the duchess, has given me 
 to understand that it is time I looked out for myself, and 
 earned my own living. 
 
 That is where the difficulty comes in. There are so few 
 
 3—2 
 
36 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE VNBURKED. 
 
 things a duke can do, especially a duke who is not particu- 
 larly clever at anything. Mamma says I had better go 
 to America and advertise that I am open to offers from 
 millionaires with a daughter to spare. But how am I to go 
 to America ? I won't go steerage ; and how am I to live 
 when I get there ? The one pound a week that mamma 
 allows me won't go far in America. Besides, I am in love ! 
 
 Oh ! if you could see her you would understand all I feel ' 
 as I write these words 
 
 She is the charmingest, prettiest girl in all the world, and 
 she serves behind the counter at Messrs. Jones and Co.'s, the 
 drapers in the Wandsworth Eoad, and her name is Daisy. 
 
 Daisy Smith ! 
 
 I like to write it. I write it everywhere. I write it with 
 the soap on my looking-glass. I write it on my cuffs with a 
 lead-pencil. I write it with my fingers in the dust on the 
 mantelshelf in our front parlour. I write it in chalk on our 
 front door. If I were a prisoner, I should write it with my 
 blood on my dungeon walls I 
 
 My darling Daisy is eighteen ; her father is a four-wheel 
 cabman, and her mother is pew-opener at St. Mary's 
 Church, Shoreditch. They idolize her — and so do I. 
 
 I am always going into Jones and Co.'s on some excuse — if 
 it is only to buy a penny packet of pins— and then I take a 
 chair and gaze at Daisy till the shopwalker comes along and 
 starts me off. 
 
 And of an . ling I wait outside till the shop shuts, and 
 then I walk wuh Daisy as far as her home. She would 
 like to ask me to tea on Sunday, but there are difficulties in 
 the way. She has found out that I am a duke, and she 
 says that if it were known that she had a duke to tea 
 her character would be gone. 
 
 I cannot see why, but I suppose there is plenty of gossip 
 if a shop-girl takes a duke home to tea with a four-wheel 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UN BURKED. 37 
 
 cabman and a pew-opener. It makes me curse the day that 
 I was born a duke — though, of course, I was really only 
 born a marquis — or not that, for papa was only a marquis 
 when I was born, so that I was really only a lord ; but 
 I am a duke now, and it is the same thing in the end. 
 
 But though I have not yet been home to tea with Daisy, 
 we are engaged — we have plighted our troth and broken a 
 sixpence, and both sworn never to marry anyone else. 
 
 I see more of Daisy, too, than I used to, because the 
 shopwalker doesn't interfere, and Jones and Co., under- 
 standing that we are an engaged couple, allow me to sit on 
 the big chair at the counter for an hour a day. They have 
 recognised my position by putting a big card in the window, 
 on which is printed ' By appointment to the Duke of Shad- 
 well.' That's because I sometimes buy a pennyworth of 
 
 pins there ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 It is a month since I wrote' the last lines. A great 
 change has taken place in my prospects, and in Daisy's too. 
 
 She has made me the happiest of men. We are going to 
 be married, and mamma has given her consent. This is 
 how it happened. 
 
 When my dear Daisy had her annual week's holiday, she 
 was very unwell with the long hours and the gas in the 
 shop, and she was told by her father's club doctor she 
 ought to go to the seaside ; and so, though it broke her 
 heart to be parted from me so long, she went to stay with a 
 married sister at Brighton. 
 
 It was Brighton race week, and my dear Daisy went one 
 day to the races. 
 
 While she was leaning over the rails she saw a rough- 
 looking fellow come up to another rough-looking fellow, and 
 she heard him say : ' It's all right ; the " Shemozzle colt " 
 is on the job, and the owner is on a thou. S.P. in London.' 
 
38 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 
 
 ' Oh !' said the other fellow, * then I shall have a quid 
 on. I can get 12 to 1.' 
 
 Daisy's father, the four-wheel cabman, is a bit of a 
 sportsman, and she had heard him talk about horse-racing, 
 and she knew the conversation she had heard meant that 
 the ' Shemozzle colt ' was going to win at 12 to 1. 
 
 She had a sovereign in her pocket, and she thought she 
 should like to turn it into £12. That would mean so many 
 benefits for her parents. 
 
 She went to a bookmaker, and said, ' The " Shemozzle 
 colt," please,' and gave him her sovereign and took a ticket, 
 and watched the race. 
 
 It was a desperate race, and poor Daisy thought her 
 sovereign was gone; but just at the last moment the 
 ' Shemozzle colt ' came with a ' wet sail.' 
 
 ' The " Shemozzle colt " wins !' yelled the crowd. And it 
 did, for it just got its head in front on the post. 
 
 "When Daisy went for her money, her heart was in her 
 mouth. There was a noisy crowd round a battered and 
 broken board, and they said they had been ' welshed.' 
 
 But Daisy's bookmaker was at his post smiling. And 
 when Daisy handed up her ticlet, she received thirteen 
 golden sovereigns, and almost jumped for joy. 
 
 When she was walking away with her money past the 
 carriages, she saw a young gentleman come up to two ladies 
 in a carriage, and she heard him say to them, ' You must 
 have a little on ' Gilliflower ' for the next race. Tommy 
 Loates rides it, and the trainer's just told me it is a 
 certainty.' 
 
 Daisy went to her bookmaker directly the numbers were 
 up, and asked him what price ' Gilliflower ' was. 
 
 ' Seven to one to you, my dear,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, seventy pounds to ten,' said Daisy. 
 
 The bookmaker shook his head. 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UN BURKED. 39 
 
 ' I'm not betting to tenners,' he replied ; ' you'd better go 
 to the ring.' 
 
 Daisy looked across the course to Tattersall's. How was 
 she to get her money on there ? But shs was not going to 
 be beaten, so she walked across to the railings, and saw 
 a nice gentleman, who looked like the Duke of Edinburgh, 
 taking bank-notes from everybody. So she held her money 
 through the railings, and said, ' " Gilliflower," please !' 
 
 The nice gentleman looked at her and smiled, and said, 
 ' Six to one to a lady,' and gave her a ticket ; and when 
 ' Gilliflower ' won by three lengths, Daisy went back and 
 received £70 in nice crisp Bank of England notes. 
 
 She could not hear anything about the next race, but just 
 as the horses were going to the post, she heard one of the 
 ladies in a carriage say that the owner of ' Barnacle ' had 
 told her that it couldn't be beaten. Off ran Daisy to the 
 rails, and in her excitement she gave £50 to the bookmaker, 
 and got 4 to 1. It was a very narrow squeak this time. 
 Everybody thought thai ' Barnacle ' had just been beaten 
 by ' Simon Tappertit,' the first favourite ; but the judge 
 didn't think so, and put up 'Barnacle's' number, and Daisy 
 was the proud winner of £200. 
 
 Then she reckoned up, and found that she had £273, and 
 she thought it was quite enough, and so she put the notes 
 carefully in the bosom of her dress, and went back to her 
 married sister's and had her tea. 
 
 When she came home from her holiday, looking bright- 
 eyed and brown-cheeked and happy, she told me all about 
 it. She did not know how she had done it, but she had, 
 and after buying her father a new overcoat for the winter, 
 and her mother a black dress and a pair of spectacles, and 
 a few things for herself, and a little gold horse-shoe pin for 
 me, she had £260 in the bank— £260 1 Why, it was a 
 fortune I 
 
40 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 
 
 That evening, as we strolled together along the Wands- 
 worth Eoad, she said to me : 
 
 'Tom, when I was poor, I told you that you must not 
 think of me; but now that I am rich, the obstacle is 
 removed.' 
 
 I took her in my arms in the darkest part of the thorough- 
 fare, and I said : 
 
 ' My darling, you have wealth and I have rank. We are 
 equal now, and we will be married as soon as possible.' 
 
 ' Do you think I shall make a nice duchess ?' she said 
 artlessly. 
 
 ' The nicest and dearest little duchess in the world,' I 
 replied. ' I'll see your father next Sunday, and ask him 
 for your hand.' 
 
 When I went home and told my mamma that I intended 
 to marry, she was very angry; she said that she would 
 never consent — that I ought to marry a millionairess. 
 There were so few unmarried dukes about, that I should be 
 snapped up directly it was known that I was in the market. 
 
 We had words, and the result was that I got up from the 
 supper-table and went out, banging the door after me, and 
 saying that I would never return. I had five shillings left 
 out of my weekly allowance, and that night I slept at a 
 coffee-shop. 
 
 The next morning I had my breakfast — a cup of tea, three 
 slices and a rasher — and then I had my boots cleaned and 
 went to Jones and Co.'s, and sat in the high chair and had a 
 long talk with Daisy about the future. While I was talk- 
 ing, an old lady came into the shop with a little pug-dog, and 
 asked to see some widow's caps. 
 
 While Daisy was waiting on her, I went to the door. 
 Presently I saw the pug come out. There was another 
 dog in the middle of the road, and the pug-dog went to 
 play with it. A three-horse omnibus came along. The 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 41 
 
 pug-dog was under the wheel. I heard a shriek behind 
 me. ' Oh, my Popsy !' It was the old lady. I darted 
 into the road, snatched up the pug, and then I knew no 
 more till I woke up and found myself in the hospital. 
 
 I had saved the pug, but the wheel of the 'bus had gone 
 over my big toe. When I came to my senses, Daisy was 
 on one side of the bed and the old lady was on the other, 
 and the pug-dog, wagging his tail in frantic gratitude, sat 
 at the foot. 
 
 ' Your grace,' exclaimed the old lady, ' I have ascertained 
 you are the Duke of Shadwell. You have behaved nobly. 
 You have saved my dog's life, and, since my poor husband 
 died, he is the dearest thing I have on earth. I am rich. 
 I understand you are poor. Pray accept these as a small 
 token of my esteem and gratitude.' 
 
 With that she placed a roll of bank-notes in my hand, 
 and left without giving me her address. 
 
 I counted the notes. There were ten, for £1,000 each — 
 £10,000 ! 
 
 ' Oh, Tom !' said Daisy. 
 
 ' Oh, Daisy !' cried I. 
 
 Then we embraced each other, and in a week I was dis- 
 charged, convalescent. We had now £10,250 between us, 
 and it was a quiet little wedding. 
 
 The bride entered the church, leaning on the arm of her 
 father, who walked lame, being rheumatic, like most four- 
 wheel cabmen, and the pew -opener, her mother, stood by 
 the altar. My mother, the duchess, wearing her coronet, 
 met us at the church-door, and a representative of the 
 Morning Post was also present. Four of the young ladies 
 from Jones and Co.'s were the bridesmaids, and after the 
 ceremony we all went to a pastrycook's in the Wandsworth 
 Eoad, and had sandwiches, and sherry, and port, and a 
 wedding-cake, which we bought out of the window. 
 
42 A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 
 
 As soon as it was known that a duke and two duchesses 
 were in the pastrycook's, a crowd collected, and when 
 Daisy's father drove us to the railway-station in his four- 
 wheeler, the crowd huzzaed and threw the only old slipper 
 they could find after us. 
 
 Five years have elapsed, and now everyone is proud to 
 know the Duke and Duchess of Shadwell. 
 
 Daisy, the cabman's daughter, has been my Mascotte. 
 
 Jones and Co. , as soon as they heard that I had £10,000, 
 proposed a partnership. I accepted it. The title of the firm 
 was altered, and over the shop we put up ' The Duke and 
 Duchess of Shadwell and Co.' People flocked from all parts 
 of London to deal with a duke and duchess, especially 
 as the duke received them and the duchess attended to 
 them. 
 
 So enormous was the success, that we started branches 
 all over London, and presently ' The Duke and Duchess of 
 Shadwell and Co.' were the great rivals of Shoolbred, of 
 Whiteley, and of Maple. We went into other branches. 
 We dealt in everything, and in three months the business 
 had become so colossal that we turned it into a limited 
 liability company, with myself as chairman. The shares 
 went up to an enormous premium, and even royalty sub- 
 scribed for them. 
 
 I made a million by the transaction, and still retain the 
 principal share of a business which brings in a profit of 
 many hundreds of thousands a year. 
 
 It is at the request of the shareholders that I have 
 written these confessions, a copy of which, neatly printed 
 and bound in cloth, will be given away at Christmas to 
 every purchaser of our ' Sans Pareil guinea hamper, con- 
 taining half a dozen of " Shadwell " champagne, extra 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE PEERAGE UNBURKED. 43 
 
 dry, one quart of turtle-soup, a pair of art curtains, a 
 Japanese fire-screen, one dozen non-arsenical fly-papers, 
 hand-painted, and a box of the Duke's Own liver pills.' 
 
 It is an excellent commercial advertisement, but it also 
 contains a moral, which is that marriage need not be a 
 failure, even when a duke elevates a four-wheel cabman's 
 daughter to the peerage. 
 
PUNCH AND JUDY. 
 CHAPTBE I. 
 
 THE NEW G0VEBNE9S. 
 
 * Well, how much ?' 
 
 It was a gruff, husky voice that spoke — the voice of a 
 square-built, rough - looking, middle-aged man, with a 
 weather-beaten face and bright, brown, gipsy-looking eyes, 
 surmounted by shaggy eyebrows. When you looked at 
 John Merryweather to see what manner of man he was, the 
 eyes took your attention and riveted it. You might casually 
 observe that he had a bullet head, covered with closely- 
 cropped gray hair ; that his nose, originally broad and flat, 
 had been broadened and flattened still more by an accident 
 or a blow ; that his mouth dropped curiously at one corner, 
 giving him the appearance of wearing a perpetual grimace ; 
 that his neck was short and thick ; that his general appear- 
 ance was that of a fighting-man who had taken a public- 
 house and prospered ; but you always brought your gaze 
 back to his eyes, and found yourself wondering what it was 
 that made them dominate and obscure the rest of the man. 
 
 There were two people in the room — this man and Marion 
 Tredennick, a fair-haired, bright-looking girl of two-and- 
 twenty. Marion was not a handsome girl, she was not 
 even a good-looking girl ; but there was that kind, sympa- 
 
PUNCH AND JUDY. 45 
 
 thebic look about her that wins confidence at once. She 
 looked what old-fashioned people call ' a nice little body.' 
 Her eyes were kind, her voice was kind, and a sweet 
 sunshiny smile was rarely absent from her pleasant, 
 ' bonny '-looking face. 
 
 As she sat opposite Mr. Merryweather in the drawing- 
 room of his pretty villa in the St. John's Wood Eoad, 
 Marion found herself fascinated by the wonderful eyes of 
 this rough, uncouth person, whose family she was about 
 to enter as morning governess. 
 
 She was so fascinated that she hardly caught the meaning 
 of his words, and he had to repeat them. 
 
 ' Well — how much ?' 
 
 Marion hesitated. She had never been out before. She 
 had seen Mr. Merryweather's advertisement in the news- 
 paper, and had answered it in person ; but she had ex- 
 pected that even if she were lucky enough to obtain the 
 situation her employer would name the terms. She had 
 always read in books that the employer did so ; that he or 
 she, as the case might be, said : ' The salary is so much, 
 and the duties are so-and-so.' She was, therefore, to use a 
 homely but expressive locution, ' taken aback ' by being 
 called upon to name her price. 
 
 ' I — er — really — I should prefer to leave the sum to you,' 
 she stammered. 
 
 ' No, you say ; you know better nor I do what's fair,' was 
 the reply. ' I ain't used to this sort o' thing, you see. I 
 didn't have no governesses when I was a young 'un.' 
 
 The dropped lip dropped a little lower. It might have 
 been in a smile, it might have been in a sneer ; it was im- 
 possible to say. 
 
 ' I'll — I'll think it over,' said Marion. 
 
 ' No, you won't. Come ; I like the looks of you. You're 
 a lady — leastways, you speak like one, and you look like 
 
46 PUNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 one, and I think you'll suit me ; and if I suit you, why, say 
 how much, and it's a bargain.' 
 
 ' Would thirty pounds a year be too ' 
 
 ' Thirty pounds a year— all right !' exclaimed Mr. Merry- 
 weather ; ' that's a bargain. How'll you have it — weekly, 
 monthly, quarterly? Say what'll suit you ; it's all the same 
 to me.' 
 
 ' Monthly, I think, if * 
 
 'Monthly — that's a bargain — that's settled. Now then, 
 I'll call the young 'uns in, tell 'em who you are, and to- 
 morrow you'll come and give 'em their schoolin'.' 
 
 ' To-morrow 1 I didn't think you'd want me so ' 
 
 ' I want you at once. That's why I put the 'vertisement 
 in the noosepaper. My boy and gal's got to be scholars, 
 which I never was. They've got to be a gentleman and a 
 lady, which me and their mother never was. It's trainin' 
 they want, and the sooner trainin' begins the better. I do 
 know somethin' about that. To-morrow, eh? You can 
 make it suit if you like, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' Very well, Mr. Merryweather — to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Eight you are ; that's a bargain.' 
 
 Mr. Merryweather rose from an uneasy and slouching 
 position on the chair, and went to the door. 
 
 ' Hi 1' he shouted at the top of his voice. ' Punch — Judy 
 — come here ; I want you.' 
 
 A boy's voice and a girl's voice answered eagerly, ' We're 
 coming, daddy.' 
 
 And then there ran into the room two little children, so 
 utterly unlike what Miss Tredennick, judging from their 
 father's appearance, had expected to see, that she could not 
 help looking from one to the other. 
 
 The little boy was about eight, the little girl about seven. 
 Handsome children bofh of them, but nothing of the father 
 about them but the bright, brown gipsy eyes. 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 47 
 
 Eosy-eheeked children, with gentle, refined faces and 
 shapely limbs, they might have been the children of the 
 daughter of a hundred earls; it seemed hard to believe 
 that the common, vulgar, almost low-looking man who had 
 called them into the room was their father. 
 
 ' The young 'uns don't take after me, do they ?' said Mr. 
 Merryweather, noticing the governess's look of astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ' No, they do not.' 
 
 As soon as the words had escaped her Marion Tredennick, 
 conscious of the tone in which she had said them, blushed, 
 and tried to stammer an explanation. 
 
 ' Don't apologize,' said Mr. Merryweather, the lip again 
 dropping into the expression which was neither smile nor 
 sneer. ' Nobody don't believe they're my young 'uns. But 
 they are. They don't take after me — they take after their 
 mother, as handsome a lass, when I married her, as any 
 county in England could show. She ought to ha' been a 
 lady by her look. She'd a lady's face, a lady's manner, and 
 a lady's ways; but she was only a factory-girl up North, 
 where I met her.' 
 
 ' You are a widower, of course ?' 
 
 Why Marion said ' of course ' she didn't know ; but 
 everything that had occurred in the interview pointed to the 
 fact, though her new employer had not yet mentioned it. 
 
 ' I lost my wife some time ago,' the man replied ; and 
 then he changed the subject. He called the children to 
 him. They ran and climbed upon his knee. 
 
 ' Now, my dears,' he said, ' this here is your new governess. 
 She's going to make a lady and gentleman of you. She's going 
 to make scholars of you, so as you'll be able to hold your 
 own with the best on 'em. I want you, when you're a man 
 and woman grown, to be able to say, " Our old dad spared 
 nothing as we might grow up happy and contented and 
 
48 PUNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 good and clever." You'll mind what the lady tells you, 
 won't you ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, daddy, that we will !' c:ied the little girl. 
 
 ' But we shan't always have to be with her, shall we ?' 
 asked the boy, looking up at his father eagerly. ' Some- 
 times we may come and play with you like we do now ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Punch, my lad, of course you may. The lady will 
 only teach you your lessons in the mornings ; afternoons we 
 shall play our games and go our walks as usual. You'll 
 find 'em good children, God bless 'em I' said the man, 
 kissing the little ones, and putting them gently from him ; 
 ' the best o' children, and they know a lot a'ready. They've 
 been brought up in the country by a decent woman as I left 
 'em with when their mother — when I lost my wife. The 
 woman taught 'em all she knew, and it was enough for 'em 
 then ; but now things is different with us, and they've got 
 to be a lady and gentleman.' 
 
 'I'm sure they're good children,' said Miss Tredennick; 
 and she spoke with conviction — she had fallen in love with 
 Punch and Judy already. 
 
 I'm sure we shall be good friends and like each other,' 
 she added, turning to the children. 
 
 ' I like you very much,' replied the little boy, looking up 
 into her face, ' because you are pretty.' 
 
 Miss Tredennick blushed. 
 
 ' And I like you,' said the girl, putting up her sweet little 
 face to be kissed, ' because you are nice, and you haven't got 
 spectacles and a birch like the governess in the picture-book 
 daddy brought us home. When you are old will you have 
 spectacles and a birch and a big nose like it is in the 
 book ?' 
 
 The new governess laughed. 
 
 ' We none of us know, dear, what we shall have when we 
 grow old.' 
 
P UNCH AND JUD V. 49 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Merry weather, turning to Marion, ' to- 
 morrow then, miss, eh ? What time ?' 
 
 ' Will half-past nine ' 
 
 - Half-past nine — that's a bargain ; and you'll stay till 
 half- past twelve, eh? That'll give the young 'uns time for 
 a walk before dinner, eh ?' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' Then I don't know as there's anything more to say. I'll 
 let you out.' 
 
 The new governess kissed the children and said good-bye 
 to them, and followed their father into the hall. 
 
 ' Nice children, ain't they ?' he said, closing the drawing- 
 room door behind him. 
 
 ' Dear little children.' 
 
 ' You'll be careful with 'em, won't you ? Do all you can 
 to keep 'em good. They're all I've got in the world — they're 
 more to me than my life — than everything there is or can 
 be in life. They're good, honest little children, now, ain't 
 they ? anybody can see that — you think well of 'em, don't 
 you?' 
 
 The eagerness with which the man spoke was terrible. 
 To Marion Tredennick it seemed as though he had some 
 secret fear that her eye might have detected a blemish, a 
 danger hidden from his fond gaze. 
 
 She turned to him with a look of sympathy and gentle- 
 ness in her pleasant face, and said softly : 
 
 ' Mr. Merryweather, if I am any judge, your children are 
 good and clever ; and with God's blessing they will grow up 
 good and clever. I will do all that I can to help them and 
 to help you.' 
 
 ' Thank you, miss, for that. I've been rare and troubled 
 in my mind about the young woman that should have the 
 teaching and the training of 'em ; but if fancy goes for any- 
 thing I think I've got the right article in you.' 
 
 i. 
 
50 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 He shook the new governess heartily by the hand and 
 watched her down the road. 
 
 And all the way home Marion found herself wondering 
 what this strange man's history could be, and why he called 
 his pretty children by such odd names as Punch and Judy. 
 
 CHAPTBE II. 
 
 THE TKEDENNICKS. 
 
 Mabion Tbedennick had taken off her things, and was 
 sitting on a low stool at her mother's feet, working at some- 
 thing mysterious with bits of cream-coloured string on a 
 black board, which is called, I believe, macrame work. 
 
 It was in a small room on the first floor of a house in 
 Netherwood Street, Kilburn, that mother and daughter 
 lived. Folding doors shut it off from the room behind, 
 which was their bedroom ; and they had the use of the 
 kitchen to do their cooking in. They paid ten shillings a 
 week for the limited accommodation, and they could barely 
 afford that, for things had gone ill with them of late. 
 
 The Eev. John Tredennick, Marion's father, had been 
 a missionaiy, a Wesleyan minister, who, with his brave, 
 devoted wife, had helped to sow the seeds of Christianity 
 among the cruel and bloodthirsty Fijian tribes. That was 
 in the old days before Thakombau, the great chief and 
 famous man-eater, had in the names of all the tribes sued 
 for the protection of the British Government and taken the 
 oath of fealty to the British Crown. It was in the days 
 when the great ' ovens ' were always full of ' bokola,' or 
 human flesh, and the big death-drums were for ever boom- 
 ing to invite the savage guests to a cannibal feast. Many a 
 canoe-load of human victims had the white-haired old lady, 
 now sitting in the quiet little room at Kilburn, seen brought 
 
P UNCH A ND JUDY. 51 
 
 to the shore and clubbed to death, to make a banquet for 
 Thakombau and his wives. 
 
 Over and over again had she and her husband risked their 
 lives in endeavouring to save some wretched victim from the 
 ■ ovens' ; and long after some of these savage islanders had 
 accepted Christianity, they would give themselves an occa- 
 sional treat by including a slaughtered foe or two in the 
 menu of a dinner-party. 
 
 But before the Tredennicks left the islands there were 
 over nine hundred churches open for Christian worship, and 
 hundreds of native preachers — old cannibals themselves — 
 preached in the Fijian tongue the Gospel of Christ. 
 
 The little room in which Marion sits with her mother 
 contains many a relic of those bygone days. The quaint 
 artistic pottery made by the women of Viti Levu, the 
 polished cocoanut shells in which the horrible Fijian drink 
 yangona was served to guests, the lovely sinnet work — 
 beautiful embroidery in coloured strings — a couple of war 
 clubs, and a chief's spear, attract the eye of the visitor, and 
 in a glass case on the little walnut chiffonier is a curious 
 necklace of sharks' teeth, the favourite jewellery of the 
 women of Fiji. 
 
 The Eev. John Tredenniek had to give up his post 
 owing to ill-health, and, with his wife and little daughter, 
 Marion, he came back to England to obtain a ministry in 
 London. 
 
 At first all went well, but a series of misfortunes overtook 
 the brave old minister, and two years before my story opens 
 he had gone to his well-earned rest, leaving only a few 
 hundred pounds behind him as the savings of a lifetime. 
 
 Marion was then twenty — she had been her father's 
 amanuensis, his companion in his daily walks, his right 
 hand in everything, for Mrs. Tredennick's eyes had grown 
 dim, and the privations and hardships of the wild life in 
 
 4—2 
 
52 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 that far-off land of heathenism and cannibalism had told 
 upon her robust constitution, and old age had come on 
 rapidly. 
 
 When her father died, the duties of the house fell to 
 Marion. She was all-in-all to her widowed mother. Her 
 brain conceived, her hand executed, all their little plans. 
 
 She had one good counsellor and friend — the Eev. 
 Malcolm Grant. 
 
 He had been her father's friend — he was Marion's lover. 
 Some day, when they could afford it, they were to be married. 
 But they were both so terribly poor. While her mother lived 
 Marion felt that her place was by her side ; when it pleased 
 God to call her mother away she would marry Malcolm. He 
 was to go abroad, as her father had done — to carry the Gospel 
 to the far-off heathen, and she was to be his brave little wife 
 and help him. The girl's imagination had been fired loDg 
 ago, with the wondrous story of bitter battle and glorious 
 conquest told by her parents. In her had that glorious 
 missionary spirit been awakened, which has given many a 
 deed of silent heroism, many a splendid victory, to the 
 world. 
 
 Young Malcolm Grant had caught his sweetheart's 
 enthusiasm. Together they would plan out their future 
 lives, together they would read the stories of the missionary 
 martyrs and the missionary heroes, and within the hearts of 
 both of them burned that noble enthusiasm for the good 
 cause which makes great conquerors of weak men, and 
 hardy amazons of delicate women. 
 
 But that was a dream of the future ; the present was no 
 dream, but a stern reality, and it had to be faced. 
 
 The interest on the little capital left by Marion's father 
 was barely sufficient for their rent, and food, and clothing ; 
 there was no margin left for any extra expense that might 
 arise. 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y. S3 
 
 So at last, after much pondering and taking of counsel 
 with her mother and Malcolm, Marion determined to devote 
 her mornings to teaching. 
 
 That was an employment which would leave her free to 
 be with her mother, and to attend to the housekeeping, etc. 
 for the rest of the day. 
 
 She saw John Merryweather's advertisement in a morning 
 paper, answered it, kept the appointment made, and, as we 
 have seen, she obtained the post at a salary of thirty pounds 
 a year. 
 
 Thirty pounds a year!— nearly twelve shillings a week. 
 Only those who know what genteel poverty means can 
 imagine the difference which such a sum would make to the 
 comfort of a little home. 
 
 To Marion and her mother it meant so much that when 
 Malcolm called that evening he found them radiant — full of 
 hope and thankfulness. 
 
 And the old lady, in honour of the occasion, brought out 
 the trophies of her old Fijian mission days, and once again 
 told the stirring stories of adventure and Christian victory 
 that never failed to set the pulses of her listeners beating, 
 and to fill them with dreams of the glorious harvest it might 
 one day be their lot to reap in some far-off field. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 JOHN merkyweathee's stoey. 
 
 Mabion Tbedennick and her little pupils were the best of 
 friends from the first day that they came together. 
 
 Gradually she took in the children's loving little hearts 
 the place of the mother they had known so little of. 
 
 They learnt rapidly, and it was their constant study to 
 earn their young governess's smiling approval. Sometimes 
 
54 PUNCH AND JUD V. 
 
 Mr. Merryweather would come into the room while the 
 lessons were on, and would listen with fatherly pride to the 
 ready answers his children gave to the historical and geo- 
 graphical questions which were utterly beyond his compre- 
 hension. 
 
 ' Ah, it's a fine thing, is eddication !' he said one day. 
 ' Perhaps if I'd had more of it things 'ud ha' been different 
 with me. Never mind ; my boy and my gal will have it. 
 Their way'll be made smooth, as it says in the Testa- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' Was your way not smooth then, Mr. Merryweather ?' 
 asked Marion, her curiosity aroused. She found herself 
 taking a deep interest in this man — so kind, so earnest, and 
 yet so rough. She was woman enough to want to fathom 
 the mystery which surrounded him. She could not under- 
 stand the difference between the children and their father. 
 
 ' Was my way smooth ?' he answered, repeating her 
 question. Then he shook his head. ' Nay, it was rough — 
 so rough that I wonder the tramp didn't end long ago. I 
 don't like to look back on it.' 
 
 He stayed in the room until the lessons were finished, and 
 the children went upstairs to dress for their walk. 
 
 Then, when Marion was alone with him, he said : 
 
 ' Miss Tredennick, I'd like to tell you my story. I think 
 if you knew it it might help you in your task with my young 
 'uns. You've often wondered, I dare say, why they've got 
 such queer names — Punch and Judy.' 
 
 Marion confessed that she had thought the names odd. 
 
 ' They was called Punch and Judy by their mother ; it 
 ain't their names — their names a:e Paul and Jennie. You 
 see, I was a showman. I travelled the country with a Punch 
 and Judy show, I and my little wife, God bless her I She 
 was my right hand before the trouble came.' 
 
 He paused a moment and drew a deep breath. Then he 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 55 
 
 continued, his face turned from Marion, his eyes peering 
 into the glowing embers of the fire : 
 
 ' I was a wild sort of fellow, you know, till I met her. I 
 swore a bit and drank a bit and gambled a bit. "When me 
 and my pardner, that was with me afore I got married, had 
 a bit o' luck we'd go on the drink for days. Then we'd 
 starve for a bit till we had a good week of it, and then we'd 
 drink again. 
 
 ' My pardner had a good connection in the country towns, 
 and we'd get engaged for entertainments and to go to feets, 
 and altogether we made a good thing of it, having a first- 
 class show and getting a long price, besides doing well in the 
 towns and villages. 
 
 'When my pardner got took off with the rheumatics 
 through sleeping dead drunk all one night in a wet lane, 
 having been thrown out of the alehouse at closing time, 
 there wasn't nobody to claim his share, so I had it all, and 
 paid a man to take his place. 
 
 ' And then in a big town up North I met a lass, and fell 
 in love, with her. She was a factory hand, was Jennie ; no 
 father or mother, only an aunt, as took her money and 
 ill-used her. We got to be friends through me lodging in 
 her aunt's cottage and staying in the place some time, doing 
 well there. 
 
 ' We had long talks together of a Sunday, had me and 
 Jennie. She hated the factory and the close, hard life. 
 She said she'd like to travel and see the world, and 
 always be out in the air like I was, and the long and 
 the short of it was I asked her to be my pardner in the 
 show. 
 
 ' I was over head and ears in love with the pretty lass, 
 and when she said Yes, I felt as if I'd never known what 
 life was afore that day. 
 
 • She was terribly afraid of her aunt, so we got married 
 
5 6 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 on the quiet, and when I left the town my little wife went 
 with me. 
 
 ' I'd done well before, but never so well as when Jennie 
 joined the show. We made no end of money ; her pretty 
 face and winning ways got silver where the folks 'ud only 
 ha' given me coppers, and so we was able to lodge well and 
 live well and put a bit o' money by. 
 
 ' We had four happy years, and in those years the young 
 'uns was born. The tramping and the rough life didn't suit 
 either of 'em. They was delicate babies, and then for the 
 first time Jennie began to grumble a bit. So when the little 
 gal fell ill in one place we were at, and it wasn't good 
 enough for me to stay there, we had to leave the little 'un 
 behind. The doctor said if we could find a cottager to take 
 her for a bit it might be the making of her. If 6he was 
 dragged about with us from place to place it 'ud kill her. 
 
 ' We found a woman — a decent body, with young 'uns of 
 her own — and as we were going to a lot of country pitches, 
 not staying long anywhere, I persuaded Jennie to leave the 
 boy as well. 
 
 ' I persuaded her it 'ud only be for a little while, as I'd an 
 idea, and meant to settle in London altogether soon, and 
 then we could have a crib of our own. 
 
 ' I thought it 'ud ha' broken her heart, leaving 'em ; but 
 she wouldn't let me go alone or with a hired chap — she 
 knew what she was worth to the show. 
 
 ' But things began to go wrong from the day she parted 
 with her "bairns," as she called 'em. She pined, and grew 
 fretched and discontented. She tired sooner, and lost the 
 smile that used to draw the silver from the men's pockets. 
 
 ' And one night we had a quarrel — the first real quarrel 
 since we'd been married. After I'd struck work for the 
 night, instead of going home to our lodging, I went to a 
 public-house, and drank more than was good for me, and 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 57 
 
 got in a row with a navvy fellow. He slanged me, and I 
 flung the beer out of my pewter in his face. Then he went 
 for me like a savage, and smashed my nose, making it what 
 it is now, and in the fight I was knocked through the door, 
 and fell and split my head open on the steps. 
 
 ' It ain't a nice tale to tell a lady, but, worse luck ! it's my 
 story, and if I tell you my story I can't leave the fight out. 
 
 ' I was taken home smothered with blood, and was in the 
 doctor's hands a month. Poor Jennie ! she nussed me night 
 and day. The show had to stand by for weeks, and of course 
 our savings went. When I got round again, I was a ruined 
 man, and, worse than that, I was a bad man. 
 
 ' I try to think it was the injury to the head that done it, 
 when I lay awake o' nights and think of all the wicked 
 things I did, and how I broke my poor lass's heart ; but 
 that don't take it off my conscience. 
 
 ' I was low and weak and out o' pluck when I mended, 
 and I took to drink again. I drank hard, I swore and cursed, 
 and, God forgive me, maddened by the drink, I was a brute 
 to Jennie. I led her the life of a dog — the drink made me 
 a cowardly ruffian. It seemed to fly to my head directly, 
 and I wasn't master of myself. 
 
 ' Our takings grew less and less, and what we did take I 
 spent in the cursed drink. 
 
 ' I was a devil then. I struck her and threatened her 
 life. She grew to fear me — to shrink away from me in 
 terror. 
 
 ' Then I grew furiously jealous. There was a young 
 fellow she'd known before she married me, an overseer or 
 something at the factory she'd worked at. One day when 
 we were stayiDg in the town where Jennie had been brought 
 up, I came home and saw this young fellow talking to her at 
 the door. I said nothing — I watched and spied on her. 
 Oh, you don't know what a mean wretch the drink had 
 
58 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 made of me 1 One evening when she was gone out I broke 
 open a drawer as she kept locked 1 I'd seen her put a letter 
 there. I found the letter ; it was from him. I couldn't 
 read it. I'm no scholar, as I've told you, so I took it to a 
 pal of mine, and he told me as it was a love-letter. It was 
 offering her, if she'd leave me, that he'd keep my children 
 and be a father to 'em. That's what my pal told me. 
 
 ' I took the letter home. When Jennie came back that 
 night, I ' 
 
 The man paused ; great beads of perspiration were stand- 
 ing on his brow. 
 
 Marion, horrified, could utter no word. 
 
 John Merryweather with a violent effort resumed his 
 narrative : 
 
 ' I can't tell you what I did. I've never spoken of it to a 
 living soul until now. It was only God's mercy as saved 
 me from the crime of murder, for it was in my mind to kill 
 her that night. The poor lass never said a word — she only 
 looked at me with a look that will haunt me till I die. 
 
 ' I flung her from me with vile and awful words ; and as 
 she reeled and fell at my feet I swore a fearful oath, and 
 told her to go to her lover ; and I called God to be my 
 witness that if ever she crossed my path again I'd kill her. 
 
 ' She raised herself from the ground and clung to my 
 knees, imploring me to hear her. 
 
 ' But I drowned her voice with oaths. I forced her from 
 the house with blows. The last word of mine that e 
 heard, as she stood trembling in the street in the cold and 
 rain that night, was a frightful oath that if ever she crossed 
 my path I'd be her murderer. And from that day to this I 
 have never seen her again.' 
 
 Marion hid her face in her hands as though she would 
 shut out the fearful picture the man's story conjured up 
 before her. 
 
P UNCH AND JUD Y. 50 
 
 ' And — you — you don't know what became of her ?' she 
 stammered, after a long silence. 
 
 ' No. Some time afterwards I heard the young fellow 
 had left the factory about that time and gone to Australia. 
 I suppose Jennie went with him. But it was my fault — all 
 my fault. God forgive me ! She was driven to it by me.' 
 
 ' And the children ?' said Marion. 
 
 ' She went to them. The next day she was at the cottage 
 where they were, so I found out afterwards. She told the 
 woman we'd quarrelled, and that she was afraid of me — that 
 she feared I'd murder her. She didn't care for herself, she 
 said, but she feared for me — feared that I should come to a 
 shameful death, and all through her. But before she left 
 she made the woman promise that if I didn't send the 
 money the children should not suffer. 
 
 ' It was months afterwards that I heard that, when it was 
 too late to find her and tell her I'd forgive her and take her 
 back. She was gone away then — gone away for ever. She'd 
 never have left the children, I know, but for that wicked 
 oath of mine. She'd have stayed by them, and braved it 
 out; but she feared what might happen to me — that I might 
 be maddened by the sight of her and kill her in my brutal 
 fury. 
 
 ' Ah I you look at me now, but you can't think what I 
 was then. 
 
 ' But her going away sobered me. After a bit I came 
 round and took to my business again, and bit by bit I pulled 
 things together, and sent the money regularly for the 
 young 'uns. 
 
 ' But I was a miserable, wretched man, and I never knew 
 an hour's peace or happiness. 
 
 ' I couldn't see the young 'uns often enough then ; they 
 seemed to be a link with the old happy days I'd spent with 
 Jennie before the devil got hold of me. 
 
60 PUNCH AND JUD V. 
 
 ' I workeu for em night and day, and swore that I'd atone 
 to 'em for my sin to their mother, that the rest of my life 
 should be lived for them. 
 
 ' Working for them took me away from my thoughts a bit 
 in those days ; but now, when there's no need for me to work, 
 the memory o' that time eomes back to me fiercer than ever, 
 and sometimes I think I shall go mad.' 
 
 The ex-showman began to pace the room excitedly. 
 
 ' Think of it 1 think of it !' he cried. ' Wealth, comfort, 
 everything to make life happy now, and the lass that 
 should have shared it with me I drove to shame and 
 misery 1 
 
 ' The day they told me I was rich — the day the lawyers 
 found me out, and told me a brother o' mine that had gone 
 over the seas when I was a boy, and as I'd never heard of 
 again, had died in Australia without chick or child, and left 
 his money to me if I was still alive ; the day that I knew I 
 was worth thousands o' pounds, and would never have to do 
 another hour's work as long as I lived — that day my sorrow 
 came back to me fiercer than ever. 
 
 ' I thought only of her who ought to ha' shared it with 
 me — of what a home it would ha' been for me and the young 
 'uns, with her about the place to really be the lady as she 
 was born to be. 
 
 ' But for the children's sake I'm glad of the money now. 
 They must be brought up well, you know, because they'll 
 be a lady and gentleman and have thousands. When they 
 can take care of themselves, I shall go away somewhere 
 where their fine friends can't ever see me. They shan't be 
 ashamed of me. But my place is with 'em now. I must 
 be mother and father too.' 
 
 ' Do they think their mother is dead ?' asked Marion, 
 after a pause. 
 
 ' No ; I haven't told 'em a lie. I've told 'em their 
 
P UNCH AND JVD Y. 61 
 
 mother's away — that some day she may come back again. 
 Oh, God, if it might only be — if it might only bel They ' 
 
 He broke off abruptly, looking at the clock on the shelf. 
 
 'I'm keeping you,' he said ;' you ought to have gone 
 home long ago. I ask your pardon.' 
 
 Marion rose and held out her hand. 
 
 ' Yours is a sad story, Mr. Merry weather,' she said. ' I 
 pity you from the bottom of my heart.' 
 
 The tears came into her gentle eyes as she spoke. 
 
 John Merryweather clasped the proffered hand and 
 gripped it heartily. 
 
 'You know my secret now, Miss Tredennick,' he said. 
 ' You know why I'm anxious that the young 'una should 
 have every chance in life. I'd sooner see them dead in their 
 coffins now than let 'em grow up to suffer for their father's 
 sins.' 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE BOX OF PUPPETS. 
 
 John Mebkyweatheb sat with his children one evening up 
 in the room they called their play-room. Nurse, a middle- 
 aged woman of a serious turn of mind and irreproachable 
 references, had gone to attend a grand missionary meeting 
 at Exeter Hall, so ' daddy ' and the children were spending 
 the evening together. 
 
 ' Daddy ' was sitting in the armchair, a book upon his 
 lap, and Punch and Judy were sitting on hassocks on either 
 side of him. 
 
 ' Come, daddy, you ought to know your lesson by this 
 time,' said Judy. 
 
 'I — I — think I do,' replied daddy; 'but it's a plaguey 
 hard one to-day.' 
 
62 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 Punch laughed a merry, boyish laugh. 
 
 ' Why, we said it off without a single mistake, didn't we, 
 Judy ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes, that we did,' said his sister. 
 
 John Merryweather pored over the book for a few minutes 
 longer ; then he gave it to Judy, who held it while her father 
 tried to repeat what he had been learning. 
 
 He mispronounced one or two of the long words, and 
 then both the children corrected him together. When he 
 got to the end, Judy said : 
 
 ' Very good, you can go to the top of the class.' 
 
 That sent Punch off into a fit of laughter, and daddy 
 laughed too. 
 
 ' It is a funny game 1' exclaimed Punch. 
 
 ' It isn't a game at all — it's real, isn't it, daddy ?' said 
 Judy. 
 
 ' Yes, my pets, quite real. I'm learning my lessons and 
 you're hearing me say 'em.' 
 
 ' Have you done your copy, daddy ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but there's two smudges and a blot,' replied daddy, 
 producing a child's copy-book, and handing it gravely to 
 Judy for her inspection. 
 
 The little girl and her brother bent over their daddy's 
 copy-book together, and agreed that he had written his 
 copy very nicely, but they said that the smudges and the 
 blot must be avoided in future; and they pointed out to 
 their scholar that when he made a false stroke it was not 
 necessary to rub it out with his thumb. That was how the 
 smudges were made. 
 
 The scene was laughable, but it had its pathetic side. 
 
 The man was learning of his children — the lessons 
 Marion taught them in the day they taught him in the 
 evening. He wanted to be less ignorant — he wanted to fit 
 himself for the responsibilities of his new position ; he 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y. 63 
 
 wanted to polish himself, so that his children should have 
 no cause when they grew older to blush for their father's 
 lack of culture and knowledge. He thought that perhaps 
 in time, if he worked hard, he might improve himself so 
 that he wouldn't injure them by going about with them. 
 
 Presently the lessons were finished, and then Judy 
 climbed upon her father's knee, and whispered, ' Daddy, 
 may we have the dolls to-night ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' cried Punch, ■ do let us have the dolls. Nurse 
 won't be in to put us to bed for ever so long.' 
 
 John Merryweather kissed the eager upturned faces of 
 his children tenderly, and then went into an adjoining 
 room, and returned with a long, deep box covered with 
 baize. He opened it, and drew forth reverently and gently 
 the puppets that once had been his stock-in-trade. 
 
 There was Punch, weather-beaten and chipped ; Judy, 
 ragged and dowdy ; Joey, in the last stage of shabby gen- 
 tility ; and the Beadle so utterly dilapidated that he looked 
 more like a candidate for the casual ward than a great 
 parochial officer. 
 
 Judy took her namesake and the baby, a badly-used 
 infant, whose robes were a lasting disgrace to its parents. 
 These were her especial favourites. Punch found metal 
 more attractive in the masculine puppets. 
 
 To the children they were dolls. They had seen a Punch 
 and Judy show in their walks, and they knew that these 
 dolls were the same as those in the show, but of their real 
 history they were ignorant. 
 
 Of his past life their father told them nothing — of that 
 they were to grow up in ignorance. They knew that their 
 mother's hands had dressed these dolls, and that was why 
 their daddy loved them, and why sometimes the tears would 
 come into his eyes as he looked at them. 
 
 John Merryweather loved to see the puppets in the 
 
64 PUNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 children's arms. They seemed a link that bound the chil- 
 dren to the mother they might never see again. Their little 
 hands touched the faded finery that her gentle fingers had 
 fashioned in the old days of his wandering, happy life. 
 
 Sometimes he would make the puppets talk to amuse the 
 children, and they were never so delighted as when Mr. 
 Punch squeaked and took his stick and belaboured the 
 beadle. Then the play-room rang with their innocent 
 laughter. 
 
 But there was one part of the drama which the old show- 
 man never acted : Punch never struck his wife. There was 
 no fun in that to him now. It was a grim and awful tragedy 
 — the tragedy of his own life. 
 
 When the children had played till they were tired, their 
 father packed the dolls carefully away in the big box, and 
 took it back to his room, where it was always kept. In 
 that room, alone with his sorrow, he would sit for hours 
 and gaze on these relics of the past — gaze on the faded, 
 tattered dummies, and see her face bending over her task, 
 and her deft, nimble little fingers at work upon the puppets' 
 wardrobe. 
 
 As soon as he had put the box in its accustomed place 
 he returned to the play-room, and then it was time for bed. 
 Nurse would be in directly. 
 
 ' Will you hear us say our prayers to-night, daddy?' asked 
 the little girl. 
 
 The father bowed his head in assent. 
 
 Then the children knelt together at his knees, their little 
 hands clasped, and repeated their simple prayer, asking 
 God to bless them and their dear papa, and to watch over 
 them through the night, and to make them good. 
 
 The tears trickled down the father's face as he listened. 
 
 His lips moved with theirs. He repeated the simple 
 words after them softly and reverently. 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 65 
 
 When they prayed for him, he stopped them -with a 
 touch. 
 
 ' Pray for your mother, too,' he said ; ' ask God, my 
 darlings, every night, that you may meet her again.' 
 
 The nurse came in as the children finished their prayers. 
 
 Their father rose, kissed them lovingly, and bade them 
 good-night. 
 
 With a strange new feeling of hope in his heart he went 
 to his room, flung himself upon his knees, and uttered a 
 passionate prayer to Heaven — a prayer that his children 
 might yet know a mother's love, that he might take his 
 poor lost Jennie to his heart again, and that, all the black 
 past forgotten and forgiven, they might lead a newer and 
 happier life together. 
 
 Then he took his hat and went out. Half an hour later 
 he was sitting in Mrs. Tredennick's cosy little sitting-room 
 at Kilburn. 
 
 It was the first visit he had paid them, and a supper was 
 prepared in his honour. 
 
 And after supper he sat in the big armchair and smoked 
 his pipe, and listened with rapt interest to the wonderful 
 Fijian stories of the missionary's widow. Then Marion and 
 Malcolm Grant told him of their life dreams, and a new 
 idea — the idea of the happiness of helping others — entered 
 into John Merryweather's heart and took possession of it. 
 
 This was a field still open to him — a field in which his 
 wealth could be so nobly used. On his way home he thought 
 of nothing else. All the night long he lay and thought, and 
 tried to make the vague schemes that floated in his brain 
 assume a definite shape. 
 
 And the next morning, when Marion arrived to give 
 Punch and Judy their daily lessons, John Merryweather's 
 plan was clear and definite, and he was eager to put it into 
 execution. 
 
 6 
 
66 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE MISSION HALL. 
 
 In one of the poorest suburbs of London there stands a 
 brand-new Mission Hall. Adjoining it and forming part of 
 it is a modest little house, the residence of the missionary 
 and his wife. 
 
 You have met them both before. The missionary is the 
 Eev. Malcolm Grant, and his wife's Christian name is Marion. 
 They have abandoned Fiji, and have settled down here to 
 win heathen souls at home. 
 
 This was John Merry weather's plan. 
 
 'I don't know much about them cannybuls,' he said, 
 when he was full of his new idea, to the Tredennicks ; ' but 
 I dare say what Mrs. Tredennick says is all true, and it's 
 very awful ; but I do know something about the cannybuls 
 of London. There ain't nothing you've told us of, ma'am, 
 in them islands all those thousands of miles away as can't 
 be beaten any day in places I can tell you of within a 
 cab ride of where we now are. There's work to be done 
 there, and no mistake, and perils and adventures enough to 
 satisfy a boy-pirut. I don't want Miss Marion to go to Fiji, 
 because I want her for my young 'uns ; but if she and Mr. 
 Grant will be missionaries to a place I know of in London, 
 why, I'll find the money, furnish a home for 'em, and give 
 'em an income that they'll be able to live comfortable on.' 
 
 The young people hesitated at first, but Malcolm made 
 inquiries and found out what a glorious field there was for 
 missionary enterprise in the district Mr. Merryweather 
 named, and so at last it was settled that he and Marion 
 should be married and accept the ex-showman's offer. Mrs. 
 Tredennick was to live with them, and Marion was to con- 
 tinue her morning lessons to Punc and Judy. 
 
P VNCH AND JUD Y. 67 
 
 As soon as it was agreed upon, John Merryweather ex- 
 claimed joyfully, ' That's a bargain,' and within six months 
 the Mission Hall was built, and Marion and her husband 
 and her mother were established in the snugly-furnished, 
 comfortable little house next door. 
 
 John Merryweather flung himself heart and soul into the 
 work. It was his atonement. He found in it a comfort 
 and a solace for the great sorrow of his life. It seemed to 
 him that he was purging his soul from the sin that lay so 
 heavily upon it. The wealth that had come to him was 
 Dead Sea fruit no longer. 
 
 With the funds Mr. Merryweather placed at their disposal 
 the young missionary and his wife were able to do much, 
 but their own enthusiasm and courage enabled them to do 
 still more. 
 
 Night after night, as they sat at the little supper-table, 
 they were able to tell the old lady of work among the 
 ' heathen,' which put even her Fijian experiences into the 
 shade. 
 
 They were carrying something into the heart of a savage 
 district besides the Gospel — they were carrying civilization. 
 Marion, in her gentle, unassuming way, was preaching in 
 the slums and alleys and rookeries the gospel of that which 
 is next to godliness — the gospel of cleanliness. It was a 
 typical district that John Merryweather had selected for his 
 experience — a district largely inhabited by the poor earning 
 precarious livelihoods, and by the criminal classes. It was 
 a district that had not yet been marked out for demolition 
 by philanthropists in search of ten per cent, for their money, 
 and so it was crowded and gorged with immigrants from 
 the demolished areas. 
 
 At first Malcolm and his wife were disheartened. They 
 were shocked and horrified at the awful scenes they had to 
 witness daily, at the foul language which fell naturally from 
 
 5—2 
 
68 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 the lips of little children, at the utter ' savageness ' of the 
 wild tribes who defied law and order, and who lived per- 
 petually at war with society and with one another. But 
 gradually the vastness of the work to be accomplished 
 fascinated them ; the dangers which beset their path on 
 every hand gave the zest of adventure to their task ; the 
 overwhelming odds against their success made them the 
 more eager for conquest. 
 
 Slowly but surely they gained ground ; they had to fight 
 every inch of it, but in a few months the Mission Hall was 
 fairly attended, and Marion and her husband were received 
 in the courts and alleys, if not always with courtesy, at 
 least without any hostile demonstration. 
 
 Eeports of Marion's kindness to sick women, of her 
 valuable hints on domestic affairs, of her skill in attending 
 to little accidents, of her peacemaking between husband 
 and wife, of the hundred small services which, as a cultured 
 and clever woman, she was able to render her less fortunate 
 brothers and sisters, began to circulate. 
 
 In one home she had written a letter from a mother to 
 her son, who was a soldier, and the assistance asked for had 
 come back; in another she had stayed a whole Saturday 
 evening nursing a sick baby while its mother went out with 
 her husband, a hawker, and helped him to sell his goods. 
 A costermonger, nearly mad with toothache, bad been re- 
 lieved as if by magic with something she had given him 
 in a bottle. On behalf of a poor widow summoned by the 
 School Board officers, she had attended the police-court and 
 ' spoken up like a lawyer,' and saved the woman from being 
 fined. 
 
 Stories of deeds like these, deeds of patient Christianity, 
 circulated in the public-houses and at the gossiping corners, 
 and very soon Marion became a welcome visitor, and was 
 looked upon as a great acquisition to the neighbourhood. 
 
P UNCH AND JUD Y. 69 
 
 She and her husband were not like ' them folks with the 
 tractses,' as a lady of the neighbourhood remarked; they 
 were practisers as well as preachers — good Samaritans, 
 instead of Levites. 
 
 And many a quiet little deed of charity was done with 
 John Merryweather's money. Many a little home was 
 saved, many an evil hour tided over, by a judicious loan. 
 No true and honest tale was ever brought to the ears of the 
 missionary and his wife but it was laid before Mr. Merry- 
 weather, and practical assistance was given. There was no 
 pauperizing, no dole, no degrading charity. It was only 
 timely help that was given, and in nine cases out of ten 
 when money was lent it was repaid at the first opportunity. 
 
 Of course, at first Marion was victimized. The canters 
 and the whiners came about her and pitched their doleful 
 tales, and worked upon her pity. Money was given that 
 did no good, clothes were given that were pawned, and the 
 proceeds spent in drink; but the experience gained was 
 valuable, and very little of it was needed. 
 
 John Merryweather was a constant visitor to the Mission 
 Hall. Now and then he accompanied Mr. Grant and 
 Marion on their rounds. He was deeply interested in all 
 he saw. His outbursts of honest indignation at the wrongs 
 of the poor were sometimes so terrific that Mr. Grant felt 
 alarmed. 
 
 The children, on certain great occasions, came to the 
 Mission Hall. When there was a tea-party to the poor 
 children, Punch and Judy helped to hand round the cake, 
 and at Christmas it was arranged that they were to give 
 a Christmas-tree. 
 
 Such a thing had never been heard of in the neighbour- 
 hood, except by' the little ones who had been in the 
 Children's Hospital, and their descriptions were so glowing 
 that towards Christmas-time several little boys and girls 
 
70 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 tried to get accidentally injured without hurting themselves 
 much so that they might participate in the great hospital 
 treat. 
 
 But now there was going to be a real Christmas-tree up 
 at the Mission Hall, and the boys and girls needn't be 
 injured to share in the treasures of its laden branches. 
 
 Punch and Judy had been about with Marion among her 
 poor people already. Their father wished them to see some 
 of the misery of the great city. 'It'll do 'em good,' he 
 said ; ' it'll teach 'em to be thankful, and to prize the bless- 
 ings they've got, and to make good use of the money that'll 
 be theirs when they grow up.' 
 
 The night before ' the grand distribution of prizes ' from 
 the Christmas-tree the ex-showman and his children were 
 at the Mission Hall. Punch and Judy were in the seventh 
 heaven of delight. They were helping to decorate the tree, 
 which stood on a raised platform in the centre of the great 
 hall. 
 
 Mr. Grant and old Mrs. Tredennick were in the hall with 
 them — they were putting the finishing touches to the tree. 
 Presently the candles in the branches were to be lighted, to 
 try the effect. 
 
 Marion and Mr. Merryweather Were alone in the little 
 parlour of the adjoining Mission House, which was con- 
 nected by a narrow passage with the Hall itself. 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Merryweather, with a cheery smile, 
 ' you ain't hankering after Fiji now, are you?' 
 
 ' Oh no I' answered Marion ; ' I know now how great the 
 work is that lies waiting for willing hands at our own 
 doors.' 
 
 ' That's right, my dear. I listened to your mother's 
 stories of them heathens and cannybuls, and wonderful 
 they were ; but I knew something of what there was in 
 London, and I said to myself, I think I can show them 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 71 
 
 young people something nearer home as'll give them all the 
 perils and adventures and conquests as they're so anxious 
 for.' 
 
 ' And you did, Mr. Merryweather ; you have done a noble 
 work.' 
 
 ' Oh no, I haven't ; you and your husband's done the 
 noble work. You don't get your names in the papers like 
 the cannybul missionaries, and you can't collect tommy- 
 hawks and sharks' teeth and war-clubs, and you don't have 
 books written about your travels, and thousands of pounds 
 subscribed for you at mission meetings ; but you're civilizing 
 heathens and reclaiming savages as wanted it quite as badly 
 as them furriners— and you'll have your reward.' 
 
 ' We have it now,' answered Marion, her eyes filling with 
 tears. ' We have it in the gratitude of the people, in 
 this * 
 
 There was a cry of 'Daddy, daddy — governess, do 
 come I' from the Mission Hall. 
 
 Marion and Mr. Merryweather obeyed the summons. 
 
 The great Christmas-tree was lighted up ; Punch and 
 Judy stood before it, gazing at it in ecstasies of delight. 
 
 ' Oh, isn't it lovely, daddy ?' cried Judy. ' Won't the 
 children be pleased with it ?' 
 
 ' Indeed they will,' replied Marion. ' They have never 
 seen anything like it before.' 
 
 Then they began to discuss the programme. The children 
 were to sing, and there were to be little speeches, and Marion 
 was to play the piano. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Merryweather exclaimed, ' By Jove I' and 
 everybody looked at him. 
 
 ' What's the matter?' said Mr. Grant. 
 
 ' I've an idea. I — I — what do you say to a Punch and 
 Judy show for the young 'uns as part of the entertainment ?' 
 
 ' Oh, it would be capital 1' answered Marion. 
 
72 PUNCH AND JUD V. 
 
 ' Would it ? Then that's a bargain. We'll have one.' 
 
 ' Will you engage it ?' asked Marion. ' I don't know 
 where to get one.' 
 
 ' Leave it to me. It shall be here. We'll have it after 
 the Christmas-tree, to wind up with, eh ? I'll get a man to 
 help me.' 
 
 ' To help you !' exclaimed the old lady. 
 
 ' Yes — for this occasion only— the performance will con- 
 clude with Merryweather's old original Punch and Judy 
 show, and I'll be the showman.' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW. 
 
 Cheistmas Eve had come. The Mission Hall was crammed 
 with eager little children and a tremendous crowd of 
 mothers. 
 
 They were not all dressed for an evening party. There 
 were young gentlemen who were so oblivious of etiquette 
 as to come without their boots, and there were young 
 ladies whose frocks could not, by the most violent stretch 
 of the imagination, be called pretty. But faces were 
 polished till they shone, and hair was arranged as neatly 
 as it could be, in a district where brushes and combs were 
 not considered as indispensable toilet requisites. 
 
 The distribution of the gifts was a scene of great excite- 
 ment. There was a babel of tongues, a continuous roar of 
 delight ; and the mothers were as noisy as the children. 
 
 Punch and Judy handed the gifts to the children, and 
 were the hero and the heroine of the occasion. It was 
 their tree — their entertainment to their poor little brothers 
 and sisters. The mothers were loud in their admiration, 
 and there was a continual chorus of ' Bless their little 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y. 73 
 
 hearts 1' as ' the little laidy ' and ' the little gen'elman ' 
 moved about among the crowd, and did the honours with 
 perfect self-possession and childlike grace. 
 
 When the distribution was over, and amid a din of 
 tongues the little ones were comparing their gifts and 
 holding them aloft, and shouting for ' mother ' to look, 
 Mr. Grant rose from his chair on the platform, and re- 
 quested their attention for a Punch and Judy show. 
 
 It was a grand surprise. The children had heard nothing 
 of the treat in store, and their enthusiasm broke out in ring- 
 ing cheers, amid which a Punch and Judy show was carried 
 on to the platform, the showman under it, only his leg3 
 showing beneath the baize, and then a man with a big 
 drum and Pandean pipes stepped up by the side of it, and 
 banged and played away, and the audience went nearly 
 mad with delight. 
 
 Then the famous drama commenced. 
 
 Some of the children, who had seen a show like it at the 
 street corners of the West-End, explained to the others 
 that the man hidden under the green baize was working 
 the puppets. 
 
 They were old, worn, and battered puppets — puppets 
 with dirty faded dresses on — but the children were not 
 critical of such details. They gave themselves up heart and 
 soul to the domestic tragedy, and screamed at Mr. Punch's 
 sallies, even imitating his squeak and repeating his lines. 
 It was a splendid audience — there were no sneerers, no 
 carpers, no blas6 sightseers in it. 
 
 The drama proceeded. Mr. Punch whacked the Beadle 
 with his stick so mercilessly that it was a wonder even the 
 wooden head stood it without cracking. The ' whacking ' 
 was what the children liked best. 
 
 One youthful enthusiast, in a moment of silence, yelled 
 aloud to his mother, afar off, ' Oh, mother, ain't it prime ?' 
 
74 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 and then the mothers guffawed all together, and laughed till 
 they had to put the corners of their aprons into their eyes. 
 
 And one fat mother had to be slapped on the back by 
 another mother, and several other mothers put their arms 
 akimbo, and rocked themselves to and fro in such convul- 
 sive ecstasy, that the forms swayed, and threatened to fall 
 over and deposit whole rows of mothers on the floor. 
 
 But there was one mother squeezed up in a, corner, unob- 
 served, who never smiled. 
 
 She was a pale-faced, pretty-looking young mother, of a 
 different stamp from the crowd around her. In her lap sat 
 a little crippled child — a thin, starved-looking, delicate little 
 boy— who could only laugh now and then, because he had 
 to cough so often. 
 
 He looked up in the woman's face once, and said, ' It is 
 funny, isn't it ?' But he saw that the tears were running 
 down her cheeks, and her face was white, and wore a look 
 of pain. 
 
 His childish imagination could suspect only one cause for 
 the woman's distress. 
 
 ' Punch ain't really hurting them,' he said. ' They're 
 wood, you know I' 
 
 The drama had come to an end. Just as the last word 
 was spoken, suddenly above the level of the wooden stage 
 of the show the head of the showman bobbed up. There 
 was a shriek of astonishment from the children, and then a 
 roar of laughter. It was a capital joke, and they appre- 
 ciated it. But amid the laughter there rang out a piercing 
 shriek, and every head was instantly turned towards the 
 corner whence it came. 
 
 The pale-faced woman nursing the little crippled boy had 
 fallen into a swoon. 
 
 The eyes of the Punch and Judy showman and the eyes 
 of the pale-faced woman had met. 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y, 75 
 
 There was a wild cry from under the baize, the show was 
 flung fiercely on one side, and from it the showman leapt. 
 
 He sprang from the platform, then pushed the terrified 
 children on one side — roughly, brutally, in his feverish 
 haste. He dashed through the open-mouthed, staring 
 mothers, and, taking the swooning woman in his arms, 
 raised her up and cried : 
 
 ' Jennie, my lass — Jennie 1 Thank God, thank God 1' 
 
 John Merry weather had found his wife 1 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 JENNIE. 
 
 Punch and Judy had risen betimes on Christmas morning. 
 They had been awake since daybreak, although it was quite 
 late when they had gone to bed on the previous night. Mr. 
 Grant had brought them home from the Mission Hall, when 
 the meeting had broken up in confusion, after the extra- 
 ordinary behaviour of the Punch and Judy showman. 
 
 The children had seen little of the occurrence. Marion, 
 suspecting what had happened at Mr. Merryweather's first 
 exclamation, had drawn the children hurriedly into an inner 
 room. They knew that their papa had seen someone he 
 knew, and had been strangely excited, but they had almost 
 forgotten about it in the delight of waking up and looking 
 in their stockings, hung out on the bed, to see what Santa 
 Claus had sent them. 
 
 To their intense disappointment, the stockings were 
 empty. Santa Claus had, in the meanest manner pos- 
 sible, passed them over. 
 
 ' Perhaps the presents were too big to put in our stock- 
 ings,' said Judy to her disconsolate brother, ' and Santa 
 Claus will bring them presently.' 
 
76 PUNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 The children went to their breakfast in the nursery as 
 usual, but their papa did not come up to see them. 
 
 They couldn't understand it. 
 
 They went downstairs to his bedroom-door and knocked. 
 
 ' What is it ?' said their papa's voice. 
 
 ' A merry Christmas to you, daddy, and a happy new 
 year !' cried the children together. 
 
 Mr. Merryweather opened the door and came out. ' The 
 same to you, my darlings,' he said, stooping and kissing 
 the children. ' Ah, we shall have a merrier Christmas and 
 a happier New Year than we've had for many a long day.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of that, daddy !' exclaimed Punch ; ' but Santa 
 Claus hasn't been yet. There was nothing in our stockings.' 
 
 John Merryweather's face fell. He had forgotten all 
 about the nice things he had intended to surprise his 
 children with. His head had been full of something else 
 when he came home in the small hours of the morning. 
 
 ' Never mind, my darlings I' he said. ' Santy Claus ain't 
 forgotten you.' 
 
 ' It was too big to put in our stockings, wasn't it, daddy ?' 
 said Punch. 
 
 ' Much too big, but it'll come presently.' 
 
 The children sat with their father while he had his break- 
 fast, and Judy read him what was under the beautiful 
 picture in the Christmas number of the Illustrated London 
 News, and Punch showed him a lovely book full of stories 
 and pictures that was a Christmas present from Marion. 
 
 They were to have gone to church with daddy that 
 morning, but the arrangements were altered, much to their 
 disappointment. They were to go with nurse ; daddy was 
 going out ' on business,' he said. 
 
 'But, daddy, business is wicked on Christmas Day,' 
 urged Judy, with some vague idea that Christmas Day was 
 a kind of Sunday. 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y. 77 
 
 ' The business I'm going on ain't wicked, my pet,' 
 answered the ex-showman, with a smile. ' I'm a-going 
 to fetch what was too big for Santy Claus to put in your 
 stockings.' 
 
 ' Is it so big it will have to be brought in a cab ?' asked 
 Punch. 
 
 ' Yes, I shall bring it in a cab. Now, run along, and 
 don't ask me any more.' 
 
 The children went to church with their nurse, but I'm 
 afraid they were thinking all the time a good deal more 
 about what Santa Claus was going to bring them in a cab 
 than about the service. 
 
 John Merryweather jumped into a hansom outside the 
 house, and went straight to the Mission Hall. There he 
 found waiting for him the something that he was going to 
 bring back for Punch and Judy. 
 
 Does the reader want to know what it was ? Hardly ! 
 But the most intelligent reader cannot know what the good 
 gift of Santa Claus to Punch and Judy had told John 
 Merryweather after the strange meeting on Christmas Eve 
 in the East-End Mission Hall. 
 
 It was a short story, told in a few words, but no Christ- 
 mas story that has been written yet has brought more true 
 happiness to the heart of man than did the Christmas story 
 he heard then bring to the heart of John Merryweather. 
 
 After their terrible quarrel — with the words of her hus- 
 band's awful threat ringing in her ears — Jennie had gone 
 straight to where her babies were. She had given the 
 woman who had charge of them the little money that she 
 had. The poor girl was convinced that her husband would 
 keep his threat. She believed that he was going utterly to 
 the bad, and that drink had done its work and transformed 
 him into a scoundrel. She would have clung to him, and 
 been his true and aithful, hardworking little wife, in spite 
 
78 . PUNCH AND JUDY. 
 
 of all ; but her very love for him bade her leave him for 
 ever. She did not dread his violence for her own sake — she 
 was haunted by the horror that he would maim or kill her, 
 and that the law would lay its hand upon him and make 
 him pay the penalty ; that her children might be a mur- 
 derer's children; that the man she loved might meet a 
 felon's doom. 
 
 It was hopeless for her to try and explain, or to try and 
 turn his wrath away. The l.tter she had received was 
 damning proof against her. 
 
 It was a love-letter. It was a letter asking her to leave 
 her husband and live with her former lover, a letter pro- 
 mising that he would be a loving husband to her — a father 
 to her children. 
 
 She had intended to answer it. She had put it away to 
 do so. She would have told the man that he had outraged 
 and insulted her. But her husband had found the letter, 
 and the mischief was done. 
 
 The man heard her story and found her out, offered to 
 go to her husband, and take all the blame on himself and 
 prove her innocence. 
 
 But she begged and prayed of him not to go — she feared 
 that in his mad passion her husband might kill the man he 
 believed to be her lover. She made him give his oath 
 that he would never seek her husband, or endeavour in any 
 way to communicate with him. 
 
 The man promised, and they parted. She made her way 
 to London to seek for employment ; he accepted an offer to 
 go to the colonies and take charge of a factory just started 
 there. And so he passed out of her life, and she heard of 
 him no more. 
 
 Up in London she struggled bravely to keep herself, and 
 to put by a little towards the children's keep should their 
 father desert them. But after a time she heard that their 
 
PUNCH AND JUD Y. 79 
 
 father was paying regularly, and then one terror was lifted 
 from her heart. 
 
 It was well that it was so, for her health gave way, and 
 she was hardly able to do enough needlework to pay the 
 rent of her one room, and obtain sufficient food to give her 
 strength to toil. 
 
 In the house where she lived was a poor woman, the wife 
 of a man who spent the greater part of his life in gaol. 
 This woman had a little crippled child— a boy. The child 
 would creep into Jennie's room when she was at work, and 
 at last grew to be a companion to her. Her woman's heart 
 yearned for something to love and caress, and in this little 
 one she petted and fondled her own children, who were far 
 away. 
 
 She starved herself for weeks to save enough money to 
 go down and see them once a year — furtively, cautiously — 
 without making herself known. She dreaded meeting her 
 husband. She was terrified lest he might be put upon her 
 track and keep that fearful oath. 
 
 She saw her children happy and playing in the little 
 meadow outside the cottage door. Once she took them in 
 her arms and kissed them, and they went home and told 
 the woman who took care of them that a strange lady had 
 kissed them and cried over them. 
 
 One year when she came they were gone ; the woman 
 herself had moved, and gone to a town some distance off, 
 her neighbours said — where, they did not know. 
 
 Heavy-hearted Jennie returned to the London slums, 
 wondering if she should ever see her children again. 
 
 Then she grew to love the little cripple more and more. 
 But it was the love for her own children that she lavished 
 on him. 
 
 One day the felon's wife fell ill and could work no more. 
 
 Then Jennie took them into her one room, nursed tha 
 
80 P UNCH A ND J UD Y. 
 
 sick woman, took care of the child, and starved herself to 
 share her scanty earnings with them. 
 
 Starving in one room, working her fingers to the bone, 
 she took on herself this fresh responsibility. It was a 
 shameful extravagance on her part ; but it met with its 
 reward. 
 
 For the little cripple's sake she went to the great Christ- 
 mas-tree distribution at the Mission Hall. There she saw 
 the Punch and Judy show, and there, after long years, she 
 met the husband she thought never to see again. 
 
 She had not recognised the children. Jammed into her 
 corner while they moved about the crowded hall, she had 
 not seen their features. How could she guess that the 
 little lady and gentleman who were giving their grand enter- 
 tainment were the little ones she had last seen years ago in 
 the cottage garden far away ? 
 
 She had told her story to her husband alone in the parlour 
 of the Mission House. No one had witnessed that strange 
 interview ; all had been explained ; all forgiven, and all for- 
 gotten. They had parted then — Jennie to return to her 
 room with her little crippled charge, and to tend her invalid 
 guest, and John to go home and prepare his household for 
 the reception of a new mistress on the morrow — the wife 
 who had been away ' somewhere,' and who was to return 
 and take her rightful place once more. 
 
 CHAPTBE VIII. 
 
 THE GIFT OP SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 A Christmas party was gathered together in the dining- 
 room of the house in the St. John's Wood Eoad. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grant were there, and old Mrs. Tredennick 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 8 1 
 
 in a wonderful new cap, and Punch and Judy and Mr. 
 Merryweather. 
 
 The children were on the tiptoe of expectation. While 
 they were upstairs a cab had driven up to the door and they 
 had heard their father's voice in the hall, but when they 
 looked out of the window they were too late to see what he 
 had brought with him. 
 
 Now they were all in the dining-room together. Dinner 
 was nearly ready. The roast beef and the turkey would be 
 on the table in a minute, and still Santa Claus had made 
 no sign. 
 
 ' Daddy,' said Judy, going up to him, putting her hands 
 on his knee, and looking up into his face. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear.' 
 
 ' When shall we see what Santa Claus has brought ?' 
 
 ' In a minube, my dear. It'll come into the room all by 
 itself directly.' 
 
 ' Oh, daddy, is it something alive, then ?' 
 
 ' Yes. Come here, Punch.' 
 
 Punch came and stood by his sister. 
 
 ' I've told you, my darlings, haven't I, that some day your 
 mamma, that you don't recollect, would come back again ?' 
 
 ' Yes, papa.' 
 
 ' Well, she's come. Santy Claus has brought her.' 
 
 Before the children could speak the door opened. Pale 
 and trembling, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, a woman 
 came slowly into the room. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. 
 
 She tottered as though she would have fallen. 
 
 Marion ran towards her. 
 
 John Merryweather held out his hand and took Jennie's, 
 and led her to where the children stood, their eyes open 
 wide with astonishment. 
 
 ' Punch — Judy — this is your dear mamma.' 
 
 6 
 
82 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 Jennie gave a great sob, and then clasped her children in 
 her arms, while her tears rained down upon their upturned 
 faces. 
 
 John Merryweather blew his nose violently, and then 
 broke down and cried like a baby. The Rev. Mr. Grant 
 went to the window, and for the first time in his life was 
 guilty of cruelty to a fly on a window-pane. 
 
 Marion clasped her mother's hand, and they sobbed 
 together, and cried and smiled one against the other. 
 
 'Ye dinna recollect me, my bairns?' cried Jennie, the 
 long-forgotten accent coming back to her lips in the supreme 
 joy of a moment that effaced years of sorrow and pain. ' Ye 
 dinna recollect me, my bonny bairns ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, we do 1' cried Judy. ' You are the pretty lady 
 that kissed us, and cried over us, oh 1 ever so long ago. 
 Why didn't you tell us you were our mamma then ?' 
 
 There was joy that Christmas Day in a barely furnished 
 room in one of the great tenement houses of the East-End. 
 A poor mother, nursed back almost to health by the loving 
 hands of a sister sufferer, found that Santa Claus had not 
 forgotten her or her little crippled son. They sat down 
 together to such a feast as they had never heard, or read, or 
 dreamed about. And the boy's eyes were riveted in admira- 
 tion on some beautiful toys that had come to him like reve- 
 lations of an unknown world of wonders. 
 
 Jennie had not forgotten her humble friends in her own 
 happiness and good fortune. John Merryweather had taken 
 his wife away, but he had left behind him comforts and gifts 
 that would make that Christmas Day for ever memorable 
 in the lives of the mother and her boy. And they knew 
 before Jennie left that they were not to lose a good friend. 
 They had merely found another. 
 
 And there was joy that Christmas Day in John Merry- 
 weather's grander home. As he looked across the cosy 
 
P UNCH AND JUDY. 83 
 
 room, his weather-beaten face beaming with delight, and 
 saw his Jennie with her children by her side, and thought 
 of the happy life that lay before them, his lips murmured, 
 in rough, untutored language, a heartfelt cry to Heaven to 
 make him worthy of God's great mercy shown to him on 
 that day. 
 
 When the Grants were in the hall waiting for the cab that 
 was to take them home, Mr. Merryweather gripped Marion's 
 hand and whispered : 
 
 ' You couldn't ha' done better in Fiji, my dear, could 
 you?' 
 
 And Marion confessed that she could not. 
 ' Ah 1' he exclaimed, ' it was a blessed day that brought 
 you and me together. But for you there'd have been no 
 Mission Hall ; but for the Mission Hall there'd have been 
 no Christmas-tree ; and but for that Christmas-tree Jennie 
 and I might never have met again. Now, if you had gone 
 
 to Fiji ' 
 
 Old Mrs. Tredennick had overheard the conversation. 
 ' Don't be too hard on Fiji,' she said with a smile. ' It 
 was talking about Fiji that put it into your head to send 
 Marion and her husband among your heathen.' 
 
 ' Eight you are,' answered John Merryweather good- 
 hum our edly. ' Three cheers for Fiji !' 
 
 The cab drove away with Marion and her husband and 
 Mrs. Tredennick, and then John Merryweather and his wife 
 and his children finished the happy evening together. 
 
 ' Daddy,' said Judy, ' please may we have the dolls ? I 
 should like mamma to see them.' 
 
 The old showman went to his room and brought down the 
 puppets. 
 
 Jennie looked at them, and as she noticed the ragged, 
 faded dresses she lifted her eyes and met her husband's 
 loving gaze. 
 
84 P UNCH AND JUD Y. 
 
 ' Just as they were when you saw them for the last time, 
 my lass,' he whispered. ' They've been sacred to me through 
 all the years of sorrow and pain since we parted.' 
 
 ' They want new frocks, don't they, mamma ?' said Judy. 
 
 ' Nay,' answered her father. ' As they are now, so they 
 shall be kept as long as we live. Some day when you are 
 older, my darlings, you shall know why these ragged puppets 
 are kept and treasured as they are.' 
 
 Before the childen went to bed the little girl put a ques- 
 tion to her mother which she had been longing to ask. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she said, ' did Santa Claus bring you back 
 to us ?' 
 
 John Merryweather answered for his wife. 
 
 ' No, my pet, it wasn't Santy Claus — it was Punch and 
 Judy, God bless 'em !' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma !' exclaimed the boy, ' when I said " God 
 bless Punch and Judy I" one night in my prayers, nurse said 
 it was wicked. Was it ?' 
 
 ' Nay,' answered the mother, her pale face flushing with 
 joy and pride in her new-found happiness, ' it couldna ha' 
 been wicked, for didna God bless them to bring us all 
 together again ?' 
 
 That night the children repeated their prayers at their 
 new-found mother's knee, and when they said ' God bless 
 Punch and Judy 1' John Merryweather uttered a deep 
 ' Amen.' 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 OLD CHUMS. 
 
 Make Kintbea stood with his hands in his pockets looking 
 out of the first-floor window of a house in Great Eussell 
 Street. "What he was looking at it would have puzzled him 
 to say, for there was nothing within the range of his vision 
 but the dim outline of the opposite houses. A heavy 
 November fog had settled down on London since the early 
 morning, and the few gas-burners lighted here and there 
 only made the yellow mist appear yellower and mistier. 
 The vicinity of Great Eussell Street is inhabited by all sorts 
 and conditions of people, and is much affected by the 
 large class whose members are vaguely termed ' pro- 
 fessionals.' Actors and actresses, authors and authoresses, 
 barristers and journalises, men about town and business 
 men, learned professors and students who frequent the 
 British Museum, bachelors and families, old ladies who go 
 to the Bank of England in four-wheel cabs on dividend 
 days, and young ladies who go goodness knows where in 
 hansoms almost every day — all these are to be found among 
 the ladies and gentlemen who inhabit the private houses 
 and the rooms over the shops in Great Eussell Street. It 
 was eleven o'clock on the morning of the 5th of November 
 
86 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 that Mark Kintrea looked out and saw nothing in Great 
 Eussell Street but the yellow fog. 
 
 After surveying the dispiriting scene for a few minutes, 
 he turned sharply away, walked across the room, picked up 
 the poker, and began hammering with all his might at the 
 folding-doors which shut off an inner room. 
 
 ' Eh ! — wh — what's the matter ?' cried a man's voice 
 within. 
 
 'What's the matter?' said Mark. 'Why, it's eleven 
 o'clock I I've had my breakfast, I've read the paper, and 
 there's nothing for me to do this beastly foggy, miserable 
 morning but to commit suicide, unless you get up and talk 
 to me.' 
 
 ' All right, old chap, I'll get up ; only I didn't get home 
 from the club till five, and I'm as sleepy as an owl. Never 
 mind — here goes.' 
 
 There was a yawn, some creaking, the sound as of an 
 elephant playing hopscotch, then the noise of a hippo- 
 potamus taking its bath, a grunting and a growling, and 
 Mark Kintrea knew that his friend Tom Darley was getting 
 up. 
 
 Tom Darley stood six feet one without his boots, was four- 
 and-thirty, broad of shoulder, and as sound as a bell. He 
 had been a champion cricketer, a champion oarsman, and a 
 champion boxer, had Tom, but he had left off athletics five 
 years ago, intending to settle down to his profession of a 
 barrister. But Tom soon flung his wig and gown into a 
 corner of his chambers, and drifted into Bohemianism. He 
 had a small private income, and he added to it by journalism 
 of a Bohemian kind. A big-hearted, big-handed, easy-going 
 man about town, always going to do something great, and 
 never quite accomplishing it ; never so happy as when he 
 could induce a ' pal ' to come and share his comfortable 
 apartments in Great Eussell Street ; never so miserable as 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 87 
 
 when he had to stop away from the clubs and the good 
 fellows, and cudgel his brains for ideas in the loneliness of 
 his sitting-room. 
 
 Tom and Mark Kintrea were old college chums, but they 
 had drifted apart. Mark had fallen in love with a pretty 
 English girl, whom he first saw at a cafe chantant abroad, 
 and had married her, and his friends had heard no more of 
 him except that he was living very quietly with his young 
 wife at the lonely but romantic old house in Derbyshire 
 which had come to him with the rest of the family property. 
 Mark at his father's death had inherited a fortune, so that 
 when he married the pretty music-hall singer everybody 
 said that he had made a fool of himself. 
 
 For many months no rumour concerning the Kintreas, 
 save that they were happy and comfortable, and received no 
 company, reached the clubs. Then a whisper or two ran 
 round among the men who had been Mark's intimate friends 
 when he was • about town,' and at last the whispers took a 
 tangible shape, and it was known that Mrs. Kintrea had 
 run away from her husband with another man, and gossip 
 had it that this man was a low fellow who had known her 
 in her days of poverty and struggle. 
 
 For six years after that no one saw Mark Kintrea. He 
 went to America, Australia, India; he travelled here and 
 there, flying from the ever-pursuing thought of the faithless 
 woman who had won his heart only to break it. Forget her 
 he never did ; she haunted him night and day ; he carried 
 her face with him to the uttermost end of the earth — on the 
 lonely prairie, in the crowded city, on the sea and on the 
 dry land : it mattered not where he was, there the woman 
 came and stood between him and the waters of forgetfulness, 
 of which he sought in vain to drink. 
 
 ' I shall forget her only when I forget all else,' he said to 
 himself. ' The last word upon my lips will be her name — 
 
88 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 the last thought that stirs my failing pulse will be the re- 
 membrance of my poor lost Hetty. I shall do no good by 
 wandering about the world a self-made Ishmael. I'll go 
 back to the men who knew me — to the old haunts — ay, to 
 the old vices. I'll live as men do live who've found how 
 false and worthless all that seems best and brightest in this 
 world really is. ' 
 
 So Mark Kintrea returned to his native land after six 
 years of exile, and, knocking about London, came across 
 his old friend Tom Darley, and was persuaded by that good- 
 natured giant to come and be his guest, and they'd smoke 
 pipes together, and have sprees and be jolly companions, 
 and that would help Mark to get out of the desponding, 
 cynical state in which, as an old friend, Tom was so dis- 
 tressed to see him. 
 
 When this narrative commences, Mark Kintrea and Tom 
 Darley had been living together in Great Eussell Street for 
 three weeks. 
 
 On this especial morning Mark had succeeded, by bring- 
 ing the poker to bear on the door, and on the argument, in 
 rousing his friend a little earlier than usual, and when Tom, 
 looking just a little sleepy still, emerged from his bedroom, 
 he declared, with a yawn, that he was afraid this early 
 rising would injure his health. 
 
 While Tom enjoyed the eggs and ham and buttered toast, 
 and slaked his thirst with copious draughts of coffee, reading 
 the newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot at the same 
 time, Mark went back to the window and stared out into 
 the street again. 
 
 The fog had lifted a little by this time, and the few people 
 in the street, who had before appeared like ghosts moving 
 about in an ingeniously-arranged theatrical mist, now took 
 more palpable shape and form, and their features were 
 plainly discernible. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 89 
 
 'What's that shouting at the top of the street?' said 
 Tom, suddenly looking up from his paper. 
 
 ' Looks like a lot of boys with something in a chair,' 
 answered Mark. 
 
 Tom looked at the top of the newspaper. 
 
 ' Why, it's the 5th of November !' he exclaimed. ' Dash 
 it ! I've got a bill for £50 due to-day, and I'd forgotten 
 all about it.' 
 
 CHAPTBE II. 
 
 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 The 5th of November ! Mark Kintrea shuddered. He, 
 too, had forgotten the date. One day was as another to 
 him now, and yet he had never forgotten this one before in 
 all the six years that had passed since the great trouble of 
 his life crushed the youth and gaiety out of his heart for 
 ever. 
 
 The 5th of November ! He still looked out into the 
 street, but he saw far away beyond the ugly houses into the 
 sweet green country. He saw the quaint old house and 
 grounds that had been a home of love to him for six short 
 months. He saw the dear old place as it was on that 
 November afternoon, when he rode up the broad avenue of 
 Lees, still beautiful in the fading glory of their autumn 
 leaves, and he remembered how, for the first time in their 
 short married life, his young wife greeted him on his return 
 without a kiss and without a loving word. She pleaded 
 that she was not well ; and that evening he dined alone, 
 and Hetty kept her room. And after dinner she seemed so 
 strange and ill that he grew alarmed, and had his horse 
 saddled and rode off five miles to the market town for a 
 doctor. He remembered the bonfire on the green, and he 
 
go THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 remembered how his horse shied and nearly threw him in 
 the one long narrow, street of the village, terrified at a squib 
 that a mischievous lad threw down as he passed. If he 
 had only been thrown and killed then — killed on the spot — 
 he would never have known that which had made his life a 
 living death ever since ; he would never have ridden back to 
 find his wife gone — gone, leaving a hastily-scrawled, cruel 
 message behind her ; cruel, for by its vagueness it added to 
 
 the torture of his doubts. ' Forgive me — forget me. I ' 
 
 There the letter stopped, as if the writer had been suddenly 
 interrupted — as if there had been no time for her to write 
 more if she wished to escape from the house unobserved. 
 No one had seen her go. On his return Mark found the 
 room empty, the sick wife gone, and this strange, half- 
 finished note lying on the little table in the window. 
 
 What he said, what he did, he could hardly remember 
 now. It seemed like a hideous nightmare at first. When 
 he awoke from it and gradually realized what had happened 
 he ordered the place to be searched. He thought she might 
 be wandering about somewhere in the neighbourhood The 
 wildest theories crossed and recrossed the troubled brain of 
 Mark Kintrea as he thought over the strange flight of the 
 woman he loved. 
 
 Of the search made in the house, two things were the 
 result. The first was the discovery that Mrs. Kintrea's 
 jewellery had disappeared with her, and the safe in Mark's 
 library had been broken open, and a quantity of valuable 
 property — plate and jewellery, old jewellery of his mother's 
 — had been abstracted as well. 
 
 The second discovery was this. Among the ashes in the 
 fireplace in Hetty's room the servant found the half-burnt 
 fragments of a letter which had been torn up. Mark took 
 thsm, and vainly essayed to piece them together and read 
 their secret. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 91 
 
 But he only deciphered from the fragments these words, 
 written in a man's illiterate, sprawling hand, ' to-nite,' « be 
 there,' ' Jim.' 
 
 It was an assignation — a meeting planned and arranged 
 with his wife, then, by this man — and she had kept the ap- 
 pointment. She had robbed her husband and fled with a 
 low lover — his Hetty, the woman in whose purity and faith 
 he had trusted implicitly. He had asked no questions con- 
 cerning her past life. He had loved her, wooed her, and 
 won her, and up to this day had never doubted that her 
 past was aught but a tale of trial and poverty and brave 
 toiling in a profession which is only made disreputable, as 
 any other profession may be, by its black sheep. 
 
 It came home to him, the homely truth, that one does 
 not gather grapes off thistles, when he found that the note 
 torn up had been delivered to his wife by a hulking, savage- 
 looking fellow of the gipsy type on the afternoon that he 
 was absent. It came home to him when it was proved 
 beyond a doubt that this man, with all the tools of a burglar 
 in his possession, had forced the safe and committed the 
 robbery. "What was this man ? His wife's lover, for she 
 hid fled with him. Her paramour in the days before Mark 
 met her — in the dark past of her life, from which he had 
 never sought to lift the veil. 
 
 It was horrible ! Oh, the shame, the bitter shame of it ! 
 He had given his name to, and brought to the old home, 
 hallowed with a hundred memories of his dead, gentle, loving 
 mother, a woman who was the paramour of a thief ! This 
 woman was his wife, and might have borne him children — 
 children with the taint of crime and vice flowing in their 
 veins, to work its way into their lives in obedience to 
 that great natural law which a thousand influences may 
 combat, but none can wholly conquer. 
 
 When the news of the robbery spread, as such news will, 
 
92 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 whether the victim wills it or not, the fussy chief constable 
 
 of came over and saw Mark in the library. He had 
 
 been making inquiries. Mark cursed him for an interfering 
 busybody, but listened to the result of his investigation. 
 ' From information received,' the chief constabl was able 
 to inform Mr. Kintrea that a notorious London burglar, 
 lately out of prison, had been seen in the neighbourhood — 
 one James Morton, alias Flash Jim 1 
 
 ' Flash Jim I' Mark Kintrea shuddered, and involuntarily 
 turned his face away. 
 
 On the night of the burglary Flash Jim and a woman 
 had been seen in a trap, driving towards the nearest town. 
 Inquiries made there showed that a man of this description, 
 carrying a bag and a large portmanteau, had taken two 
 tickets for London and left by the night mail, which was 
 due about a quarter of an hour after they arrived at the 
 station. 
 
 ' And there, sir, for the present my information ends. I 
 want your instructions before I go any further.' 
 
 Mark looked at the fussy little man opposite him for 
 a moment. 
 
 ' I suppose if I tell you,' he said, ' that there has been no 
 burglary at my house, and that I have no property to 
 recover, that will satisfy you ?' 
 
 ' Quite, sir ; we understand each other.' 
 
 They shook hands and parted, and the chief constable 
 muttered to himself as he rode home, ' Poor Mr. Kintrea ! 
 I've heard of a burglar getting his sweetheart into a situa- 
 tion, to open the front door to him when the family was at 
 dinner ; but this is the first time I ever heard of a burglar 
 putting his sweetheart up to marrying a swell to Jo the 
 trick for him.' 
 
 A week after this conversation Mark Kintrea left the 
 scene of his shameful betrayal, and went abroad. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 93 
 
 From that hour he had never sought to fathom the 
 mystery which surrounded his wife's flight with Jim 
 Morton. Only when he is reminded that to-day is the 
 5th of November, the past surges back into his mind, 
 and the terrible drama is enacted again before his straining 
 eyes, for to-day is its anniversary. 
 
 The 5th of November ! Then the little crowd up at the 
 end of the street is round a guy. The crowd breaks up. 
 Some portion of it comes through the thin yellow mist, 
 nearer and nearer. He can hear children's voices chanting 
 in a feeble treble : 
 
 ' 'Member, remember 
 
 Fifth of November, 
 Gunpowder treason and plot. 
 
 See there's no reason 
 
 Gunpowder treason 
 Ever be forgot.' 
 
 Then there is a shrill, thin little chorus of ' Hip, hip, 
 hooray 1' The children come nearer. Poor little mites ! 
 They are the ragged children of the slums; their thin, 
 sharp, starved faces are rudely daubed with black and red, 
 and on to their scanty rags they have pinned jagged pieces 
 of coloured paper. 
 
 As the noise comes nearer and nearer, Tom Darley 
 gets up from the breakfast -table and comes to the 
 window. 
 
 The group is right in front of the house by this time. In 
 the centre of it two dirty little boys hold up a chair in which 
 is seated a tiny, miserable-looking little guy. 
 
 It is a child of five or six at the utmost. Its little legs 
 dangle from the chair as the boys carry it along, and its 
 little hands clutch nervously at the side of the chair when- 
 ever a sudden jolt threatens to bring it to grief. It seems 
 so helpless and so miserable in its rags in the chill November 
 
94 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 air, its blackened face and the dirty paper cap forced 
 down over its head like an extinguisher give it such a gro- 
 tesque and yet such a wobegone appearance, that Tom 
 Darley involuntarily exclaims, ' Poor little thing — what a 
 shame !' 
 
 Mark looks attentively at the child. 
 
 ' Why, she's frightened !' he says. ' Look ! you can see 
 the white lines down her little black face where the 
 
 tears have been running. She's My God I look at 
 
 that !' 
 
 The front boy carrying the little girl-guy in her chair 
 slips on the greasy pavement. For a second he tries to 
 keep his footing ; the chair swings suddenly on one side, 
 and the child is thrown violently on her head on to the 
 sharp kerb. 
 
 The two boys set up a howl. They look aghast for a 
 moment at the little white face covered with blood ; then, 
 perhaps seized with some vague terror as to what the conse- 
 quence of their act may be, they leave the chair and the 
 prostrate guy on the pavement, and run off as fast as their 
 legs can carry them. 
 
 By this time Tom Darley is in the street. He pushes the 
 three or four gaping children who have witnessed the scene 
 aside, and, stooping down, raises the injured little one gently 
 from the ground. 
 
 ' Take her to the 'orsepital,' says a butcher's boy, who 
 has stopped to see what's the matter. 
 
 Tom hesitates for a moment ; then he lifts the senseless 
 little guy, all smothered with mud and blood, in his arms, 
 and carries her up into his room. 
 
 With every step he takes the child groans. 
 
 ' Call the housekeeper up, Mark, and let her see to the 
 child,' he says, as he lays his burden lightly on the sofa. 
 ' I'm off for a doctor ; there's one in Bedford Square.' 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 95 
 
 Mark, left alone, soon has the housekeeper up. Mark 
 holds his handkerchief to the big wound on the child's head 
 to stop the bleeding, while the housekeeper sponges the 
 black and the dirt and the blood from the child's face. 
 
 The paper cap has fallen off in the street, and now there 
 lies on Mark's arm a little head, crowned with golden hair, 
 cruelly cut, and hacked short like a boy's. Gradually the 
 dirt is washed from the features, and reveals one of those 
 sweet girl baby faces that our painters love to paint and 
 paint again, and rechristen from time to time Eed Eiding 
 Hood, Little Miss Muffet, or Goody Two Shoes ; only, alas I 
 the sweet face that gradually looms through its veil of black 
 is white and sad. 
 
 ' Lord, how the poor mite do bleed, sir I' exclaims the 
 housekeeper. ' It 'ud ha' been better to have sent her 
 straight to the 'orsepital.' 
 
 Mark Kintrea says nothing. His eyes are riveted upon 
 the child's face. Now for the first time he can clearly 
 discern her features. The housekeeper had moved on one 
 side, and the light from the window falls full upon the little 
 prostrate form. 
 
 And at that moment Mark Kintrea starts as if he had 
 suddenly seen a ghost. 
 
 Involuntarily a name rises to his lips. 
 
 « Hetty !' 
 
 And as he cries the name aloud, the child's eyes open, as 
 though a familiar sound has reached her ears, and then, 
 with a deep sigh, she relapses into insensibility again. 
 
96 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 ME. VON AABON. 
 
 ' Good heavens, Mark ! you don't mean ' 
 
 ' Hush !' 
 
 Mark Kintrea pointed to the folding-doors. The doctor 
 and the housekeeper were there, with the child, who had 
 been carried into the room and laid on Tom's bed. 
 
 Tom lowered his voice to a whisper. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say that you believe this poor little 
 waif, this ragged, forlorn little mite, is your wife's child ?' 
 
 ' I do believe it.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, you are deceived by some accidental 
 resemblance.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. But the resemblance to my lost wife is mar- 
 vellous. And when involuntarily I exclaimed " Hetty 1" the 
 child opened her eyes, as though she had heard her own 
 name.' 
 
 At that moment he doctor came softly out of the inner 
 room, and both men rose. 
 
 ' Well ?' exclaimed Mark eagerly. 
 
 ' The child is very badly hurt,' said the doctor. ' She'll 
 be light 'leaded, I expect, and I'm afraid there's an 
 injury to the back that may make it a long and tiresome 
 case.' 
 
 ' She's not fit to be moved, I suppose ?' said Tom. 
 
 ' Well, of course, any movement now is bad for her, but 
 with care she may be taken to the hospital. It's not far, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Tom P interrupted Mark ; ' if you don't mind the child 
 staying here in your house, I should prefer it.' 
 
 ' I mind ? — not a bit of it ! Mrs. West's a capital nurse. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 97 
 
 1 can sleep upstairs, and the doctor here can take charge of 
 the case and send the bill in to me.' 
 
 The doctor looked from Tom to Mark. It was a strange 
 idea, these two young men charging themselves with the 
 bother and worry of a sick child, who might be on their 
 hands for months. 
 
 ' Doctor,' said Mark, ' my friend consents. You will 
 visit your little patient here, and all your orders shall be 
 obeyed.' 
 
 The doctor bowed, told them that the housekeeper had 
 all instructions, and that he would look in again during the 
 evening. 
 
 At the door Mark stopped him. 
 
 ' I suppose it won't be advisable to talk to her yet — to ask 
 her any questions ?' 
 
 ' Questions ! good gracious, no ! She must have the most 
 absolute quiet, or I won't be answerable for the conse- 
 quences.' 
 
 'Now, what are we to do?' said Mark, as the door 
 closed. 'The ' He hesitated a moment, then con- 
 tinued with n effort, ' The mother or the relatives will 
 be anxious about her. How are we to find out where 
 they aie 
 
 ' I suppose somebody will call. The boys ran away ; but 
 they'll go to the child's home and say what's happened 
 They saw me carry her into the house, I'll be bound.' 
 
 A troubled look passed over Mark Kintrea's face. ' Sup- 
 pose,' he thought to himself, ' this resemblance is no acci- 
 dental one. Suppose I am right, and this child is Hetty's ; 
 will she come here after her ? Will my wife — the woman 
 who wrecked my life so cruelly — come out of her hiding 
 and, not knowing, not dreaming whom she will meet, come 
 here? Or will the thief — this " Flash Jim," as they called 
 him — come instead ? Have I fled from my shame all these 
 
 7 
 
98 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 years only to find myself face to face with it again ? Am I 
 to be Pshaw ! what a fool I am !' 
 
 A great peal of mocking laughter burst from the tortured 
 man, and he sprang to his feet and paced the room. 
 
 The housekeeper, terrified, ran in. 
 
 'Hush, sir 1 hush, for Heaven's sakel The child's 
 asleep.' 
 
 ' I forgot I' exclaimed Mark. ' I forgot the child was 
 there. Come out, Tom ; for God's sake, come out into the 
 airl' 
 
 When they were in the street, Tom took his friend's arm, 
 and looked anxiously in his face. 
 
 Mark detected the look. 
 
 ' It's all right, old man,' he said ; ' the day, the accident 
 to the child, the queer thoughts that came into my head, 
 have upset me. I couldn't help laughing like that at my 
 own tomfoolery. As if this ragged gutter-child was any- 
 thing to do with me I Of course, it's absurd Let us go 
 and have some lunch and a bottle of fizz.' 
 
 ' All right, old fellow ; let's go to the grill-room at the 
 Criterion. We can have a chop and a cigar after it, and 
 then we can decide what we'll do about the kid and finding 
 out whose property it is.' 
 
 The cafe and grill-room at the Criterion was fairly full 
 when Tom and Mark arrived and seated themselves at the 
 only vacant table. 
 
 The American bar at one end was crowded with men 
 about town, and professionals, and men whom it would be 
 difficult to classify. Some of them were walking mysteries 
 to everyone but themselves. Tom, to divert his friend's 
 mind from gloomy thoughts, began to point out the celeb- 
 rities to him. 
 
 ' That's Starkey, the famous jockey,' said Tom, pointing 
 to a little man, who looked more like a small poet than a 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 09 
 
 famous horseman ; ' that's Bob Martin, the light comedian ; 
 that's Jack Jacobs, the money-lender — good chap, Jack, one 
 of the few gentlemen in the profession. That tall young 
 fellow leaning over the bar, and talking to the man behind 
 it, is Bertie Dennis — ran through £50,000 in twelve months; 
 
 and that Hullo I do you see who that is just come 
 
 into the room — aristocratic, foreign-looking fellow, in patent- 
 leather boots and a glossy hat ?' 
 
 Mark looked in the direction Tom had jerked his head. 
 
 ' "Who is he ?' he asked mechanically. 
 
 ' You'd never guess. That's Inspector Von Aaron, the 
 famous detective. Wouldn't think he was that to look at 
 him, would you ? How d'ye do ?' 
 
 The ' How d'ye do ?' was said to the great Von Aaron 
 himself. 
 
 Von Aaron crossed the room and held out his hand. 
 
 ' Ah I how do you do, Mr. Darley ? I haven't seen you 
 for months.' 
 
 ' No,' said Tom ; ' what have you been up to ? — arresting 
 Fenians ?' 
 
 Von Aaron smiled. 
 
 ' No,' he answered ; ' I've had to turn that up. I'm too 
 well known in Paris now. When I go to an hotel they all 
 clear out the next day.' 
 
 ' Got anything on now ?' asked Tom. 
 
 ' Yes ; a murder, I fancy.' 
 
 ' A murder, you fancy I Why, I should think you ought 
 to know a murder when you see one !' 
 
 ' Not always. This is rather a curious case. I'm after a 
 man who's wanted for a big burglary, committed a month 
 ago. There's a reward offered. One night a woman calls 
 at the office ; wants to see me. I'm out. Says she'll call 
 again. I get a description of the woman from the inspector 
 who saw her ; recognise her as the woman who is known to 
 
 7—2 
 
ioo THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 be the mistress of the very man I want. I tumble to her 
 game at once. There's been a row— jealousy, perhaps. 
 She comes to betray the man and get the reward. Knows 
 I'm to be trusted ; not sure of inspector on duty, so doesn't 
 split then. I make inquiries. Set one of my lady assistants 
 to work — clever girl. Distributes tracts, and tickets for 
 coals and blankets ; gets into all the queer places in the 
 slums on that lay, and finds out a lot from the women ; 
 sees a lot, too, that comes in very useful when least ex- 
 pected. She spots the woman after a long search; finds 
 her living with the man still.' 
 
 ' And you arrest him ?' 
 
 ' Unfortunately, no ! I'm out of town on a wretched 
 " long firm " case, and my lady friend keeps the informa- 
 tion for me — not going to give it to anybody else, and take 
 the job out of my hands. When I got back last night she 
 tells me. I go off with everything ready to nab my gentle- 
 man, and what do I find ' 
 
 'What do you find?' exclaimed Tom, getting interested in 
 the detective's story. 
 
 ' I find the birds flown — man gone — woman gone, and 
 their child, a little girl, left behind.' 
 
 ' Where does the murder come in ?' 
 
 ' Wait, and you'll see. I get a little information, if I 
 don't get anything else. Night before, big row. Some- 
 body's peached on woman, and let out that she's been to 
 Scotland Yard. They make it up, and go out to have a 
 drink. That night, man comes bach alone, queer, excited, 
 drunk ; goes up to garret, and comes down again with the 
 child, which he leaves with another lodger, Mrs. Moloney. 
 " I'm going away for a week with the missus," he says ; 
 " here's five bob — look after the kid till I come back." ' 
 
 ' But,' exclaims Tom, still in the dark, 'that's no murder 1 
 He may have gone away in the country with the woman.' 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 101 
 
 1 If he has,' says the detective, with a professional smile, 
 ' he didn't wait for her to dress herself. She left her bonnet 
 and shawl on Judson's Wharf, by the side of the Thames at 
 Bankside.' 
 
 ' Poor creature I' exclaimed Tom, looking over to Mark, 
 who all chis time has sat silently listening to the detective's 
 matter-of-fact conversation. ' Queer story, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Very 1' says Mark. 
 
 ' It is a queer story,' continues Von Aaron ; ' and a sad 
 one, for the woman had seen better days before she took up 
 with this blackguard. Searching the place, I found a photo 
 of her, taken years ago, when she was a professional singer. 
 You shall see it.' 
 
 Von Aaron took out his pocket-book, and, carefully with- 
 drawing a yellow, faded carte-de-visite, handed it to Tom. 
 
 Mark looked over his friend's shoulder at the photo of the 
 woman supposed to have been murdered. 
 
 Then, with a wild cry, that startled everyone in the cafe, 
 and drew all eyes towards him, he seized the photograph 
 and looked at it intently for a second. 
 
 Eecovering himself with a supreme effort, his face deadly 
 white, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, he 
 clutched the detective by the arm and gasped : 
 
 ' His name 1 — the man's name !' 
 
 '- James Morton — sometimes called " Plash Jim"!' 
 
 Mark Kintrea uttered a deep groan, and let the photo- 
 graph fall to the ground. 
 
 The portrait of the woman supposed to have been mur- 
 dered the night before last by her paramour was the 
 portrait of his wife 1 
 
102 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 STBAWBBEBY COUET. 
 
 ' Won't you leave this to Von Aaron and myself ?' 
 
 The speaker was Tom Darley. 
 
 After the strange revelation at the Criterion caf6, Mark, 
 as soon as he had recovered his composure, had insisted 
 upon going at once with the detective to the slum from 
 which ' Plash Jim ' had disappeared. 
 
 In his excitement Mark had told the detective the story 
 of his life, and confessed that the woman whose photograph 
 he had just seen was his wife. 
 
 The detective had questioned him closely, for the case 
 now presented a fresh feature of interest. When Tom told 
 him about the Little Guy and the marvellous resemblance 
 to Mark's wife, Von Aaron felt convinced that Mark was 
 correct in his surmise. 
 
 This was the child Jim Morton had left with Mrs. 
 Moloney. 
 
 While Mark, Tom Darley, and the detective were thread- 
 ing their way through the network of courts and alleys 
 which lies behind Southwark Church, Tom urged his friend 
 to abandon the painful journey. 
 
 Mark laid his hand gently on Tom's shoulder. 
 
 ' No, old friend, I'll go through with it myself. Don't be 
 afraid, I am quite calm now. I am prepared for anything. 
 No certainty, however terrible, can be worse than the 
 dreadful doubts which have haunted me for six long years.' 
 
 Strawberry Court has lately been scheduled for demoli- 
 tion. The new crusade to the East has resulted in a pretty 
 general conviction that there are certain courts and alleys 
 which are absolutely unfit for human habitation, and Straw- 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 103 
 
 berry Court is one of the unfittest. But at the time of 
 which I write, Strawberry Court was crowded with men, 
 women, and children. Its dilapidated houses were let out 
 in single rooms to anyone who could pay the rent, and as 
 the rents were considered low at a time when there was 
 fierce competition among the very poor for shelter, the 
 tumble-down houses in Strawberry Court were always 
 crammed with tenants. 
 
 Mark followed the detective, who went first and acted as 
 guide through the dirty and poverty-stricken streets, with 
 faltering steps. He took Tom's arm as much for support as 
 for companionship. It was among such scenes as these he 
 saw at every turn, amid this squalor and degradation and 
 vice, that his wife had lived ! 
 
 When they came to Strawberry Court itself, and, pushing 
 their way through a crowd of ragged women and dirty 
 children, entered a doorway and found themselves in a 
 dark passage, Mark declared he would go no further. 
 
 ' But this is the house !' exclaimed the detective, striking 
 a match in order to see the staircase. 
 
 As the vesta threw a fitful glare over the passage, Mark 
 looked up. He took the whole scene in at a glance. He 
 saw the damp and filthy walls ; he saw the rotten, crum- 
 bling staircase ; he knew that if he went farther he should 
 see the room — the horrible den — in which the woman he 
 had idolized had spent the last years of her life. 
 
 He turned sick, a sudden tremor seized his limbs, and he 
 put his hand against the awful wall of the passage to sup- 
 port himself. 
 
 ' I will go no further,' he exclaimed ; ' let me get out into 
 the air. You go with him, Tom. I — I — it's too horrible V 
 
 Mark Kintrea did not stop to hear what the detective had 
 to say ; he stumbled towards the open door, and was gone. 
 
 ' Poor fellow 1' said the detective to Tom. • I dare, say it 
 
104 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 does make him feel queer. You're coming with me, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom. ' But — do you think I might light a 
 pipe ? I'm not used to this sort of atmosphere, you know.' 
 
 The detective laughed. ' Light a pipe ? Certainly I This 
 is Liberty Hall. Come along.' 
 
 Lighting another vesta, Mr. Von Aaron went gingerly up 
 the creaking, rotten staircase, and Tom followed, wondering 
 whether, being a heavy man, he should get safely to the top 
 or suddenly drop through. 
 
 ' This is Mrs. Moloney's,' said the detective, as he reached 
 a narrow landing on the third floor. There was a door 
 there, evidently, for the detective knocked ; but Tom 
 couldn't see it, for the vesta had gone out. 
 
 A voice from the other side of the door called out, ' What 
 is it ?' 
 
 ' All right, Mrs. Moloney — it's Mr. Jones.' 
 
 The door was opened cautiously by an old woman who 
 looked as though she had been floured all over : and Tom 
 and the detective entered. 
 
 For a moment neither of them could speak for coughing. 
 The room was full of floating fluff and small hair. The 
 floor, the ceiling, the walls, the scanty furniture, all were 
 powdered over. Tom thought that the old woman had been 
 tearing up hundreds of worn-out and dirty powder-puffs 
 and throwing the fluff about the room. 
 
 ' It's the rabbit fur, your honour ; it takes you like that if 
 you ain't used to it.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Moloney — prepares rabbit-skins — for the furriers,' 
 explains the detective, coughing between every three words. 
 
 The detective proceeded at once to business. 
 
 ' Where's the little girl that Jim Morton left with you?' 
 
 ' She went out guying this morning along with my two 
 young 'uns, and they ain't come home yet, sir ' 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 105 
 
 Darley and the detective exchanged glances. The Little 
 Guy was the child of Jim Morton's mistress. 
 
 ' Now, Mrs. Moloney,' said the detective, ' you know who 
 lam?' 
 
 Mrs. Moloney nodded her head. 
 
 ' There ain't many down the court as don't, sir. After 
 you'd been last night it was all over the place as the 'tecs 
 was after Jim Morton.' 
 
 ' Very well, we'll come to business. I want Jim Morton 
 badly. There's a reward for him. If you give me all the 
 information you can, you shall stand in.' 
 
 ' I don't know nothin', sir, upon my soul I ' 
 
 Von Aaron put his hand in his pocket and pulled out _ 
 some loose silver. 
 
 ' There's half a crown to begin with. Now — you heard 
 the row between Morton and his wife before they went out 
 the other night. What did he say ?' 
 
 The old woman hesitated. 
 
 ' They're a rum lot about here, mister ; if I blab anything 
 and it's knowed, there's plenty as '11 turn on me and half 
 murder me. I'm a poor widder with two childring to keep 
 as can't earn a shillin' theirselves through the Board School. 
 If I'm called at the Old Bailey through sayin' anything to 
 you ' 
 
 ' I'll see no harm comes to you. If you're annoyed here 
 you shall move, and I'll pay the rent — there !' 
 
 With much coaxing, a little threatening, and a personal 
 guarantee for Tom's discretion, Von Aaron at last succeeded 
 in extracting from the old fur-puller all that she knew. 
 
 And all that the information amounted to was this — that 
 she'd heard Morton and the woman rowing ; that Morton 
 had charged her with peaching on him, and threatened to 
 do for her ; that she'd sworn she was as innocent as a babe 
 inborn, and that after that he'd quieted down and they 
 
io6 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 went out together ; and that late at night Morton came 
 back alone, left the child with her, and said he and the 
 missus were going away for a week. 
 
 ' Will he come back after the child, do you think ?' asked 
 Tom. 
 
 ' Come back here — Jim Morton — when he's wanted, and 
 this gent's ' (pointing to Von Aaron) ' been seen up the 
 court? Not likely!' 
 
 ' Then you'll keep the child yourself ?' 
 
 Mrs. Moloney shrugged her shoulders. ' What on — 
 rabbit-skins ?' she asked, with a grimace that was meant 
 for a grin. ' I'll keep her till the five bob's gone, and then 
 she'll have to go to the workus. 'Onest folks 'as enough to 
 do these times to keep their own kids, without a-startin' a 
 orphan asylum for burglars's.' 
 
 ' Thank you, old lady, for what you've told us,' said the 
 detective. ' When I want so*me more information I'll come 
 and see you again ; and as to the child, you needn't trouble 
 about her. I've got her.' 
 
 ' You've, got her I' exclaimed Mrs. Moloney. 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm taking care of her. She's evidence.' And, 
 without vouchsafing any further information, Von Aaron 
 gently pushed Tom out of the room and pulled the door to 
 behind them. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE CAFE CHANTANT. 
 
 A month after the eventful 5th of November on which the 
 child deserted by Jim Morton had met with an - accident in 
 Great Eussell Street, and had been taken into Tom Darley's 
 lodgings, Mark Kintrea was sitting at breakfast in the salle- 
 a-manger of the Hotel de l'Europe at Havre. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 107 
 
 The events of that terrible day had been too much for him 
 — the horror of discovering that his wife, after leading a life 
 of misery, poverty, and degradation, had met with such a 
 terrible fate, had utterly broken him down. Some days after 
 the disappearance of Jim Morton, the woman's body had 
 been found in the Thames, swollen and disfigured beyond 
 recognition. Only by the clothing was the body identified 
 as that of the woman who had lived with ' Flash Jim ' in 
 Strawberry Court. 
 
 But at the inquest evidence was forthcoming which 
 proved that it was a case of suicide, and not of murder — 
 a lighterman had seen the woman wandering along the 
 wharf alone, and, guessing her intention, had persuaded her 
 to go away. 
 
 To this man she had confessed that she was tired of life, 
 and intended to commit suicide. 
 
 She must have watched him away, and then returned and 
 flung herself into the water. 
 
 People were also found who had been in the public-house 
 where the woman and Morton had taken their last drink 
 together. There had been a violent quarrel between them, 
 and the woman had gone out vowing that the man should 
 see her face no more. 
 
 Von Aaron, after carefully investigating the whole circum- 
 stances of the case, felt convinced that Morton was not near 
 the wharf that night, and took no active part in the woman's 
 death. 
 
 Mark waited till his wife's body was found, but was not 
 allowed to see it— neither was he called on the inquest. 
 There was no necessity that he should be, for the woman 
 was known as Mrs. Morton — her former life had nothing to 
 do with the inquiry, and Von Aaron mercifully suppressed 
 his knowledge of it. 
 
 But after the inquest, when the parish officials came to 
 
108 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 take away the body, they found that their services were not 
 required. Mr. Von Aaron arranged the funeral on behalf of 
 ' her friends,' and so the poor suicide was buried in a quiet 
 little grave at Nunhead, and on the tombstone above it was 
 this inscription : ' In memory of Henrietta, wife of Mark 
 Kintrea.' 
 
 No one noticed it — no one knew of it — save Mark, his 
 friend Tom Darley, and the detective. 
 
 Once, before he left England, Mark visited the grave and 
 laid a wreath of white flowers upon it. It was in memory 
 of the old days before the shame and sorrow came. 
 
 Meanwhile the child had not progressed so favourably as 
 had been hoped. The injury to the head was much more 
 serious than had at first been supposed, and little Hetty 
 grew so bad that a trained nurse had to be sent for. 
 
 Seeing that they could do no possible good by remaining 
 in the house, but that they were really in the way, Tom 
 persuaded Mark, as soon as he was a little better, to come 
 abroad with him, and they had crossed from Southampton 
 to Havre, intending to make a tour through Normandy and 
 Brittany. 
 
 They had been in Havre a couple of days, and had 
 hesitated to leave it, for the winter had set in with unusual 
 severity, and stories were coming in all day long of trains 
 blocked in the snow and violent weather all through the 
 country. 
 
 ' We'd better stop here till the weather breaks,' Tom had 
 said ; and Mark had agreed with him. 
 
 This morning Mark, as usual, has come down to his break- 
 fast long before Tom has summoned up courage to leave his 
 bed. Early rising is as difficult a matter for Mr. Darley to 
 practise abroad as it is at home. 
 
 Mark finds a letter by his plate on the breakfast-table. 
 It is the daily bulletin of little Hetty's condition which the 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 109 
 
 kind doctor, according to promise, sends him. The doctor 
 writes that at last ihere is a slight improvement, and that 
 now he hopes for the best, but it will be many days before 
 the little one is sufficiently recovered to be able to converse. 
 
 Mark has finished his breakfast before Tom comes down, 
 and strolls into the courtyard to have his morning cigar. 
 There he meets the landlord, and enters into conversation 
 with him. 
 
 ' Has Monsieur seen all the sights of the town ?' 
 
 Yes, Mark imagines so. 
 
 ' The circus — the theatres ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Has Monsieur seen the cafes chantants which are in the 
 street on the side of the quay ?' 
 
 No, Monsieur has not. 
 
 ' Then Monsieur should on no account miss them. They 
 are very curious. Monsieur should go and see for himself. 
 There he will meet his compatriots. There he will see 
 English girls dancing, and hear them sing English songs. 
 It is about these places there have been many inquiries of 
 late by the English police and others.' 
 
 Tom Darley finishes his breakfast, and joins his friend 
 before the conversation is finished. He is interested in the 
 subject at once, and gets full particulars from the landlord. 
 
 ' We'll drop in at one or two of them, Mark,' he says. 
 
 Mark says nothing, but he makes up his mind not to go. 
 He has a reason for not wishing to renew his acquaintance 
 with the music-halls of the Continent. 
 
 But when evening arrives, and he tries to make an excuse, 
 Tom refuses to accept it. 
 
 ' Nonsense, old fellow I' he says ; ' you want waking up. 
 Come, I don't want to go by myself, and I'm very curious 
 to see these Havre places. I've heard a lot about 'em 
 lately, and there have been some queer statements in the 
 
t io THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 English newspapers. Let's see if the Devil is as black as 
 he's painted.' 
 
 So, after a late dinner, the two friends stroll out, and by 
 asking their way two or three times they at last arrived in 
 front of a dingy, dirty-looking house, standing in a dingy, 
 dirty row, but which is distinguished by a feeble, blue- 
 burning gas star. The ground floor looks like a double- 
 windowed shop, with red blinds pulled down. In the 
 centre is a big, heavy door, which works on a leather strap ; 
 on the door is a printed notice to the effect that entrance is 
 free. 
 
 Tom pushes the door open, and walks into he room. 
 Mark follows him. 
 
 It is a long, narrow room, and is filled with seafaring men 
 and soldiers, who are smoking and drinking at the little 
 tables which are placed about the room. The audience is 
 entirely composed of the kind of people one finds in a low- 
 class quayside cafe in a Continental seaport town. Near 
 the door is a dirty bar; and behind the bar sits a fat 
 jewelled lady, not very tidy, not very clean, but very much 
 jewelled and braceleted. 
 
 In a chair by the side — the outside — of the bar sits a 
 gray-headed old Jewish gentleman, also very much jewelled 
 — and waiting at the bar for her tray to be filled with the 
 drinks ordered by the company is a heavy-eyed, tow-haired 
 damsel who might have stepped out of a low-class Seven 
 Dials coffee-shop — dirty frock, dirty face, dirty hands, 
 broken boots, and all. 
 
 The cigar-smoking, elderly Hebrew is the proprietor of 
 the establishment — Papa Samuels — and the fat lady behind 
 the bar is his wife. Once or twice there have been little 
 difficulties with the police, awkward inquiries as to young 
 girls who have disappeared from London and have been 
 heard of as appearing on the stage of this hall, without 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. n i 
 
 voices and without talent, and with nothing but their youth 
 and beauty to recommend them, and strange stories have 
 been told of the ' system ' in vogiie in this place. 
 
 These young ladies live on the premises, and have dresses 
 given them in lieu of salary, and are invited to take cham- 
 pagne with the swell patrons of the establishment. 
 
 But we need not investigate the truth or falsehood of 
 these statements, as Papa Samuels indignantly denies 
 them, and, as his establishment still flourishes under the 
 parental eye of the police, he is entitled to the benefit of 
 the doubt. 
 
 At the end of the hall is a small stage, two private boxes 
 for the accommodation of the aristocracy of Havre being 
 built upon it. When Tom and Mark entered, the proprietor 
 rose, and, seeing they were ' swells,' offered to conduct them 
 to one of these private boxes ; but they declined with thanks, 
 and sat down at a table among the plebeians in the body of 
 the hall. 
 
 A girl — an English girl — in a very short frock was sing- 
 ing when they entered. She hadn't a scrap of voice, and 
 very little idea of tune, and she sang an English song which 
 was popular at our music-halls five years ago. 
 
 She was vigorously applauded for it by the Frenchmen, 
 who didn't understand a word of it; and then another 
 English girl, in a still shorter frock, came on and sang 
 another English song, and did a few steps at the end of 
 each verse ; and she was succeeded by another English girl, 
 very young and very pretty, who hardly knew how to walk 
 across the stage — a raw novice, who stood with her toes 
 turned in and her arms hanging down, and sang her song 
 much in the way that a child at an infant-school repeats a 
 piece of poetry. 
 
 But when she had finished Papa Samuels led the ap-, 
 plause, which was terrific, and when it was over Papa and 
 
ii2 THE LITTLE GUY 
 
 two gentlemen went behind the scenes to congratulate her, 
 and the dirty waitress with the towy hair followed with a 
 bottle of champagne and four glasses on the tray. 
 
 Mark rose to go. 
 
 ' Come away, Tom,' he said ; * I've had enough of this. 
 Let us get out into the fresh air.' 
 
 ' 'Tain't up to much, is it ?' exclaimed a young English- 
 man who was sitting near them. 'All very well for these 
 French fellows ; but after our music-halls it won't do.' 
 
 • No,' said Tom, ' it won't.' 
 
 ' If you want to hear a real good song and enjoy yourself 
 there's a tip-top place here — a music-hall, not a barn like 
 this. I'm going there, and I'll show you the way if you 
 like to come.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' said Mark ; ' I've had enough.' 
 
 ' Oh, come along,' said Tom ; ' let's see everything while 
 we're about it.' 
 
 Mark, who didn't care much one way or the other so long 
 as he hadn't time to think of his troubles, allowed himself 
 to be persuaded, and the young Englishman, who told him 
 he was in a shipping-office in Havre, leading the way, 
 they set out for ' the ' music-hall of the place, the Star, 
 as their new acquaintance informed them that it was 
 called. 
 
 The shipping-office clerk went ahead, and Tom and Mark 
 followed him. As they were walking along Mark suddenly 
 stopped. 
 
 ' I can't come, old fellow,' he said ; ' you go on. I'll go 
 back to the hotel.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! why can't you come ?' 
 
 ' Because the whole thing revolts me. Since I left that 
 wretched place we've just been to, I've done nothing but 
 think of poor Hetty.' 
 
 ' But she never sang in a place like that V 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 113 
 
 ' No, thank God ; but it was at a music-hall abroad that 
 I first met her.' 
 
 ' Here you are, gentlemen !' exclaimed the shipping clerk. 
 
 They had stopped in front of a big building, brilliantly 
 illuminated, and evidently a well-patronized place of amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Tom didn't allow his friend to hesitate. He took his arm, 
 and they entered the Star Music-Hail. 
 
 It was a very different place to the establishment of 
 Papa Samuels, and a very different audience was assembled. 
 The stage was large and well-appointed, and the seats were 
 neatly upholstered. Waiters in evening dress were taking 
 the orders of the spectators, and a chairman, in evening 
 dress, sat in front of the orchestra — as in our English halls. 
 The stage was empty as the three men took their places. 
 
 ' Madame Marion, of the principal Continental music- 
 halls, will appear next,' said the chairman. The orchestra 
 struck up a sentimental ballad air, and Madame Marion 
 stepped upon the stage. 
 
 Mark was staring about the hall when the Continental 
 star came to the footlights; but Tom Darley uttered an 
 exclamation of astonishment which made Mark look up. 
 
 Without a word, Mark rose from his seat and went out of 
 the hall. 
 
 Tom followed him, and found him leaning against the 
 wall for support. He clutched Tom's arm, and whispered 
 in a hoarse voice : 
 
 ' That woman, Tom, did you see her?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 Madame Marion was the living image of the woman who 
 lay buried in Nunhead Cemetery — Jim Morton's mistress, 
 Mark Kintrea's wife 1 
 
114 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 OHAPTEE VI. 
 
 MADAME MARION. 
 
 Tom Daeley went with Mark Kintrea to the hotel. Mark 
 remained obstinately silent, and, when they reached the 
 hotel, bade his friend good-night and went to his room. 
 The mental shock of that resemblance had been too much 
 for him, and he wished to be alone. 
 
 Tom, finding he could do nothing, lit a cigar and returned 
 to the hall. Madame Marion appeared again at the close of 
 the entertainment, and sang an English ballad, and sang it 
 very nicely indeed. 
 
 After the performance was over Tom went to the stage- 
 door, and waited to see the artists come out. He was 
 waiting to see Madame Marion. Presently she came out — 
 a pale-faced, sad-looking woman now, with the paint and 
 powder off. Tom recognised her at once. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, madam, but may I ask you a ques- 
 tion?' 
 
 The woman looked at him with a haughty stare, and 
 passed on. 
 
 Tom was not to be discouraged, so he followed her. 
 
 ' I assure you, madam ' he began. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't know you, and I don't 
 wish to. Pray allow me to pass.' 
 
 ' I assure you, madam, I have no intention of insulting 
 you. I merely wish to ask you a question.' 
 
 'Well, sir?' 
 
 ' Did you ever know a man named James Morton ?' 
 
 If Tom had struck the woman a blow in the face she 
 would have reeled back just as she reeled back now. 
 
 * I — I — who are you ?' she gasped. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 115 
 
 * Compose yourself, madam,' exclaimed Tom. ' I am sorry 
 if I have pained you, but it is a matter which concerns a 
 dear friend of mine.' 
 
 ' What can you or your friend know of James Morton ?' 
 
 ' I do know a good deal of him, madam, and I want to 
 know more. He has disappeared. The woman he lived 
 with has been found drowned, and her child ' 
 
 ' The woman drowned !' cried Madame Marion, clutching 
 Tom's arm ; ' and the child — what of the child ? Tell me 
 quick — quick 1* 
 
 ' The child is * 
 
 ' Dead — not dead I Oh, for God's sake, tell me, sir — my 
 child, my little Hetty ' 
 
 ' Your child !' exclaimed Tom, startled out of the com- 
 posure he had endeavoured to assume. ' Good heavens, 
 woman, then you were not drowned I There is some fear- 
 ful mystery here. Tell me, where did you leave James 
 Morton?' 
 
 ' I want to know nothing of James Morton,' cried the 
 woman ; ' tell me about the child — is it alive ? is it well ?' 
 
 ' It is alive.' 
 
 1 Thank God— thank God for that ! My little Hetty ! 
 Who are you, sir ? — how did you find me ? — why have you 
 come here ?' 
 
 ' I came here accidentally. I saw you on the stage, and 
 you were so like a woman who is supposed to be dead that 
 I waited for you and spoke to you. Now, can you not, will 
 you not tell me, for the child's sake, for your own, when 
 you saw James Morton last ?' 
 
 ' Six years ago.' 
 
 ' What 1 then you didn't live with him ? You are not the 
 woman who quarrelled with him, and left him a month 
 ago?' 
 
 ■ I — no 1 The woman who lived with him once was his 
 
 8—2 
 
n6 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 wife, my unhappy sister ; but she told me that she had left 
 him long ago, and that she was earning her own living. Do 
 you think if I had known she was still with him I should 
 have trusted my child, my little Hetty, with her ? 1 ' 
 
 Before she could say another word Tom seized her arm 
 so fiercely that she cried out. 
 
 A sudden idea had come to him — an idea which made his 
 heart leap and jump, and the blood rush to his face, and his 
 brain swim. 
 
 'I understand all now I' he cried; 'you are not the 
 woman who lived with Jim Morton ; but you are Mark 
 Kintrea's wife I' 
 
 CHAPTBE VII. 
 
 A OHEISTMAS PAETT. 
 
 It was Christmas morning, but there were very few signs 
 of it in Great Eussell Street. It might have been Sunday, 
 because the shops were all shut, and the Museum was closed ; 
 but there was absolutely nothing in the aspect of the locality 
 to suggest the 25th of December. It is difficult, perhaps, 
 to suggest offhand how this state of affairs might have been 
 remedied. One can hardly expect the authorities to decorate 
 the outside of the British Museum with holly and mistletoe, 
 and it is the Museum which dominates and gives character 
 to Great Eussell Street. But if there were no signs of 
 Christmas in the streets, there were doubtless plenty inside 
 the houses. Inside one house in Great Eussell Street, at 
 any rate, there was, and that was the house, occupied by 
 Mr. Tom Darley. 
 
 It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Tom had — mirabile 
 diotu — had his breakfast, and was knocking at the door of 
 the room occupied by the nurse and her little charge. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 117 
 
 ' Can I come in ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; Miss Hetty's awake.' 
 
 Tom pushed the door open and entered, a huge doll under 
 one arm and several small packages under the other. 
 
 The Little Guy was sitting up in bed, propped up with 
 pillows, and her little white face lighted up into a smile as 
 he entered. 
 
 ' Oh, Uncle Tom,' she cried, as the beautiful presents were 
 laid upon the bed, ' what lovely things ! Are they all for 
 me?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear ; it's Christmas Day, you know, and these are 
 your Christmas presents. ' 
 
 ' Yes, nurse told me it was Christmas Day ; and if I'm 
 very good and quiet I'm to get up and see the holly and the 
 mistletoe and the pretty flowers you've been putting up in 
 the next room.' 
 
 * Yes, dear.' 
 
 ' Uncle Tom, are you sure my mamma will come to-day ?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear ; but you must be very good, you know, and 
 not cry, and not get excited, and you mustn't talk much, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! I will only just put my arms round my dear 
 mamma's neck and kiss her, and then I will be quite, quiet.' 
 
 Yes ; Hetty's mamma was coming to-day. It was the 
 day the doctor had fixed for the first meeting. He would 
 not allow it till the child was strong enough to bear it. 
 
 Since Tom Darley's strange interview with Madame 
 Marion many things have happened. 
 
 After ascertaining her address that night, he had gone 
 back to the hotel and matured his plans. The next day he 
 had taken Mark out with him, and, telling him he was 
 going to introduce him to an old friend, had taken him to 
 where Marion was lodging. 
 
 Then, when husband and wife had suddenly found them- 
 
n8 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 selves together, Tom had, without waiting to see the con- 
 sequences of his daring act, rushed out of the room and left 
 them alone. 
 
 It was late that afternoon when Mark Kintrea returned 
 to the hotel. The first glance at his face showed Tom 
 Darley that the bold scheme he had conceived and carried 
 out to bring matters to a crisis had been crowned with 
 success. 
 
 Mark looked ten years younger, and his face was flushed 
 with a joyous excitement. The story was soon told — the 
 myctery explained. 
 
 When Mark first met Hetty Joyce she was singing at a 
 big music-hall in Eotterdam — singing the English ballads 
 which she sang so sweetly. Hetty's father had been a clever 
 musician once, but had, when a great trouble came upon 
 him in the sudden death of his wife, taken to drink and 
 grown reckless, and gradually gone down in the professional 
 scale till he had come to have to travel about France in the 
 orchestra of one of those ' Eichardsonian ' theatres which 
 are only seen at the great fairs. 
 
 His two young daughters, Hannah and Hetty, travelled 
 with him, and earned a little by going on in the scenes and 
 singing and dancing. 
 
 Hetty had a very sweet voice, and had learned many 
 English ballads from her mother, and it was found that one 
 of these simple, plaintive songs was always a success — 
 perhaps all the greater success because it was sung in a 
 foreign language. 
 
 When Joyce died the girls were left entirely to their own 
 resources. Eventually they found themselves in England, 
 where between them, by their professional exertions, they 
 managed to earn a modest income. Hannah, in an evil 
 hour, fell in with a handsome scoundrel, who frequented 
 the hall at the East-End where she was taking part in a 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 119 
 
 ballet performance, and the end of it was that she consented 
 to become his wife. 
 
 Hetty at that time was out of an engagement, and she 
 went to live with her sister in Morton's house, at Walworth. 
 
 Morton was supposed by both the sisters to be a betting 
 man, and his varying fortunes aroused no suspicion in the 
 girls' minds. At one time he was flush of money, and wore 
 diamond pins and rings and drank champagne ; and a month 
 or two afterwards he would be down on his luck, and taking 
 every shilling of the girls' earnings from them. 
 
 His frequent absences from home aroused no suspicion ; 
 as a betting man he, of course, had to attend races all over 
 the country. 
 
 But one day Hetty accidentally made a discovery which 
 filled her with horror. She overheard a conversation 
 between Morton and a man who had come to see him, and 
 then she knew her sister's husband was a criminal — that he 
 was one of a gang of professional burglars, and it was in his 
 house that many of the biggest jobs, as he called them, were 
 put up. 
 
 To the girl's horror she discovered that she and her sister 
 had really been helping him in his nefarious schemes. Hetty 
 had taken things for him, when he was hard up, to a man 
 who advanced money on them, and to pawnbrokers, and she 
 found that she had really been assisting him in disposing of 
 stolen property. 
 
 Terrified, the poor girl rushed to her sister, and told her 
 what she had discovered. But Hannah knew it already. 
 
 Hetty insisted upon leaving the house at once, but not 
 before Jim Morton had made her understand that if ever 
 she breathed a word of what she knew she would pay for it. 
 He terrified the poor girl into believing that she had been 
 his accomplice, and that a word from one of his pals to the 
 police would lead to her arrest and imprisonment. 
 
120 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 Hetty swore not to betray her sister's husband, and was 
 allowed to go in peace. She went abroad, and succeeded 
 in getting an engagement at one of her old shows, and 
 managed to live quietly and respectably and make her way 
 in the profession until she met Mark Kintrea, and he fell in 
 love with her, and married her, and took her home to his 
 beautiful place in Derbyshire. 
 
 Mark was romantic, and had led the girl to believe he 
 was only a young fellow in a fair position. He wanted to 
 see his little wife's astonishment when she found herself 
 mistress of a beautiful place, and the wife of a wealthy 
 man. 
 
 Hetty was a little frightened at the grandeur, and she 
 thought that had she known what Mark was she would 
 have told him about her relatives before he married her. 
 Now she could not do it. It would be so dreadful to tell 
 him that her brother-in-law was a burglar ; so she tried to 
 forget all about it, hoping that in her new sphere of life she 
 would never cross Jim Morton's path again. 
 
 Her goodness of heart was her undoing. She found out, 
 from letters forwarded to her from the hall at which she 
 had been singing abroad when she married Mark, that her 
 sister was in great trouble. Jim had met with an accident, 
 and they were almost starving. She sent her sister money 
 to the address given, and ' Plash Jim ' got hold of the 
 letters, and soon found out what a good thing might be 
 made of his sister-in-law's position. 
 
 One day when Mark was out he waited for Hetty in the 
 grounds, and vowed unless she gave him so much money he 
 would get her denounced to the police and arrested. Hetty 
 gave him everything she had. Then he came again and 
 sent her letters, and at last got into the house, and before 
 her very eyes broke the safe open and stole the plate and 
 jewellery. 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 121 
 
 Hetty begged and prayed of him to go, but it was no use. 
 He swore that if she called for help he would say that he 
 was her brother-in-law, and there by her invitation, and 
 that the marriage was a put-up job between them to enable 
 him to rob the place. 
 
 Terrified out of her life, fearing that she might be in- 
 volved in the robbery and perhaps believed to be an accom- 
 plice, the broken-hearted girl lost her courage and fled, 
 leaving un unfinished letter behind her. She felt that she 
 could not meet her husband when he knew the truth, and 
 she fancied by going away she might spare him at least 
 some of the shame and disgrace. 
 
 And so she went ; and when her child was born she left 
 it with her sister Hannah in London, while she went 
 abroad, feeling that she should be safer there. Hannah had 
 left Jim Morton, and was earning her own living again. 
 
 When the child was two years old, Mrs. Kintrea, having 
 settled for a fixed engagement in a French town, came home 
 and fetched her little one. But six months before the 
 accident to the Little Guy, ' Madame Marion ' had been com- 
 pelled to travel again, to fill in with short engagements, and 
 the little girl could not be taken ; so Hetty was sent home 
 to her aunt by an English governess, a friend of ' Madame 
 Marion's,' who was returning to London. 
 
 Hannah tried to do her duty by the child, and to use the 
 money her sister sent for the child's benefit ; but in an evil 
 hour she had gone back to Jim Morton, the man whose 
 influence over her was so great that only death would 
 conquer it. Jim took all the money and spent it, and, 
 being out of luck, he grew desperate in one of his drunken 
 frenzies and committed a clumsy theft, for which he had to 
 keep out of the way more than ever. He took his wife and 
 ' the brat,' as he called her, with him into a wretched slum, 
 where they starved, but he was safe for a time. Twenty 
 
122 THE LITTLE GUY. 
 
 burglars might live unnoticed in Strawberry Court — and 
 did. 
 
 There Hannah grew desperate, too. One day, after a 
 quarrel and brutal ill-usage, she went to Scotland Yard to 
 give Morton up. It was only a momentary madness. She 
 repented directly, and left without saying a word. 
 
 But Jim Morton heard of it, and the sequel of events the 
 reader knows already. 
 
 Poor Hannah, tired of her life, glad to give up the 
 struggle, flung herself in the Thames. She was the woman 
 who was buried as Mark Kintrea's wife; but though suf- 
 ficiently like her sister to have deceived a casual acquaint- 
 ance, she was not so like her as to have deceived Mark, 
 but for the photograph. 
 
 But the photograph found by the detective in Hannah's 
 room was an old photograph of her sister Hetty, and not of 
 herself, and this it was that left him no room for doubt 
 as to his wife having been the woman who lived with 
 ' Flash Jim,' and had fled to the river to escape his ven- 
 geance. 
 
 ' Now, Hetty dear, you must be very quiet, and lie quite 
 still ; here is mamma !' 
 
 Uncle Tom held the door open as he spoke, and Hetty 
 Kintrea came softly in and stole to the child's bedside and 
 fell upon her knees. 
 
 The child put its arms about its mother's neck, and then 
 there was a silence broken only by sobs. 
 
 Nobody could help it, and all the doctors in the world 
 couldn't have stopped it. Hetty sobbed — the little one 
 sobbed ; and Tom Darley, finding he was going to make 
 a fool of himself too, said a wicked word under his breath, 
 and went out of the room. 
 
 But Mark Kintrea who had come with bis wife, stayed 
 
THE LITTLE GUY. 123 
 
 on, and presently, when they were calmer, Hetty told her 
 little one that this was her new papa — the papa she had 
 never seen — the dear papa she would grow up to love as 
 much as she loved her dear mamma. 
 
 It was a very quiet Christmas party in the big front room 
 in Great Eussell Street, but it was a very happy one ; and 
 the folding-doors were set wide open, so that little Hetty 
 could see her mamma and papa and Uncle Tom, and the 
 Christmas-pudding, with the fire all round it. 
 
 It was a happy party, saddened only by the thought of 
 poor Hannah's fate ; but at least she was at peace. The 
 headstone above the grave had been altered directly the 
 strange truth was known, and ' Hannah Morton ' stands in 
 the place of ' Henrietta Kintrea ' ; for Henrietta Kintrea is 
 not buried, but alive and happy with her husband and her 
 child. 
 
 Jim Morton never troubled them again. A man, while 
 attempting to commit a burglary in the North, was shot by 
 the master of the house — shot through the heart. 
 
 The local police were enabled by photographs and the 
 official description at once to identify the dead burglar as 
 James Morton, alias ' Flash Jim.' 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 The following story was related to me by a young English- 
 man who never told an untruth Truth is stranger than 
 fiction, and instead of inventing a romance, I prefer on the 
 present occasion to repeat the facts which my friend im- 
 parted to me. I will use my friend's words so far as I can 
 remember them. 
 
 ' In the year 186 — I was a student at the University of 
 Bonn. One day the Emperor William, then King William, 
 for United Germany was still a dream, came to Bonn to 
 review the troops. Count Bismarck accompanied him. In 
 the evening Bismarck went to bathe from one of the float- 
 ing baths on the Bhine. Bismarck jumped into the water 
 and struck out. I jumped in and swam after him. Sud- 
 denly I heard a cry ; the great man had been seized with 
 cramp, and was sinking. We were the only bathers. I 
 swam to his assistance ; I seized him by the hair — he was 
 not so bald then as he is now — and dragged him back to 
 the platform which ran round the bath 
 
 ' " You have saved my life, young man," said Bismarck, 
 in excellent English ; " but don't say anything about it. I 
 ought not to have bathed so soon after a good dinner, and 
 I don't want the papers to say so. I don't want the papers 
 to publish the fact that I could do anything foolish. I have 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 125 
 
 the reputation for never making a mistake, and I shouldn't 
 like it to be destroyed over such a trivial affair as this. You 
 understand?" 
 
 ' "Perfectly," I replied ; "to a statesman in your position 
 a reputation for infallibility is vital. The story of to-night's 
 adventure shall never pass my lips until you give your con- 
 sent for it to be made public." 
 
 ' The count thanked me heartily, shook hands most 
 cordially, and, when we were dressed, invited me to ac- 
 company him to the temporary residence of his sovereign. 
 I was very pleased at the offer, and I gladly accepted it. 
 That evening I had the honour of smoking a pipe with the 
 king and Count Bismarck, no one else being present. The 
 king and the count both spoke English fluently, and we 
 conversed until ten o'clock, at which hour the king retired 
 to rest. 
 
 ' Before quitting the apartment he gave me a cordial 
 invitation to call upon him when I was in Berlin. I had 
 earned, he told me, his undying gratitude, for I had saved 
 the life of the one statesman who was capable of carrying 
 out his ideas with regard to the glorious future of the 
 Fatherland. 
 
 ' Bismarck walked home with me to my lodgings in the 
 Weberstrasse, and there we had more pipes. And the 
 count drank my health in some bottled Bass, which I had 
 procured at great expense from Herr Schmidt, the pro- 
 prietor of the excellent hotel in the market-place, the 
 Golden Star. 
 
 ' We parted at midnight, vowing eternal friendship. The 
 next day Bismarck and his royal master continued their 
 journey, and I saw nothing more of them for some 
 months. 
 
 ' I, however, received in a few days a charming letter of 
 thanks from the count, and in it I was assured that his 
 
126 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 Majesty desired his best remembrances to be conveyed 
 to me. 
 
 ' Four months afterwards I went to Berlin to spend a 
 short holiday. I called on Bismarck at his official resi- 
 dence, and he took me to see the king. I was in Berlin a 
 week, and during the whole of that time an apartment in 
 the royal palace was placed at my service. The Crown 
 Prince, who had heard the story of the rescue from his 
 father, was most friendly, and took me with him to many 
 places worth visiting, at which it would not have done 
 either for the king or his minister to have shown himself. 
 
 ' During my stay at the palace, the count always came in 
 the afternoon and smoked a pipe with me, and on these 
 occasions the conversation generally turned upon English 
 manners and customs, and English politics. I had a fair 
 knowledge of the political situation in my own country, and 
 from the fact of my father holding- a high official position 
 in the House of Commons, I knew most of our leading 
 English statesmen. 
 
 ' I don't say that the count, to use a vulgar expression, 
 " pumped " me, but it always seemed to me that his ques- 
 tions were leading ones, and that he had some object in 
 view in making his inquiries, other than idle curiosity. 
 
 ' When I left Berlin, the king and Count Bismarck came 
 to the railway-station to see me off. As the train was 
 starting, the great statesman whispered in my ear, " Jack " 
 — we had become very familiar — " if I ever want to come 
 to London on the strict Q.T., can you put me up?" I 
 assured him that I should be delighted. The whistle 
 sounded, the train started, the king waved his hand cor- 
 dially, and Bismarck waved his pocket-handkerchief until 
 a bend in the line hid him from my view, and a railway - 
 arch striking my hat made me withdraw my head and 
 shoulders into the safe seclusion of the first-class compart- 
 
BISMARCK JN LONDON. 127 
 
 ment, which by royal orders had been specially reserved 
 for me as far as Cologne. 
 
 ' I never visited Germany again. Tears went on, but I 
 still kept up a correspondence -with the great chancellor. 
 Every New Year's Day a handsome present arrived from 
 Berlin for me, and the king never omitted sending me a 
 Christmas card. 
 
 ' In the meantime, affairs rapidly developed themselves. 
 The Franco-German war was begun and finished, and the 
 dream of the man of " blood and iron " was realized. 
 " United Germany " was an accomplished fact. 
 
 ' After that I heard very rarely from my friend, now no 
 longer count, but " Fiirst " von Bismarck. He was too 
 busy to write often, he said, but he had not forgotten me. 
 He and the .emperor frequently spoke about me, and the 
 emperor, I was assured, had been good enough to say that 
 " United Germany " was my doing. Had Bismarck been 
 drowned that evening in the Bhine, the realization of his 
 grand scheme would have been indefinitely postponed. 
 
 ' In the spring of the year 187 — I received a visit from a 
 German ambassador. His excellency refused to give his 
 name to my servant, but wrote a message in German on 
 the slate kept for callers, which he desired to be handed 
 to me. The message was brought to my study, and was 
 to the effect that an envoy from the courb of Berlin desired 
 to see me on important business. 
 
 ' I gave orders for the gentleman to be admitted, and 
 directly he came into my study he double-locked the door, 
 drew down the blind, stuffed a piece of paper in the key- 
 hole, closed the register of the chimney, and led me to a 
 corner of the room. 
 
 ' Then, in a subdued whisper, he told me that Prince 
 Bismarck had ordered him to call upon me, and to see if 
 I could receive him, Prince Bismarck, in my house, and 
 
128 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 keep his identity a profound secret. " The chancellor 
 wishes," said my visitor, " to study England and the 
 English unobserved. He will arrive disguised in a wig 
 and a heavy black beard and moustache, and dressed as 
 a clergyman of the Lutheran Church. The name he will 
 assume will be that of the Rev. Theodor von Priigelstein. 
 In your company he will visit all the great people to whom 
 you can get an introduction. You will, if possible, get your 
 leading statesmen to dine at your house, and he will engage 
 in conversation with them. The prince would have written 
 you, but you do not know our cypher, and to have written 
 you in English or German would have been hazardous, as 
 letters from Germany are frequently opened at the post- 
 office. Accident or design might have betrayed his plan, 
 and the object of his visit would have been defeated." 
 
 ' I hesitated. 
 
 ' After a moment's pause, I said, " Your excellency, I will 
 tell you frankly my objection. I fear that the great chan- 
 cellor's feelings to my country are not friendly. I might be 
 doing an unpatriotic action in thus introducing him to our 
 unsuspecting statesmen. He might want to go over the 
 Dockyard or Woolwich Arsenal. He might even be coming 
 here to mature plans for an invasion of England. He is 
 awfully clever, my friend Bismarck ; as a man I respect 
 and esteem him — but as a statesman — an intriguer — I fear 
 him." 
 
 ' The ambassador assured me that my fears were ill- 
 founded. The object of the great chancellor's visit was 
 merely to make himself master of English manners and 
 customs, to gratify his desire to penetrate the vie intime of 
 English political circles, to go as it were "behind the scenes 
 of English politics." 
 
 ' I hesitated still. 
 
 « » 'Why the disguise?" I said. " Surely he can come as 
 
BTSMARCK IN LONDON. 129 
 
 Bismarck and be lionized, and see more than I can hope to 
 show him." 
 
 ' " Ach, gnadiger Herr," replied the ambassador ; " Sie 
 vergessen die deutschen Socialisten die in London wohnen. 
 Wenn Bismarck offentlich als Bismarck nach London kame, 
 so wiirden sie suchen ihn zu ermorden."* 
 
 ' I admitted that Bismarck was not popular with the 
 German Socialists, but I did not think they would go the 
 length of assassinating him. " Yes, they would," returned 
 the envoy, " if they had the chance. Moreover, so dis- 
 guised that his own mother would not know him, speaking 
 in a voice utterly unlike his own, which he has acquired by 
 months of practice, he will be able to go about, perhaps 
 among the German anarchists and agitators who infest your 
 Metropolis, and thus acquire information which may eventu- 
 ally be of the utmost service to him. I am, moreover, charged 
 by my imperial master to tell you that he will take it as a 
 personal favour to himself, if you will forward the chancellor's 
 designs by receiving him as your guest and maintaining his 
 incognito inviolable." 
 
 ' I yielded. The Emperor of Germany had always been 
 a great favourite of mine. Apart from his excessive mili- 
 tarism and a tendency to thank Heaven too effusively for 
 the slaughter of his foes, I had found him as nice an old 
 gentleman as could be met with in a day's march, and I had 
 a grateful recollection of the many happy hours we had 
 passed together over a pipe and a glass of beer in the dear 
 old palace at Berlin. 
 
 ' " Present my compliments to your imperial master, and 
 my good friend Fiirst von Bismarck," I exclaimed, " and 
 say that my humble residence is at their service. If the 
 
 * ' " Ah, worthy sir," replied the ambassador, " you forget th 
 German Socialists. If Bismarck cwnie to London as Bismarck, they 
 would seek to murder him." ' 
 
130 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 emperor himself likes to accompany the chancellor, dis- 
 guised as a Chinese mandarin, a Highland chieftain, or an 
 Arab sheikh, he is welcome. Wild horses shall not drag 
 from me the secret of their identity." 
 
 ' The envoy bowed and thanked me, and informed me 
 that he was returning that evening by the Continental mail 
 to Berlin with my answer ; that, on account of the extreme 
 caution necessary, I should receive no written communication 
 from the chancellor, but that, if I would be at Charing Cross 
 Station to meet the Continental mail arriving on the evening 
 of that day week, I should see stepping from a first-class 
 carriage a Lutheran clergyman in a wig and black beard 
 and moustache, who would be none other than Fiirst von 
 Bismarck. In order that there should be no mistake he 
 would hold his soft felt hat in his hand, as though suffering 
 from the heat. 
 
 ' As we shook hands for the last time on the doormat 
 in the hall, I asked his excellency if there was no fear of 
 Bismarck's design being frustrated in Berlin ? Would he 
 not be observed to leave his residence ; would not his 
 absence from the capital create some suspense, and cause 
 conjectures to be indulged in by newspaper correspondents 
 and others ? 
 
 ' " That is all foreseen and guarded against," replied the 
 envoy. "The day the chancellor leaves Berlin, disguised 
 as a Lutheran clergyman, an official communication to the 
 German newspapers will inform the world that he has set 
 out incognito for a sea trip to the Mediterranean for the 
 benefit of his health." 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' During the week that elapsed before the arrival of my 
 distinguished visitor, I imparted the secret to my father, 
 the high official in the House of Commons. I was bound 
 to do so in order to secure the presence of the illustrious 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 131 
 
 guests I desired Prince Bismarck to meet. My father, like 
 the dear old brick he is, at once set to work and procured 
 invitations for myself and the Lutheran pastor to a recep- 
 tion at the Foreign Office, a dinner-party at Mr. Gladstone's, 
 a ball at Lady Burdett Coutts', and a soiree at the Marquis 
 of Salisbury's. He also procured us two stalls for any 
 evening in the week at the Canterbury Music-Hall, taking 
 care that they were next the stalls usually occupied of an 
 evening at that time by Lord Eandolph Churchill and a 
 friend of his, a member of the Fourth party. The Marquis 
 of Hartington called personally upon me, after an interview 
 with my father, and offered to do all in bis power to intro- 
 duce my German clerical friend into the best houses and 
 places of political resort, and to take him to a race meeting 
 or two ; and, thanks also to my father's exertions and in- 
 fluence, the editor of the Daily Telegraph, the editor of the 
 Morning Post, and the editor of the Daily News sent kind 
 little notes, offering to do all in their power to assist my 
 German friend in making himself acquainted with all sides 
 of London life. 
 
 ' My dear old father, in his high official position in the 
 House of Commons, had spent a long . life in doing his 
 utmost to oblige everybody, and now he was reaping his 
 reward in seeing with what heartiness the shining lights of 
 politics and literature and fashion and journalism responded 
 to his request that his son's guest might be honoured in the 
 great Metropolis. 
 
 ' I must confess that once or twice I felt a qualm at the 
 idea of foisting the great and the dreaded Bismarck on our 
 statesmen as a harmless Lutheran pastor. I had vague 
 suspicions that I might be betraying my country into the 
 hands of the enemy, but had I not the great man's assurance 
 that he meant no harm ? And on thinking the matter over 
 I felt sure that my old friend, the Kaiser, would not have 
 
 9—2 
 
132 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 lent the light of his countenance to anything mean, 
 treacherous, or dishonourable. 
 
 ' So I made my mind easy, went to a little expense in re- 
 furnishing the suite of apartments intended for the prince, 
 borrowed my father's gold and silver plate and his butler, 
 and took a footman on for " the job," as they say in pro- 
 fessional circles. 
 
 ' On the evening of the eventful day, I was at Charing 
 Cross an hour before the advertised time of the arrival of 
 the Continental mail. The train was half an hour late, but 
 when it did arrive, the first passenger who caught my eye 
 was a Lutheran clergyman, with a fine black beard and 
 moustache and a mass of thick black hair (a marvellous wig 
 it was) and his hat in his hand. 
 
 ' The disguise was absolutely impenetrable — even the 
 eyes were hidden by tinted glasses, and when the great 
 German statesman addressed me it was in a voice that I 
 utterly .failed to recognise, so cleverly had it been altered by 
 its possessor. 
 
 ' In the station my friend was calm and reserved. He 
 had only one small hand-portmanteau, which had been ex- 
 amined at Dover, so we were not detained at the Customs. 
 In the carriage I asked my friend to remove his beard and 
 wig, but he said it would be dangerous. He even asked me 
 to allow him to keep up the false voice. He was afraid if 
 he used his own, even with me, he might in an unguarded 
 moment do it before the company, and then discovery would 
 follow as a matter of course. 
 
 ' " So, my dear friend," he said, " you will excuse me if, 
 when we are alone, I still keep up the appearance and 
 character of the Lutheran clergyman, Theodor von Priigel- 
 stein. My life-long training teaches me that a chain is no 
 stronger than its weakest link, and if for one second I re- 
 lapse into Bismarck, I may as well, for all practical purposes, 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 133 
 
 walk down Piccadilly with my own face and moustache, 
 and my own three hairs on my own bald head, and my own 
 well-known pipe in my own well-known mouth, and my 
 own well-known dog, Sultan, at my heels." 
 
 ' I agreed with the logical argument of my friend, and 
 requested him to give himself no anxiety on my account. 
 I would fall in with all his views, and teach myself to regard 
 him as though he actually were Theodor von Priigelstein, 
 and the mildest and most harmless of Lutheran clergymen. 
 
 ' We dined on the evening of the arrival tete-d-Ute, and 
 though the great chancellor imparted to me many state 
 secrets, and referred to all that had happened since we last 
 met, he kept up the character he had assumed so remark- 
 ably well that I do not believe his august master himself 
 would have recognised him. 
 
 ' On the following day we " did " a few of the sights of 
 London, and in the evening we went to Arlington Street, 
 and were very graciously received by Lord Salisbury. His 
 lordship drew my friend out as to the present views of the 
 Germans with regard to England, and particularly ques- 
 tioned him as to the general way in which Bismarck was 
 regarded by his fellow-countrymen. I could not repress a 
 smile when Herr Pastor von Priigelstein avowed himself a 
 disbeliever in the Bismarckian policy, and I chuckled in my 
 sleeve when Lord Salisbury swallowed the bait, and abused 
 the German chancellor in good round terms. The French 
 ambassador was present that evening, and Priigelstein 
 entered into familiar conversation with him in his native 
 tongue, frankly avowing his sympathy with France in the 
 loss of Alsace and Lorraine. 
 
 ' The next evening T had a dinner-party at my own 
 house, and the guests included, among others,. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gladstone, Madame de Novikoff, Mr. Brrington, Lord Eose- 
 bery, Sir William Harcourt, Mr. Eobinson of the Daily 
 
134 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 News, Sir Thomas and Lady Brassey, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Childers, Earl Granville, Mr. Chamberlain, Sir Charles 
 Dilke, Lady Florence Dixie, and the editor of the Times. 
 
 ' The pastor, for their edification, told his experiences of 
 the German Socialists, and Mr. Gladstone was so deeply 
 interested that he sent Mrs. Gladstone home at eleven, and 
 stayed in the smoking-room talking with my distinguished 
 guest until two in the morning. 
 
 ' The next day Priigelstein went out alone, and did not 
 return until it was time to dress and be off to Lady Burdett 
 Coutts' reception in Stratton Street. 
 
 ' So a fortnight passed away, my German clerical friend 
 rapidly becoming, through my influence and that of my 
 father, and his own amiable qualities, a lion of the London 
 season. He saw everything, went everywhere, and was 
 even taken by Lord Eandolph Churchill to the Marlborough 
 Club, and there introduced to the Prince of Wales. 
 
 ' At the end of the fortnight a telegram arrived one morn- 
 ing while Von Priigelstein and myself were sitting on the 
 lawn under my mulberry-tree, partaking of strawberries and 
 iced cream. Priigelstein read the telegram and put it in his 
 pocket, informing me that he would have to return to Berlin 
 by the early morning train. 
 
 ' " Nothing serious, I hope," I said. 
 
 ' " Oh, no I" replied the disguised chancellor ; " only 
 Fritz and his father have been quarrelling again, and the 
 old man thinks I had better come back. Fritz is always 
 difficult to manage when I am out of the way." 
 
 ' " "Well, my dear Bismarck," I replied, " I won't urge 
 you to stay if you must go, but I hope you have enjoyed 
 yourself, and that you have gained all the information you 
 desired." 
 
 ' " I have learnt all I wanted to," replied the prince, 
 " and I have only to thank you for your hospitality and to 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 135 
 
 say good-bye. By-the-way, Herbert, my son, has forgotten 
 to send me a remittance, and I have spent all the money I 
 brought with me. I have some commissions to execute for 
 the emperor this afternoon, and I shall have to pay for the 
 things to avoid betraying my identity. Can you let me have 
 £500." 
 
 ' " I haven't the money in the house, and it is past bank- 
 ing hours, so a cheque would be no use." 
 
 ' " Oh, your cheque will do," replied the prince ; " I'm 
 going to call on Baron Bothschild this afternoon, and he 
 will change it for me." 
 
 ' I drew the cheque, and Bismarck went out. That 
 evening he returned with a large number of boxes, which 
 he brought in and placed in the hall. He told me they 
 cpntained the articles he had been buying for the Kaiser, 
 and a few little things which he was taking home to his 
 family as presents. 
 
 ' At 6.30 the next morning, the prince was down and 
 ready to start. We took a hasty breakfast. His boxes 
 were loaded on to two cabs, and I accompanied him to the 
 station, and saw him off by the 7.40 Continental mail. 
 
 ' We parted with the greatest affection. Bismarck was 
 effusive in his thanks, and he begged me to accept as a mark 
 of his esteem the order of the Bed Eagle, which he informed 
 me the emperor wished me to accept, and he further told 
 me that the emperor had written personally to my queen, 
 and begged her to allow me to wear it upon all public 
 occasions. 
 
 ' I accepted the order and put it in my pocket. 
 
 ' We parted, the prince promising to write to me directly 
 he reached Berlin, and to send me on the little draft for the 
 £500. 
 
 'When I reached home I went straight upstairs, and 
 having pinned the order of the Bed Eagle on to my breast, 
 
1 36 BIS MA RCK IN L OND ON. 
 
 I walked about in front of the cheval glass and admired 
 myself. 
 
 ' I was interrupted by a knock at my bedroom door, and 
 my father's butler, who had been lent to me during Prince 
 Bismarck's stay, came in, and, in a voice choked with 
 emotion, told me that his pantry had been entered in the 
 night, and the whole of my fathe-'s gold and silver plate, 
 also lent to me for Prince Bismarck's visit, had been stolen. 
 
 ' I rushed off and gave information to the police at 
 Scotland Yard, and Chief Superintendent Williamson at 
 once sent a detective to examine the premises. While I 
 was in his office, he told me that Lord Salisbury had been 
 on the previous evening to complain that her ladyship's 
 bedroom had been entered, and over £3,000 worth of 
 jewellery abstracted. On my way home I met Mr. Glad- 
 stone, who asked me how the Herr Pastor was. I said 
 hat he had left for Germany. 
 
 ' " Indeed !" said Mr. Gladstone, " he called at my house 
 late yesterday afternoon, but he never said a word about 
 going so soon. And last night I met Baron Rothschild, 
 who informed me that he had an appointment with the 
 Herr Pastor this morning." 
 
 ' Of course I understood that this was part of the Bis- 
 marckian policy. He didn't want it to be known that he 
 was leaving London ; probably he kept it a secret by way of 
 precaution. 
 
 ' I returned home to meet the detective, and to endeavour 
 to find out how the premises had been entered during the 
 night. While I was engaged in minutely examining the 
 front door and the window-fastenings with Inspector Moser, 
 the eminent detective of Scotland Yard, Baron Rothschild 
 jumped out of a hansom and hailed me. 
 
 ' " I say, Jack I" he exclaimed, " where's the pastor ? Is 
 he in?" 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 137 
 
 "No; why?" 
 
 ' " Because he's forgotten to endorse this cheque, and 
 you made it payable to his order. I changed it for him out 
 of the petty cash I had about me." 
 
 ' I took the cheque mechanically, and looked at it. I 
 started as if I had been shot. "Good gracious I" I ex- 
 claimed, "this cheque has been tampered with. It's for 
 £5,000—1 only drew it for £500." 
 
 ' " I've given £5,000 for it !" cried the baron. " You 
 don't mean to say it's a forgery?" 
 
 ' " No, the signature is mine ; but if you look you will see 
 the word hundred has been cleverly altered to thousand, and 
 an extra added to the figures I" 
 
 ' We were both dumbfounded. 
 
 ' After a pause the baron said, hesitatingly, " But the 
 pastor — this Von Priigelstein — was a friend of yours ; you 
 introduced him to me at Lord Salisbury's. Surely you 
 don't think that ' 
 
 ' " No, I don't," I replied. " There's some mistake. I'll 
 wire to Bis — I mean Priigelsteia» at once." 
 
 ' The baron had an appointment with the chairman of 
 the Bank of England, and had to leave. I was fairly 
 puzzled. It was ridiculous to suppose that Prince Bismarck 
 could have purposely altered the cheque — but how else 
 could it have been done ? and the baron distinctly stated 
 that he had given my guest £5,000 for it. 
 
 ' I couldn't say anything to Moser, because, of course, I 
 should have had to say that my guest was none other than 
 the redoubtable Bismarck, and that would not have done. 
 
 ' While I was absorbed in thought Lord Bosebery's elegant 
 brougham drove up, and his lordship jumped out. 
 
 ' " I say, Jack," he said, as soon as we were alone, " a 
 very unpleasant thing has happened. Your friend Priigel- 
 stein was at my house yesterday. I was out, but Lady 
 
138 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 Eosebery received him. While there he asked to be allowed 
 to see the new library which I've built adjoining my bed- 
 room, and opening into it. Lady Eosebery took him to 
 the library. While there he put his hand in his pocket, and 
 drew it out hurriedly. It was covered with grease. He 
 informed Lady Eosebery that he had purchased that day a 
 bottle of vaseline, of which he had heard great accounts, and 
 it had broken in his pocket. 
 
 ' " ' Will you allow me to step into his lordship's dressing- 
 room and repair the damage, and wash my hands ?' he said. 
 
 ' " Of course Lady Eosebery agreed, and your friend went 
 into the bedroom, Lady Eosebery going downstairs to in- 
 struct one of the servants to attend to the gentleman's 
 wants. 
 
 ' " In a few minutes his pastorship returned, saying he 
 was all right now, and then he left. This morning I find 
 that a case of valuable jewels, worth at least £10,000, is 
 gone from my bedroom. Now, under these circumstances, 
 my dear fellow, I think your friend's conduct looks very 
 suspicious." 
 
 ' I was staggered. All these things, coming one upon the 
 other, bewildered me. But Bismarck a forger, Bismarck a 
 thief — the thing was absurd ! 
 
 ' I told Lord Eosebery that he was mistaken in his 
 suspicions, that it was a coincidence certainly, but that I 
 would answer for my friend's innocence with my life. 
 
 ' I couldn't tell Lord Eosebery that Priigelstein was 
 Prince Bismarck. Had I been able to do so, he would 
 have, of course, recognised at once the absurdity of his 
 suspicions. But I told him he had better go to Scotland 
 Yard, and in the meantime I would communicate with 
 Prugelstem. 
 
 ' " Where is he?" asked his lordship. 
 
 ' " He left this morning for Berlin." 
 
BIS MA RCK IN L ON DON. 1 39 
 
 '"Did he?" replied his lordship; "then we shan't see 
 him or my jewels again. I'm off to Scotland Yard." 
 
 ' When Lord Eosebery had re-entered his elegant little 
 brougham and driven off, I sat down upon my front steps, 
 a prey to a hundred emotions. 
 
 ' My father's plate had gone, £5,000 had been obtained 
 on my cheque for £500, Lord Salisbury had lost a large 
 amount of jewellery, so had Lord Eosebery, and in each 
 case there was certainly an element of suspicion attaching 
 to the disguised clergyman, who was in reality the world- 
 famous German Eeichs-Kanzler. But to suppose him guilty 
 was madness. " Could he," at last I thought, " could he 
 have been playing a practical joke ?" That idea was too 
 wild to be entertained. 
 
 ' In my doubt and anxiety I at last determined to take 
 Inspector Moser into my confidence. I called him into my 
 study and told him the whole story. 
 
 ' He listened with grave attention, and when I had con- 
 cluded he said quietly : " There is no doubt about it — 
 Bismarck is the culprit." 
 
 ' " But it's so improbable 1" I urged. 
 
 '"It is, but it is clearly a case of kleptomania. I have 
 known," he went on, " a most respectable monarch of long 
 standing, when attacked by this strange disease, pick the 
 pockets of privy councillors. Not long ago a wealthy 
 English nobleman, whose family came over before the 
 Conqueror was born, was caught abstracting the linen from 
 the clothes-line of a washerwoman in humble circumstances, 
 while his footman kept a sharp look-out for the " police- 
 man." The other day Mr. Howard Vincent received infor- 
 mation that a former home secretary had been detected in 
 endeavouring to pawn a Dutch clock, which he had stolen 
 from the kitchen of the House of Commons. And this very 
 morning, if I had not come to you, sir, I should have been 
 
MO BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 off to the country to investigate the case of a theft of quart 
 pots from a public-house, and we have ample proof that the 
 pots have been taken by a bishop, who has been melting 
 them down and making them into bad half-crowns. These 
 bad half-crowns he has disposed of by changing them for 
 the good ones put in the plate whenever he has preached a 
 charity sermon. 
 
 ' I accepted the detective's view of human nature acquired 
 by long experience, and I felt convinced that it was a case 
 of kleptomania, and I regretted exceedingly that the eminent 
 German statesman should have developed the disease while 
 a guest beneath my roof. 
 
 ' Taking Mr. Moser's advice, I at once sent a telegram to 
 Berlin, addressed to Prince Bismarck. He would be due in 
 Berlin on the following night, and would find it on his 
 arrival. 
 
 ' I telegraphed in these words : 
 
 ' " Pray return money, plate, and jewels by first passenger 
 train. It is carrying a joke too far to carry them away 
 with you." 
 
 ' To my intense surprise within two hours I received an 
 answer, and the answer was as follows : " Der Teufel 1 was 
 meinst du, du alter Spitzbube ?"* 
 
 ' Now, Bismarck could not possibly have reached Berlin 
 in half a day, and the mystery was intensified. 
 
 ' That night I set out for Berlin. I travelled without 
 stopping, and on my arrival drove straight to the chancellor's 
 residence. He was at home, and received me at once. 
 
 ' " Herr Pastor !" I exclaimed, endeavouring to assume a 
 light sarcastic tone, " you've got rid of your wig and your 
 black beard and moustache, but I hope you have not parted 
 with the money, the plate, and the jewellery you took away 
 by mistake from London !" 
 
 * ' What the deuce do you mean, you old humbug ?' 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 141 
 
 ' The man of blood and iron opened his eyes and stared 
 at me. 
 
 ' " Hundert Tausend Teufel, Dormer und Blitzen ! What 
 do you mean?" he exclaimed. " I got your telegram, and 
 thought it was a joke ; but you haven't come all this way 
 to play larks!" 
 
 ' " Come, come, old man," I said, with a touch of annoy- 
 ance in my voice, " drop it ; the joke's been carried too far. 
 Where are the things you took from my house, and from 
 Lord Salisbury's, and from Lord Rosebery's ? and where is 
 the £5,000 you got for that cheque of mine you forged ?" 
 
 ' " Sie sind verrilckt /"* screamed Bismarck. " Go away, 
 get out ; I am afraid of madmen ! Be off, or I'll set Sultan 
 on you !" 
 
 ' At this moment the emperor came to make his morning 
 call on his minister, and, surprised as he was to see me, 
 greeted me most cordially. In my indignation I blurted 
 out the whole story to his imperial majesty, and begged 
 him to use his influence with the prince, and to see that the 
 property was restored. 
 
 * The aged emperor opened his eyes wider than Bismarck 
 had done. "My dear fellow!" he exclaimed, "have you 
 had a sunstroke, or are you the victim of a delusion, or are 
 you drunk? Bismarck hasn't been away from Berlin a 
 single day for the last month." 
 
 'It was my turn to open my eyes. I did — very much. 
 I sank on the sofa, begging the Kaiser to excuse me sitting 
 in his presence, but I really could not help it. 
 
 ' Half an hour afterwards I left, fully persuaded that I 
 had been the victim of a marvellous plot, and that Theodor 
 von Priigelstein was neither Prince Bismarck nor a Lutheran 
 clergyman, but an accomplished swindler, who had in some 
 mysterious manner discovered my intimacy with the German 
 * ' You are mad !' 
 
142 BISMARCK IN LONDON. 
 
 chancellor, and carried out, on the strength of it, a daring 
 scheme, unparalleled in the annals of swindling. 
 
 ' Before I left the Kaiser sent for the chief of the Berlin 
 police, and placed the matter in his hands, promising to 
 communicate the result of his investigation to me as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 ' A month later the German ambassadsor — not the envoy 
 who had previously called — came to see me, and told me a 
 strange story. 
 
 ' All had been discovered by the Berlin police, assisted by 
 their London confreres. 
 
 ' Theodor von Priigelstein and the German ambassador, 
 who called to arrange his visit to me, were brothers. The 
 latter was a German valet, who had lost his place for dis- 
 honesty in London. The former was a discharged Anglo- 
 German official — formerly connected with the Berlin railway 
 station. He had heard Prince Bismarck's farewell greeting 
 — he had heard him say, "If I come to London on the 
 extreme Q.T., will you put me up ?" 
 
 ' For years he had thought the matter over, and had at 
 last matured his plan. His brother in London had ascer- 
 tained that I was still in communication with the prince 
 and the Kaiser, and that I had the entrance of the great 
 houses and of political circles, and the brothers had worked 
 out the plot between them. My plate was packed by 
 Priigelstein in the night, in the empty boxes in the hall; 
 and the jewel robberies were committed after Priigelstein, 
 thanks to my introduction, had become a welcome guest at 
 the houses of the nobility. His disguise had been of course 
 necessary, as he was not very like the man he was per- 
 sonating, though his exact height and build. Priigelstein, 
 thanks to the efforts of the police, was captured, and the 
 bulk of the stolen property recovered and restored to its 
 owners. At Prince Bismarck's earnest request the trial 
 
BISMARCK IN LONDON. 143 
 
 was conducted in secret, and the details were never pub- 
 lished. 
 
 ' Both Bismarck and the emperor thought that a certain 
 amount of ridicule would be reflected upon the former if 
 the story were made public, and ridicule is the one thing 
 that is most feared in German statecraft and diplomacy. I 
 only tell the story now because two special correspondents 
 of American newspapers have got hold of it from Priigel- 
 stein's mother-in-law, who has found some private letters 
 in the pockets of an old pair of trousers of his, and has 
 put two and two together. As it must be told, I think 
 I have the best right to tell it first, and I do so the more 
 readily as I have the permission both of Prince Bismarck 
 and the aged emperor to divulge it ; and my father, having 
 retired on a pension, his high official position in the House 
 of Commons cannot now be injured by the revelation.' 
 
 Truth is stranger than fiction. This story is true, for I 
 had it from the lips of a man who could place his hand 
 upon his heart and honestly say that, like George Washing- 
 ton, ' he never told a lie ' I 
 
THE LOST AUTHOR. 
 
 Being an Account of the Adventures of Mr. Horsman Gaunt 
 and one Sloppygas. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE SWIWLE CLUB. 
 
 The smoking-room of the Swiwle Club was remarkably full 
 on the afternoon of Thursday, August 14, 188 — . The 
 Swivvlers are principally literary men, and thus it happens 
 that the wrongs of authors frequently crop up in the course 
 of conversation. On this particular afternoon someone 
 had startled the company by declaring that he knew a per- 
 fectly honest and even generous firm of publishers. It 
 was something so novel for a literary man to defend a pub- 
 lisher, that the greatest excitement prevailed in the club- 
 house. 
 
 The rumour of what was going on spread rapidly, and the 
 Swivvlers came in from all parts of the building. Members 
 passing along Piccadilly were hailed from the windows, and, 
 alighting from their cabs and omnibuses, hurried into the 
 Swiwle to take part in the proceedings. 
 
 The author who had taken upon himself the onerous task 
 of defending a publisher was the celebrated novelist, Mr. 
 Byzantium. 
 
THE LOST AUTHOR. 145 
 
 Mr. Byzantium had long ago achieved considerable fame, 
 but just at this period he had made a striking and brilliant 
 success with a novel entitled, ' People Jogged Along Pretty 
 Comfortably Then.' 
 
 The plot of Mr. Byzantium's latest work was thoroughly 
 original. It was somewhat as follows : 
 
 A young British lieutenant, home for a holiday, plays fast 
 and loose with the affections of a young maid-of-all-work 
 employed in an apothecary's shop. After leading the poor 
 girl on to imagine that he would marry her and present her 
 at court, he pays attention to another young lady of pre- 
 possessing appearance, who sings in the chorus of a theatre 
 This young lady visits the hero at his chambers in the 
 Albany to thank him for having protected her from annoy- 
 ance in Eegent Street ; and to show her gratitude, sh 
 orders a friend of hers, who has influence in the Horse 
 Guards, to promote the young lieutenant to the rank o 
 general. The maid-of-all-work from the apothecary's shop 
 coming unexpectedly to the Albany, takes in the situation, 
 lets down her back hair and curses the hero, who orders her 
 off the premises. 
 
 The lieutenant, now a general, leaves for the seat of was 
 and engages the enemy. The enemy are about to flee, when 
 the general suddenly recollects the young woman's curse, 
 and instantly losing his reason, requests the enemy to turn 
 round, and then and there orders his troops to lay down 
 their arms and surrender. 
 
 The troops obey, but for this conduct the young general 
 on his return is condemned to death. The night before the 
 day appointed for his execution, the maid-of-all-work gets 
 into the prison by the chimney, lets him out, and, accom- 
 panied by the apothecary, they spend the rest of their lives 
 in cruising about the North Pole. "Whether the hero marries 
 the heroine is left in doubt, but when last seen she stands 
 
 10 
 
146 THE LOST AUTHOR. 
 
 on the prow of the vessel in a black silk dress, with a big 
 gold chain round her neck. 
 
 Mr. Byzantium, than whom a more pleasant and agree- 
 able and thoroughly unassuming gentleman was not to be 
 found in literary circles, was on this August afternoon with 
 his back to the wall, stoutly defending his publishers against 
 all comers. 
 
 ' I grant there are wicked publishers,' he remarked ; ' I 
 grant that authors are frequently shamefully treated ; for 
 this reason have we not started a "Society of Authors," the 
 members of which bind themselves by solemn oath never to 
 part with a manuscript unless they are guaranteed the 
 entire profits, less five per cent, for the publisher's board 
 and lodging ? I grant that much which my brother Swiwlers 
 have urged against the trade is true in substance and in 
 fact; but I still maintain that my publishers, Messrs. Chatter 
 and Pumpus, are honest and fair-dealing, and, what is more, 
 extremely generous men.' 
 
 There was a slight interruption in the corner of the room; 
 a tall, intellectual-looking young man of about thirty had 
 risen to his feet, and insisted upon speaking. All eyes were 
 turned in his direction. ' Silence for Horsman Gaunt,' cried 
 the Swiwlers. Thus encouraged, Mr. Horsman Gaunt 
 delivered himself as follows : 
 
 ' Gentlemen, I beg to endorse every word that my friend 
 Walter Byzantium has said on behalf of his publishers, but 
 I dare to add that mine are equally generous. For my last 
 novel " It,'' Messrs. Shortmans have paid me the magnifi- 
 cent sum of £5,000 ; for my next work, which will deal 
 with the adventures of a masher in Central Africa, and 
 which will be called " The Man with the Eyeglass," I am 
 to receive £10,000. I have five new works now in my 
 head, and I reckon that these will bring me in at least 
 £100,000.' 
 
THE LOST AUTHOR. 147 
 
 There was a pause as though the entire assembly were 
 silently working out a sum in mental arithmetic. 
 
 Then a handsome young fellow, over whose curly brown 
 hair some five-and-twenty summers had passed, a lad whom 
 none of the company knew, he having come in that after- 
 noon as the guest of a member, who had never been there 
 before, startled the company by exclaiming : 
 
 ' And will they all be about Africa ?' 
 
 'All,' replied Mr. Horsman Gaunt; 'Ex Africa semper 
 aliquid novi.' 
 
 The Swiwlers laughed at the epigram, but the sarcasm 
 told home. 
 
 Presently a gentleman connected with the Friday Beview 
 murmured under his breath, ' I should have thought he had 
 used up his African experiences by this time.' 
 
 The words were spoken in a low tone of voice, but they 
 reached the ears of Mr. Horsman Gaunt. 
 
 ' The last speaker surmises correctly,' he exclaimed, a 
 look of scorn curling his lower lip ; ' but my new books will 
 contain my new experiences. I leave for Africa to-morrow, 
 and my new works will all be written on the spot.' 
 
 At that moment there was a shout in Piccadilly : a wheel 
 had come off a hansom cab, and an enormous crowd had 
 gathered to witness the scene. The Swiwlers rushed to 
 the window, and became so deeply interested in this ever- 
 attractive phase of street traffic that they forgot all else. 
 
 "When the cab had been drawn into a side street and the 
 crowd had been dispersed by a staff of constables assisted 
 by the military, the Swiwlers turned from the window to 
 renew the discussion. 
 
 But Mr. Horsman Gaunt had departed, arm-in-arm with 
 his friend Mr. Byzantium, and, unobserved by all, the young 
 man with the curly brown hair had stealthily stolen after 
 them. 
 
 10—2 
 
i 4 8 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 MB. HOBSMAN GAUNT. 
 
 Befoeb we attempt to further follow the adventures of Mr. 
 Horsman Gaunt, it is advisable that the reader should be 
 made acquainted with the reason for his enormous popu- 
 larity as an author. The work which had taken the town 
 by storm was a remarkable romance of the Jules Verne 
 order, entitled 'It.' 
 
 A young Girton girl, turning over her dead grandmother's 
 workbox, finds in it an old sampler. Upon this sampler, 
 worked in wool, was a cuniform inscription. This the 
 Girton girl was able to decipher. The cuniform inscription 
 simply recorded the fact that Methuselah was still alive, 
 and at present residing in the heart of Africa. The grand- 
 mother was fully convinced that Methuselah was a near 
 connection of the family, and would be glad to know his 
 relations. She herself had wished to set out in search of 
 him, but was prevented by the difficulties of travel, which 
 were very great indeed in her day, but on this sampler she 
 had worked a desire (this was in Greek characters) that her 
 daughter should undertake the journey. This daughter, 
 unable to read the cuniform inscription, and ignorant of 
 Greek, had tossed the sampler aside, married a rich mer- 
 chant, and died at a ripe old age of cramp in the stomach, 
 caused by eating ice-pudding on Christmas Day, while still 
 warm from the exertion of leaping the garden-wall to escape 
 from the attack of a bull, which was irritated by the old 
 lady's red knitted petticoat, which, owing to a mistake in 
 measurement, came two inches below her dress. 
 
 The Girton girl felt her mother's death keenly, for the 
 red petticoat had been her Christmas present ; but she did 
 not interrupt her studies till after the New Year, when the 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. 149 
 
 will had been proved, and she came home to take possession. 
 It was in going over her boxes that she discovered her 
 grandmother's sampler. 
 
 As soon as she had mastered the inscription thereon, she 
 decided to start off at once in search of Methuselah. Her 
 tutor, one Mr. Mistletoe, and her mother's cook, an old 
 Irishwoman named Biddy McCree, were her companions on 
 this remarkable journey. After many extraordinary adven- 
 tures, Methuselah was found, and the Girton girl fell in 
 love with him. Biddy, after enlivening the story with much 
 low comedy, came to an untimely and tragic end, and 
 Methuselah insisted on the Girton girl taking Old Parr's 
 Life Pills, in order that she might live for ever. He 
 swallowed a box himself to give her confidence, but the box 
 stuck in his throat, and choked him. The Girton girl and 
 her tutor, Mr. Mistletoe, returned to town to write the 
 story, and send it to a publisher. 
 
 Such was ' It.' The daring novelty of killing the low 
 comedian in the big situation had taken the world by 
 storm. 
 
 Mr. Horsman Gaunt parted with his friend, Mr. Byzan- 
 tium, at the statue of Achilles in Hyde Park, far from that 
 point their paths lay in opposite directions. 
 
 ' Then you really mean to start for Africa to-morrow 
 morning, old fellow,' said the genial Byzantium. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Gaunt ; ' I have chartered a private vessel, 
 and I sail from the West India Docks to-morrow at noon. 
 I shall penetrate to the interior before I return. I am tired 
 of these abominable charges that I borrow my romances 
 from other people's books. ' I mean to prove that the only 
 book from which I borrow is the book of nature. Good- 
 bye ; God bless you, old fellow. If I never return, say a 
 
1 50 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 word now and again for an old friend, if you see a spiteful 
 paragraph or a malignant review published in my absence.' 
 
 With tears in his eyes the genial Walter promised that he 
 would obey his friend's request, and after many handwring- 
 ings, and one grand final embrace, h la Frangaise, the two 
 leading fictionists of the present day parted, and each went 
 his separate and solitary way. 
 
 When the last echoes of their footsteps had died away in 
 the distance, a curly brown head popped out from behind 
 the statue of Achilles. 
 
 ' So he sails for Africa to-morrow at noon, does he ?' 
 exclaimed the owner of the curly brown head; ' then there 
 is no time to be lost. £100,000 ! Men have perilled their 
 souls for half that amount ere now. Avaunt the diamond- 
 fields of the Cape ! Avaunt the orange groves of Florida ! 
 Avaunt the cattle ranches of Texas 1 Horsman Gaunt in 
 Africa will be a better spec, by far. Once on board the 
 lugger, and Horsman Gaunt is mine.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 That night, in his princely residence in Park Lane, amid 
 a profusion of fairy lamps, hot-house flowers, and silver 
 plate, the famous author of ' It ' made his will, gave his 
 keys to his wife, wrote a letter to his publishers, and ap- 
 pointed a guardian to his son in case of accidents, and, ^h 
 the following morning, after a simple breakfast and an 
 affectionate leave-taking, he entered a four-wheeler, loaded 
 inside and out with portmanteaux, gun-cases, and medicine- 
 chests, and told the cabman to start. 
 
 ' Where to ?' asked the man. 
 
 ' To the West India Docks,' replied the famous author. 
 
 And that was the last that was seen of Horsman Gaunt 
 in Park Lane for many a long day to come. 
 
THE LOST AUTHOR. 151 
 
 CHAPTBE III. 
 
 OLD AFRICA. 
 
 ' Yonder are the shores of Africa, or I am very much out 
 in my bearings !' 
 
 It was a glorious September night, the moon shone full 
 upon the far-away shore, sharply defining its outlines. 
 
 'Yes,' continued the speaker, as he paced the deck, glass 
 in hand, ' yonder are the Mountains of the Moon ; to ^he 
 left flows the great underground river; to the right are 
 distinctly visible the minarets of Milosis.' 
 
 The speaker paused suddenly. 
 
 The sky had become instantaneously darkened, the moon 
 was completely obscured by an extraordinary cloud Of dense 
 blackness. 
 
 ' It's a storm, sir, I think,' exclaimed one of the sailors, 
 a young man with curly brown hair. 
 
 ' It is no storm,' replied Mr. Horsman Gaunt, for the 
 gentleman pacing the deck was the famous African novelist. 
 ' It is a swarm of flying lobsters, and the enormous creatures 
 are actually falling upon the ship.' 
 
 The young sailor started back with an exclamation of 
 horror. 
 
 Thousands of huge lobsters, with immense staring eyes, 
 were falling on the deck of the vessel. As they fell and 
 cracked their shells, thousands more lobsters fell on the 
 tops of them, and began to tear them to pieces and devour 
 them. 
 
 Presently these hideous lobsters of the air fell upon the 
 vessel in such numbers that she began to sink deeper and 
 deeper in the water. 
 
152 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 The crew put up their umbrellas, but they were broken 
 instantly by the weight of the crustaceous shower. 
 
 ' We are sinking,' cried Mr. Gaunt; ' let all hands take to 
 the rigging.' 
 
 There was not a moment to lose. The ship was sinking 
 rapidly. As the men climbed the masts they felt the water 
 gaining on them. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt chose the tallest mast for himself, and arrived 
 at its summit panting. 
 
 'Parnassus is nothing to this,' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Facilis descensus Averni,' replied the young sailor, who 
 was immediately below his master on the mast. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt looked at the speaker suspiciously. 
 
 ' It is rare to hear a classical quotation fall from the lips 
 of a common sailor.' 
 
 ' Never mind what falls from my lips, sir. Take care you 
 don't fall from that mast,' was the reply. 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken when the ship began to 
 rise again rapidly — the lobsters had been drowned by the 
 inflowing waters, and, unable to hold on to the ship, had 
 slipped off and perished in the depths. 
 
 'We are saved,' said Mr. Gaunt. 'A truly remarkable 
 adventure I Now, if I were to put that in one of my 
 books ' 
 
 The sentence was never finished. At that moment the 
 vessel struck on a huge rock 
 
 ■ The man at the wheel, unable to see where be was 
 going for the huge pile of lobsters which lay around 
 him, had altered the ship's course, and run her on the 
 rocks. 
 
 At that moment the last remnant of the swarm still in 
 the air cleared the moon, and its pearly light fell upon the 
 scene. 
 
 The ship was fast going to pieces. 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. 153 
 
 'This alters my plans,' muttered the young sailor, 'but it 
 may save me trouble.' 
 
 With the quickness of a cat he seized an axe. 
 
 ' We must cut away the mast,' he exclaimed, ' and then 
 she may float off.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, nonsense I' cri~J Mr. Gaunt ; ' we must cut 
 away ourselves.' 
 
 But the young sailor heeded not his master's words. 
 With herculean force he buried his axe in the mainmast, 
 and as it began to sway he gave it a dexterous kick with his 
 foot, which caused it to fall upon Mr. Gaunt's head with 
 just sufficient force to stun him. 
 
 To cut away a boat, throw his senseless master into it, 
 and then leap in himself, was the work of a second. Then 
 he pulled off. 
 
 ' Hi, hi 1' shouted the crew. ' Wait a moment ; we want 
 to come too.' 
 
 The young sailor spoke no word. He placed his thumb 
 to his nose and spread his fingers out. The next instant he 
 was rowing vigorously towards the shore. 
 
 An hour later no vestige of the wrecked vessel or her 
 unhappy crew remained in sight. 
 
 But high and dry upon the shore lay the still senseless 
 body of Mr. Horsman Gaunt, and by him sat a figure busily 
 engaged in smearing itself from head to foot with lamp- 
 black. Then over its curly brown hair the figure drew 
 a nigger minstrel's wig. 
 
 Presently the senseless man opened his eyes. 
 
 He looked around. 
 
 ' Where am I ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Guess you are in old Africa, Koos-y-Pagate, Koos-y- 
 umcool,' replied a strange voice. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt looked up and beheld a young black Zulu 
 beside him. 
 
1 54 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 ' And who are you ?' he groaned. 
 
 'Who am I? Koos-y-umcool (mighty chief), guess dis 
 chile's name is one Sloppygas.' 
 
 ' One Sloppygas !' murmured the prostrate novelist. 
 
 Then he closed his eyes again, and murmuring, ' Call me 
 at seven, Sloppygas,' fell into a sweet and refreshing sleep. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE SACKED BLUEBOTTLE. 
 
 Fob three long weeks Horsman Gaunt and the mysterious 
 Zulu, who had started up from nowhere, and who called 
 himself Sloppygas, had been tramping forward into the 
 unknown. 
 
 Many wonderful sights they saw, but they did not linger 
 to observe them, Mr. Gaunt saying that he had seen them 
 all before. 
 
 There was a river of fire that flowed through a frozen 
 sea ; there was a city where the people were black and 
 white in stripes like zebras ; and there was a mysterious 
 cave in which the Queen of Sheba had deposited the whole 
 of her family plate before setting out to call upon King 
 Solomon. 
 
 At the end of the third week the travellers arrived upon 
 the borders of a sandy desert. 
 
 In the distance, brilliant with pi.smatic rays in the golden 
 sunlight, they perceived a city which appeared to be made 
 entirely of glass. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt paused, and, adjusting his telescope, inspected 
 the city minutely. 
 
 ' Sloppygas !' he exclaimed, ' this is something new ; I 
 m Lbb make a note of this for my new book.' 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. 1 5 5 
 
 He drew out his notebook, and was about to make an 
 entry, when a bluebottle settled on the fair white page. 
 
 ' Flick it away, Koos-y-umcool,' exclaimed Sloppygas. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt flicked the bluebottle with his finger and 
 thumb, and instantly a clarion sounded, and thousands of 
 horsemen galloped out from the city of glass. 
 
 Before he had recovered from his surprise Mr. Gaunt was 
 seized and carried to the royal palace. 
 
 On the great glass throne sat a Siamese queen, a beautiful, 
 or, rather, two beautiful white girls. They were evidently 
 united after the manner of the double-headed nightingale, 
 but they were distinct and separate beings, one having 
 short curly black hair, and the other long golden tresses. 
 
 To his intense surprise, both queens addressed Mr. Gaunt 
 simultaneously in English. 
 
 ' 'Ail to thee, stranger ! Why 'ast thou flicked the 
 Sacred Bluebottle ?' they said. 
 
 Horsman Gaunt was dumfounded. 
 
 ' I really don't know,' he stammered. 
 
 Then Sloppygas stepped forward and fell on his face and 
 explained that the white stranger was from a far-off land 
 where bluebottles were of no account. 
 
 ' 'Ow dost thou know this ?' asked the queens ; ' thou hart 
 not of the stranger's land by thy colour.' 
 
 ' No, your Siamese Double-headed Majesties,' replied 
 Sloppygas ; ' but I was taken there as a child by one Farini 
 ■ — Farini the Baba (father) — and I lived in the English city 
 of Westminster at the Aquarium for awhile, therefore do I 
 know the customs and the language. I plead with thee, O 
 queens, for this stranger's life. I succoured him when he 
 was shipwrecked on the African coast. I saved his life, 
 therefore I claim it now.' 
 
 The high priest of the Temple of the Sacred Bluebottle 
 stepped forward. He had a big red S branded on his brow, 
 
1 56 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 and he accompanied himself off a big drum as he chanted 
 through his nose the following speech : 
 
 ' Ho, my friends, I am glad this hafternoon that the 
 wicked man 'as been given hinto hour power. I am glad 
 this hafternoon that 'e 'ath been brought 'ere that we may 
 slay 'im, for the law of the land is that whoso toucheth a 
 Sacred Bluebottle shall be frozen to death in the great 
 refrigerator. I ham glad this hafternoon.' 
 
 The Double-headed Queens consulted each other. Sloppy- 
 gas again, with tears in his eyes, urged that the stranger's 
 life was his, as he had saved it. 
 
 The fate of Horsman Gaunt trembled in the balance. He 
 saw the two queens glance at him with admiration. He 
 was a well-formed man, and handsome withal — tall and 
 muscular. 
 
 The queens nodded at each other — they had decided. 
 
 ' Black stranger,' they said, ' the white stranger's life is 
 yours, but 'e 'as flicked a Sacred Bluebottle, and cannot, by 
 hour laws, leave this city halive ; 'e must remain a prisoner 
 hon parole for the rest of 'is days.' 
 
 Horsman Gaunt heaved a deep sigh. He was free, but a 
 prisoner. 
 
 ' Hang it all !' he exclaimed, ' I shall have more Africa 
 than I bargained for.' 
 
 But a strange smile played about the mouth of Sloppygas. 
 
 ' At last 1' he muttered between his teeth. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE PEISONEE ON PAROLE. 
 
 Eok a month Horsman Gaunt was silent and reserved. He 
 had given his parole to save his life ; but the wonders of the 
 great glass city once exhausted, they began to pall upon him 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. 1 5 7 
 
 He had been curious to learn how the Siamese queens and 
 the high priest came to drop their h's and put them on in 
 the wrong place. 
 
 Sloppygas explained the mystery. An Englishman had 
 established himself some years ago as a pawnbroker in the 
 glass city. He came from Whitechapel. It was he who 
 taught the royal family to speak English. 
 
 But Sloppygas did not tell Mr. Gaunt that this pawn- 
 broker was his own uncle, and that it was through this 
 uncle, who came back to England, that he had heard of the 
 existence of the glass city, and the manners and customs of 
 its inhabitants. 
 
 During the second month of his captivity, Gaunt grew 
 moody and morose. Then Sloppygas gave him counsel. 
 
 ' Write, Koos,' he said, ' write. Write great books as 
 you say you used to do, Baba. The labour we delight in 
 physics pain.' 
 
 Horsman Gaunt stared at Sloppygas in blank amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Where did you learn that expression ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Koos Farini would say it to me when I was with his 
 Zulu troupe at the Aquarium,' replied Sloppygas ; and the 
 subject dropped. 
 
 After the third month Gaunt took his black protector's 
 advice, and began to write. Gradually he forgot his captivity 
 and was lost in the development of his African romances. 
 In twelve months he had finished three new novels, and 
 had a fourth upon the stocks. 
 
 As he finished his stories he read them to the Siamese 
 queens and the high priest, and to Sloppygas. They were 
 all delighted, and the high priest asked for the manuscripts 
 to place them among the archives of the Temple of the 
 Sacred Bluebottle. 
 
 Horsman Gaunt hesitated. ; 
 
158 THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 ' I will copy them, Koos-y-umcool,' whispered Sloppy- 
 gas, ' and give them the copies.' 
 
 Mr. Gaunt yielded to his faithful follower's advice, 
 and the MSS. were duly copied and handed to the high 
 priest. 
 
 A fourth novel was finished, and a fifth, and all were 
 copied and placed among the sacred archives. 
 
 And wandering at eve through the beautiful shores of the 
 glass city, the captive author would say to himself : 
 
 ' By Jove ! if ever I get free, what a terrific sum these 
 books will realize I I wonder what my friends in London 
 will think has become of me ?' 
 
 He did not know that his long absence was already 
 causing comment, and that' his friend, Mr. Byzantium had 
 written a letter to the Times, urging that an expedition 
 should be sent to Africa in search of him. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A NEW AUTHOR. 
 
 Thbbb years after the events narrated in the last chapter, 
 a new author burst with meteoric splendour upon the 
 London literary world. Mr. Allan Darvil, the author in 
 question, was a young man with curly brown hair. His 
 books were brought out in rapid succession by Shortmans, 
 Chatter and Pumpus, Brokenly and Co., and Bagmen and 
 Vestibule. The critics said they were in the style of Mr. 
 Horsman Gaunt, but vastly superior in quality. The author 
 received fabulous sums for his manuscripts, and it was 
 rumoured that he had made £200,000 by his works, and 
 would write no more. 
 
 Allan Darvil was lionized through the London season ; he 
 had his yacht and his horses, and when in town lived in 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. I 59 
 
 tnagnificerit style in Berkeley Square. He was at once the 
 admiration and the envy of all who knew him. Duchesses 
 came daily, and sat in bis hall to ask for his autograph, and 
 all the transatlantic steamers leaving New York were 
 crowded with American beauties coming to seek his hand in 
 marriage. 
 
 At the Swivvle Club he was the great subject of conversa- 
 tion in the smoking-room. No one knew anything of his 
 antecedents. Some five years ago he had been brought by 
 a member as a visitor one afternoon, but since then, until 
 he became famous, no one remembered to have met him. 
 Still, all the Swivvlers acknowledged his merit as a writer ; 
 that is to say, all those who did not write novels them- 
 selves. 
 
 Alone in the gorgeous bedroom of his mansion in Berkeley 
 
 Square, Allan Darvil became a different man. His gaiety 
 
 forsook him, and he was silent and depressed, and at night 
 
 he would toss feverishly on his pillow, and mutter the name 
 
 of Horsman Gaunt in his dreams. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Let us return to the great glass city for awhile. 
 
 It is a great fete day, the birthday of the Sacred Blue- 
 bottle. 
 
 There is a ball in honour of the Bluebottle at the royal 
 palace, and Horsman Gaunt has the honour of dancing the 
 first war-dance with the double-headed queens. 
 
 He looks older and more careworn than when we saw 
 him last. He is pining for his home and his lost identity. 
 Just as the slaves are handing round alligator sandwiches 
 and iced Merissa (a kind of beer made from durra), the 
 high priest rushes into the room in a state of great excite- 
 ment. 
 
 ' What's hup ?' exclaim the queens, speaking in English, 
 that their court may not understand. 
 
i6o THE LOST A UTHOR. 
 
 ' The harchives ! the harchives !' replies the priest ; ' the 
 books of the white stranger, dedicated to the Sacred Blue- 
 bottle, 'ave been stolen.' 
 
 ' Who can have done this ?' cries Horsman Gaunt ; ' they 
 are of no value except to the owner.' Suddenly a strange 
 thought flashes through his brain : ' When were the archives 
 examined last V 
 
 ' A year ago to-day ; they are only examined on the Blue- 
 bottle's birthday.' 
 
 ' Then the thief is Sloppygas. It was the day after the 
 Bluebottle's last birthday that he disappeared.' 
 
 ' It is sacrilege,' says the priest ; ' the Bluebottle's wrath 
 must be appeased by a human sacrifice. Sloppygas must 
 die.' 
 
 ' Eelease me from my parole and I will search the earth 
 till I find him,' exclaims Gaunt. 
 
 The queens consult together. 
 
 ' Take hus with you,' they reply, after long and earnest 
 deliberation, ' hand you shall go. We should like to see the 
 world while we hare young.' 
 
 Gaunt hesitates. 
 
 ' Would it be proper ?' he says, after a pause. 
 
 'Perfectly,' reply the que-ns, 'we 'ave a widowed haunt 
 who will haccompany hus.' 
 
 * * * * ♦ 
 
 That very night, accompanied by the double-headed 
 queens and their widowed aunt, Horsman Gaunt left the 
 glass city en route for London. A secret instinct told him 
 that it was in the Modern Babylon that he must search for 
 the missing Sloppygas. 
 
THE LOST A UTHOR. 161 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 Six months later, after remarkable adventures, a royal and 
 distinguished party from Central Africa arrived in London 
 and put up at the Charing Cross Hotel. The Double-headed 
 Queens went off to see the sights of the Metropolis ; but Mr. 
 Gaunt drove to his home. There he was most affectionately 
 greeted, and his family held their breath while he related 
 his marvellous adventures. He told them the plots of the 
 missing manuscripts. Astonishment was expressed on 
 their features. They told him that he was simply quoting 
 from the famous works of Mr. Allan Darvil. 
 
 He rushed off to the Swivvle Club. There, in consequence 
 of the non-payment of his subscription, his name had been 
 crossed off the list of members, and the hall-porter refused 
 to admit him. But the members kindly came out and con- 
 versed with him on the doorstep. 
 
 He told his story and the plots of the missing MSS. 
 
 ' Oh, come, dear boy,' exclaimed the members, ' you are 
 really going too far. There isn't an incident that you 
 haven't borrowed from Allan Darvil.' 
 
 ' Where is this Allan Darvil to be found ?' he cried. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Darvil drove up in his brougham and 
 stepped out. 
 
 ' There he is !' cried the Swivvlers in chorus. 
 
 Horsman Gaunt started back ; this was not Sloppygas — 
 not a bit like him. It was a young, fair-faced man with 
 curly brown hair. But Mr. Gaunt failed to recognise in 
 the faultlessly-dressed masher the curly-headed sailor of his 
 private ship. 
 
 ' Sir,' he cried, mastering his emotion, ' have you ever 
 met a Zulu named Sloppygas ?' 
 
 11 
 
1 62 THE LOST AUTHOR. 
 
 ' Never,' said Mr. Darvil, and passed into the club. 
 
 ' Well,' said Gaunt, ' I'll prove that I am right, and that 
 these plots are mine. I'll go back to the hotel and fetch 
 the originals. They are only the copies that have been 
 stolen.' 
 
 He returned to the hotel and fetched the MSS. ; but the 
 Swiwle Club was empty, the members had gone home. 
 
 Next day he took his MSS. to a publisher. The publisher 
 read them through. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, Mr. Gaunt,' he said, ' but these inci- 
 dents are all in the works of Mr. Darvil.' 
 
 ' I swear that I never read a line of Darvil's in my life,' 
 yelled Gaunt, with a passionate stamp of the foot. 
 
 ' Then it is an extraordinary coincidence,' said the pub- 
 lisher. ' Good-day.' 
 
 Eventually Mr. Gaunt succeeded in getting a publisher 
 for his novels. When they came out there was a fearful 
 chorus of condemnation. ' A tissue of plagiarisms ' was the 
 verdict. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt read Mr. Darvil's works, and vowed that 
 Darvil was the plagiarist. In some extraordinary way he 
 had become possessed of the MSS. deposited in the archives 
 of the Sacred Bluebottle, and stolen by Sloppygas. 
 
 Then arose a perfect torrent of sarcasm. The papers 
 were full of jokes at Mr. Gaunt's expense. ' Mr. Gaunt,' 
 wrote one particularly spiteful critic, ' has an unfortunate 
 habit of never having read the authors whose stories his 
 own so curiously resemble. His last explanation is 
 supremely ridiculous. The author who published the 
 stories first copied them from him I Copies of the MSS. 
 were stolen from the Temple of the Sacred Bluebottle. 
 Where is that temple, Mr. Gaunt? and where is the 
 mysterious Sloppygas who revealed your plots to Mr. Allan 
 Darvil? It won't do, sir /' 
 
THE LOST AUTHOR. 163 
 
 When Mr. Gaunt read the above remarks in the leading 
 literary journal, he retired from the contest, and left the 
 critics to say what they liked. But he intends, for the 
 future, to write his stories locked in his coal-cellar, and he 
 spends his leisure in reading through the entire library of 
 the British Museum, in order to guard against a charge of 
 plagiarism in the future. 
 
 "Why did he not produce the Double-headed Queens and 
 their widowed aunt to give evidence against Sloppygas ? you 
 ask. I will tell you why. 
 
 On the evening of their arrival the royal ladies went down 
 Eegent Street to see the shops, and were so insulted by a 
 policeman that they went back to the hotel, packed their 
 boxes, paid their bills, and returned to Africa by the 8.5 
 Continental mail, which they just caught. 
 
 Mr. Allan Darvil has retired from literature with a 
 fortune. When, later on, he met Mr. Gaunt at the Swiwle, 
 he told bim in the most gracious way that their styles were 
 too much alike, and, as he was sick of novel-writing, he 
 would leave the African field clear for his less fortunate 
 rival. 
 
 Mr. Gaunt has gradually regained his old position, and is 
 now at the head of his profession again. He has forced 
 himself to believe that the glass city and the Sacred Blue- 
 bottle were dreams. And it has never yet occurred to him 
 to identify his former rival, Allan Darvil, with ' One Sloppy - 
 
 11— a 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 
 
 Tom Johnson was five-and-twenty, and a clerk in the City. 
 He was married to the dearest little woman in the world, 
 and they lived in three rooms in a nice respectable street 
 near Camden Town. Eose, Tom's wife, was a perfect little 
 household fairy. Tom could only give her thirty shillings a 
 week out of his salary, but she did wonders with it. The 
 little sitting-room was always bright, and cosy, and clean, 
 and there was always something nice for Tom's tea when 
 he came home fagged out with the work and worry of the 
 office. Of course they were obliged to be very economical, 
 and to deny themselves many things they would have liked ; 
 but one treat they always allowed themselves every week, 
 and that was a visit to a place of amusement. Tom and 
 Eose were both very fond of the theatre, and by waiting 
 till a play had had a good run, and by getting to the doors 
 early, they generally managed to get a good place in the 
 pit. 
 
 Being so fond of the theatre, Tom and Eose naturally 
 took a great deal of interest in the theatrical items of news 
 and gossip, without which nowadays a newspaper is not 
 considered to be fully adapted to the requirements of the 
 public. 
 
 Poor little Eose used to give a sigh of envy sometimes 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 165 
 
 when Tom read out to her the paragraphs about the 
 enormous incomes which dramatic authors were making. 
 
 ' Oh, Tom,' she would say, ' fancy making hundreds of 
 pounds a week like that just for writing a play ! Fancy if 
 you had been able to do it !' 
 
 * It would have been fine, wouldn't it ?' Tom would reply, 
 and then they would begin fancying what they would have 
 done with the money. They would have had a beautiful 
 house, and a carriage and pair for Eose ; and when she 
 went to the theatre on the first nigh'' to see her husband 
 come on the stage and bow amid the tremendous applause of 
 a crowded house, she would have worn the loveliest dresses, 
 and her diamonds would have been the envy of all the ladies. 
 
 ' Oh, how beautiful it would be, Tom !' the young wife 
 cried one day, as they conjured up visions of splendour to- 
 gether ; ' no getting up at half-past seven in the morning 
 for you, dear ; no turning out in all winds and weathers ; 
 you would be able to have your breakfast nice and comfort- 
 ably with me, and take plenty of time over it ; and you 
 would stop at home and work in your study, and I could 
 bring my sewing and sit with you, and when you'd finished 
 we should be able to have dinner together, and go out every 
 evening to some place of amusement. Oh, Tom dear, 
 couldn't you write a play ?' * 
 
 Tom shook his head. 
 
 ' I'm afraid not, Rose,' he said. ' There's a peculiar 
 knack about it, I expect.' 
 
 ' I suppose it is very difficult,' sighed Eose. 
 
 ' You may be sure it is, my dear,' answered Tom, ' or 
 there would be a great many more people doing it, and the 
 authors wouldn't be getting such prices for their work as we 
 read about in the newspapers.' 
 
 One Saturday Tom and Eose went to the morning per- 
 formance of a play that had been acted two hundred times 
 
1 66 THE CHINA FAIRY. 
 
 straight off in London, and the author of which was reported 
 already to have realized £10,000 by it. 
 
 On their way home they passed an old curiosity shop, and 
 stopped to look in at the window. Amomg the odds and 
 ends there was a pretty little china fairy to which Eose 
 took a great fancy. 
 
 ' Oh, Tom dear !' she cried, ' look at that little china 
 figure. Isn't it pretty? That's just the sort of thing I 
 should like on my mantelshelf. I should never be tired of 
 looking at it. Do go in and see how much it is.' 
 
 Tom went in and asked the price, and returned with the 
 information that it was ten shillings. 
 
 ' Oh dtar,' said Eose, ' that's much more than we can 
 afford ! Come along, Tom.' 
 
 But though Eose said ' Come along,' she didn't move. 
 She stood looking lovingly at the little china fairy. All at 
 once she gave a start. 
 
 'Oh, Tom I' she exclaimed; 'look at that fairy's lips, 
 they're moving!' 
 
 'What nonsense!' said Tom, laughing; 'you've been 
 staring at it ; it's an optical illusion.' 
 
 ' Tom, would it be very wicked if we bought it? I'd save 
 the money out of my housekeeping.' 
 
 ' Well, it's a lot of money, but I dare say it won't ruin us. 
 I see you want it, dear, and you shall have it.' 
 
 And before Eose could stop him Tom had stepped into 
 the shop, and presently he came out with the little china 
 fairy carefully wrapped up in paper. Eose put it in her 
 muff — it was quite a little fairy — and they bore it off home 
 in triumph. 
 
 It looked so lovely on the mantelshelf, Eose couldn't take 
 her eyes off it, but kept going up to it all the evening and 
 saying, ' Oh, you little dear !' and she would have it that " 
 the fairy's eyes were looking at her. 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 167 
 
 Tom laughed, but he confessed that it really was a very 
 life-like little figure. The face was quite real, and the 
 wonderful thing about it was that its expression seemed to 
 change. 
 
 Being Saturday night, the young couple sat up rather 
 late. Tom smoked his pipe while Eose read to him, and 
 they were so comfortable and so happy that they never 
 noticed the time till Tom happened to look at his watch, and 
 then he cried out : 
 
 ' Good gracious, Eose, it's one minute to twelve I' 
 
 Eose closed her book — she had reached the end of the 
 chapter — lit the bedroom candle, and then Tom turned the 
 gas out. As he did so the big clock downstairs struck twelve. 
 
 Just as the last stroke died away, a sweet, soft, silvery 
 voice exclaimed : 
 
 ' Thank you so much for buying me.' 
 
 Eose was so startled that she dropped the candle, which 
 fell on the floor and went out. Tom turned round with an 
 exclamation, and there, with a halo df light round her 
 head, stood the little china fairy on the mantelshelf. It 
 was the fairy who had spoken. Her lips were parted, show- 
 ing two rows of pearly teeth, and the kindest, sweetest 
 smile was on her face. 
 
 ' Don't be frightened,' said the fairy, as Eose clutched 
 Tom and wondered whether she ought to faint or not ; 
 ' don't be frightened : I am a good fairy. I was turned to 
 china by a wicked enchantress, but every night at twelve 
 o'clock I recover the power of speech, which lasts until 
 dawn. I was very unhappy in the old curiosity shop, where 
 I was taken by the person who found me in a forest and 
 thought I was an ornament. There was nobody there at 
 midnight for me to talk to except a lot of Chinese idols and 
 brass figures and creatures of. that sort, and they didn't 
 understand me. I was very pleased when you brought 
 
168 THE CHINA FAIRY. 
 
 me to your nice happy home, and you can't think how 
 I've been longing for twelve o'clock, to be able to thank 
 you.' 
 
 ' I'm sure we're very pleased,' stammered Eose, ' but, of 
 course, it's very odd. I don't like to ask you, but — er — 
 would you like anything to eat ?' 
 
 The fairy laughed a silvery laugh. 
 
 ' Oh no,' she said ; ' fairies are never hungry. Besides, I 
 want you to be kind enough to open the window for me and 
 let me fly away. If I can get back to Fairyland before 
 dawn I may find my protectress, who will take away the 
 spell that has been put upon me.' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' said Tom, ' with pleasure ;' and he was 
 proceeding to open the window when he recollected the 
 fairy had cost him ten shillings, and that the transaction 
 would be a dead loss to him. 
 
 The fairy evidently guessed what was passing in Tom's 
 mind, for she flew gracefully off the mantelpiece and came 
 and stood on the table beside him. 
 
 'I will not be ungrateful,' she said ; ' as a reward for your 
 kindness I can grant you one wish, whatever it is.' 
 
 ' Oh, Tom !' exclaimed Eose, who had gradually shaken 
 off her nervousness, ' wish to be a dramatic author.' 
 
 Tom was always an obedient husband (that was why he 
 was so happy), and so he said at once : 
 
 ' I wish to be a dramatic author.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said the fairy. ' Go to bed, and to-morrow 
 when you wake up you will be one. Now, thank you very 
 much, and good-night.' 
 
 The fairy kissed her little hand to the young couple, 
 spread her wings, and flew away into the moonlight. Tom 
 and Eose watched her as far as they could see her, then 
 closed the window and retired to rest. 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 169 
 
 The next morning, when Tom woke up, he had a splitting 
 headache, and he felt so awfully seedy he could hardly sit 
 up to look at his watch. 
 
 ' By Jove !' he exclaimed, 'it's twelve o'clock !' Then he 
 looked round for Eose, and found she wasn't there. 
 
 ' Eose ! Eose !' he called out, ' where are you?' 
 
 Eose came running in from the next room. 
 
 ' Oh, you are awake at last, Tom !' she said. ' Will you 
 have a cup of tea ?' 
 
 ' I think so ; I By Jove ! I'm awfully ill, and I can 
 
 hardly open my eyes.' 
 
 ' I don't wonder at it,' said Eose ; ' it was six o'clock this 
 morning when you came home.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah, yes ! I remember,' said Tom, sitting up and 
 looking round the large, elegantly-furnished bedroom — ' a 
 beastly all-night dress-rehearsal. And I've to go down to 
 the theatre again to-day, and see that scene. I have to 
 alter the situation at the last minute to suit the scene, 
 because the scene itself can't be altered in time.' 
 
 ' Was Mr. Smith any better tempered last night ?' 
 
 ' No ; he swears it's the worst part he ever played, and 
 he's sure that it will be a frost ; and Miss Brown won't 
 have that speech cut out ; she says it's the only good one 
 she has, and I'm sure that it will be goosed, and it comes 
 just at a critical point.' 
 
 Tom was just going to lie down again till the tea came, 
 when a servant came up. 
 
 ' Please, sir, Mr. Jones has called, and he says he must 
 see you at once.' 
 
 ' Oh, bother I' said Tom. ' What's the matter now ? Ask 
 him to come up.' 
 
 Eose went down, and presently Mr. Jones, the manager 
 of the theatre where Johnson's drama was to be produced 
 on Monday evening, came in. 
 
170 THE CHINA FAIRY. 
 
 ' Sorry to worry you, old fellow,' said Jones, ' but it's 
 serious. Everybody who saw the dress-rehearsal last night 
 says the fifth act will settle the play. You must end it in 
 the fourth.' 
 
 ' What !' yelled Tom, pressing his hands to his splitting 
 head ; ■ cut out the last act ? It can't be done. A year has 
 to elapse between Acts 4 and 5.' 
 
 ' Oh, you can get over that. At any rate, it will have to 
 be done.' 
 
 ' I won't do it,' shrieked Tom ; ' I won't 1 I'd sooner 
 throw the confounded play in the fire. Why, it's ridiculous. 
 Look here, Mr. Jones ; I'm the author, and I'm responsible. 
 You'll either play my play as I've written it, or you won't 
 play it at all.' 
 
 Tom had worked himself up into a violent rage, and the 
 manager tried to calm him. 
 
 ' Don't be a fool, Johnson,' he said ; ' think it over and 
 come down to my house. Smith ' (that was the leading 
 man) ' will be there, and Eobinson ' (the stage-manager), 
 ' and we'll talk it over quietly. I must go now. I must 
 call on Miss Blank and see if she can play Mary Walters 
 to-morrow night.' 
 
 ' Miss Blank? Why, Miss Dash is going to play it.' 
 
 ' What 1 haven't you heard ? She was thrown out of her 
 cab going home from the rehearsal last night, and won't be 
 able to play for a month.' 
 
 Tom groaned and flung himself back on the pillow. 
 
 ' Everything in the play depends on Mary Walters,' 
 he said, ' and you're going to have it played at twelve 
 hours- notice by a girl who's never seen a line of the part 
 yet.' 
 
 ' What are we to do ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' groaned Johnson'; ' I'll come round 
 presently, I believe this play will drive me mad,' 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 171 
 
 An hour later Tom was going downstairs growling and 
 groaning to himself, when Eose came out of her boudoir. 
 
 ' Going out, Tom ? Why, you haven't had your break- 
 fast.' 
 
 ' I can't eat a morsel,' said Tom. ' I'm done up, Eose. 
 I wish I'd been at Jericho before I became a dramatic 
 author.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 Monday night came, and Tom, in a state of high fever 
 brought on by overwork and anxiety and late hours, walked up 
 and down outside the theatre, trying to summon up courage 
 to go in. He had cut out the last act ; he had given Miss 
 Blank one hurried rehearsal ; he had quarrelled with the 
 leading villain, who had told him before the whole company 
 that the play was rot ; he had gone home in a vile temper, 
 and made Eose cry her eyes out; and now, in a state 
 bordering on delirious fever, he was awaiting the verdict 
 on a play which had cost him months of anxious thought, 
 and on which the management had expended thousands o 
 pounds. 
 
 ' If it's a failure I'll never write again,' groaned Tom. 
 
 Just then a man came hurriedly out of the stage-door. 
 
 ' Curtain up yet ?' asked Tom nervously. 
 
 ' No, sir ; there's something gone wrong with the scene 
 in the first act, and the mechanical change won't work. 
 
 I'm just going out to see if I can find Mr. . They say 
 
 it'll be half an hour before it will be put right.' 
 
 Tom rushed into the theatre. As he went upon the stage 
 he could hear the audience stamping and shouting. It was 
 then five minutes past the time the curtain should have 
 gone up. 
 
 Everybody was bustling about, and there was evidently 
 something wrong. 
 
 ' It's all right,' said the stage-manager, coming up to Tom 
 
i/2 THE CHINA FAIRY. 
 
 and trying to ease his mind. ' It's not so bad as we thought. 
 We'll ring up directly. We can get it right, I dare say, 
 while the first scene is being played. If not, I must come 
 on and explain there's been an accident.' 
 
 Tom groaned, and rushed out into the street again. 
 
 ' Oh, my poor play, my poor play,' he cried, ' it's damned 
 before it's begun.' 
 
 An hour and a half later, Tom, pale, shivering, clutching 
 his hands together in nervous excitement, crept into the 
 back of the pit. The third act was just beginning. There 
 was a very powerful scene in this act. Tom had built upon 
 its making a great impression on the audience. 
 
 The villain suddenly appears at a window, and while 
 another villain is writing a letter, shoots him, and the 
 unfinished letter is left on the table and found by the hero, 
 who rushes in and reads the plot against his happiness. 
 
 The villain has to cautiously open the window. He does 
 so after struggling with it for five minutes, and making a 
 noise which could be heard all over the house, but of which 
 the other villain takes no notice. 
 
 ' He has not heard me,' says the villain. 
 
 ' He must be jolly deaf, then,' says a boy in the gallery, 
 and the house titters. 
 
 The perspiration bursts from every pore of Tom's skin. 
 His situation is going wrong. 
 
 But the house is hushed immediately. There is no fairer 
 audience in the world than that which assembles in a 
 London theatre on a first night. 
 
 But it is only a human audience, and so when, as the 
 villain crept in at the window and was just advancing on 
 his victim, the looking-glass, real, fastened on the scene, 
 came down with a crash, and the victim, following his 
 
THE CHINA FAIRY. 173 
 
 author, exclaimed, ' No sound disturbs the silence of the 
 night,' there was a roar. 
 
 The situation was going fast. It went utterly when the 
 villain, disconcerted, as well he might be, in creeping up 
 behind the victim's chair, caught his foot against a platform 
 intended to draw the table off for a change of scene, and 
 fell sprawling, his pistol going off between his unconscious 
 victim's feet. 
 
 With the roars of laughter which followed this final 
 catastrophe ringing in his ears, Tom Johnson rushed from 
 the theatre to the Thames ^Embankment. 
 
 ' It is ruin ; it is disgrace !' he cried. ' I can never survive 
 it. Curse the hour when I gave myself up to this life of 
 constant harass, annoyance, and disappointment ! How can 
 I read the awful things that will be said of me in the papers 
 to-morrow? How can I meet my friends and listen to their 
 condolences ? How can I ever enter a theatre again ? No, 
 I will not live to die in a lunatic asylum. I will end it all 
 in the peaceful river.' 
 
 Tom leapt upon the parapet and was about to make the 
 fatal plunge, when he heard a sweet, silvery voice behind 
 him. 
 
 It was the china fairy's. 
 
 With a frantic cry Tom turned to her. 
 
 ' Can you grant me another wish ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 'Certainly.' 
 
 ' Then make me a clerk in the City again, and at once.' 
 ***** 
 
 ' Tom.' 
 
 It was Eose's voice. 
 
 Tom woke up with a start. 
 
 ' Breakfast's ready, dear, and it's nine o'clock. Aren't 
 you going to get up?' 
 
 Tom shouted for joy. He was a clerk again, and it was 
 
174 THE CHINA FA TRY. 
 
 Sunday morning,. the happy day of peace and rest at home 
 with his dear, contented little wife. 
 
 Oh, what a happy Sunday it was I How snug and com- 
 fortable the little sitting-room looked I And after breakfast, 
 when he sat down and read in the Sunday paper an awful 
 ' slate ' of Mr. Three Stars' new play, he felt a great weight 
 lifted from his heart, and he exclaimed, ' Thank heaven, I'm 
 not a dramatist, but only a happy City clerk, with just 
 enough to live on, and only one ma=ter !' And he never 
 wanted to be a dramatist again as long as he lived. 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 A FALL IN THE FOQ. 
 
 I was groping my way round Soho Square on a bad 
 November night. A horrible yellow fog had settled down 
 upon the Metropolis, and a man with the most strongly 
 developed bump of locality would have had a job to find 
 his way anywhere after being turned round three times. 
 I haven't any bump of locality at all, and I had been 
 wandering in and out of Soho for an hour, vainly endeavour- 
 ing to find a short cut to Tottenham Court Boad. 
 
 Suddenly I heard a heavy vehicle coming along at a 
 rather rapid rate, and the idea took possession of me that I 
 was in the middls of the road, and that the man who 
 would drive at such a rate in such a place, on such a night, 
 must be drunk or a fool. I shouted, ' Hi, steady there !' 
 and made a run for what I imagined to be the railings of 
 the square. 
 
 Instead of clutching the railings, I ran full tilt into 
 something that was on the footway. It uttered a cry and 
 went down flop on the pavement ; I had knocked somebody 
 over ! 
 
 I apologized ; but the something made no reply. I knelt 
 down, struck several flamers which I had in my pocket, and 
 at last discovered what it was that I had capsized. 
 
176 A CHANGED MAN 
 
 To my utter astonishment it proved to be a monk of the 
 order of Capuchins. 
 
 A Capuchin in London — a monk with a shaven poll, clad 
 in the russet-brown frock of the Capuchins— is such a rare 
 spectacle in the streets of the Metropolis that my astonish- 
 ment was excusable. 
 
 I addressed the prostrate brother in apologetic terms. I 
 smacked his hands, and lifted his head upon my knee — as I 
 did so, to my unutterable dismay and terror, his skull came 
 off in my hand. 
 
 ' Great heavens 1' I cried, ' I have killed him ! the fall 
 has taken the top of his head off 1' 
 
 But presently the head without a skull exclaimed : 
 
 * All right, sir ; I'm better now. I was stunned for a 
 minute, that's all.' 
 
 At that moment some boys came along with torches, and 
 I discovered that the fallen skull was a false one, and that 
 my victim was a poor fellow, dressed up as a Capuchin by 
 an advertising firm, and sent out to distribute handbills. 
 
 I got him to his feet, and put him against the railings. 
 Directly he was upright he thrust his hand into the pocket 
 in the breast of his garment and uttered a cry of horror. 
 
 ' They're lost !' he cried. 
 
 I looked on the pavement to see if anything was lying 
 there, and saw what looked like a roll of paper. 
 
 I picked it up. 
 
 'Is this what you have lost?' I exclaimed. Then the 
 touch of the paper told me what I held in my hand. The 
 light of the torches revealed the rest. The poor human 
 advertisement had dropped a roll of Bank of England notes. 
 Instinctively I counted them. There were ten, and each 
 was for a thousand pounds 1 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 177 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CAPUCHIN. 
 
 Half an hour later I sat alone with the Capuchin in the 
 top garret of a miserable house in the Dials. I had con- 
 ducted him home, and he had consented to tell me his 
 story. He said that I might advise him what to do under 
 the very peculiar circumstances in which he found himself. 
 
 I had discovered from the man's conversation that he was 
 a person of education, and my curiosity was excited by the 
 strange incidents which had marked our accidental meeting. 
 
 The false monk, lighting a dirty clay pipe, sat on the 
 truckle bed in the corner of the garret, and told me the 
 following remarkable story : 
 
 This afternoon I was walking through Gerrard Street. I 
 had distributed some of my bills in Oxford Street, and was 
 taking another batch to give away in Piccadilly, according 
 to the instructions of my employer. 
 
 As I was passing along, a young girl ran out of a house, 
 and, seizing me by the arm, exclaimed in Italian : ' Oh, 
 Padre, come quick ! Come quick to a dying man !' 
 
 I speak Italian fluently, as I do French and German. 
 
 I saw at once this poor foreign girl's mistake, and I was 
 about to say that, though habited in the garb of a Capuchin 
 father, I was nothing of the sort. 
 
 But a secret instinct whispered me to follow the girl. I 
 thought I might be of some assistance as a layman — the 
 girl evidently being in a state of great terror — and I said to 
 myself that it would be time enough for me to explain the 
 mistake when I found out what was really the matter. 
 
 I followed the girl into one of the houses, and, ascending 
 
 12 
 
i 7 8 A CHANGED MAN. 
 
 a rickety staircase, was ushered into a dark room. In the 
 dim light I could just make out the outline of a bed, and on. 
 the bed lay a man. 
 
 The man lifted his head as I entered. ' Giacomo,' 
 exclaimed the girl, ' ecco un santo Padre mandato della 
 santissima Madonna. Li dica tutto — tutto, caro mio.'* 
 
 I approached the bed. I saw a handsome Italian, a man 
 of about five-and-thirty, lying there. A glance told me that 
 the man was seriously ill. From his first words I gathered 
 that he believed himself to be dying. He seized my hand 
 and kissed it, and before I could say a word began to pour 
 out his confession. He had a guilty secret, and he wished 
 to unburthen his soul of it, that he might die in peace. 
 The first words of his strange confession startled and 
 interested me. I hesitated to undeceive the man ; and, 
 besides, I was terrified. The man's manner was so wild 
 and strange, I fancied he might be in a delirium. If I had 
 said, ' I am not a holy father ; I am an impostor,' he might 
 have done me an injury. 
 
 I cannot tell you the story as he told it to me — his eyes 
 bright with fever, his cheeks flushed, his bosom heaving. I 
 must tell it to you in my own English way. Briefly, this is 
 what he said : 
 
 ' I am dying. This poor girl is my wife. I am a stranger 
 in this place, and I speak no word of English. I have 
 swindled. I am a thief and a murderer. I want to make 
 what reparation I can. The murder was in self-defence, 
 but the theft was a sin. It is for that I want pardon. It 
 is for that I want to atone before I die. 
 
 ' Eive years ago I returned from the Brazils. There my 
 father and mother, who had emigrated, died, leaving me 
 their small fortune. I had no friends, no relations ; so with 
 
 * ' Giacomo, here is a holy father sent by our blessed Lady. Tell 
 him everything — everything, my darling.' 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 179 
 
 the money I came to Europe to enjoy myself. I led a life 
 of pleasure in Italy. In an evil hour I was lured to the 
 gaming-table. There I lost almost all I had, and was 
 compelled to alter my course of life. But I sighed after 
 the pleasures my money had brought me. One day I had 
 a bit of luck. I bought a lottery ticket, and won a prize — 
 a few hundred pounds. I had learned a little wisdom, and 
 I gambled no more. I thought with this money I would be 
 careful ; I would travel a little, live moderately, and 
 presently find some employment. But, for all that, I 
 wanted to be rich — rich enough to lead a gay life of dissipa- 
 tion again. 
 
 ' One evening in a cafe on the Corso in Borne, I was 
 reading the Popolo 'Romano. An exclamation in the room 
 attracted my attention. I looked up, and fancied I must 
 have a looking-glass opposite me. I saw myself— but the 
 myself I saw was smoking a cigar, while I had a cigarette 
 between my lips. I met the eyes of myself ; we were both 
 staring at each other. We both rose, we both walked 
 towards each other. Then we both burst into a roar of 
 laughter, in which all the company joined. It was too 
 absurd. There were two men in the room so exactly alike 
 that, but for the cigarette and the cigar, no one could have 
 said which was which.' 
 
 CHAPTBB III. 
 
 THE CHANGED MAN. 
 
 The dying man paused for a moment, and his wife lifted a 
 cup to his lips. Presently he went on again : 
 
 ' That evening the man who was so like me walked back 
 to my hotel with me. We asked each other questions as to 
 our parents, our ancestors. We imagined we must in some 
 
 12—2 
 
180 A CHANGED MAN. 
 
 way be related, but we could find no proof in our family 
 history. My alter ego, my double, was an Italian gentleman 
 named Luigi Palmieri, a person of noble lineage, having his 
 palazzo in Florence and his villa on the hills behind Fiesole. 
 He was not living in his palazzo ; he had let it to a rich 
 banker — for he was poor. His residence was the little villa, 
 and he was returning there on the morrow from Eome. I 
 spent the evening at his hotel — a friend of his, a Doctor 
 Cassianni, joined us there, and we sat and smoked far into 
 the night. I left with an invitation to come and see my 
 new friend in a week, to bring my portmanteau and spend 
 a month with him. 
 
 ' I was glad to accept the invitation. It would save me 
 hotel bills, and it would be companionship and society for 
 me. In a week I arrived at the villa. It was not very 
 grand. In fact, it was a lonely, old-fashioned, gloomy 
 place ; there were no other houses near it, and the style in 
 which my friend lived convinced me that, like many Italian 
 gentlemen of high birth, he had inherited more family pride 
 than family fortune. 
 
 ' But I didn't grumble. The doctor was there as a 
 visitor, and we three made a very pleasant trio, and we 
 spent a merry week. 
 
 ' The room in which I slept was a big, old-fashioned 
 apartment, hung with faded and ragged tapestry. If I had 
 been a nervous man, I should have thought that it was 
 haunted. Once or twice I awoke in the night and fancied 
 someone was in the room, but I thought it was only fancy, 
 and I went to sleep again. 
 
 ' At last I made up my mind that I had stayed long 
 enough. We never went into the town. We lived entirely 
 in the grounds and saw no company. There was only an 
 old female servant to wait on us, and I was beginning to 
 feel dull. 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 181 
 
 ' One night I told my host of my intention to leave on the 
 morrow. He endeavoured to dissuade me, but I was firm. 
 
 ' That night, after drinking my usual bottle of wine, I 
 felt heavy, and retired to rest early. I hadn't been asleep 
 long when I awoke with a dull dazed sense of having some- 
 one standing over me. 
 
 ' I opened my eyes ; it was dark, but I distinctly saw the 
 outlines of two forms near my bed. I suspected something 
 wrong, and continued to breathe as though asleep. 
 
 ' A voice — the doctor's — exclaimed in a whisper : " He is 
 fast asleep ; now is your time." 
 
 ' Another voice — Palmieri's — replied : " Yes ; now is the 
 time. You are sure the pad will kill him without a 
 struggle?" 
 
 ' " Quite sure. I have made it a study. He will die 
 without a struggle. It will be heart disease. To-morrow 
 he will be found dead in his bed, and I shall call in the 
 village doctor. His certificate and mine will be enough." 
 
 ' I still breathed regularly, but an icy perspiration burst 
 from every pore. I was about to be murdered, and yet I 
 could make no effort. I felt dazed and fascinated. 
 Instantly I remembered how heavy I had felt after the 
 wine — I had been drugged 1 
 
 ' There was dead silence for a moment, tnen Palmieri 
 whispered: "Suppose there is some mark about him — 
 something that will show that he is not me — that I am not 
 the 'corpse lying in this bed — something that will raise a 
 suspicion ?" 
 
 ' " There is nothing," replied the doctor. " The man is 
 so like you that he would deceive your own mother. 
 Besides, no one has seen him about. He came at night. 
 I met him, and drove him from Florence. He has never 
 been out of the grounds. Old Giulia is the only living soul 
 who has seen him here, and she is yours body and soul. 
 
1 82 A CHANGED MAN. 
 
 When the dead man is found to-morrow morning in your 
 bed, I shall certify that it is you, Luigi Palmieri ; that it is 
 heart disease. The village doctor will do the same. The 
 body will be buried in twenty-four hours, thanks to the 
 excellent custom of the country. All your wife has to do 
 then is to claim the £20,000 from the insurance offices, and 
 go to America. There, under another name, you can join 
 her by-and-by. The scheme is without a flaw. Come, do 
 your work and I will do mine." 
 
 ' " You put the pad over his mouth ; my hand shakes." 
 
 ' " No; I must go and see that all is ready for you to get 
 away unobserved. I will watch that nobody is about. 
 Directly you have done your work you must dress in the 
 disguise we have prepared ; get away while it is dark ; walk 
 to Florence, and go by the first train to Milan. There I 
 will meet you as soon as the death formalities have been 
 seen to and the certificates signed. You have money 
 enough for your journey ?" 
 
 '"Plenty." 
 
 1 " Then I'll go and watch outside. Come to me when all 
 is over." 
 
 ' The doctor crept out of the room on tiptoe. 
 
 ' Palmieri leant over me ; I could feel his breath on my 
 face. I gathered myself together for a terrific effort. A 
 second would decide my fate. The hideous plot was as 
 clear as noonday to me, and in an instant I had decided 
 what to do. 
 
 ' Palmieri put something out of his hands on to the bed, 
 then crept to the door to lock it after the doctor. 
 
 ' Noiselessly I slid my hand outside the coverlet and 
 grasped the something. It was a soft, spongy pad. I drew 
 it towards me, and gripped it firmly in my hand. 
 
 ' Palmieri crept back. He leant over the bed, and began 
 to feel for the pad. In a second my arm was round his 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 183 
 
 neck, and with the free hand I thrust the pad in his face, 
 and held it pressed over his mouth and nostrils. 
 
 ' He uttered a smothered cry, but I held him like a vice. 
 There was a little struggle, and then he fell senseless 
 against the bed. 
 
 ' Still covering his face with the pad, I slipped out of bed 
 and fumbled for a light. I found one on the table by the 
 bed. I struck a match and lighted my candle, and held it 
 in Palmieri's face. 
 
 ' He was senseless or dead. 
 
 ' I lifted him on the bed, and pressed the pad on his 
 mouth again, holding it there till the last sign of life had 
 gone. Then a wild idea came into my head. I would turn 
 the tragedy into a comedy, and the doctor should be my 
 innocent accomplice. 
 
 ' In desperate haste, I stripped Palmieri. I put him into 
 my night attire, and laid him in my bed. Then I put on 
 Palmieri's clothes. 
 
 ' As soon as the change was complete, I stole downstairs 
 and found the doctor. 
 
 ' " Is it over?" he exclaimed anxiously. 
 
 '"Yes." 
 
 ' Then the doctor went upstairs with me to see for himself. 
 
 ' " By Jove !" he exclaimed, " it is marvellous I If I hadn't 
 known, I should have sworn myself that the man lying here 
 was Luigi Palmieri." 
 
 ' " My dear fellow, if the likeness hadn't been so perfect, 
 where would our scheme have been?" I replied. 
 
 ' "E lp me to get the body into your bed," said the 
 doctor; "then you must put on the disguise and be off. 
 Eemember, we meet in Milan this day week, at the railway- 
 station, at noon. Take poor lodgings ; you are a working 
 man, and mustn't appear to be anything else." 
 
 1 1 found a workman's blouse and cap and clothes, 
 
i84 A CHANGED MAN. 
 
 complete, in another room. After all was arranged I put 
 them on and left for Milan. A week later the doctor met 
 me, and showed me the certificates ; everything had been 
 arranged beautifully, and now there was only the claim to 
 be made on the insurance companies, which I ascertained 
 were English, and the money to be paid to my wife — the 
 wife I had never seen, and who I ascertained was in Paris, 
 waiting for instructions from the doctor what to do. 
 
 ' After the necessary time had elapsed the claim was 
 satisfied, and the doctor, who had been to Pj,ris and London, 
 handed me £10,000 in bank-notes. The other money, less 
 £500 given to Palmieri's wife to go to America with, he had 
 taken as his share of the plunder. 
 
 ' You may be sure that I never joined the lady. To this 
 day she is wondering when her husband is coming 
 out. I got away with my £10,000, but I hesitated to 
 spend it ; I felt that I was party to a fraud, and that if it 
 were ever found out I should be prosecuted. A year after I 
 met Annetta here, and we were married. But I could not 
 rest : I was always thinking of the money I had helped to 
 cheat the English companies of. To get work we came to 
 England, and I fell ill here, and I am dying. Father, I 
 want you to take this money, this £10,000, which I 
 have never touched, and restore it to the people I helped to 
 steal it from.' 
 
 ' I promised the man to do what he asked,' said the 
 Capuchin, as he finished the Italian's story. ' I took the 
 money, and was making my way home when you knocked 
 me down in the fog in Soho Square.' 
 
A CHANGED MA A. 185 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 Foe a few minutes after the sham Capuchin had finished 
 his extraordinary story I could find nothing to say. I 
 should have believed he was telling me a tissue of false- 
 hoods, but for the £10,000 which lay on the table in his 
 room. 
 
 ' What are you going to do ?' I exclaimed, when I had 
 recovered my powers of conversation. 
 
 ' I am going to take these notes to the insurance company,' 
 he said ; ' I will tell them the whole story, and leave them 
 to inquire into it. But I don't like having such a sum 
 about me in a place like this, especially after the notes have 
 been seen by people in the street, who may tell the bad 
 characters living about here. What can I do with them till 
 to-morrow ?' 
 
 I hesitated. It was certainly dangerous for a man to 
 have £10,000 in such a place in such a neighbourhood. 
 
 ' Perhaps, sir, you could take charge of them for me, and 
 I could call on you to-morrow for them ?' said the Capuchin 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 ' But you don't know me !' I exclaimed. ' How do you 
 know that I am an honest man ?' 
 
 ' I'll trust you, sir. I know a gentleman when I see one. 
 Just give me a memorandum for the amount, and take the 
 notes away, and I'll call for them in the morning.' 
 
 There couldn't be any harm in what was proposed, and 
 it certainly wasn't safe for this man to have such an 
 amount about him in such a den. He might be murdered 
 and robbed in the night. 
 
 After a little hesitation I took the notes and gave a 
 
1 86 A CHANGED MAN. 
 
 receipt for the £10,000, which I undertook to hand to the 
 man when he called on me the next morning. 
 
 I put the notes in my pocket, and went downstairs. The 
 fog had partially cleared, but I had great difficulty in finding 
 my way. At the corner of a street someone ran up against 
 me and apologized. 
 
 At last I reached Gower Street, and found my own door 
 by striking matches. When I was safe inside I put my 
 hand in my pocket to take the notes out. Someone had 
 saved me the trouble, and done it already. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Over that night of sleepless torture I draw a veil The 
 next morning, when my friend, no longer a Capuchin, called, 
 I told him the hideous truth. Tears came into his eyes, 
 and he beat his breast. It was ruin to him. The Italian 
 would suspect him of being a thief ; and he had hoped that 
 the insurance offices would give him respectable employment, 
 aud perhaps reward him. 
 
 I said that I was only waiting for him to give me the 
 numbers of the notes. 
 
 He hadn't taken the numbers. 
 
 Then I would go to the police-station at once. 
 
 No ; that was no good. That would only frighten the 
 thieves into getting rid of the notes at once. Perhaps, as 
 they were for such a large amount, a reward might get them 
 back. Would I pay a reward ? 
 
 Yes : but a moderate one. 
 
 Might he put it about in the neighbourhood that, if 
 the notes were brought to me, I would give £100, and 
 ask no questions? He knew the gang that were about 
 Soho. He had, alas ! had to mix with them. A reward 
 might get them back, as there would be difficulty in passing 
 such big notes. 
 
 At last I consented. What else could I do? It was 
 
A CHANGED MAN. 187 
 
 horrible to think that I had deprived somebody of £10,000 ; 
 besides, I might be made responsible for the amount. I 
 had given a receipt for it. 
 
 That afternoon the man returned, his face beaming with 
 
 j°y- 
 
 The notes would be given to him for £100. He was so 
 satisfied that, if I would give him the £100, he would 
 hand me my receipt. 
 
 I gave him an open cheque, and I received his receipt. 
 
 And I never saw him again. 
 
 But when I told the extraordinary story to one of my 
 friends at Scotland Yard, he laughed, and said I'd been 
 ' had ' — that the roll of bank-notes given to a poor man to 
 take to the rightful owner was an old confidence dodge, 
 only that my friend, being a man of education — probably 
 a high-class swindler — had worked it a little romantically. 
 
 ' But I saw the notes !' I exclaimed, ' and I knocked the 
 man down by accident.' 
 
 ' He was waiting for a rich man to knock him down,' 
 said the detective ; ' and as to the notes, here, look at this.' 
 He drew a five-pound note from his pocket. 
 
 ' Perfectly genuine,' I said. 
 
 ' No, it isn't. It's a flash one, and it's turned out by the 
 same firm as made the thousand pounders that deceived 
 you. You've been let off easy for £100.' 
 
 I am looking out for that Capuchin. I am going to 
 advise him to give up the confidence dodge and take to 
 writing stories. With such an imagination he ought to do 
 well. 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 
 A Tahofl89~. 
 
 In the year 1 89 — I was in Paris. I had been sent there as 
 a special correspondent for the London edition of the 
 TimbuctooTimes. I have never been able to understand by 
 what process of reasoning a Timbuctoo firm arrived at the 
 conclusion that Londoners wanted a Timbuctoo Times pub- 
 lished daily in their midst, but there is no necessity that I 
 should air my views on the matter, as I have simply to deal 
 with facts, and the Timbuctoo Times (London Daily Edition) 
 is a very accomplished fact, and I am its Paris corre- 
 spondent. 
 
 One afternoon, as I was riding in the Bois de Boulogne, I 
 heard a series of piercing shrieks uttered behind me. I 
 turned, and saw a lady on horseback. The lady had lost 
 all control of the horse. It had bolted. In a moment the 
 animal had dashed past me. I made a wild attempt to 
 seize the reins as it passed, but without success, and away 
 flew the animal, amid the cries and exclamations of the by- 
 standers. 
 
 The lady's groom passed me in another moment at a mad 
 gallop. We were the only equestrians in the Bois. 
 
 ' Who is she ?' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' The empress I' he replied. 
 
THE EMPRESS EMIL V ANN. 189 
 
 'What?' I cried, for I fancied my ears must have deceived 
 me. 
 
 ' She is indeed, sir,' said the man, -whose face was as 
 white as death. ' She would ride out what she calls incog- 
 nito, and that's why I haven't got the imperial livery on. 
 She was going her rounds of charity, and she always goes 
 unknown then. My poor mistress ! Whatever shall we 
 do?' 
 
 By this time the horse and the empress were out of sight. 
 ' Do ?' I exclaimed. ' Why, ride after her.' 
 ' Impossible,' he replied ; 'the horse she is riding is one of 
 the swiftest animals ever foaled !' 
 ' Mine can beat it,' I said calmly. 
 
 ' Go on with you, you don't know what you are talking 
 about,' replied the groom, who was an Englishman. 
 
 ' Indeed I do. The horse that I am riding is the famous 
 Ortolan, who won eighteen races for the Duke of West- 
 minster and was never beaten once. The duke was offered 
 a little over his value for him, and, being a poor man, took 
 it, and let the horse go to Timbuctoo. On the voyage the 
 horse became seriously ill, and, thinking it was dead, it was 
 flung into the sea. I happened to be cruising about in the 
 Timbuctoo Times yacht, and came upon the body. I recog- 
 nised it as Ortolan by the white blaze on the nose and three 
 white hairs on the tail. I got it on board, applied restora- 
 tives, and was presently rewarded by a gentle neigh. Since 
 then my famous Ortolan has accompanied me everywhere I 
 go. The world, including Don Juan de Boko, the Tim- 
 buctoo millionaire, who bought the horse, believe it to be at 
 the bottom of the sea, John. You and I know better.' 
 
 I called him John because that is the name of most 
 English grooms. 
 
 ! A very interesting story, sir,' replied John, ' and I'm very 
 glad to see old Ortolan again, for I backed him for the 
 
igo THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN 
 
 Derby, the Leger, the Lancashire Plate, the Kernpton Park 
 Eoyal Stakes, and for all his races as a four-year-old ; but 
 while we're talking the empress may be lying on the ground 
 unattended, perhaps dying.' 
 
 ' True,' I replied, and with that I touched Ortolan gently 
 with my spurs, and in a moment we were flying forward in 
 pursuit of the fugitives. 
 
 The gallant racehorse seemed to know that a lady's fate 
 depended on his speed. He beat all his previous records ; 
 the trees, the" road?, the houses seemed to fly past us with a 
 whiz. In five minutes we had caught the empress up. 
 Her horse was dead beat, and was slowing down, but the 
 empress had fainted. In a moment she would have slipped 
 from the saddle. 
 
 Just in the nick of time I reached her side, and, seizing 
 her horse, stopped it. It had shot its bolt, and stood like 
 a lamb while I lifted the unconscious Empress of the French 
 from the saddle. 
 
 We were quite alone in a deserted part of the Bois de 
 Boulogne. 
 
 As I lifted her from the saddle she sank to the ground. I 
 raised the thick veil she wore over her face in order to give 
 her air. 
 
 It was the first time I had seen the empress, as I had 
 only arrived in Paris a few days previously. 
 
 As the features of the fair occupant of the throne of 
 France were revealed to me I gave a gasp of surprise. 
 
 ' Emily Ann !' I exclaimed. 
 
 The empress opened her eyes. 
 
 'Where am I?' she murmured; then, as the situation 
 gradually dawned upon her, she looked up at me. 
 
 ' Merci, mille fois merci, monsieur,' she said in French. 
 Then, stopping suddenly, she cried : ' Good heavens above I 
 do my eyes deceive me ? Are you not Master George ?' 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. igi 
 
 It was the old familiar name of my childhood that the 
 imperial lips uttered. 
 
 ' Yes, Emily Ann, I am ; but tell me, how in the name of 
 goodness is it that I find in the Empress of the French that 
 Emily Ann who was a faithful little nursegirl in my mother's 
 family many years ago ?' 
 
 ' Ah, it is a strange story,' replied the Empress of the 
 French, ' but I have no time to tell it you now. Will you 
 help me to mount my horse again? I must ride back to the 
 palace at once, before the emperor has had time to become 
 alarmed.' 
 
 I assisted the empress, who was now quite recovered 
 to mount her horse. I was so bewildered by my strange 
 discovery that I was unable to make any further observa- 
 tions. 
 
 As soon as she was in the saddle, and had patted her 
 horse's neck, the empress gave me her hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye for the present,' she said, ' and thank you 
 very much. To-night the ministers dine with us, but if 
 to-morrow night you will dine with the emperor and myself, 
 quietly and en famille, I shall be so pleased, and then I will 
 tell you my strange life's story.' 
 
 ' Certainly, Emily Ann — I mean your majesty,' I replied. 
 ' I accept your invitation with pleasure.' 
 
 ' We dine at eight,' said the empress ; then, with a 
 graceful wave of the hand, she said ' Clk ' to her horse, and 
 rode back rapidly in the direction of Paris. 
 
 ' Well I never I' I exclaimed, as I remained glued to the 
 spot. ' Here's little Emily Ann, who was our under-nurse- 
 maid years ago, and whom I and my sister teased nearly 
 out of her life, Empress of the French.' * 
 
 I knew that the emperor, who was proclaimed after the 
 downfall of Boulanger, married an English lady whom he 
 met abroad, but I never imagined that it was the Emily 
 
192 THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN 
 
 Ann who was nursemaid to my little sisters many years 
 ago. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The next evening, punctually at eight, I arrived at the 
 new imperial palace, which had been erected on the site of 
 the old Tuileries, and was shown into the White Drawing- 
 room. The empress rose to receive me, and presented me 
 to the emperor. 
 
 The emperor I found a very charming fellow. He was 
 about five-and-thirty, and what the French call 'bel homme.' 
 I knew he had been a sailor, and much of the free-and-easy 
 manner of the naval officer remained with him in his 
 greatness. 
 
 ' My dear sir,' he said, as he led me to a seat on the 
 sofa between himself and the empress, ' my wife has told 
 me of your former acquaintance. I am delighted to meet 
 you.' 
 
 I glanced at the empress. How much had she told the 
 emperor of her past life ? 
 
 ' Henri knows everything ; you need have no fear.' 
 
 Husband and wife exchanged a glance of mutual love and 
 confidence, and I felt at my ease directly. 
 
 I was much struck with Emily Ann's perfect behaviour 
 at table. She was every inch an empress, and I felt that 
 much credit was due to her, as she had practically raised 
 herself from the position of a little London maid-of-all-work 
 to the imperial purple. 
 
 It was a charming dinner, and as soon as it was over the 
 empress rose and left us to our cigars. 
 
 ' Do not be long, Henri dear,' she said, ' for I want Master 
 George to hear my story to-night. I have dismissed my 
 ladies, and shall wait for you in the Japanese boudoir.' 
 ***** 
 
 It was just midnight when I quitted the imperial palace. 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 193 
 
 The empress shook me warmly by the hand, and the emperor 
 invited me to bring my luggage and make the palace my 
 home during my stay in the French capital. I was very 
 glad to get out into the fresh cool air of the night. I wanted 
 to feel the breezes upon my brow, I wanted to look upon 
 the lights of Paris, I wanted to be on the boulevards to see 
 the gay cafes and the bustling crowd, I wanted to make 
 sure that I was wide awake and not the victim of a dis- 
 ordered dream. The story that the Empress Emily Ann 
 had told me was so marvellous that had I not personally 
 known her as a maid-of-all-work I should have believed to 
 my dying day that she was endeavouring to impose upon 
 my credulity. 
 
 On my return to my apartments in the Eue Louis le 
 Grand I at once sat down and wrote out from memory the 
 whole of the empress's remarkable story. 
 
 I give it as nearly as possible in her majesty's own words. 
 
 I was born of poor but educated parents. My father was 
 the son of a gentleman by birth named Smythe, and my 
 mother was a governess at a national school. Soon after 
 my parents married my father lost his fortune, and became 
 a clerk at the docks. One day a heavy bale of goods which 
 was being unloaded from a ship fell on him owing to a 
 crane accident, and killed him. My mother never re- 
 covered the shock, and at the age of five I was left an 
 orphan. Some kind people got me into a charity school, 
 where I was brought up until I was fifteen, and then I was 
 put to service. My first place was that of under-nurse- 
 maid in the family of a gentleman who is now a well- 
 known journalist [here the Empress looked across at me 
 and smiled], but when I left, owing to a little misunder- 
 standing with the head nurse, I determined to go where 
 there were no other servants, and I obtained a situation as 
 
 13 
 
194 THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 
 
 general servant in a house in the Lambeth Eoad. The 
 house, I soon discovered, was let out in lodgings, and the 
 place was a very hard one. My mistress, ' the landlady,' 
 as she was generally called, had a peculiar connection — all 
 the lodgers were connected with the ' show ' business. At 
 one time we had a house full of Hungarian young lady 
 musicians ; at another, a party of Zulus, who were exhibit- 
 ing at the Aquarium, were deposited with us by their 
 manager. While I was there I waited upon a Eussian 
 princess who played the violin at the music-halls, a family 
 of Japanese acrobats, a tattooed lady and gentleman, a 
 troupe of Laplanders, a family all over hair (who looked 
 like ourang-outangs), and a troupe of Spaniards who per- 
 formed at the exhibition. Some of these people were very 
 peculiar in their habits and eccentric in their behaviour, and 
 sometimes I thought I had better take a place in a lunatic 
 asylum at once. But the most remarkable lodgers we ever 
 had were a lot of Arabs from Algeria, who swallowed 
 swords and put knives through their noses and ears, and 
 ate live serpents and glass bottles, and sucked red-hot 
 pokers, and did such dreadful things that it made your 
 blood run cold to look at them. 
 
 These people called themselves the Aissaouas, and they 
 performed at a hall at the West-End. When they came I 
 didn't know what they were, and so the first morning when 
 I went into their sitting-room to lay their breakfast I was 
 so horrified at what I saw that I dropped the tray on the 
 floor, smashing all the crockery, and ran out of the room 
 with my hair on end, screaming. 
 
 I really wonder I didn't lose my reason from the shock. 
 Fancy a nervous girl, brought up in a Christian country, 
 opening a door in a Christian room in a Christian house, 
 and seeing a lot of savages whirling themselves round, and 
 throwing javelins at each other, with serpents halfway 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN 195 
 
 down their throats, while a lot of other serpents sat up on 
 their tails with their tongues out and hissed at them ! 
 
 They were only practising, I learned afterwards, but 
 I certainly ought to have been warned before I went 
 in. 
 
 I was so terrified that I should have given notice and 
 left, but for the old professor who lived at the top of the 
 house. He was a very old gentleman, with a long white 
 beard and long white hair falling all over his shoulders, 
 was the professor, and he was our only lodger who wasn't 
 in the show business. 
 
 I waited on him, and I liked him very much, because 
 ' he was so kind and gentle. He was a very clever man, and 
 I heard mistress tell someone that he could speak and 
 write forty languages, some of them so old that everybody 
 else had forgotten them. But when his eyesight grew bad 
 he lost his situation at the British Museum, and had to 
 live on a small pension, and that is why he came to us. 
 I often thought it very hard for a clever man like that to 
 have barely any comforts up in his garret, while the people 
 in the parlour who swallowed swords and balanced 
 feathers on the ends of their noses lived on the fat of the 
 land. 
 
 But that is the way of the world. 
 
 When I went upstairs to take the old professor his break- 
 fast after I had been so frightened, and he saw that I had 
 been crying, he asked me what was the matter, and I told 
 him everything. 
 
 Then he explained to me what these people were, for it 
 seems he knew all about them, having studied their lan- 
 guage in their own country. He told me they were im- 
 postors, and all they did was only trickery, just like other 
 conjurers, and that I needn't be frightened of the serpents, 
 as they were quite harmless. He also wrote a lot of queer 
 
 13—2 
 
196 THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 
 
 signs on a piece of paper, and asked me to give it to Mr. 
 Abdallah, the chief of the Aissaouas. 
 
 When I gave the note to Mr. Abdallah he seemed quite 
 excited, and made me understand that he wanted to see 
 the writer ; so I took him upstairs : and if he and the pro- 
 fessor didn't begin talking away to each other just as com- 
 fortably as if they were talking English, though the professor 
 told me afterwards it was Arabic they talked ! 
 
 Mr. Abdallah and the professor became great friends 
 after that, and when the Aissaouas were at home in their 
 lodgings Mr. Abdallah was always upstairs with the pro- 
 fessor, smoking pipes and talking with him. 
 
 One day I found the professor in great glee, poring over 
 a queer-looking bit of leathery stuff, that he told me was a 
 bit of parchment. It was covered with faded signs, and 
 the professor said : 
 
 ' Look, Emily Ann, what the good Abdallah has given 
 me as a souvenir of his visit. This is thousands and thou- 
 sands of years old. It dates from the time of Barneses II., 
 the most famous of the Pharaohs, and is therefore over 
 three thousand years old. By to-night I shall have de- 
 ciphered the writing, and will tell you what it is about.' 
 
 Of course I didn't know anything about Barneses then, 
 and very little about any Pharaohs — only the one I'd read 
 about in the Bible, who was so cruel to the Children of 
 Israel — but I thought the professor must be a bit touched 
 to believe that bit of rag was thousands of years old. 
 
 But afterwards I knew what a wonderful thing it was, 
 and it was through the professor reading it that I became 
 Empress of the French. 
 
 (Here the emperor pressed Emily Ann's hand lovingly, 
 and they looked into each other's eyes.) 
 
 Yes (continued the empress), I learnt all about it nearly 
 a year after the Aissaouas had left and gone back to their 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 197 
 
 own country. One night when I went upstairs to tidy up 
 the old professor's room I found him lying on the bed and 
 looking very ill. 
 
 He beckoned me to him, and whispered : 
 
 ' Don't be alarmed, Emily Ann, I am dying.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir,' I said, ' let me call a doctor !' 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' it is useless. I know that my end has 
 come. I shall linger for some time, but I shall never get 
 up again. Now, listen to me. You have been a kind, good 
 girl to me, and I have no one in the world I care for, so I 
 am going to leave you a fortune.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir l' was all that I could say. 
 
 ' Don't interrupt, Emily Ann,' he said ; ' but listen to me 
 attentively. Take the packet that is under my pillow.' 
 
 I took it. 
 
 ' That packet,' said the poor old gentleman, ' contains 
 the parchment Mr. Abdallah gave me. It is yours, and 
 now you must know its history. Abdallah's father found 
 it many years ago in a rocky cleft among the hills in the 
 oasis of Kufarah, in Tripoli, on the borders of the Libyan 
 desert. Listen, and I will read you what those signs say. 
 They are written in the hieroglyphics of the days of 
 Eameses II., but I can read them. This is what the parch- 
 ment says in English : 
 
 "'I, Mneptah Khamis, general in the army of Eameses 
 the king, am dying in the desert of Libya. My soldiers 
 have been slain, and I have crawled to this cleft in the 
 lonely hills to die. I set out in search of the great treasure 
 stolen from the great temple of Memphis, and known to 
 have been buried in these hills. I had discovered the spot, 
 when I was stricken down. It lies below this cleft in 
 which I lie. Let this parchment be borne to my lord and 
 master the king by whomsoever finds my body, that this 
 vast treasure, stolen from the temple of the gods, may be 
 
1 98 THE EMPRESS EMIL Y A NN. 
 
 his. The cavern in which it lies is beyond the cleft. The 
 secret is not known to the tribes of the desert. It was lost, 
 and I alone have discovered it." ' 
 
 When the professor had finished reading the parchment, 
 I was dazed. I couldn't see what all the wonderful story 
 had to do with me, and I said so. 
 
 ' Emily Ann,' exclaimed the professor, ' that treasure, 
 which may be worth millions, is in the cavern beyond the 
 cleft still. This parchment was found by Abdallah's father 
 in the cleft. It had lain there under a rock through the 
 ages — lain there thousands of years after the skeleton of 
 the general of Eameses had become dust. You must go 
 to the Libyan desert and find this cavern, and the treasure 
 is yours 1' 
 
 I thought I should have fainted at the very idea. I, a 
 poor general servant, go to a desert and find the treasure 
 that had been taken from a temple thousands of years ago ? 
 It was too absurd. 
 
 But the professor wouldn't listen to my objections. 
 
 ' In this packet, Emily Ann, you will find full instruc- 
 tions written out by me how you are to proceed. I have 
 left you all my little fortune, some £300 that I have 
 saved from my pension. It is all yours. When I am 
 dead obey my instructions, or this treasure will lie in the 
 Libyan desert until the world's end, and then it will be of 
 no use to anyone.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 A month after that the professor died. I found that he 
 had left me £350, and a number of documents. I gave 
 up my place, went into lodgings, and read the docu- 
 ments. What I read made me determine to carry out the 
 professor's wishes. He recommended me to disguise my- 
 self as a young Arab man, and stain my face with walnut- 
 juice. This I did the day before (obeying his written 
 
THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN. 199 
 
 instructions) I went to Marseilles, and I there took a 
 passage in a steamer of the Compagnie Transatlantique 
 bound for Tunis. 
 
 In Tunis I stayed for a few days, waiting for a vessel for 
 Tripoli, and it was in Tunis one morning that I met a hand- 
 some young French naval officer, whose name I afterwards 
 learned was Henri de Bourbon. 
 
 One evening, while being rowed across the Bay of Tunis, 
 a small steamer ran our little boat down, and I was flung 
 into the water. When I came to my senses, I was lying 
 in an elegant cabin, and an old gentleman was standing by 
 my side. 
 
 He addressed me in Arabic, then in French, and I could 
 not reply, not understanding him ; but in my confusion I 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' Where am I ?' 
 
 ' Mon Dieu !' exclaimed the doctor in broken English, 
 ' you are an Englishwoman.' 
 
 I knew that my secret was discovered. 
 
 ' Oh,' I exclaimed, ' do not betray me !' 
 
 ' This is very strange,' said the old gentleman ; ' I must 
 call the captain.' He went out, and presently returned 
 with the captain of the French man-of-war, on to which I 
 found afterwards I had been carried by the sailors who had 
 rescued me. 
 
 The captain, a handsome young fellow 
 
 ' Hush I' said the emperor, interrupting, with a smile. 
 You make me blush. You must know, my dear sir,' 
 continued the emperor, ' that at that time I was simply 
 Henri de Bourbon, the direct descendant of Louis XVI. of 
 France, through his son Louis, who escaped when a boy 
 from the prison of the Temple (through the kindness of 
 the cobbler Simon, who pretended his prisoner was dead), 
 
200 THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 
 
 and who lived in retirement, unknown and unhonoured, 
 for the rest of his life. I was merely a captain in the 
 French navy, a servant of the French Eepublic, and had 
 no idea beyond doing my duty loyally to the land of my 
 birth. Now, my dear,' he added, turning to the empress, 
 ' proceed with your narrative.' 
 
 The captain (continued the empress), whom my husband 
 refuses to allow me to describe as handsome, returned with 
 the old gentleman, who was the ship's surgeon, and was 
 very much astonished when he learned that the young 
 Arab who had been rescued from drowning in the bay was 
 in reality a young English girl. 
 
 My confusion was intense, but the kindness of Captain de 
 Bourbon soon put me at my ease. ' My dear young lady,' 
 he said, in excellent English, ' your secret is safe with us. 
 Pray consider yourself an honoured guest on board my ship 
 until you have thoroughly recovered from your accident.' 
 
 I spent two days on board the vessel, the captain's cabin 
 being entirely given up to me. During those two days, so 
 great was the confidence with which the captain inspired 
 me, that I told him my story, and placed all the documents 
 in his hands. 
 
 He was deeply interested, but he utterly discouraged 
 the idea of my making the journey to the Libyan desert 
 alone. 
 
 ' There are a thousand dangers,' he cried, ' with which 
 you will be utterly unable to contend.' 
 
 ' Must I then abandon the treasure ?' I said. 
 
 ' No ; but you must let me assist you. I am entitled to 
 six months' leave. If you will allow me to find an escort, 
 and appoint me the captain of the force accompanying you, 
 I shall be delighted.' 
 
 I accepted the offer at once. I must confess that the 
 
THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN 201 
 
 idea of making that terrible journey to the Libyan desert 
 alone had frequently caused me much uneasiness. 
 
 As soon as I was convalescent I returned to my hotel in 
 Tunis. The captain called upon me every day, and together 
 we concocted plans for our expedition. 
 
 A few days before we were to start my captain came to 
 me, and I noticed that he seemed nervous and preoccupied. 
 
 ' Is there anything the matter, M. de Bourbon ?' I said. 
 
 He looked at me earnestly for a moment, then falling 
 upon his knees, and taking my hand in his, exclaimed : 
 
 • Emily Ann, I can keep my secret no longer. I love 
 you. Will you be my wife ?' 
 
 For a moment I was so overcome by emotion that I could 
 not reply. 
 
 ' Ah !' he exclaimed, ' you do not know how I love you — 
 how I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. I 
 am but a poor sea captain, but I am of illustrious birth, and 
 I will make you happy.' 
 
 ' I also, Henry, am poor at present, but, though I confess 
 to you now that I have been a domestic servant, I must tell 
 you that I also am of good birth. My father was a gentle- 
 man ; his father was the eighth son of a baronet, whose 
 ancestors were nobles of Britain when William the Con- 
 queror landed. I tell you this because I love you, and I do 
 not wish you to think that you are marrying beneath you.' 
 
 ' Then you love me, and will be my wife?' 
 
 My eyes answered him, for my lips trembled too violently 
 to reply. 
 
 He clasped me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine, 
 and went off at once to make arrangements for our marriage 
 before the French consul. 
 
 The day after our marriage we left Tunis, a detachment 
 of native soldiers procured by my husband accompanying 
 us, and for additional safety we took with us a dozen French 
 
202 THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN. 
 
 bluejackets, who had obtained permission to accompany 
 their captain. 
 
 We reached Tripoli in safety, and made our way on 
 camels to the oasis of Kufarah. We had no difficulty in 
 finding the cleft in the rocks where the general of Eameses 
 died, as it was the only cleft in the desert. 
 
 We then ordered our escort to camp some distance off, 
 and we searched for the treasure alone. 
 
 Passing straight through the cleft, we found a small 
 opening overgrown with brushwood. Cutting this away, 
 we found the narrow entrance to a cavern. Into this we 
 penetrated, and then, following the professor's written 
 instructions — he knew how the ancients buried their 
 treasures — we at last came upon some large metal boxes. 
 The ancients must have been excellent workmen, for these 
 boxes, though thousands of years old, were still intact. My 
 husband broke them open with his pickaxe, and we found 
 them full of gold and precious stones, and splendid orna- 
 ments, and vessels of gold, marvellously wrought. My 
 husband declared that the value of this treasure was fabu- 
 lous, and we have since realized over ten millions by the 
 sale of a portion of it. We had made all our plans, and 
 with the aid of the bluejackets, in whom we had every 
 confidence, we loaded our camels and brought the treasure 
 to Tripoli. There we took ship for Tunis, and, my husband 
 having tendered his resignation to the French admiralty, we 
 set out for Paris with the treasure that had been taken from 
 the Temple of Memphis before the days of Eameses II. 
 
 ' Marvellous I* I exclaimed, interrupting the empress. 
 ' If I hadn't known that you were always a truthful girl 
 while in my mother's service, I should think — but, after all, 
 you are an empress now, and that is more wonderful still.' 
 
 ' No ' (replied the empress), ' it is very simple. On our 
 
THE EMPRESS EMILY ANN. 203 
 
 return to Paris we found General Boulanger president. He 
 had declared a war of revenge against Germany, and Europe 
 was in a state of wild excitement. 
 
 'But on the very eve of the departure of the French 
 troops quartered in Paris, the general, while reviewing them, 
 was thrown from his famous black charger Tunis — who had 
 not been properly exercised and was very fresh. Boulanger 
 fell heavily on the ground, and Tunis kicked him on his 
 head. It was a very inglorious proceeding, and a bad omen. 
 When the general had been put to bed it was found that his 
 reason had been affected. He believed himself to be Bona- 
 parte, and kept running to the window and declaring war 
 against everybody. 
 
 ' When he told his physicians he was going to conquer 
 England and wipe out Waterloo, they felt that nothing 
 more could be done for him, and sent him to the lunatic 
 asylum at Charenton, where he still remains, poor fellow ! 
 To humour him, the attendants call him Bonaparte, and 
 assure him that England and Germany are now annexed to 
 France, and that the Kaiser and his aged English grand- 
 mamma are prisoners on the island of St. Helena.' 
 
 ' But how did your husband become emperor, Emily 
 Ann ?' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Well, he was a Bourbon, as ^ou know, and he was the 
 direct descendant of Louis XVI. When Boulanger fell, he 
 happened to be a spectator of the scene. 
 
 1 He ran forward and seized Tunis and leapt upon his 
 back. " Frenchmen," he cried, " I am Henri de Bourbon. 
 Boulanger would have led you to war and ruin ; let me 
 counsel you to remain at peace, and think only of the pros- 
 perity of our beloved country." 
 
 ' His words had a magical effect. Instantly the crowd 
 cried, " Vive Henri de Bourbon ! Vive l'empereur 1" Ah, 
 it was a wonderful spectacle. That night there was a 
 
204 THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN. 
 
 bloodless revolution. France was sick of the petty jealousies 
 of the intriguers of all the parties. She longed to be an 
 empire again. The citizens came in a body to our house in 
 the Faubourg St. Germain. " Will you be our emperor?" 
 they cried. Henri stepped out on the balcony and said : 
 " Avec plaisir, mes amis." 
 
 ' A week afterwards he was crowned, and, clasping me 
 in his arms before the assembled multitude, he said, " My 
 people, behold your empress !" 
 
 ' Then he informed the people that, as I had brought him 
 a fortune of twenty millions, we should not want to draw 
 anything from the State, and so the taxes would be reduced 
 at once. 
 
 ' " Bravo !" exclaimed the people. " We have an emperor 
 and empress who can support themselves. We are the most 
 favoured among the nations." And from that moment we 
 have never had our right to the throne called in question. 
 
 ' Now you know how the little general servant, Emily 
 Ann, became Empress of the French. Before you go, I 
 want you to see my baby.' 
 
 The emperor and empress led me to an adjoining apart- 
 ment, where, in a cradle of gold, there lay a beautiful little 
 baby-boy fast asleep. 
 
 ' Behold the prince imperial !' exclaimed the emperor, 
 ' the inheritor of the vast treasure that was stolen from the 
 Temple of Memphis. General Mneptah Khamis set out 
 in search of it for Barneses II., and Emily Ann found it 
 a few thousand years afterwards, and settled it upon the 
 youngest descendant of the Smythes of Great Britain and 
 the Bourbons of France. We owe a good deal to the 
 general.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Empress Emily Ann ; * but we must not 
 forget that these millions would never have come to our boy 
 but for the aged professor, who was kind to his mother, and 
 
THE EMPRESS EMIL Y ANN. 205 
 
 had not his mother once been a general servant in the house 
 in the Lambeth Eoad where the Aissaouas came to lodge, 
 with Abdallah, their chief.' 
 
 ' To the Editor of the " Timbuctoo Times " {London Daily 
 Edition). 
 'Snt,— 
 
 ' I have this day telephoned you a full account of my 
 interesting interview with the Empress of the French, ne'e 
 Emily Ann Smythe. I think it will make a great sensation. 
 You will, I trust, appreciate the advantage you have over 
 your contemporaries in having appointed me your Special 
 Correspondent in Paris. 
 
 ' Faithfully yours, 
 
 [Signature illegible.] 
 'Paris. April 1, 1891.' 
 
MISS PRISCILLA. 
 
 It was past ten o'clock, and a bitterly cold winter night, 
 and Miss Priscilla Pargeter, who had been somewhat late 
 abroad for an elderly maiden lady, was settling herself down 
 in her easychair, and putting on her gold spectacles. It 
 was Miss Priscilla's invariable custom to read a chapter or 
 two from some favourite author before she retired to rest. 
 
 It was quite immaterial to Miss Priscilla what chapters 
 they were. Where she opened her book, there she read, 
 for she knew her favourite authors by heart, having read 
 the same works through and through again for the last 
 thirty years. 
 
 It would have been useless to urge Miss Priscilla to read 
 a new book. She would have said that she was too old 
 to take to new-fangled ideas. The books her dear mother 
 read, and the books her dear sister — dead, alas ! these ten 
 years — read were good enough for her. 
 
 Miss Priscilla lived in a comfortable little house in an 
 unfashionable square in unfashionable Islington. Her 
 father had lived there and died there. Her mother had 
 died there, and Priscilla and her elder sister Prudence had 
 kept the old house on for the sake of its hallowed memories. 
 
 The sisters Pargeter were well known in the neighbour- 
 hood. ' Dear old ladies,' everybody called them, and, if 
 their old-fashioned ways occasionally made their pushing, 
 
MISS P RISC ILL A. 207 
 
 go-ahead neighbours smile, their old-fashioned gentleness 
 and kindliness made everybody respect and esteem them. 
 
 It was a terrible blow to Priscilla when Prudence died, 
 for she had the little house all to herself then. She was 
 the last of her race. Friends she had in plenty, but no 
 relatives, and, being of a loving nature, she was compelled 
 to find something to love now that the last of her kindred 
 had departed from the old home. 
 
 She had always loved cats and dogs. Never d a stray 
 cat mew piteously down an area or on a doorstep within 
 earshot of Miss Priscilla but Mary the housemaid was 
 instantly despatched to see where the poor thing was, and 
 to coax it in and give it some nice warm milk ; and never 
 did a stray cur or a lost dog hang about Miss Priscilla's 
 doorstep but it was invited inside and regaled with bones 
 and scraps. 
 
 A young gentleman who lodged in a house at the corner 
 of the square, from the windows of which a commanding 
 view of Miss Pargeter's front door could be obtained, and 
 who was a medical student, was wont to declare in the 
 billiard-room of the Compton Arms, which he frequented 
 of an evening, that there was a freemasonry existing among 
 the dogs of London, and that by a code of signs they com- 
 municated to each other the fact that ' Pargeter's was a 
 sure bone.' 
 
 Even Mary the housemaid, who was haunted by the 
 idea that one day they would take in ' a hydrophoby case,' 
 and had twice given notice on the plea that she didn't 
 engage for a cats' and dogs' lodging-house, and who would 
 not willingly have granted a single virtue to either the 
 feline or the canine race, confessed her belief that the 
 starving dogs who were so nobly feasted went away and 
 gave Miss Pargeter's address to all the other starving do 
 they chanced to meet in their wanderings. 
 
208 MISS P RISC ILL A. 
 
 After her sister's death, Miss Priscilla — the old form of 
 address clung to her though she was Miss Pargeter now — 
 enlarged the sphere of her benevolence, and, being lonely 
 at times in the now silent house, took to going about more 
 and attending the meetings of the various societies in which 
 the vicar and the curate of the parish were interested. It 
 was at a meeting held in connection with the agitation for 
 a better law for the protection of little children that her 
 indignation was aroused by the terrible stories related on 
 the platform. She found it at first difficult to believe that 
 innocent little children were inhumanly treated and starved 
 by their own fathers and mothers. But the moment she 
 grasped the fact she began to look out for unhappy little 
 children as well as unhappy little cats and dogs. 
 
 When Mary heard that Miss Priscilla had taken up the 
 1 child ' question, she declared that now she should have to 
 leave. ' She'll begin a-takin' in all the starving childring,' 
 said Mary, ' and then they'll get brought and left on the 
 doorsteps by dozens, and I suppose I'll have to take 'em in 
 with the cats and the dawgs. It's more than human flesh 
 and blood can stand, and I ain't goin' to. I didn't engage 
 for it.' 
 
 But Mary's alarm was premature. Miss Priscilla did 
 not arrive home of an afternoon with her arms full of 
 babies, and a string of starving and shoeless children 
 clinging to her skirts. 
 
 But whenever she went out for a walk or to a mother's 
 meeting, or to a little tea-party at a friend's house, she 
 kept her eyes open and would frequently harangue the 
 sturdy men and women begging or playing music in the 
 streets, who dragged sickly and miserable-looking children 
 about with them in order to excite the sympathy of the 
 passers-by. 
 
 On the eventful evening when the incidents occurred, 
 
MISS PRISCILLA. 209 
 
 but for which this story could never have been written, 
 Miss Priscilla had been to tea with the curate's wife, and, 
 returning home about nine o'clock, she had met a drunken 
 woman staggering out of a public-house with a child in her 
 arms. 
 
 Miss Priscilla's indignation had been aroused at once, 
 and she had boldly harangued the woman on the iniquity 
 of her conduct, much to the delight of the customers at the 
 bar, who had come flocking out, and who received Miss 
 Priscilla's oration with several ' hear, hears,' at first ironical, 
 but in the end sympathetic. 
 
 Quite a little crowd had gathered round before Miss 
 Priscilla had exhausted her indigation, and when the 
 drunken woman began to bestow on the brave Priscilla a 
 few epithets entirely unsuited to an elderly maiden lady's 
 ears, one or two women stepped forward, and, crying 
 shame on her for a ' wicked faggit,' stopped her flow of 
 invective by a method more vigorous than polite, and 
 roundly declared that the ' laidy hadn't given her no more 
 than she deserved,' and advised her to ' git on 'ome to her 
 husbing, and put the pore little kid to bed.' 
 
 There had been one spectator of the scene whom nobody 
 had noticed. Standing behind the crowd a little lad of 
 about thirteen had eagerly listened to every word that Miss 
 Priscilla said on the subject of babies. 
 
 He was a poor little stunted child of the slums, with 
 a pale, wizened face and hungry eyes, and in his arms, 
 wrapped in an old ragged shawl, he carried a bundle. 
 Every now and then he hugged the little bundle close to 
 his breast, as though to keep it warm ; and once, when the 
 bundle gave a little whimpering cry, he put one foot on the 
 curb and swayed himself to and fro, as a mother does when 
 rocking her baby to sleep. 
 
 Every now and then the little fellow coughed a hollow 
 
 U 
 
210 MISS PRISC1LLA. 
 
 cruel cough, and then made a violent effort to restrain 
 himself, for his whole frame was shaken by it, and the little 
 bundle was disturbed. 
 
 As Miss Pargeter quitted the scene of her oratorical 
 triumph, her face flushed, and her bosom heaving partly 
 with indignation and partly with the unwonted exertion of 
 her vocal powers in the night air, the boy slipped quietly 
 out of the crowd and stole softly after her. 
 
 He kept at a respectful distance, but he never lost sight 
 of her. When Miss Pargeter knocked at the door of her 
 "house, the boy stood on the opposite side against the railings 
 of the square, and watched her enter. 
 
 Then he came across and looked at the number on the 
 door. 
 
 ' No. 7,' he muttered to himself, ' that's it. S'pose I 
 was to put 'er down on the step and ring the bell and 'ook 
 it. S'pose as the laidy took 'er in, it 'ud be all right. I 
 could watch oppersite till I see 'er took in. I wonder if it 
 'ud be all right ?' 
 
 He lifted the shawl gently from the baby's face, for the 
 bundle in his arms was a baby, and then he stooped and 
 kissed the little face that looked cold and blue in the light 
 of the lamp underneath which he was standing. 
 
 ' No, Bibby,' he said, ' I couldn't leave yer like that. 
 I'll make sure as you'll be took'd in by the kind laidy. I'll 
 tell 'er how it's to save yer life as I've done what I have, 
 and I know as she won't turn me away then, for she's a 
 real good 'un to kids, she is, and she'd be sorry for yer, dear, 
 like she was for the drunkin woman's baby.' 
 
 But the lad evidently hesitated. He must have walked 
 up and down for some time, perhaps gone away and come 
 back again before he could screw his courage to the sticking 
 point, for it was past ten o'clock, and Miss Priscilla was 
 sitting down to read her two chapters previous to retiring 
 
MISS PRISCILLA. 211 
 
 to rest, when there came a timid, feeble little single knock 
 at the door. 
 
 ' Dear me, whoever can that be at this time of night ?' 
 said Miss Priscilla, laying down her book and ringing the 
 bell in case Mary should not have heard the knock. 
 
 Mary had evidently not heard it, for she came into the 
 room. 
 
 ' There's a knock at the door, Mary. Whoever can it 
 be so late ?' 
 
 ' Goodness knows, ma'am, said Mary, ' unless it's one 
 of them dawgs. I'd never be surprised if they took to 
 knocking theirselves, they're that artful.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Mary ! go and see who it is.' 
 
 Mary went, and presently she returned with an expression 
 of indignation on her face. 
 
 ' I knew how it 'ud be, ma'am,' she said ; ' there's a baby 
 come.' 
 
 ' A what !' shrieked Miss Priscilla. 
 
 ' There's a ragged boy at the door with a baby, and he 
 wants to see the lady as lives here, he says.' 
 
 ' Dear me I' said Miss Priscilla ; ' a boy with a baby ?' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Well, don't keep him out in the cold street a night like 
 this; ask him to come in.' 
 
 'Yes, ma'am,' said Mary; but as she went she muttered 
 to herself, ' As if cats and dogs wasn't bad enough, it's to 
 be ragged boys and hinfants in harms now. They won't 
 want a 'ousemaid here soon, they'll want a wet nuss.' 
 
 There was a shuffling of feet, a hollow racking cough, 
 and then there stood timidly in the doorway of the sitting- 
 room, his eyes blinking in the unaccustomed light, a dirby, 
 ragged little boy with a bundle in his arms. 
 
 Miss Priscilla stared at him for a moment in amazement, 
 and then she said kindly : 
 
 14—2 
 
212 MISS PR ISC ILL A. 
 
 ' Well, my boy, what do you want with me ?' 
 
 'Please, marm, I hopes as you won't be hangry,' he 
 gasped, the words bubbling out one after the other in his 
 fear and anxiety ; ' but I heerd wot you said about babies 
 to that drunkin woman, and I thought as p'raps — as p'raps 
 you'd ' 
 
 ' Perhaps I'd what?' exclaimed Miss Priscilla, wondering 
 what she was expected to do. 
 
 ' As p'raps you'd take in my baby for the night till I kin 
 find a place where they takes 'em in reg'lar, for nuffink.' 
 
 ' Take in your what ?' shrieked Miss Priscilla. 
 
 ' My baby, marm ; this 'ere.' 
 
 He put the old shawl back a little way and showed Miss 
 Priscilla the sleeping child's face. 
 
 ' Your baby ; what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' It's my baby, marm — leastways, it's my little sister — 
 mother's in a 'sylum, and father's got somebody else in the 
 'ouse as hain't zackly his wife, but knocks us about — and — 
 
 and Well, I carn't tell you orl, 'cus it 'ud be up agin 
 
 father wot I heerd, but I've run away and took my little 
 sister with me, and I ain't niver goin' back agin, more's she 
 if I kin 'elp it. Afore mother was took'd she says to me, 
 " Johnny, take care of poor baby, won't yer, and love 'er," 
 and I sed I would, and if they kills me for it I will. She 
 ain't no trouble, laidy, and she takes the bottle, and she's 
 as good as a hangel if you jumpses her up and down a bit 
 when she yells. Do take 'er, laidy, if it's only for ternite. 
 I kin doss anywhere — under a barrer or hon a doorstep, or 
 hup a yard, I don't mind ; but it 'ud kill her, and I ain't 
 got not no money to buy 'er no milk, and, oh, laidy — do take 
 my baby in. Yer will, won'tcher ?' 
 
 Miss Priscilla had listened in open-eyed amazement at 
 the boy's long speech. He had never stopped to let her get 
 a word in. He pleaded his cause with feverish anxiety, 
 
MISS PRISCILLA. 213 
 
 and only stopped at last when a fit of coughing shook his 
 feeble little frame. 
 
 ' My poor boy,' exclaimed Miss Priscilla, ' I — er — really 
 don't know what to say — why have you left your home ? 
 Why have you taken the baby with you ? It's a dreadful 
 thing to do.' 
 
 ' Is it ?' said the boy, almost fiercely. 'Is it ? If you'd 
 'ad a little sister, and you knowed it was goin' to be 
 murdered, and you loved it, wouldn't you try to save its 
 life ? P'raps you never 'ad no sister ?' 
 
 The tears came into Miss Priscilla's eyes. The poor little 
 ragged urchin was terribly in earnest. This was no im- 
 posture, no plot to impose upon her kind heart, she was 
 sure of that. But she hardly felt justified in taking in a 
 baby which a boy confessed he had run away from home 
 with. 
 
 ' What do you mean by saying it would be murdered ?' 
 she said, after a moment's silence, during which she was 
 really wondering what to do with the baby and the boy. 
 ' Who would murder it ?' 
 
 ' I ain't a-goin' to say, so don't arsk me. I ain't a-goin' 
 to get nobody pinched for it, not me.' 
 
 ' Pinched !' 
 
 ' Yuss, took to gaol, for they could be, I know that. I 
 give you my word, laidy. I heard suthin this afternoon, 
 and I know as they'd do it. Keep 'er ternite-, marm, and 
 I'll come for 'er to-morrer and take 'er away agin, if you 
 like. I ' 
 
 The boy suddenly put his hand to his mouth. When he 
 took it away it was tinged with blood. 
 
 ' Good gracious, my poor boy I' cried Miss Priscilla, 
 jumping up. ' You are ill. You ' 
 
 ' Oh, it's nuffink, laidy. I'm often took like that. It's 
 kersumption, they say. I shan't live long. I heerd 'em 
 
214 MfSS PRISCILLA. 
 
 say that at the orspital, but it don't matter to 'em about 
 me, you see. I haint 'shured, but she what ain't zackly 
 married to father, she's 'shured the baby and ' 
 
 A gleam of light suddenly came to Miss Priseilla. She 
 had heard some terrible tales at one of the meetings in aid 
 of the agitation for an Act for the better protection of 
 children. 
 
 ' Little boy,' she said, ' you can trust me. Tell me the 
 truth. You heard something which makes you think that 
 your little sister will be got rid of — neglected — allowed to 
 die, by someone who wants the money she is insured for — 
 is that it ?' 
 
 ' Will yer take yer dyin' oath yer won't never tell no 
 one?' said the boy, looking anxiously, half doubtingly, as 
 it were, in Miss Priscilla's face. 
 
 ' I don't take oaths, my boy,' replied Miss Priseilla. 
 ' That is wicked ; but I give you my promise that I'll keep 
 your secret if you trust me with it.' 
 
 ' I believe yer,' whispered the boy. ' You're kind and 
 good. I'm sure on it. Yuss, that's what it is. I heerd 
 my father and that woman a-torkin, and she said 'as the 
 baby was wuth money if it was dead, and only corsted 
 money alive, and it was in the way when I was at the Bord 
 School, and not 'ome to nuss it and look arter it, and then 
 they said as they meant to have the money, and I waited, 
 and when they was gond out together to the puberlick 'ouse 
 I took the baby and wropped it up and I rund away with 
 it. They kin kill me if they like, but I ain't goin' to see no 
 'arm come to the young un.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 Five minutes afterwards Mary, who gave notice for the 
 tenth time, then and there was despatched to the house of 
 a charwoman, with a large family, skilled in the art of 
 nursing, and bidden to bring her back at once, and that 
 
MISS PRISCILLA. 215 
 
 night the stolen baby fared better than it had ever done in 
 its unhappy little life before. 
 
 And that night a ragged little boy slept on a sofa wheeled 
 up to the kitchen fire, after partaking of a basin of the 
 most delightful mixture he had ever tasted ; and that night 
 Mary the housemaid lay awake, feeling her injuries so great 
 that it was impossible to sleep upon them, and her last 
 coherent utterance before she finally dozed off was that if 
 the place was ' goin' to be a fondling 'ospital as well as a 
 'ome for lost dogs and cats,' she'd sooner forfeit a month's 
 wages than stop another hour in it. 
 
 But Mary thought better of it in the morning and stopped, 
 consoling herself with again giving notice, and the boy 
 stopped, and the baby stopped. 
 
 The poor little fellow wanted to go in the morning, but 
 Miss Priscilla wouldn't hear of it. He was too ill. She 
 sent for the doctor, and the doctor came and shook his 
 head, and told Miss Priscilla it was only a question of 
 months — at the most of a year. 
 
 ' Then he shall stay with me and end his poor little life 
 in peace,' exclaimed Miss Priscilla, the tears in her kind 
 old eyes. 
 
 And the boy stayed, and grew happier and happier, and 
 weaker and weaker, and Miss Priscilla would sit and read 
 to him and talk to him of all the wonderful things he had 
 never heard of, or had never rightly understood. But his 
 greatest joy was when the baby was brought to him — his 
 little sister, whose life he had saved ; and when he saw how 
 well and bonny his dear baby was looking, he would give a 
 little sigh of joy, and tell Miss Priscilla that he could die 
 happy now that he knew his little sister was safe, and he 
 had kept his promise to the poor mother he would never 
 see again. 
 
 He did die happy. He died with one hand clasping Miss 
 
216 MISS PRISCILLA. 
 
 Priscilla's, and the other laid gently on his baby sister's 
 cheek, as they held her to him for his dying eyes to see. 
 
 Before he died he called Miss Priscilla to him, and told 
 her how it was no inquiry had ever been made for him and 
 the child, and how it was that she never need fear that the 
 baby would be sought for and taken from her. 
 
 He had left a rudely-scrawled letter behind him — some- 
 thing written in his best School Board hand on a dirty half- 
 sheet of paper. 
 
 It was only a few words, but it told his father that he 
 had overheard ' that woman's ' oath to get the baby's in- 
 surance money, and it registered a boyish oath to ' peach ' 
 on both of them if they tried to recapture the little victim 
 he hid saved from being slowly but surely done to death 
 for the sake of a few pounds, which the guilty wretches 
 would only squander in drink. 
 
 The poor little lad's rough, ill-spelt note didn't say all 
 that, but it meant it, and probably the wretched woman 
 and her accomplice understood it, and were satisfied to be 
 rid of both their ' encumbrances.' 
 
 Miss Priscilla has the baby still, and she will keep it as 
 long as she lives. Every year it grows prettier and gentler, 
 and the lonely home is bright with childish laughter, and 
 even Mary is soothed by it, and has left off giving notice. 
 
 But there is no childish laughter on certain days in the 
 year, when the little girl and Miss Priscilla go hand-in-hand 
 to a great cemetery near London, and seek out a little 
 gravestone in a quiet corner, and reverently lay upon it, 
 with tearful eyes, a handful of wild flowers, gathered in the 
 ■fields and meadows that the little sleeper never saw. 
 
THE MURDERER'S DOG. 
 
 In the winter of the year 1887 I spent a few weeks in 
 Madrid. 
 
 I had ' descended,' as the French say, at the Fonda de la 
 Paz, the hotel principally patronized by English and Ameri- 
 can tourists. 
 
 The rooms allotted to me, in return for a payment of 
 forty pesetas a day, were on a second floor, and commanded 
 an uninterrupted view of the famous Puerta del Sol, the 
 principal public thoroughfare of the capital. From my 
 balcony a perpetual panorama of Spanish life unfolded 
 itself before me, and the scene was always 6gayante and 
 interesting. 
 
 There was only one drawback to the many advantages 
 the situation of my apartments conferred upon me, and that 
 was the perpetual noise. 
 
 Life on the Puerta del Sol commences about 5 a.m. and 
 leaves off about 3 a.m. 
 
 Up till 2 a.m. the newspaper boys continue to shout their 
 special editions, and the vendors of oranges, lemonade, and 
 sweetmeats to yell their wares, and the traffic never ceases 
 at all. 
 
 At first I found it difficult to sleep at all through the 
 continuous uproar, but gradually I grew accustomed to it, 
 aud then even a dozen newsboys yelling, ' A horrible 
 
218 THE MURDERER'S DOG. 
 
 murder !' under my window all night long failed to keep me 
 awake. 
 
 One gets at last so accustomed to noise that it is its cessa- 
 tion which interferes with your repose. 
 
 I have had this experience often — the most notable 
 instance was when for a whole fortnight I lived in a hotel 
 in Covent Garden. My bedroom window then looked right 
 upon the space immediately in front of the market, and all 
 night long the heavy carts rolled up over the great stones, 
 and the horses' hoofs clattered, and the drivers and the 
 market-porters shouted, creating between them a perfect 
 pindemonium. 
 
 Singularly enough, after a night or two, the incessant 
 niise ceased to interfere with my rest. It was only on 
 S iturday nights, when the place was as silent as the grave, 
 t at I lay and tossed from side to side. I missed the noise, 
 and that kept me awake. 
 
 I have only mentioned this circumstance because it is 
 exactly on all fours with my experience when I lived on the 
 Puerta del Sol in Madrid. 
 
 One day, after returning from a bull-fight at which ' all 
 Madrid,' including the queen-regent, had assisted, I found 
 quite a large crowd gathered round the entrance to my 
 hotel, and a number of people in the crowd were talking at 
 the top of their voices, and gesticulating violently. The 
 hotel interpreter was standing calmly surveying the scene 
 in the most approved and dignified Spanish manner, and. 
 pushing my way through the people until I reached him, I 
 begged him to explain to me what was the matter. 
 
 ' It is nothing,' he said quietly ; ' only that man yonder 
 in the long cloak is a murderer, and he is being stared at by 
 the crowd.' 
 
 ' A murderer !' I exclaimed, ' Then how is it he is not in 
 custody?' 
 
THE MURDERER'S DOG. 219 
 
 ' He has been. He has come out of prison to-day.' 
 
 ' He has been released ?' 
 
 ' No ; he has had leave of absence to attend the bull-fight. 
 Instead of returning to prison, as he should have done, he 
 has taken a stroll on to the Puerta. The people have recog- 
 nised him, and so now he is waiting here until the police 
 come to take him to prison again. Some of the crowd might 
 annoy him if he walked away.' 
 
 I went upstairs to my room, and from my balcony I saw 
 the denouement of this little incident of Spanish everyday 
 life. In about five minutes the police arrived ; and, under 
 a strong escort, the murderer was taken away, and politely 
 conducted back to prison. 
 
 As he stood in the centre of the officers, I had a good 
 opportunity of observing his features. I took a mental note 
 of them, and registered them on my memory. 
 
 That evening the interpreter accompanied me to a caf6- 
 chantant in a low quarter of the town, where it was danger- 
 ous for a foreigner to go alone. 
 
 In the intervals of the entertainment (one which would 
 have roused Mr. County Councillor MacDougall to frenzy) 
 my interpreter told me the story of the murderer of whose 
 rescue from the mob I had been an eye-witness that after- 
 noon. 
 
 Don Eoderigo C was awaiting his trial for the murder 
 
 of his wife under peculiarly atrocious circumstances. The 
 poor woman had aroused his jealousy by some thoughtless 
 act, and after a violent quarrel he had confessed that his 
 suspicions were groundless, and he was quite satisfied with 
 her explanation. 
 
 But on the morning after the quarrel, while she was 
 sleeping calmly by his side, he had deliberately stabbed her 
 to death with his navaja, a murderous, long-bladed knife, 
 which is to the Spaniard what the stiletto is to the Italian. 
 
220 THE MURDERER'S DOG. 
 
 For this murder he was arrested, and was awaiting his 
 trial, when he obtained a day's holiday from an official of 
 the prison to go and see the bull-fight. 
 
 The temporary release of a prisoner under such circum- 
 stances seems incredible to Englishmen ; but the custom of 
 letting prisoners out of gaol is a very common one in Spain, 
 where the gaol discipline is extremely lax, and most of the 
 officials are corrupt. 
 
 A case occurred only a year or two since, in which an old 
 lady was found murdered and robbed in Madrid, and for a 
 long time the case was shrouded in mystery. The son, a 
 notorious spendthrift and keeper of bad company, would 
 have been suspected, but he was already in prison on a 
 charge of swindling. 
 
 But one fine day this son had a quarrel with his gaoler, 
 whom he nearly strangled, and whom, in his rage, he 
 accused of being a scoundrel. Mutual recriminations 
 followed, and at last it came out that on the day the old 
 lady was murdered the gaoler had allowed his prisoner to 
 leave the prison, on condition that he returned the next 
 morning. The price of this favour was to be a thousand 
 pesetas. 
 
 On the following morning the prisoner duly returned, but 
 in the meantime he had gone secretly to his mother's apart- 
 ment and murdered and robbed her — the thousand pesetas 
 he handed his gaoler were part of the plunder. 
 
 But to return to my murderer. I have in my possession 
 a collection of photographs connected with famous criminal 
 cases, and a whole album full of the portraits of ladies and 
 gentlemen who have qualified themselves for admission to 
 the Chamber of Horrors. I mentioned this fact to my 
 guide, and told him I should very much like to add a 
 Spanish murderer to my collection. I was assured that my 
 desire could easily be gratified, as Don Eoderigo's phot;: 
 
THE MURDERER'S DOG. 221 
 
 was being exposed for sale in one of the principal shops in 
 Madrid. On the following day the photograph was in my 
 possession. 
 
 A few nights afterwards, returning very late to my hotel, 
 I met an English friend, a well-known impresario who had 
 come to Madrid to hear an operatic star who was then 
 singing at the opera-house. 
 
 We adjourned to my rooms, and sat talking and smoking 
 until far into the night. When my friend left me I flung 
 my windows open to let out the smoke, and stepped out 
 into the balcony. 
 
 There was plenty of life in the Puerta still, and I stood 
 and finished my cigar and watched the cloaked Spaniards, 
 looking like conspirators in a comic opera as they flitted past 
 me in the moonlight. 
 
 Suddenly my attention was attracted by a man who was 
 dragging a large black poodle dog after him by a string, and 
 swearing at it and kicking it. 
 
 I had noticed the same man walking up and down in 
 front of our hotel with a dog before, and I understood that 
 he was a dog-dealer. 
 
 I had never seen the dog before, but I saw at once that it 
 was a valuable one. Pitying the poor beast for falling into 
 such hands, I closed my window and went to bed. 
 
 The next day, when I went out, the dog-dealer was out- 
 side the hotel, and he was still accompanied by the poodle. 
 The man came up to me, and, addressing me in Spanish, 
 asked me to buy the dog. 
 
 One of those odd impulses for which one cannot always 
 account seized me, and I thought I would buy the dog, if 
 only to save such a handsome fellow from cruel treatment. 
 I called the hotel interpreter to my aid, and the bargain 
 was eventually struck. I paid a good deal more than the 
 dog was worth ; but I have no doubt the interpreter added 
 
222 THE MURDERERS DOG. 
 
 a good percentage to the price for himself. He informed 
 me that the dog was formerly the property of the murderer 
 I had seen on the previous evening. After his arrest 
 it had been bought by the dealer who had now sold it to 
 me. 
 
 ' You are fond of curiosities, senor,' said the interpreter. 
 ' You have one now, for you have a murderer's dog !' 
 
 ' A murderer's dog 1' I said to myself. ' It doesn't sound 
 pretty, but I suppose the animal hasn't acquired any of his 
 master's bad habits.' 
 
 As soon as I had paid the money, I took the dog up to 
 my room and coaxed him and petted him, and we soon 
 became good friends. But as I did not want to drag a 
 poodle through Spain with me, I made inquiries as to the 
 best way of sending him to England with a certainty of his 
 being well looked after on the journey. 
 
 Fortunately, I discovered an English coachman who was 
 taking some horses to England, and to him I entrusted my 
 new purchase, whom, in honour of his nationality, I had 
 christened ' Don.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the spring of the year 1889 I was walking through 
 Leicester Square with Don, when my attention was attracted 
 by his running and barking around a man whose face seemed 
 familiar to me. 
 
 ' Where have I seen that face before ?' I said to myself ; 
 and then it suddenly occurred to me that the man in 
 Leicester Square was very like the Madrid murderer whose 
 dog I had bought. 
 
 Before I could get near enough to take a good look at him 
 he was lost in the crowd. 
 
 When I went home that afternoon, I took out the portrait 
 of Don Boderigo, and looked at it carefully. 
 
 It was a most extraordinary resemblance. 
 
THE MURDERER'S DOG. 223 
 
 ' Don,' I said to the poodle, who was now my constant 
 companion, ' Don, my boy, I believe that was your old 
 master.' 
 
 Don wagged his tail. 
 
 But. when I came to think it out, I felt sure that I must 
 have been deceived by an accidental likeness. The man 
 who murdered his wife must either have received ' La 
 Garotte ' long ago, or be working out his sentence in a 
 Spanish prison. 
 
 It was about a fortnight later that one evening at the 
 opera, while glancing round the house through my opera- 
 glasses, I uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 Seated in a box by the side of a beautiful girl was the 
 man who was so like Don's master. 
 
 Seated in the next stall to me was a friend of mine who 
 knows ' everybody ' in London. 
 
 I asked him if he knew the occupants of the box. 
 
 'Oh yes,' he said: 'the old gentleman standing at the 
 back of the box is a Mr. Tomkins, a retired tradesman, very 
 wealthy man, rose from nothing, made his money out of a 
 sauce, I believe. The young lady is his only daughter — 
 pretty girl, isn't she ? The foreigner is a Spaniard — Don 
 Pedro del Campo his name is.' 
 
 ' Know anything about him T 
 
 ' Not much. He gives himself out as a Spaniard of 
 fortune, and is supposed to come from South America. 
 He's engaged to Miss Tomkins — met her, I believe, at Nice 
 this winter. Father doesn't like him, but the girl is madly 
 in love with him.' 
 
 ' Seems to be a little mystery about him, eh ? Is he in 
 a good set over here ?' 
 
 ' No. But there's no doubt he's wealthy. Old Tomkins 
 is a business-like man. I believe he required a banker's 
 reference before he consented to the marriage.' 
 
224 THE MURDERER'S DOG. 
 
 I left the opera that night determined to find out some- 
 thing about Don Pedro del Campo. 
 
 I had paid a good deal more attention to him all the 
 evening than I had to the opera, and I had become con- 
 vinced that he was none other than the man I had seen in 
 custody in Madrid for the murder of his wife. - 
 
 My first inquiries were so far satisfactory. Don Pedro 
 was a man of wealth. There was no doubt that his wealth 
 came from South America. He lived in good style in 
 London, and his credit was excellent. 
 
 I thought I would find out if Don Eoderigo's fate was 
 known in Madrid, so I wrote to a friend there, and from 
 him I received the following information. 
 
 Don Eoderigo was found guilty, with extenuating circum- 
 stances, and condemned to several years' imprisonment. 
 
 Some six months later he saved the governor of the 
 prison from an attack made upon him by a convict, and 
 assisted the officers to quell a revolt. For this he was 
 pardoned on condition he left the country. It was rumoured 
 that directly after his release he inherited a fortune from a 
 brother who died in South America. 
 
 Don Pedro del Campo was Don Eoderigo the murderer 1 
 I was sure of it. 
 
 But how was I to prove it ? 
 
 I found out the places Don Pedro was in the habit of 
 frequenting, his hours of going out, etc., and one day I 
 stationed myself outside his house near Hyde Park about 
 eleven o'clock. 
 
 I had Don with me. 
 
 About ten minutes past eleven Don Pedro came out. I 
 followed him a little way, then passed him, having the dog 
 on a lead. 
 
 I thought the dog seemed excited as he passed the 
 Spaniard. He sniffed and cocked his ears up. 
 
THE MURDERER'S DOG. 225 
 
 Presently I loosed the dog, and he ran back and began 
 to bark and jump up at Don Pedro. 
 
 I called the dog to me, and, raising my hat, apologized 
 for my dog's attentions. 
 
 In fairly good English Don Pedro assured me that no 
 harm was done. 
 
 ' This dog is a countryman of yours,' I said. 
 
 ' Indeed 1' 
 
 Don Pedro looked at the dog more attentively. 
 
 ' Yes ; I bought him in Madrid two years ago. He was 
 the dog of Don Eoderigo, who murdered his wife.' 
 
 Don Pedro looked at me nervously ; then he looked hard 
 at the dog, who still whined and barked and attempted to 
 caress his late master. 
 
 The Spaniard's face went ashy white for a moment, but 
 he regained his composure. 
 
 ' Call your dog off 1' he said angrily. ' I am afraid of 
 dogs.' 
 
 Then he turned round and walked rapidly away. 
 
 That afternoon I took a bold and decided step. 
 
 I called on Mr. Tomkins, and told him my story. The 
 old gentleman was horrified, and declared he would at once 
 demand an explanation of his future son-in-law. 
 
 ' A murderer I' he exclaimed. ' Great heavens, what a 
 fate for my child !' 
 
 As I was leaving the house with Don, who had accom- 
 panied me, we met Don Pedro on the steps. He was about 
 to call. 
 
 When he saw the dog he uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise, and, muttering something in Spanish, walked 
 hurriedly away from the door. 
 
 A week afterwards I received a letter of thanks from Mr. 
 Tomkins. Don Pedro had written to say that business had 
 necessitated his immediate return to South America, an 
 
 15 
 
226 THE MURDERERS DOG. 
 
 under these circumstances he resigned all claim to the hand 
 of Miss Tomkins. 
 
 The young lady was inconsolable for a time ; but when 
 she learned that her hero was a wife-murderer she gradually 
 recovered her spirits and felt that she had had a lucky 
 escape. 
 
 I still have Don, and I never look at him without think- 
 ing how astounded his master must have been when he 
 came sniffing about his legs near the Park. When you 
 commit a murder in Madrid you don't expect the dog you 
 left behind you there to come suddenly barking and frisking 
 around you in London. 
 
THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 CHAPTBE I. 
 
 THE GAS. 
 
 The Earl of Fourstars sat alone in the great dining-room 
 of Fourstars Court. It was ten long years since he had 
 disinherited and cast off for ever the last of his children, and 
 he was beginning to feel lonely. 
 
 A portrait of his wife, painted by a German artist, who 
 had been made fashionable by the patronage of royalty, 
 hung over the fireplace. 
 
 The earl, who had been sitting moodily with his eyes 
 cast down upon the ground, suddenly raised them in order 
 to contemplate the ceiling, and his gaze was arrested 
 midway by the picture of the countess. 
 
 1 Ah, Buphrosyne 1' he exclaimed, * perhaps I was wrong, 
 after all. I dare say I was hasty, and when I put you 
 outside the front door that bitter winter morning, and told 
 you never to let me see your face again, I acted inconsider- 
 ately. But why — oh ! why would you always side with the 
 children against me ?' 
 
 At that moment the butler entered. 
 
 Gostage, the butler, had been a servant in the Fourstars 
 family all his life. His mother was a Fourstars housemaid 
 and married a Fourstars gardener. He was devotedly 
 
 15-2 
 
228 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 
 attached to the earl, and firmly believed that the world 
 consisted of the Fourstars family and a lot of nobodies. 
 
 ' Beg pardon, my lord,' said Gostage, ' but there's been 
 another houtrage.'' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said his lordship. ' What is it this time ?' 
 
 ' Well, my lord, I hardly like to tell you— it is such a 
 houtrage ; but the gas-collector called this hafterncoi while 
 your lordship was out, and he left a most impertinent 
 message.' 
 
 ' What did he say ?' 
 
 ' Well, my lord, I humbly ask your pardon for repeating 
 such impudence, but the person said that he wasn't a-going 
 to call again, and if the amount due wasn't forwarded before 
 twelve o'clock to-morrow, he'd — he'd ' 
 
 ' Well, well, what would he do ? exclaimed his lordship 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' Well, your lordship, I hardly like to mention such a 
 thing after the years I've been in the family, but he said if 
 you didn't pay he'd cut your lordship's gas off !' 
 
 ' Ah,' sighed his lordship. ' I expected it. We live in 
 democratic and communistic days, Gostage I' 
 
 ' We do, indeed, my lord ; the country's going to the 
 dogs, and I can't understand it with a Conservative Govern- 
 ment in power. Now, if it was old Gladstone — - — ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, then we could understand it, couldn't we, 
 Gostage? But when, under a Conservative Government, 
 a peer's gaa ceases to be sacred, we may expect anything to 
 happen.' 
 
 ' Indeed, we may, my lord, and that's just what I said 
 to Mrs. Gostage, my lord. " Sarah," I said, " if they cut 
 his lordship's gas off, the next thing they'll do will be to 
 summon bis lordship for the poor rates." ' 
 
 ' They have done so, Gostage,' replied his lordship, taking 
 a summons from his pocket. 
 
THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 229 
 
 Gostage, although he was gratified that the spirit of 
 prophecy had been so strong upon him, was yet visibly 
 distressed when he caught sight of the blue paper. 
 
 ' Oh, my lord !' he exclaimed, tears running down his 
 honest face, ' you don't mean to say they have took that 
 liberty ?' 
 
 ' They have not only taken the liberty, but I expect, if I 
 don't pay, they'll take the spoons and forks. But I've a 
 week to attend to this summons — the gas is a more im- 
 mediate matter. What is the amount ?' 
 
 'Thirty- two, fourteen, six, my lord.' 
 
 Lord Fourstars drew his purse from his pocket, opened it 
 and counted the contents. 
 
 ' My available cash at the present moment is five pounds 
 and sixpence. Wait one moment — let me be strictly accurate. 
 I have two postage stamps — five pounds and eightpence.' 
 
 ' But your lordship can draw a cheque ?' exclaimed the 
 butler. 
 
 ' Yes, I might, but it would be wasting the penny stamp 
 upon it. The bank would not honour it. My account is 
 already overdrawn nearly fifty pounds, and the bank has 
 given me notice that they cannot allow any further irregu- 
 larity.' 
 
 ' I have a few pounds upstairs, my lord ' 
 
 ' No, no, Gostage — you are a good fellow and a faithful 
 servant, but your wages are already two years in arrears, 
 and I must leave you something to live on when I am 
 gathered to my fathers.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my lord. Ah I if there were only more 
 masters like you !' 
 
 ' We must keep the gas going, Gostage, because I hate 
 candles, and I can't see in the dark. I think you had 
 better take the spoons and forks and a couple of candle- 
 sticks to Jones to-morrow.' 
 
230 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 
 ' The pawnbrokers, my lord !' exclaimed Gost je, the cold 
 beads of perspiration standing on his brow. 
 
 ' Yes, he will not be astonished. I have hitherto done 
 the pawning that has been necessary myself, but it has 
 been confined to jewellery and things that I could easily 
 carry about me concealed from observation. I don't care 
 to walk into the pawnbroker's with the plate-basket on my 
 arm.' 
 
 ' Very well, my lord,' said Gostage, with difficulty 
 restraining his sobs. ' It shall be as you wish ; but I 
 never thought that I should live to see the day when your 
 lordship's spoons and forks would go to your lordship's 
 uncle.' 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 Long after the faithful Gostage had retired to rest with the 
 plate-basket under the bed, Lord Fourstars sat in his lonely 
 halls and brooded o'er the past. 
 
 Still hale and hearty, and barely sixty, he was alone in 
 the world. 
 
 One by one he had driven his children from beneath his 
 roof. 
 
 They wanted to earn their own livings. They had 
 become impregnated with the democratic ideas of the age. 
 The eldest son, Lord Doubledash, took in the Star, and 
 played billiards with a Home Eule M.P. The second son, The 
 Hon. Eichard, a mere child, was constantly in the stables 
 with the groom and the one horse which the earl jobbed 
 from a livery stable. He was a bold rider, and was in the 
 habit of riding the horse down to the village green, and 
 letting it out to excursionists and cheap trippers at sixpence 
 an hour. With the money he made in this way he paid the 
 
THE FO URS TARS FA MIL V. 23 1 
 
 village tailor for a suit of clothes, for which his father had 
 owed for three years. 
 
 ' I have worn out the clothes. I will pay for them,' he 
 said proudly. 
 
 When the earl heard of it, he ordered Richard out of the 
 house, and forbade the family ever to mention his name 
 again. 
 
 The boy was proud, and went. 
 
 Lord Doubledash, the eldest son, pleaded for his little 
 boy brother. He declared that it was more honourable to 
 trade and pay than to do nothing and owe. Heedless of 
 the furious glance which the earl cast at him, he went on 
 to say that he himself had made enough money to defray 
 his college expenses, and had done so. 
 
 ' How did you make it ?' shrieked the earl, clutching at 
 the mantelshelf for support. 
 
 ' I made a little book at the Fourstars Arms on the 
 Leger,' replied the young lord proudly. ' An outsider won, 
 and I skinned the lamb.' 
 
 The earl fell down in an apoplectic fit. When he recovered, 
 he sent for the family solicitor, cut off the entail, and, taking 
 his heir by the collar, flung him out into the night. 
 
 ' Never darken my doors again !' he exclaimed. And 
 although the doors were oak, and black with age, the young 
 lord never did. 
 
 Left alone with his wife and daughter, the Lady Arabella, 
 the earl became gloomy and despondent. He no longer 
 1 1 the energy to let himself out as a director of public 
 companies, or to write testimonials for patent medicines, 
 and so his income was seriously diminished. There are so 
 few things that a nobleman can do who respects the tradi- 
 tions of his order, and the Earl of Fourstars not only 
 respected, but venerated them. 
 
 The butcher, the baker and the grocer valued the 
 
232 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 
 Fourstars custom too much to press for payment of their 
 accounts, although they were several years overdue ; but 
 when, one day, in a Eadical paper, it was stated that the 
 earl was having his soap and candles sent down from the 
 Co-operative Stores in London, and paying cash for them, 
 an indignation meeting was held in the bar-parlour of the 
 Fourstars Arms. The meeting was the work of a Socialist 
 agitator, who was on tour with a Society-for-the-Abolition- 
 of-the-House-of-Lords van. 
 
 That night, every tradesman in the village was enrolled 
 in the League, and paid half a crown for a ticket of member- 
 ship. The next day the van drove off, and the village 
 tradesmen sent in their bills with a request for immediate 
 payment. 
 
 ' It is infamous !' exclaimed the earl. ' There is no longer 
 any respect for law and order in the country. Another 
 year, and I could have pleaded the Statute of. Limita- 
 tions.' 
 
 That afternoon the Lady Arabella met the butcher's 
 wife, and the butcher's wife didn't curtsy. 
 
 ' Why do you not curtsy as usual ?' said the Lady 
 Arabella. 
 
 ' Because your pa owes my husband for six years' meat. 
 Them as pays their way have no need to curtsy to them as 
 don't.' 
 
 ' That is quite true,' replied the Lady Arabella, and she 
 went home and sought an interview with her father. 
 
 It was a stormy one. 
 
 The Lady Arabella declared that she would no longer 
 eat meat that was not paid for. Kissing her mother 
 affectionately, she packed her box, asked the housemaid 
 to help her carry it to the station, and set out in the world 
 to earn her own living. 
 
 The countess, who had long secretly mourned for the 
 
THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 233 
 
 departure of her sons, was broken-hearted wnen her 
 daughter left. 
 
 ' Henessey,' she said, ' is it not possible for us to live 
 within our income, and retain the respect of our children ?' 
 
 ' We have no income except my directors' fees, and what 
 I get for the use of my name on the prospectuses of public 
 companies.' 
 
 ' But surely, dear, that is enough to enable us to live in 
 lodgings and pay our way ?' 
 
 The earl rose from his seat trembling with passion. 
 
 'Live in lodgings!' he yelled. 'What next? Why not 
 propose that you put a card in the parlour window — 
 " Mangling done by the Countess of Fourstars." ' 
 
 ' I should not object to do a little mangling, dear, but I 
 should prefer dressmaking. I have a taste for that, and 
 there is more money to be earned.' 
 
 A dressmaker — his countess a dressmaker ! 
 
 With the light of madness in his eyes, the earl took his 
 wife by the shoulders and pushed her out of the front-door. 
 
 ' Go, woman !' he shrieked — ' go, and be a dressmaker, 
 and never darken my doo*s again !' 
 
 The earl, you see, was very strict in the matter of having 
 his doors darkened. 
 
 From that hour, no rumour of the whereabouts of any 
 member of his family had penetrated Fourstars Court. 
 The earl read no newspapers, and sternly refused to receive 
 any information. At first the family wrote to him, but their 
 letters were burned unopened. 
 
 The earl had managed to rub along on his directors' fees, 
 etc., but these were not enough to enable him to pay his 
 tradespeople, and now these tradespeople were beginning to 
 clamour. The social agitator, who travelled with a van, 
 caused a revolution in the village. Directly it was known 
 that the butcher had issued a writ, the baker and the grocer 
 
234 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 
 followed suit. The spoons and the forks and the candle- 
 sticks saved the gas, but a man came into possession for 
 the poors rate, and at last Fourstars Court was full of 
 brokers' men. 
 
 The earl refused to meet them, and had a bed made up 
 for himself in the summer-house. On the morrow he would 
 have to leave even that, for the estate had been sold at 
 auction, and the new proprietor was about to arrive. 
 
 At four o'clock one bright autumn afternoon a carriage 
 and pair dashed up to the gates, and a man of about thirty 
 leaped out and rang the bell. 
 
 Gostage, who was living at the lodge, opened the gates, 
 and for a moment blinked. He was blinded by the brilliancy 
 of the diamonds in the visitor's scarfpin. 
 
 ' Don't you know me, Gostage ?' exclaimed the stranger. 
 
 ' Good 'evins !' exclaimed Gostage. ' Are my eyes deceiv- 
 ing me, or is it Lord Doubledash ?' 
 . ' You can put a monkey on that, Gostage,' replied the 
 viscount. " I've bought the estate, cash down, and I'm 
 coming to live here.' 
 
 Lord Doubledash strolled into -the grounds. His father 
 came from the summer-house trembling with passion. 
 
 ' How dare you ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' It's all right, dad !' exclaimed Doubledash. ' I've 
 bought the place, and I've come to ask you a favour.' 
 
 ' Speak, sir ; but I warn you ' 
 
 ' Oh, it's all right. I'm going to turn myself into a 
 public company. I'm a bookmaker — Doubledash, the 
 Leviathan. I make £50,000 a year profit.' 
 
 ' A bookmaker ? How disgraceful !' 
 
 ' I've secured all the directors, but we want a chairman 
 for Doubledash and Co., Turf Accountants, Limited. Come, 
 governor, I'll qualify you, and the salary of the chairman 
 will be £2,000 a year.' 
 
THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 235 
 
 • Ah, a public company I I see. Of course, that removes 
 the stigma of trade. Yes, I will be chairman. Can you 
 give me half a year's salary on account ?' 
 
 Lord Doubledash pressed a thousand-pound note into 
 his father's hand. 
 
 At that moment a tremendous cheer was heard outside. 
 A dapper little fellow had ridden up on a thoroughbred 
 horse. The crowd had recognised him as The Hon. 
 Eichard, the celebrated light-weight jockey, who was re- 
 ported to make £100,000 a year. 
 
 Eichard leapt from his horse and entered the grounds. 
 
 " Well, governor !' he exclaimed, flicking his boots with 
 his riding- whip, ' how are you ? Sorry to hear that 
 you're stony, but Doubledash and I will soon put that 
 right.' 
 
 ' My son — a jockey !' groaned the earl. 
 
 ' Yes, they call me the Fred Archer of to-day, and by 
 the time I'm too heavy to ride I shall have put by a million. 
 What do you think of that ? Now, look here, governor. 
 The Ebor Handicap is run this afternoon. I'll put you on 
 a good thing. Back Silver Spur for a thousand. Double- 
 dash'll lay you starting price ; won't you, Doubledash ?' 
 
 ' Well,' said the noble bookmaker, ' not on the nod ; but 
 if it's to be cash ' 
 
 ' Go on,' whispered the noble jockey. ' Give him that 
 thou, you've got in your hand. It's a cert.' 
 
 Lord Pourstars took his jockey son's tip, and handed 
 his bookmaker son his own thousand-pound note back 
 again. 
 
 Just then, the winner came up on the tape 
 
 Silver Spur, 1. Starting price, 10 to 1. 
 
 ' I always pay directly after the race 1' exclaimed Lord 
 Doubledash ; and he handed his father eleven thousand- 
 pound notes. 
 
256 THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 
 
 ' My dear boys,' said the earl, tears of joy flowing down 
 his cheeks, ' embrace me !' 
 
 Thus were father and sons reconciled. 
 
 An hour later, the countess arrived on a four-in-hand, 
 driven by Lady Arabella. 
 
 ' Well, pa,' said Arabella, ' we heard of your trouble, and 
 I've brought ma to see you.' 
 
 ' Arabella, what means this costume ?' said the earL 
 
 His daughter was dressed in a suit of cricketing flannels, 
 and carried a bat over her shoulder. 
 
 ' It means, papa, that I am captain of a professional 
 eleven of lady cricketers. I am running the show myself, 
 and our share of the gate-money averages £10,000 a year.' 
 
 ' And you, my wife,' said his lordship. ' How came you 
 with a four-in-hand ?' 
 
 ' You see, dear, it's like this,' replied the countess, 
 blushing : ' I went to London and established myself as a 
 dressmaker. Now I have an enormous business, and I 
 make most of the dresses for the drawing-rooms.' 
 
 ' My wife a dressmaker ! Oh, how awful !' 
 
 ' Listen, dear,' interrupted the countess. ' I have now 
 establishments not only in London, but in Paris, Vienna, 
 and New York. It is too much for me. I am turning it 
 into a public company. If you will be a director, I will 
 qualify you, and you can make £1,500 a year in directors' 
 fees.' 
 
 ' A public company ! Ah, that is so different to a retail 
 business. Yes, I will be a director, and you can give me 
 as many shares as you like.' 
 
 That night bonfires were lighted on the village green ; all 
 the tradespeople had been paid, and the estates remained 
 in the Fourstars family. 
 
 And the proud father sat at the head of his table opposite 
 his dressmaker wife, and exchanged loving glances with his 
 
THE FOURSTARS FAMILY. 237 
 
 cricketer daughter and his bookmaker heir and his jockey 
 son. 
 
 1 After all,' he said to Gostage, as that worthy fellow 
 came in to put out the gas, ' after all, Gostage, there is no 
 harm in a nobleman earning his living, if he earns a good 
 one ; and my wife and eldest son being turned into public 
 companies, I can share the profits with an easy conscience.' 
 
 And he did. 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 
 
 John Harbinger sat in his little back parlour nursing the 
 baby. 
 
 He was nursing the baby because the ' missis ' was busy 
 in the shop. 
 
 It wanted only a week to Christmas, and it was time for 
 John's little sweetstuff shop to ^e put in Christmas order. 
 Now, John didn't understand very much of the business. 
 He could weigh out an ounce of sugar-plums or cocoa-nut 
 ice or hardbake, and he had a nice pleasant way with the 
 children who came in with their farthings and their half- 
 pennies. His voice was very soft and musical, and he- had 
 a kind, gentle look that made the children feel quite at 
 home with him at once. He had a way of saying, ' What's 
 for you, my little dear,' to a tiny tot whose head barely 
 reached to the counter, and who had to stretch her plump 
 little hand up with the halfpenny clutched in her baby 
 fingers for John to take it, that put her at her ease at once, 
 and enabled her to express herself with much more clearness 
 as to her desires than she would have been able to had the 
 gruff and grumpy Mrs. McGrudder, who kept a rival shop 
 on the other side of the road, made the inquiry. 
 
 Mrs. McGrudder had a larger shop than the Harbingers. 
 Moreover, she had ' a good connection,' and frequently 
 took orders for ' a quarter of a pound ' of sweets at a time. 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 239 
 
 The young ladies arid gentlemen of the neighbourhood 
 dealt with Mrs. MoGrudder, and their mammas and their 
 governesses came to Mrs. McGrudder, who not only dealt 
 in lollipops and bull's-eyes in the ordinary acceptation of 
 the term, but also displayed a large assortment of bonbons, 
 the very names of which were sufficient to alarm children 
 of neglected education. 
 
 Mrs. McGrudder had the custom of the poorer children 
 until the Harbingers opened their shop, because it was 
 Hobson's choice. But the halfpenny customers were never 
 received with the same cordiality as the young masters and 
 misses who spent their twopences, their threepences, and 
 occasionally their sixpences. If there was one thing Mrs. 
 McGrudder, who was the widow of a police-sergeant, and, 
 it is rumoured, had at one time occupied the proud position 
 of female searcher, was proud of, it was her aristocratic 
 connection. The ' quality ' dealt with her, and Mrs. 
 McGrudder worshipped quality. Now, it wasn't quality 
 the halfpenny customers wanted, but quantity, and the 
 boys especially took up a great deal of Mrs. McGrudder's 
 valuable time. They were a long time making up their 
 minds as to what they would have for their halfpenny, and 
 they were not to be put off with gelatines or carraway 
 comfits and acid drops. They would enter into arguments 
 with Mrs. McGrudder on the subject of chocolate creams, 
 and nougat, and fruits glaces. They didn't see why Mrs. 
 McGrudder couldn't make a ha'porth of the best-looking 
 sweets just as easily as she could make a ha'porth of pear- 
 drops or gelatines. 
 
 And while they were arguing the point sometimes a 
 nicely-dressed little girl would come in with her mamma, 
 and then Mrs. McGrudder would lose her patience, and 
 tell the vulgar and ill-dressed little boy to be off, and turn 
 with smiles and smirks to her fashionable clients. She 
 
2 4 o JOHN HARBINGER. 
 
 felt that the presence of the untidy little boys and girls, 
 who would put their dirty little fingers on the counter, was 
 calculated to shock and distress the ' quality,' and perhaps 
 make them imagine that she did a low and common trade. 
 
 It was, therefore, a great relief to the ' common ' children 
 when suddenly a modest little shop opened on the opposite 
 side of the street, and they discovered that the proprietor 
 and his wife were nice kind people, who took a halfpenny 
 with a smile, said ' Thank you,' and didn't bustle their 
 juvenile customers who liked to have a good look round at 
 all the tempting dainties before finally deciding in which 
 to invest their modest capital. John Harbinger, or " Muster 
 'Arbinger,' as he was generally called in the neighbourhood, 
 was an especial favourite with the children. Indeed, they 
 presumed on his kindness and gentleness sometimes so far 
 as to want two separate kinds of lollipops for their half- 
 penny — a farthing's worth of this and a farthing's worth of 
 that. 
 
 The children, finding that they were welcomed and 
 treated civilly and allowed plenty of time to make up their 
 minds, deserted Mrs. McGrudder altogether, and bestowed 
 their entire patronage on the Harbingers, and by-and-by 
 their parents came in with them, and then a few of the 
 richer children came in, and in a couple of years the 
 Harbingers had established quite a nice little business, the 
 shop being always clean and the stock ' attractive.' 
 
 Nobody in the neighbourhood knew where the Harbingers 
 came from. Even Mrs. McGrudder had failed to find out 
 anything of their past history. Two of the travellers from 
 the wholesale houses called at both shops for orders, but 
 neither of them could give Mrs. McGrudder any informa- 
 tion. They thought that the Harbingers were new to the 
 business when they came, for they didn't seem to know 
 any of the trade terms. But Mrs. Harbinger, who was a 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 241 
 
 smart little woman, had soon picked up the technicalities, 
 and now, in the words of one of the travellers aforesaid, 
 ' she was smarter than many of the old hands.' 
 
 The Harbingers had been four years in the little sweet- 
 stuff shop on the eventful day that John sat nursing his 
 baby in the back parlour. Mrs. Harbinger was decorating 
 the window, and setting out the special goods to make a 
 Christmas show. Nobody, surely, evei arranged bugar jugs 
 and sugar eggs and chocolate cigars and Christmas-tree 
 ornaments with such marvellous effect as Lily Harbinger. 
 John declared that she had ' regular fairy fingers,' and 
 when the window was fully dressed, and it grew dark and 
 the gas was lighted in the window, John said it looked quite 
 like fairyland. 
 
 The Christmas show brought plenty of extra customers, 
 although it wanted fully a week to Christmas. The 
 children's pennies and halfpennies burnt holes in their 
 pockets as soon as their eyes fell upon the delightful white 
 sugar pigs, and pink sugar harps, and yellow Christmas 
 crowns — and there was soon quite a clamouring little 
 crowd waiting to be served. 
 
 About nine o'clock the trade began to slacken, and John, 
 who had been serving, went into the parlour, where Lily 
 was getting the supper ready. The baby had gone to bed 
 long ago, and so had the other children — little John and 
 little Lily. 
 
 ' Well, Lil,' said John, rubbing his hands, ' we're doing 
 better every day.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied his wife, looking up lovingly at her 
 husband, ' we've had nothing but good-luck, John dear, 
 since we came here.' 
 
 ' Thank God !' exclaimed John reverently. 
 
 ' Thank God,' replied his wife, a shadow for a moment 
 passing over her pretty face. 
 
 16 
 
243 JOHN HARBINGER. 
 
 ' Lil,' said the man, taking his wife's hand gently in his, 
 ' you're thinking how different it might have been if ' 
 
 ' Hush, John dear ! We're not going to speak of that 
 again. It's buried in the past, dear, and only a dream now.' 
 
 ' Yes, only a dream now, but it was an awful reality 
 then. To-day, while I was nursing dear baby, it all came 
 back to me of a sudden, that awful night, and for a moment 
 I was afraid of myself. I wanted to call you to take the 
 child from me.' 
 
 ' John, dear John, don't, don't talk like that. You 
 mustn't — indeed, you mustn't. You have been the best 
 of husbands — the best of fathers — and ' 
 
 ' Someone in the shop,' said John, interrupting her, as 
 the sound of money tapped on the counter attracted his 
 attention. 
 
 ' I'll go,' said Lily. 
 
 ' No, no, dear ; you're tired. I'll go.' 
 
 And John pushed open the little glass door, and, walking 
 into the shop, behind the counter, politely asked the 
 customer what he could serve him with. 
 
 The customer was a tall, powerfully-built man, of about 
 thirty, with a thick overcoat on, and a travelling-cap pulled 
 down over his eyes. 
 
 ' I want some cough candy, if you have any — a couple of 
 ounces,' said the man. 'I've got a bit of a cough. Hullohl' 
 
 John, who was looking for the cough candy, looked up 
 astonished ; and again the customer exclaimed, ' Hulloh 1' 
 
 ' What's the matter ?' said John, somewhat nervously. 
 
 The customer stared hard at John, who lowered his eyes 
 and went very red, and then suddenly very white. 
 
 ' I'm sorry for you, old chap,' said the man ; ' but I know 
 you, and I must do my duty. Come, old chap, you re- 
 member me.' 
 
 'No,' said John faintly, 'I don't.' But he had been 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 243 
 
 looking intently at his customer ; and presently he threw 
 up his arms, and exclaimed, ' God help my poor girl 1 
 has come at last, then !' 
 
 ' I knew I wasn't mistaken,' said the man, not unkindly. 
 ' Now, what am I to do ? Will you go back with me 
 quietly, or shall I call the police in ?' 
 
 ' No, no t for God's sake, no !' exclaimed John Harbinger. 
 ' For my poor wife's sake, keep my secret 1' 
 
 A low cry attracted their attention. 
 
 Lily Harbinger was standing at the little glass door. She 
 had seen ; she had heard ; and she understood. 
 
 ' Oh, sir, wboever you are, you won't take him from us 
 now. For four years he has been with us — the kindest and 
 gentlest of husbands and fathers.' 
 
 ' I'm very sorry, ma'am, but I must do my duty. I'd ha' 
 given a sovereign out of my own pocket rather than have 
 come in here. But I came, and I've recognised your hus- 
 band ; and it's more than my place and my pension's worth 
 not to take him ' 
 
 He had followed John up to the door ; the wife beckoned 
 him into the parlour, and closed it. 
 
 An hour later, when the shop was shut and the street was 
 all quiet, John Harbinger, dressed for a journey, came out, 
 with a look of blank dismay upon his face and tears in his 
 eyes, and went slowly down the street with the man in the 
 overcoat and travelling-cap. 
 
 The man was a warder at Broadmoor. He had been to 
 London with a convict whose time had expired, to make 
 arrangements for his being forwarded to the county asylum; 
 and he had called in at Jobn Harbinger's shop, and recog- 
 nised John Westropp, a Queen's pleasure man, who had 
 escaped from Broadmoor Asylum four years previously, and 
 of whom all trace had been lost. 
 
 John Westropp had only been in the asylum for a year. 
 
 16—2 
 
244 JOHN HARBINGER. 
 
 His waB a sad story. Soon after his marriage the little for- 
 tune left him by his father had been lost, owing to the 
 failure of a solicitor who had ' invested ' it for him. To 
 drown his grief at the loss of his money, John had taken to 
 drink, and, alas ! had brought himself at last to that ter- 
 rible condition of alcoholism generally known as delirium 
 tremens. One night, when in this condition, he had taken 
 his child from its cradle, and, rushing out of the house with 
 it, had thrown it into the canal. He was going to follow 
 himself, when he was seized by someone who had seen the 
 deed. The child was rescued, and John was dragged off 
 to the police-station. 
 
 He was tried for the attempted murder, and acquitted on 
 the ground of insanity, and sent to Broadmoor, to be con- 
 fined there during her majesty's pleasure. 
 
 He had eluded the vigilance of his keepers one day and 
 escaped. He had made his way to his home in the north, 
 found his wife and chilu, and together they had made their 
 way to London, where they lived for a time, John earning 
 just enough for them to live on by working at the docks, 
 where he passed by the name of Harbinger, which was his 
 wife's maiden name. And then a relative of his wife's died, 
 and left her a little money — just enough to enable them to 
 take the little sweet-stuff shop in London, where we first 
 saw John, nursing his youngest born. 
 
 And now, after four years, a warder had recognised him 
 and taken him back to Broadmoor, the Queen's great 
 pleasure-house, the home of the mad murderer and the 
 lunatic criminal. 
 
 MrB. McGrudder was one of the first to hear of Mr. 
 Harbinger's disappearance. It had got about, in some 
 mysterious way, that he had been arrested. Mrs. McGrudder 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 245 
 
 said she knew how it would be. Polks didn't get on like 
 the Harbingers had done on selling ha'porths of sweets ; and 
 she forthwith sallied across the road, ostensibly to condole 
 with Mrs. Harbinger, but in reality to see what she could 
 find out. 
 
 Lily Harbinger was in the shop. She had not closed her 
 eyes all night; she had only wept, and hugged her little 
 ones to her, and prayed for her lost husband. 
 
 But in the morning she conquered her woman's weakness, 
 and said that she would be brave. 'For my children's sake,' 
 she said to herself; and then, drying her tears, she went 
 downstairs and set about her daily avocations. 
 
 She would tell Mrs. McGrudder nothing — only that her 
 husband had unexpectedly had to go into the country. 
 
 Mrs. McGrudder tossed her head and went home again. 
 ' She wasn't going to waste no sympathy on them as didn't 
 want it.' 
 
 Oh, what a sad week it was to poor Lily Harbinger — the 
 week when everybody around her was preparing for the 
 happy Christmas-time 1 
 
 But she went about her work bravely, and served in the 
 shop; only the children's prattle and merry laughter, as 
 they came to spend their pennies and buy things for their 
 Christmas-trees, made her own hopeless sorrow harder to 
 endure. 
 
 So Christmas Eve came, and at nine o'clock, worn out and 
 broken-hearted, she closed the shop.. 
 
 Little John and little Lily had not gone to bed. They 
 had asked to sit up, and she had allowed them to ; she was 
 glad of their company. 
 
 The children had at first asked where their father was ; 
 but they had seen that it distressed their mother, who told 
 them he had gone on a journey. 
 
 They had accepted her answer, only they saw that their 
 
246 JOHN HARBINGER. 
 
 mother's eyes were always tearful ; and they wondered and 
 were sad. 
 
 It was to have been such a happy Christmas for them all ! 
 
 And now 
 
 The poor little loving wife hid her face in her hands. She 
 could control herself no longer ; and as her children crept 
 up to her, and put their arms about her neck, she let her 
 head fall upon the table, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 And then there came a knocking at the outer door. 
 
 ' See who it is,' she said to the little girl ; ' I — I — can't 
 go-' 
 
 The girl went to the door and opened it, and then she 
 gave a cry of joy, and then 
 
 And then John Harbinger held his fainting wife clasped 
 
 to his breast, and pressed his lips passionately to her pale, 
 
 tear-stained cheeks ; and when she came to herself, he told 
 
 her the wonderful news. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 It was a happy Christmas Day in the little back parlour 
 after all — the happiest the Harbingers — or shall we say 
 now the Westropps ? — had known for years ; for was not the 
 great shadow of their lives lifted from them for ever ? 
 
 The doctors at Broadmoor had listened to John West- 
 ropp's tale ; they had made inquiries, and found that for 
 four years he had lived respected and esteemed in one 
 place. They had satisfied themselves that he was perfectly 
 sane, and they had given him his discharge and sent him 
 home. 
 
 He had been sent to Broadmoor to be detained during 
 her majesty's pleasure. It is not our good Queen's pleasure 
 to keep a sane man in a lunatic asylum. 
 
 My story is a true one ; I have but altered names. It is 
 a humane law which does not punish a sane man for the 
 crime he committed when he was not responsible for his 
 
JOHN HARBINGER. 247 
 
 actions. Even had he murdered his child, John Westropp 
 would have been released when he had given sufficient 
 proof of his restoration to perfect sanity again. His story 
 was told to me not so many weeks ago, in Broadmoor itself, 
 as I sat among the poor mad murderers, whom our wise and 
 true humanity bids us pity and tend as patients rather than 
 punish as criminals. 
 
 And it was the interpretation of that humanity in its 
 truest and broadest sense which caused John Westropp to 
 be released from the Queen's pleasure-house, and sent home 
 to comfort his loving wife and little ones on Christmas 
 Eve. 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 John Wintebdyke reckoned himself the happiest man in 
 London. As he sat in his big easy-chair at the window of 
 his bachelor chambers on the Thames Embankment, and 
 looked out at the bright sunshine which lay upon the grimy 
 city like a golden mantle, he dropped into a reverie, and 
 with his eyes half closed he looked back upon the years of 
 his life that had gone. 
 
 They had been years full of stern reality, but to-day they 
 seemed to him only as a dream in which the actors flitted 
 by, shadowy and vague, and in which the scenes melted 
 into one another as the scenes flung upon the stretched 
 sheet by the magic-lantern. 
 
 He saw himself, a young lad, left fatherless and mother- 
 less in a great city, and taken charge of by his aunt, a 
 peevish, fretful widow with a family of her own to bring up 
 on a small income left her by her husband, and such profits 
 as she could make out of a lodging-house in a second-rate 
 street in Marylebone. 
 
 Aunt Mellish meant well by her dead sister's child, but, 
 like a good many other well-meaning people, she failed in 
 carrying out her good intentions successfully. Little John 
 Winterdyke was a hungry boy and a growing boy, and 
 these were two grave faults in the eyes of Aunt Mellish. 
 He never seemed to have enough to eat, and he was 
 perpetually growing out of his clothes. 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 249 
 
 Little John Winterdyke very soon grew to understand 
 that he was an encumbrance and an interloper. He knew 
 that he was an encumbrance when he felt his aunt's eyes 
 on him at meal-times, and he trembled to appear before her 
 when he found his jacket-sleeves receding farther and 
 farther up his arms, and his trousers ascending higher and 
 higher up his legs. 
 
 He knew that he was an interloper when he heard his 
 aunt telling her lodgers about the hardness of her lot in 
 having to increase her family with ' her dead sister's child.' 
 So fond was his aunt of expatiating upon this particular 
 grief, that the lodgers grew to refer to little John in con- 
 versation among themselves as ' the dead sister's child.' 
 
 John himself overheard the second-floor say to the 
 drawing-room ; ' Oh, my dear, I had twenty minutes this 
 morning of the " dead sister's child," ' and the drawing- 
 room answered : ' Only twenty minutes — you're lucky I I 
 had an hour of it last night, and she stood with the tea-tray 
 in her hand at the door the whole time.' 
 
 He grew in time to feel his position acutely, and his mind 
 was filled with vague ideas of running away to sea, hiring 
 himself out to a street tumbler, or going for a drummer- 
 boy. He was a clever, bright lad, and read everything he 
 could come across in the intervals of preparing his lessons 
 for the day-school which he attended with his two boy 
 cousins. Fortunately, the literature which fell in his way 
 was not the pernicious trash which makes heroes of burglars 
 and pirates, and fills the youthful imagination with a wild 
 desire to die game upon the gallows. Had he fallen across 
 some of the penny dreadfuls which are the delight of the 
 modern errand-boy, he might have settled his future career 
 by running away with the money his aunt had put by for 
 the rent, the second-floor's gold watch and chain, and the 
 drawing-room's diamond ear-rings. 
 
2 so HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Even at this lapse of time, as John Winterdyke, now a 
 man of fifty, thought of what might have been, a smile 
 passed over his face — a happy, peaceful smile — as there 
 came to him the remembrance of the day when an old 
 gentleman who had apartments in his aunt's house, and 
 who had been clerk for twenty years with a City firm, find- 
 ing him crying, invited his confidence, and there sprang up 
 between the old man and the boy a friendship which was the 
 foundation of the great success which had been his in life. 
 
 The old gentleman, finding the boy clever and straight- 
 forward and anxious to make his way in the world, intro- 
 duced him to the firm, and at the age of fifteen John 
 Winterdyke commenced his City career as office-boy in the 
 bouse of Ash croft Brothers, merchants of Bastcheap. 
 
 From the moment he saw himself seated for the first time 
 on the high stool in the dingy office in Eastcheap there 
 were few changing scenes in John Winterdyke's reverie. It 
 was always the same office, only the boy grew up and moved 
 from the office to the counting-house, from the counting- 
 house to a table in the partners' private office, and then at 
 last he found himself sole occupant of that office. 
 
 Yes. At the age of forty, John Winterdyke, the office- 
 boy, was Mr. John Winterdyke, sole surviving partner of 
 the firm of Ashcroft Brothers. Industry, patience, and 
 honesty, and a determination to conquer in the battle of 
 life, had brought their due reward. The business founded 
 by the Ashcrofts had been extended by the young man, who 
 was made a junior partner at the age of thirty, as a reward 
 for his untiring devotion to the interests of the firm, and in 
 recognition of his business abilities and energies. 
 
 When the brothers retired, both old bachelors, they left 
 John Winterdyke absolute control of everything, and when 
 they died they left him the business, subject to an annual 
 payment to their only relative, an elderly maiden sister. 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 251 
 
 And now, at the age of fifty, John Winterdyke is a 
 wealthy man, a wealthy bachelor. His business demands 
 very little of his time ; he has people about him whom he 
 can trust, and he has accumulated a fortune which will 
 enable him to retire altogether to-morrow if he should wish 
 to do so. 
 
 He has made good use of his wealth. He is a liberal 
 supporter of charities, and he has advanced and brought up 
 all the children of his aunt Mellish, and two of his cousins 
 occupy at the present moment high positions in his office. 
 If he had only to look back upon such a career as his had 
 been, John "Winterdyke would have every cause for thank- 
 fulness ; but it has been given to him, what is not always 
 given to men who have come to fifty years — he can look 
 forward. He can look forward, with joy and hope, to the 
 future, believing that the happiest and brightest days of his 
 life have yet to come. For to-morrow is to be John Winter- 
 dyke's wedding-day. 
 
 At the age of forty-nine he had fallen in love. His 
 romance had come to him late in life, but it had come with 
 all the glow and fervour of youth. He was a man who bore 
 his fifty years well. His dark wavy hair was tinged with 
 gray, but time had dealt lightly with his handsome, clean- 
 shaven, Yorkshire face. 
 
 John Winterdyke was still ' a fine figure of a man,' and 
 many a time had he been told by the fond mammas of 
 marriageable daughters that it was positively wicked of him 
 to remain a bachelor. 
 
 ' I shall never marry,' he had replied laughingly, and he 
 honestly believed that he never would. But his fate came 
 to him at last. 
 
 One day, at the office, his head cashier, Mr. Marsden, 
 was taken suddenly ill. He was seized with a fainting fit, 
 and would have fallen but for timely assistance. It was 
 
252 HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 late on Saturday afternoon — all the clerks had left — and so 
 Mr. Winterdyke," as soon as the cashier had recovered, 
 insisted upon accompanying him home himself. 
 
 ' I -will go with you, my dear fellow,' he said ; ' you are 
 not fit to go alone, and your wife and daughters would be 
 alarmed to see you as you are. Let me go and assure them 
 that it has not been a serious attack.' 
 
 Mr. Winterdyke not only accompanied his cashier home, 
 but he insisted upon staying until the doctor had been 
 fetched and had prescribed for the patient and had given 
 his assurance that it was merely an attack of vertigo, which 
 might have arisen from very simple causes. 
 
 Mr. Winterdyke found the family of his cashier a most 
 charming one. Mrs. Marsden was a lady in every sense of 
 the word, and the two daughters, Lottie and Katie, were 
 delightful girls. Kate was only sixteen, but Lottie, the 
 elder, was two-and-twenty. John Winterdyke stayed and 
 talked with the family for an hour, and in that one hour the 
 mischief was done to his heart which all the years before 
 had failed to accomplish. 
 
 The staid, sober City merchant of forty-nine fell violently 
 in love, there and then, with his cashier's daughter. 
 
 That evening, in his lonely chamber, John agreed with 
 himself that it was an absurdity ; that, at his age, he ought 
 to know better ; that forty-nine had no business to fall in 
 love with twenty-two ; but none of his arguments could 
 alter the fact which he himself fully recognised — that he 
 was in love. 
 
 He visited his invalid cashier on Sunday, just to see if 
 he was better ; he insisted that his cashier should take a 
 week's holiday, and during that week he called three times. 
 
 Mrs. Marsden thought her husband's employer a delight- 
 ful man, and the girls both declared he was very handsome. 
 
 And then — well, then John tried to cure himself of what 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 253 
 
 he called his ' insanity ' ; but it was stronger than himself, 
 and he invented excuses to call at the hoiise. He had heard 
 that Mrs. Marsden was fond of birds, and he took her a 
 pair of canaries which a friend had given him, saying that 
 he knew they would be better taken care of by the young 
 ladies than by his housekeeper. And then he found that 
 he was always having tickets for concerts for which he 
 had no use, and he gave them to Marsden, as he knew his 
 daughters were fond of music, and at these concerts the 
 young ladies and their mamma generally found Mr. Winter- 
 dyke in the seat next to them. 
 
 But John Winterdyke was too honourable a man to con- 
 tinue these little subterfuges long, and so one day, after he 
 had known the' Marsdens for about three months, he called 
 his cashier into his private office, and, blushing and stam- 
 mering like a school-boy, told him that he loved his daughter 
 Lottie, and that he would ask her to be his wife if he 
 thought she could care sufficiently for him to give him a 
 hope that one day she would share his home. 
 
 Eichard Marsden pretended to be very much astonished. 
 He hastened to assure his employer that he was flattered 
 and honoured, and that he could not have hoped for such a 
 brilliant future for his child, and he promised to talk the 
 matter over with his wife, and let Mr. Winterdyke know on 
 the following day if it would be advisable for him to mention 
 the fact to Lottie. 
 
 For the first time in his life, John Winterdyke passed a 
 sleepless night, and the following morning, to the astonish- 
 ment of his housekeeper, he scarcely touched his breakfast. 
 He hoped, and yet he feared. Would the fair young girl of 
 two-and-twenty entertain the idea of a husband of forty- 
 nine? Had she perhaps a lover already, or some little 
 romance of her own of which her father as yet knew 
 nothing ?' 
 
254 HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 But all John's fears and doubts were set at rest when his 
 cashier gave him alittle note from Mrs. Marsden. It was 
 as follows : 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Winterdyke, 
 
 ' My husband has told me the news, which, I con- 
 fess, has not astonished me. It has been evident to me for 
 some time that you admired my daughter. Lottie is a 
 good girl, and will make a good wife, but neither I nor her 
 father will attempt to influence a decision on which the 
 happiness of ber future life depends. It is from her lips 
 you must receive your answer, and you have our full per- 
 mission to ask for it. I may add, and I do so sincerely, 
 that you have our hearty sympathy and our best wishes. 
 ' Yours Bincerely, 
 
 ' Charlotte Marsden.' 
 
 That afternoon Mr. Winterdyke paid a formal visit to the 
 Marsdens, and presently Katie and her mother withdrew 
 and he was left alone with Lottie. Then, trembling, con- 
 fused, he stammered out his avowal and waited to know 
 his fate. 
 
 The tears were in his eyes when he had finished — tears 
 of which the strong man need not have been ashamed, for 
 his heart was full. He stooped his head to hide them, and 
 so he did not see the flush fade from Lottie's face and her 
 lip tremble as she tried to speak. He did not see that for 
 a moment the girl's cheeks were as pale as death, and that 
 her hand clutched at the little table in the window for sup- 
 port. He saw nothing — he, only heard her sweet voice 
 falter, ' Mr. Winterdyke, I know how good a man you are, 
 and how noble a man you are — my parents have told me. 
 I am sure that you really love me, and I will be your wife.' 
 
 ' My wife 1' 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 255 
 
 John Winterdyke, looking up as he spoke the words, 
 brushed away the tears of joy that dimmed his eyes, and, 
 taking the young girl's hand in his, bent down and kissed it 
 tenderly. 
 
 ' My darling,' he said, ' my life shall be devoted to your 
 happiness.' 
 
 It was not very romantic ; it was not the action of a 
 young lover, but the words came from the strong man's 
 heart, and as he bent his head again to kiss the little hand 
 that still lay in his broad palm, his lips murmured a prayer 
 to Heaven that he might be worthy of the sacred trust which 
 from that day forth was his — the sacred trust of a young 
 girl's life and happiness. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And to-morrow was to be his wedding-day. He would 
 have his darling all to himself. They were going away 
 abroad for the honeymoon. Lottie had not been very well 
 lately. At times she had appeared a little depressed. Her 
 mother had explained that it was anxiety about the health 
 of her father, to whom she was devotedly attached, and 
 whose health had been bad since the fainting fit at the 
 office. 
 
 Mr. Marsden was to have a long holiday. After the 
 honeymoon he and his wife and Katie were to come to the 
 beautiful place John had bought in the country, and stay 
 with them for a time. John was still looking out upon the 
 sunny river, and dreaming of the happy future, when a 
 knock roused him from his reverie. 
 
 ' Come in,' he said. 
 
 His housekeeper entered with a note. 
 
 ' A young gentleman brought it, sir, and said I was to 
 give it you at once, and he will wait for an answer.' 
 
 Mechanically, John Winterdyke opened the note aad 
 read it. 
 
256 HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 • Sra, 
 
 ' Will you give me a few minutes' interview ? I 
 have an important communication to make to you on a 
 matter which concerns the family into which you are about 
 to marry.' 
 
 John Winterdyke knitted his brow and read the letter 
 again. What did it mean ? He turned to the housekeeper. 
 
 ' The person who brought the note is waiting ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' Send him up to me.' 
 
 When the housekeeper had gone, John re-read the letter. 
 He did not like the look of it. What right had anyone to 
 come to him with a communication about the Marsdens 
 Was it some enemy of theirs ? Some jealous relative ? 
 Well, he had better hear what the person had to say, and 
 if, as he suspected, it was sonu mean, despicable mischief- 
 maker, he should know how to deal with him. 
 
 His reflections were interrupted by the return of his 
 housekeeper, followed by a tall, dark young man of about 
 eight-and-twenty. For a moment the two men eyed each 
 other, silently. Each seemed to be taking the measure of 
 the other. 
 
 As soon as the housekeeper had gone, closing the door 
 behind her, the young man commenced. 
 
 ' Mr. Winterdyke,' he said hesitatingly, 'it is a very un- 
 pleasant business which brings me here.' 
 
 ' Then get it over as soon as possible, sir,' replied John ; 
 ' you are the writer of this letter ?' 
 
 ' I am.' 
 
 ' Then I warn you, sir, that if you say in my presence 
 anything derogatory to Miss Marsden's family, our inter- 
 view will be a short one.' 
 
 The young man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
HIS WEDDING-DA\. 257 
 
 T have no wish to prolong it,' he said ; ' but when you 
 have heard what I have to say you will appreciate my 
 motive in coming here. My name is Stephen Darvell.' 
 
 'Well, sir?' 
 
 ' That name does not account to you for my presence 
 here ?' 
 
 ' No, sir ; I have never heard it before.' 
 
 ' Ah ! then I have wronged you. I believed that at the 
 time you asked Miss Marsden to become Mrs. Winterdyke 
 you were aware that she was my affianced wife.' 
 
 For a moment John Winterdyke reeled as though he had 
 received a fierce blow from the man standing in front of 
 him. But he recovered himself, and the hot blood rushed 
 to his cheeks. 
 
 ' It is a lie !' he cried ; ' Miss Marsden was never any 
 man's affianced wife but mine.' 
 
 ' Pray be calm, Mr. Winterdyke ; you have injured me 
 enough already ; you need not insult me.' 
 
 ' I injured you ?' stammered John. 
 
 ' Unwittingly, I believe now, but none the less deeply. 
 Until you came on the scene, Lottie Marsden and I were 
 lovers. It was understood that as soon as my position im- 
 proved we were to be married. I was a poor man, you 
 were a rich one, and I was thrown over.' 
 
 ' It is a lie — I repeat, it is a lie. Had there been this en- 
 gagement I should have been told of it. You forget, sir, 
 you are slandering the lady who to-morrow will be my wife. 
 You are a coward and a villain.' 
 
 ' I am neither the dne nor the other. But I am not going 
 to see the woman I love — the woman who loves me — sacri- 
 ficed without an. effort to save her.' 
 
 ' The woman you love — the woman who loves you — do 
 ycu dare to say this to me?' 
 
 ' I dare — and I will prove my words. Lottie Marsden is 
 
 17 
 
258 HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 going to the altar to-morrow with a lie upon her lips and 
 misery in her heart.' 
 
 With a violent effort, John Winterdyke mastered the rage 
 that had made his limbs shake and his hands tremble to 
 clutch his visitor by the throat. 
 
 ' You are either a villain or a madman,' he said quietly. 
 ' If you are only the former, perhaps you will tell me why, 
 if Miss Marsden loves you and despises me, she has con- 
 sented to conceal her feelings and become my wife ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I will tell you that,' was the reply. ' Lottie 
 Marsden is marrying you to save her father from prison. 
 You are not likely to prosecute your own father-in-law when 
 you find out that for years he has abused the trust reposed 
 in him, and robbed you of thousands of pounds.' 
 
 This time John Winterdyke uttered no cry of rage or 
 remonstrance. Suddenly the light had come to him. He 
 knew — he felt that the man before him was speaking the 
 truth. He understood now the anxiety of Lottie about her 
 father — her depression of spirits, from which at times he 
 had such a hard task to arouse her. It was not over her 
 father's health she was grieving — it was over his infamy. 
 A hundred things came back to him then, and confirmed 
 the man's terrible revelation. 
 
 He had lived in a fool's paradise ; Lottie had consented 
 
 to marry him to save her father from disgrace, and that 
 
 was the end of his dream. He sank into a chair and buried 
 
 his face in his hands, oblivious of everything but the awful 
 
 truth that had come to him as a thunderbolt from the blue 
 
 heavens above. When he came to himself and looked up, 
 
 Stephen Darvell had gone. 
 
 ***** 
 
 An hour later Mr. Marsden was summoned to his future 
 son-in-law's residence. To avoid alarming him, the note 
 which summoned him was couched in these terms : 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 259 
 
 ' Dear Marsden, 
 
 ' Will you come and see me on a little matter of 
 business ? I shall not have time to talk to you to-morrow.' 
 
 The moment the two men met, John Winterdyke put the 
 question bluntly. 
 
 ' Marsden, to what extent are your accounts wrong ?' 
 
 The guilty man staggered and appeared as though he 
 would fall to the ground. 
 
 ' Don't be afraid,' said his employer coldly ; ' no one will 
 ever hear of it again. Only tell me, that I may put it 
 right.' 
 
 Eventually the unhappy man, assured as to his safety, 
 made a full confession. He had speculated disastrously, 
 and to save himself from ruin he had taken large sums of 
 his employer's money, and cleverly falsified the accounts to 
 conceal the fraud. He had speculated again, hoping to 
 gain enough to restore the amount, and had further in- 
 volved himself. His defalcations amounted to over £5,000. 
 
 ' I forgive you, and will take means to prevent the fraud 
 ever being discovered,' said Winterdyke, when he had ex- 
 tracted the full confession. ' Now, go back and tell your 
 daughter, Lottie, that she need have no further fear for 
 you, and that she is free to marry the man she loves. Tell 
 her I forgive her and honour her, and shall esteem and 
 honour her as long as I live. And, on the day she marries 
 the man she loves, ten thousand pounds will be placed to 
 her credit at my bank. It will be my wedding gift to her. 
 Not a word more. Go !' 
 
 ***** 
 
 All night long, John Winterdyke sat in his lonely 
 chambers and gazed out upon the gleaming lamps that 
 stretched away far down the darkened river. His dream 
 was over — the happiness had gone out of his life, as the sun 
 had gone from the river, and the darkness of night had 
 
 17-U 
 
26o HIS WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 settled in his heart. Morning found him still by the open 
 window. He was stunned by the blow. He was helpless, 
 hopeless, and he sat there and waited for the dawn — the 
 dawn of the day that should have made Lottie Marsden his 
 wife. 
 
 The sun rose, and light and life came back to the world, 
 but it brought him no relief. At last, worn out with the 
 sorrow that no tears came to relieve, his head fell down 
 upon his breast, and he slept. When he awoke, the great 
 clock at Westminster was chiming nine. For a moment he 
 forgot all that had happened, and remembered only that it 
 was his wedding-day. 
 
 And then the awful truth came back to him, and he rose 
 with a wail of despair, crying ; ' Lottie, Lottie ! Oh, my 
 darling I would to God I had died believing that you loved 
 me I' 
 
 And as he turned to the door it opened softly, and Lottie 
 stood before him. 
 
 ' Lottie I' he cried ; ' you ! you I Oh, why have you come 
 to torture me ?' 
 
 ' I have not come to torture you, dear,' she said, her 
 sweet blue eyes filling with tears. ' I have come because 
 last night you sent me a message by my father which I do 
 not understand. I know that I can never be your wife 
 now you have discovered the terrible secret of my father's 
 madness — for he was mad, John, to do as he did ; but your 
 gift I cannot take, for I shall never marry the man I love.' 
 
 ' You will not marry Stephen Darvell ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! he has been to you. I understand all now.' 
 
 ' Is he not the man you love ?' 
 
 ' No ; he asked me to be his wife and I refused. Not 
 because I thought you would ever love me then, but because 
 I did not love him. He has done this out of revenge, to 
 break off my marriage with you.' 
 
HIS WEDDING-DAY. 261 
 
 ' You do not love him — you never have loved him ?' 
 
 ' Never ! I have only loved one man. I shall only love 
 one man till I die I' 
 
 ' And that man ' 
 
 Lottie did not answer ; she only gave a little sob, and 
 the next minute John Winterdyke's arms were around her, 
 and her head was pillowed on his breast. 
 
 The ceremony had been arranged, and it was not put off. 
 It was to have been a very quiet wedding, and it was, only 
 Lottie and her father and mother and sister, and one or 
 two friends. And no one but Marsden and his wife and 
 Lottie ever knew that a few hours previously the bridegroom 
 had resigned the bride for ever. John Winterdyke, as he 
 left the altar, whispered to his father-in-law that all the 
 past was blotted out of his memory for ever, only he couldn't 
 have his father-inJaw for a servant, and so he would have 
 to take a retiring pension. And John Winterdyke never 
 had reason to repent his clemency. He had but one little 
 trouble to get over, and that was Mr. Stephen Darvell. 
 This young gentleman had found out the family secret in 
 some mysterious way — probably he had overheard a con- 
 versation between Lottie and her father ; they thought so. 
 His silence had to be assured for the sake of the future 
 peace and happiness of the family, and it was assured. 
 The young gentleman, having failed in his great scheme of 
 revenge, was content to go to Australia and hold his tongue 
 for a consideration, which was a good deal more than he 
 deserved. 
 
 And so, after all, the rising sun that brought life and 
 light to the world brought light and life, after the blackness 
 of that awful night, to John Winterdyke upon his wedding- 
 day. 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 A broad stream of translucent blue water that reminds one 
 of the Ehone as it issues from Lake Leman ; long parallel 
 rows of palm-trees crowned with rich foliage ; then, partly 
 hidden behind them, a line of white stuccoed buildings, 
 above which tower the domes and minarets of mosques ; a 
 perspective of low, flat-roofed houses, gardens, groves, and 
 green fields, and — far away in the background — a whitish 
 streak of glistening water bathing the fiery sands of the 
 Kordofan Desert stretching beyond the horizon : the whole 
 lighted up by a fierce sun glaring from a deep-blue, cloud- 
 less sky — a blaring picture, intensely white, blue, and 
 green ; a daub without shadows or intermediate mellow 
 tints — such was Khartoum, the capital of the Soudan, the 
 mistress of two Niles, as seen from the northern island of 
 Tuti in the noonday sun. 
 
 Khartoum, the Dar-el-Jelal, the city of glory of the 
 nomad Arab, the Eldorado of poor pashas and beggared 
 beys, the gay city of adventurous Nubian youths, the 
 earthly paradise of successful slave-hunters, the Gehennam 
 of kidnapped negroes, the city of fantasias and dancing- 
 girls, of open-air cafes and dram-shops, of smoke-baths 
 and bazaars, of showy squalor and hidden wealth, the 
 great entrepot of ivory and slaves, the market of every 
 marketable Eastern commodity — such was Khartoum, in 
 1879, when I knew it. 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 263 
 
 I had been ordered to travel by my physician. I was 
 falling a prey to that subtle form of madness known as 
 melancholia. ' Go away,' said the doctor ; 'go as far as 
 you can. Go to the North Pole, or the Eocky Mountains, 
 or the Dismal Swamp, or the Congo ; get into Mecca, ride 
 to Khiva, paddle your own canoe on the Albert N'Yanza, 
 try a bicycle trip to the steppes of Tarfcary, go anywhere, 
 do anything, go as far away as you possibly can, and see 
 something that will astonish you and divert your thoughts.' 
 
 With a mighty effort I roused myself from my lethargy, 
 packed my portmanteau, stuffed my money-belt with gold 
 and notes, made my will, bought a revolver and a water- 
 proof and a pith helmet, and set out for the East. 
 
 I was miserable at Marseilles, I endured agony in Alex- 
 andria, care sat heavily upon me in Cairo, I pouted at the 
 Pyramids, and grew dyspeptic in the Desert. 
 
 I was on the point of returning home to take prussic acid 
 comfortably in my own private apartment, when I fell in 
 with a traveller who talked of nothing but the White Nile 
 and the Blue Nile ; the First, the Second, and Thiid 
 Cataracts, and who strongly advised me to see Khartoum. 
 
 His tales of travel titillated my jaded palate. He gave 
 me letters of introduction to some of the principal mer- 
 chants in Khartoum, and, after shaking him heartily by 
 the hand, I set out for that now famous city. 
 
 My adventures by the way I took no note of. I fell twice 
 from my camel when in a brown study. While bathing in 
 the Nile I had a desperate struggle with a crocodile ; and a 
 hippopotamus, whose back I had mistaken for an island on 
 which I could sit and weep unobserved, sank with me to 
 the muddy depths of the river. Twice I was left for dead 
 by the savage Soudanese ; but at last I reached Khar- 
 toum, and took up my residence in a large empty house, 
 which the governor kindly placed at my disposal. 
 
264 A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 The life amused and interested me. I flung aside my 
 European habits and olothes and became an Oriental. I 
 ■wore the tarboosh, smoked the shesha, drank kahweh 
 and mastic and sherab ; bought slaves, and, investing all 
 the capital that remained in my money-belt in the business 
 of an ivory and ostrich-feather merchant, I fell into the 
 routine of a well-to-do Hhawaghe. 
 
 I had been in Khartoum about six months, when, walk- 
 ing one evening near the Mudirieh, I met a young English- 
 man, who asked me, in excellent Arabic, for a light for his 
 pipe from my cigar. 
 
 I granted his request, and addressed him in English. We 
 became friendly, and then he unfolded to me the strange 
 story of his life. 
 
 His name was Eustace FitzHerbert. His father, a 
 scholar of distinction, had made a mesalliance. While 
 still an undergraduate at Cambridge, he had married the 
 daughter of his bedmaker — a good-looking girl, but very 
 ignorant. 
 
 Eustace was born. Soon after, his father and mother 
 quarrelled fiercely, and separated. His father's father, 
 indignant at the match, cut the young student off with a 
 shilling, and stopped his allowance, so he could leave his 
 wife very little. 
 
 He obtained the post of travelling tutor to a young noble- 
 man. He left his young charge in Cairo, and that was the 
 last that was heard of him. He sent no money to his wife. 
 She had told him in her passion she never wished to -hear 
 of him again. 
 
 In the meantime, Mrs. FitzHerbert, embarrassed by her 
 baby, was in desperate straits. 
 
 Her own friends were too poor to assist her. 
 
 She must have come to London in search of employment, 
 probably to take a situation, for one fine morning Eustace 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 265 
 
 was deposited for the day in a creche at the East-End, and 
 was not called for when evening came. 
 
 On searching the child the matron found a letter, badly 
 written and ill-spelt, in which the unhappy mother set forth 
 her story, and begged the charitable manageress of the 
 creche to be good to her baby until she was able to claim it, 
 
 ' That letter was given to me years afterwards,' said 
 Eustace, ' when I began to investigate the mystery that 
 surrounded my birth and parentage. Here it is 1' 
 
 I took the letter and read it. It contained the bulk of 
 the information Eustace had just imparted to me. 
 
 ' The matron at the creche, it seems,' he continued, ' sent 
 to Cambridge, and found the story was true. The Cam- 
 bridge men who had known my father and liked him took 
 the case up ; a subscription was made, and it was arranged 
 that I should be kept at the creche until I was old enough 
 to go to-school, and that then the cost of my education should 
 be defrayed by the subscription of these good friends. 
 
 ' Eor many years the generosity of my father's old Univer- 
 sity friends protected me. During all that time nothing was 
 heard of my father or of my mother. 
 
 ' At fifteen I was a bright, intelligent lad ; and then the 
 matron, who was a widow and childless, adopted me, and 
 sent me to a finishing school at her own expense. 
 
 ' At eighteen my education was completed. I was quick, 
 and had been an apt scholar. I was a clever mathema- 
 tician, and I could speak five European languages. I had 
 heard the story of my parentage, and the dream of my life 
 was to discover my father. To facilitate my endeavours, I 
 determined to learn Arabic, and I soon spoke it fluently. 
 In fact, I am an excellent Oriental scholar. 
 
 ' When I was twenty the good matron died : and having 
 made no will, her relatives claimed her monev, and I was 
 left destitute. 
 
266 A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 ' I was too proud to appeal to the Cambridge men, who 
 had done so much for me, or to write to my father's rela- 
 tives, who had treated me so badly. 
 
 ' So, raising money on the little property I had acquired 
 during the life of my protectress, I came to Cairo, and 
 started as an interpreter to the European visitors. 
 
 ' My knowledge of so many European tongues and of 
 Arabic caused me to be much run after. At the end of a 
 few years, I had saved five hundred pounds. 
 
 ' Then I determined to follow up a clue to my father's 
 proceedings, which I had discovered in Cairo. 
 
 ' Five-and-twenty years ago a Mr. FitzHerbert had left 
 Cairo for Khartoum. The fact was proved by the police 
 archives of the city. On the day previous to his departure 
 he had been robbed in the Esbekieh Gardens by a Greek, 
 and had given him into custody. This Mr. FitzHerbert 
 stated in his evidence that he was about to start for Khar- 
 toum. I saw the name in the records. It was Eustace 
 Herbert FitzHerbert. That was my father, beyond a 
 shadow of a doubt.' 
 
 ' And did you find him ?' I exclaimed, interested in the 
 story. 
 
 ' I only arrived in Khartoum last night 1" 
 
 ' And your mother — you have never heard anything of 
 her?' 
 
 ' Nothing ! If I fail to find my father, I shall go back to 
 England and look for her !' 
 
 We parted that evening, my new friend promising to 
 come and look me up at my rooms the next day. 
 
 The next morning I went down to the banks of the Blue 
 Nile to bathe. To my astonishment, I found a middle-aged 
 Oriental already there, divesting himself of his clothes. 
 
 It is so unusual for an Oriental to take a morning dip in 
 cold water, that I expre3§dd my astonishment in Arabic. 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 267 
 
 The Oriental replied in excellent English. He told me 
 that he was an Englishman, that he had resided for nearly 
 a quarter of a century in Khartoum, and had never missed 
 his morning swim. 
 
 While we were both undressing, it occurred to me that 
 he would be able to tell me all the points of interest in the 
 city. Perhaps he would act as my guide. 
 
 I inquired if he would do so. 
 
 ' I should be very happy to,' he replied ; ' but I leave 
 Khartoum for Europe to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 ' Yes ; I am going to England in search of a long-lost son 
 — a son I basely deserted.' 
 
 At that moment the likeness of this man to the young 
 fellow I had seen the previous evening struck me. 
 
 As we plunged into the Nile and swam out, I whispered 
 in his ear, 'How do you do, Mr. Eustace Herbert Fitz- 
 Herbert ?' 
 
 He sank — went down to the bottom like a lump of lead ; 
 it was with astonishment. 
 
 When he came to the surface, he exclaimed : 
 
 ' Great heavens ! how do you know me ? You must have 
 been a child when I left England, by your appearance.' 
 
 ' I not only know you, but I know your son,' I said, 
 turning over and floating on my back to enjoy his amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 He was about to reply, when a huge crocodile came to 
 the surface and darted at him. 
 
 ' Help 1' he shrieked. The crocodile was dragging him 
 under by his legs. 
 
 I seized him by the arms. It was a tug of war ; but a 
 crimson tinge was on the water. 
 
 ' I am a dead man 1' he exclaimed. ' Listen I I shall go 
 under in a moment, or you will be left with only half of me; 
 
268 A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 nothing can save me. I have £100,000 in the bank at 
 Cairo. I have made a fortune here, and invested all my 
 savings there. In my pocket-book, on the bank, you will 
 find a cheque for the amount. I had intended to cash it 
 in Cairo, and go straight to England on my sacred mission. 
 That mission is now yours. Cash the cheque, and, as you 
 know my boy, give him the money.' 
 
 ' I will,' I replied. ' But courage 1 I may save you 
 
 yet.' 
 
 ' Promise I' he said faintly, his eyes closing in the agony 
 of death. 
 
 ' I give you my oath I' 
 
 At that moment I felt a desperate tug. The poor fellow 
 was dragged from my arms, and sank beneath the water, to 
 rise no more. 
 
 Swimming hastily to the bank, I gathered up the Oriental 
 clothes, found the cheque in the pocket-book, and went 
 straight to my residence. 
 
 All that day I waited at home to receive young Fitz- 
 Herbert, and to tell him the sad news. 
 
 He did not come. 
 
 The next day and the next day came, and still no visit 
 from him. 
 
 Then I searched the town, and made inquiries everywhere. 
 Nothing was known of him ; nobody had heard of him. 
 
 I waited a month, and then I felt sure he had quitted 
 Khartoum. I returned to Cairo, cashed the cheque, 
 obtaining a draft for £100,000 and some odd pounds over on 
 London, and left for home, thinking that in England I could 
 advertise better for the missing man. 
 
 Through the advertising agents I caused notices to be 
 inserted in all the Eastern and European journals circulating 
 in Egypt. I had left all particulars with the English vice- 
 consul at Khartoum, and the consuls at Cairo and 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 269 
 
 Alexandria ; and I did all that mortal man could do to dis- 
 cover young FitzHerbert. 
 
 But all in vain. Twelve months afterwards the £100,000 
 ■was still at my bankers, and the fats of my Khartoum friend 
 was still shrouded in mystery. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A long time afterwards I was reading the Standard, when 
 I came upon a paragraph headed 'Extraordinary Windfall.' 
 
 A servant in the employment of Sir Thomas Stalleybrass, 
 of Tewkesbury Hall, had just been informed that she was 
 entitled to a sum of £500,000. For many years she had 
 gone by the name of Dobbin, which was her maiden name, 
 but she was really the wife of the Mr. Eustace Herbert 
 FitzHerbert who disappeared some six-and-twenty years 
 ago from Cambridge. 
 
 The sum in question was left under the will of her father- 
 in-law, the Hon. Eustace FitzHerbert, who, having no 
 other children, had left his whole fortune to the wife of his 
 son, as some compensation for his life long neglect of her. 
 She had written him once for assistance, and that is how 
 he knew the name she was passing unoer. 
 
 I at once wrote off to Mrs. FitzHerbert, at the address 
 given to tell her my strange story. I received a reply from 
 Sir Thomas, who stated that the poor woman was so over- 
 joyed at the news of her good fortune that she had had an 
 apoplectic fit, and died. 
 
 ' We found,' Sir Thomas added, ' on searching her boxes, 
 that she had made a will, many years ago, leaving all she 
 might die possessed of to her son. This son she left in 
 a creche in London when he was an infant, and he has 
 never been called for yet.' 
 
 I read the letter, and sat down to think the whole story 
 out. My melancholy was cured long ago, and my thoughts 
 had been concentrated on finding young FitzHerbert. 
 
270 A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 And now there was another £500,000 for him I Where 
 on earth could he be ? What could have happened to him 
 that night we parted in Khartoum to prevent him calling 
 on me next morning ? 
 
 Perhaps he was still searching for the father who had, 
 long ago, disappeared down the jaws of the crocodile, or 
 for the mother who was sleeping her last sleep in the little 
 churchyard at Tewkesbury. 
 
 Advertisements for the missing heir were inserted, for 
 weeks, in all the London papers. 
 
 I want to see Sir Thomas, and he agreed that an ex- 
 pedition ought to set out for the East at once. 
 
 But the Soudanese troubles had arisen, and Khartoum 
 was cut off from civilization, and wrapped in a mist that no 
 European eye could penetrate. 
 
 And, in the meantime, the £100,000 was at my banker's, 
 and £500,000 was in the Court of Chancery waiting for the 
 missing man. 
 
 On Christmas morning, 1885, I went for a walk after 
 breakfast — a good long walk, for my old enemy, dyspepsia, 
 was threatening me. 
 
 I strolled as far as Epping Forest. In the densest part 
 I saw a piece of paper being blown about by the wind. 
 
 I perceived that it had writing on it — something scribbled 
 with a lead pencil. 
 
 I picked it up and read it. 
 
 ' I have taken poison. I am destitute, and can no longer 
 support an ignominious existence. My name is Eustace 
 EitzHerbert, and I come of a good family. Bury me 
 decently 1' 
 
 ' Good gracious me !' I exclaimed. Then I looked around 
 me. Where was my Khartoum acquaintance ? Where 
 was the body belonging to the paper ? 
 
 After a short search I found it close by. It was the 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 271 
 
 missing man. He was still breathing, but quite uncon- 
 scious. I was beside myself with grief and terror. I begged 
 my friend not to die. I told him that he was heir to 
 £600,000. He did not hear me. 
 
 At that moment I heard a footstep. I called aloud. 
 
 A gentleman ran towards me. I explained the situation. 
 
 ' How fortunate !' he exclaimed. ' I am a medical man. 
 I have just been to attend a case of accidental poisoning, 
 and I have my stomach-pump in my pocket.' 
 
 He instantly commenced operations on the prostrate Fitz- 
 Herbcrt, and presently the senseless man opened his eyes. 
 
 We carried him between us to the Forest Hotel, engaged 
 a room, and put him to bed. 
 
 I spent my Christmas by his bedside, having my turkey 
 and my plum-pudding brought up to me. 
 
 The next day he was much better ; in a week he was 
 quite well. 
 
 We went to London together. He was grieved at the 
 death of his parents ; but as he had no recollection of either 
 of them, he soon got over their loss ; and when the £600,000 
 was handed to him he was quite happy. 
 
 He explained how it had happened that he had not kept 
 the appointment with me in Khartoum, and why he had 
 not seen my advertisement. 
 
 After quitting me on that eventful evening, he heard of 
 a white man who had left Khartoum for Unyoro, a country 
 situated between the Albert and the Victoria N'Yanza. 
 
 He felt convinced, from the description, that it was his 
 father. 
 
 A detachment of Egyptian soldiers, commanded by 
 Abd-el-Kader Bey, was starting at dawn the next day 
 for the Equatorial provinces, and Abd-el-Kader Bey was 
 on a mission to M'tesa, the King of Uganda. 
 
 On his journey he would pass through Unyoro. 
 
272 A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 Unwilling to lose so rare an opportunity, FitzHerbert 
 embarked with the bey at dawn, and thus had no time to 
 call upon me. 
 
 At a place called Wadelai he had fever, and was left for 
 dead. When he recovered he found himself a prisoner. 
 M'Wangu, the chief of the tribe, detained him as a hostage 
 for some of his people who had been kidnapped by the bey's 
 followers. 
 
 He was kept in captivity for three years. At last he 
 managed to escape, and, after many marvellous adventures 
 in the heart of Africa, he reached Zanzibar, and came to 
 England. His health had been utterly broken down by his 
 sufferings in the Soudan, and he was advised by a European 
 doctor that his only chance was to breathe his native air. 
 
 He took the first trading-vessel from Zanzibar, and 
 arrived in London without a shilling on December 1, 1885. 
 For nearly a month he had lived from hand to mouth in 
 the London streets, holding horses, getting odd jobs at 
 the street corners. 
 
 But his health grew worse, and his liver, affected by the 
 climate, caused him to suffer the most terrible depression. 
 
 On Christmas Eve he found sixpence in the gutter. He 
 bought some rat-paste of a poisonous kind with the money, 
 and tramped down to Epping Forest, thinking it a nice 
 quiet place in which to die, and one where his corpse would 
 not be likely to upset anybody's Christmas dinner. 
 
 He was always a most considerate man. 
 
 As soon as his inheritance was safely in his possession, 
 he turned to me, and said : 
 
 ' Old fellow, I owe you more than I can ever repay. You 
 have saved my life and given me a fortune. What can I 
 give you?' 
 
 ' Leave to make use of the strange details of your life in 
 a Christmas story,' I replied. 
 
A TALE OF KHARTOUM. 273 
 
 The request was immediately granted, and the result is 
 now before my readers. 
 
 Did he marry and live happy ever afterwards ? 
 
 Oh yes. 
 
 He married my youngest sister, and their first baby, born 
 two months ago, is christened Khartoum, in remembrance 
 of its father's adventures and of its grandfather's fate. 
 
 I am its godfather, and I shall never take little Khartoum 
 on my knee without thinking of the lucky walk in Epping 
 Forest on Christmas morning that enabled me to save a 
 fellow-creature's life, to give my sister a rich husband, and 
 to have a godson and nephew who will some day come 
 into £600,000. 
 
 His mamma and papa live very comfortably on the 
 interest. Little Khartoum will have the principal intact. 
 
 But I hope we shall all have many a merry Christmas 
 and many a happy New Year before little Khartoum comes 
 into his fortune. 
 
 18 
 
A PRIZE POEM. 
 
 Whenever I hear people discussing the value of poetry in 
 the sense of what it will bring the poet himself in hard 
 cash, I am always tempted to tell a little story which I have 
 kept for many a year buried in that portion of me which, 
 for lack of a thorough knowledge of anatomical technicalities, 
 most of us call the inmost recesses of the heart. 
 
 I don't know the one word which expresses the inmost 
 recesses of the heart, and perhaps I shall never learn it 
 until that fortunate day when I discover one word which 
 will express the railway offence now called ' riding in a 
 class superior to that for which a ticket has been taken.' 
 
 Early in life I became a poet. Not a Tennyson, or a 
 Browning, or a Swinburne, of course. No boy ever becomes 
 that sort of poet — he must be born it, a sentiment which 
 has been previously well expressed by another gentleman in 
 Latin. I became a poet to the extent of writing verses 
 quickly and fluently on the minor events of daily life. I 
 could string together some tolerably good lines on a fight 
 between my schoolfellows, and my ode to the Eev. Principal 
 of the college on his seventieth birthday was printed by that 
 gentleman at his own expense, and a copy sent to the boys' 
 parents with his best compliments. 
 
 When we were going to draw up a round robin, asking 
 for a holiday or anything of that sort, I was generally asked 
 
A PRIZE POEM. 275 
 
 to put the thing into rhyme, and the boys who had pretty 
 cousins would come to me for an original birthday verse, 
 that they might add it to the letter of congratulation boys 
 do sometimes send to pretty cousins on such anniversaries. 
 
 Once or twice I even attained to the dignity of print in 
 the poets' corner of the local newspaper, and a poem 
 addressed to an imaginary young lady with golden hair and 
 blue eyes duly appeared on the back page of the Halfpenny 
 Journal, among the answers to correspondents. 
 
 When I left school and entered an office in the City, as 
 the first step towards becoming Lord Mayor of London, the 
 fame of my poetic faculty followed me, and my fellow-clerks 
 always kept me well employed in writing rhyming satires 
 on their enemies, and rhyming compliments to their friends. 
 I occupied the position among my companions of the public 
 writer of the old days before education was common, who 
 used to sit in the market-place and write love-letters for a 
 small consideration. 
 
 I had a consideration. I did not flash forth the fires of 
 my genius for the honour of the thing alone. Had I done 
 so, I might have devoted my entire leisure to the service of 
 others. I asked and received a fee in order to keep the 
 market in check, and the demand on me for acrostics on 
 young ladies' names for valentines, and for flattering odes 
 was very great. 
 
 My remuneration was of a varied character. Sometimes 
 it was a foreign postage stamp — a rare one which I desired 
 to add to my collection, sometimes it was a bull pup, and 
 sometimes a book. You will say that I am not proving yet 
 that poetry pays. Be patient. I intend to prove beyond 
 dispute that poetry paid me, but I want it to be clearly 
 understood what sort of poetry it was. 
 
 Among the clerks in our office was a young fellow of 
 three-and-twenty, whose father was a great City merchant 
 
 18—2 
 
276 A PRIZE POEM. 
 
 himself. Jones — that was his name — was only in our office 
 to learn routine work, to go through all the branches of the 
 business, so that he might take a high position in his father's 
 firm at once, and not have to learn his duties among the 
 clerks to whom he would have to be governor. 
 
 Jones was one of my best clients. Hardly a day passed 
 that he did not come to me for a verse or a poem, in which 
 the name of Adelina was to be introduced. 
 
 Adelina was a young lady, the daughter of a gentleman 
 who had been Lord Mayor of London. She was an heiress, 
 and very romantic ; she idolized poetry, and Jones had won 
 her heart with an acrostic which he had sent her on a birth- 
 day card. 
 
 Let me give Jones this credit — he never said he composed 
 it ; but it was in his handwriting, and Adelina accepted it 
 as a fact that Adolphus Jones was a poet. He was a fine, 
 generous, handsome young fellow, but that might not have 
 turned the scale in his favour had he not been a poet ; that 
 is to say, had he not been able to send her poems which she 
 presumed to be his. 
 
 When they became engaged, and their papas and mammas 
 met and arranged preliminaries, and the settlements were 
 talked over, poor Jones's conscience smote him. He hadn't 
 wanted to do anything wrong, and so, when Adelina 
 called him her poet, and Adelina's papa, the ex-Lord Mayor, 
 dilated to the Court of Aldermen and the City Companies 
 on the poetical genius of his future son-in-law, and Jones 
 began to have a reputation, and to be complimented on the 
 ninth of November, at the banquet to her Majesty's 
 ministers, and to be referred to in the City Press as a 
 gentleman of extraordinary poetical genius, he began to feel 
 supremely uncomfortable and unhappy. 
 
 It is true, no one but Adelina and her papa and their 
 friends saw Jones's poetry — I mean my poetry — but then 
 
A PRIZE POEM. 277 
 
 public fame is soon acquired if you are engaged to the 
 daughter of a millionaire ex-Lord Mayor. 
 
 As the time went on, and Jones grew more madly in love 
 than ever with his fiancie, so it became more difficult for 
 him to say, ' My dear Adelina, if I were not a poet would 
 you love me still ?' No man ever yet engaged in a decep- 
 tion, even though a tacit one, but he placed himself at a 
 disadvantage. A mean or paltry action always comes home 
 to its author, and no matter whether a lie be a white or a 
 black one, it is a weapon which invariably injures the 
 wielder of it. Jones found out too late the price he would 
 have to pay for a plan of deception which had appeared to 
 him innocent enough at the first blush, but which now 
 haunted him, sleeping or waking, and made the prize it had 
 brought him seem but Dead Sea fruit after alL 
 
 I, too, was indignant when I became aware of the extent 
 to which the deception had been carried. I did not care 
 for literary fame, and I did not imagine my fellow-clerks 
 quoted me always as the author of the ' poems ' they sent 
 to their sweethearts, and sisters, and cousins, and aunts, 
 and rich relations, but I never imagined that I should have 
 lent myself to a fraud, for fraud this undoubtedly was. 
 
 Jones had obtained the hand of an ex-Lord Mayor's 
 daughter by false pretences, and, to a certain extent, I was 
 his accomplice. 
 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 I hesitated to betray my friend by going to the ex-Lord 
 Mayor and telling him the whole truth. Jones feared to 
 shock Adelina by a revelation of his perfidy. Every time 
 she called him her poet, a fresh dagger pierced his heart ; 
 but should he break hers by casting all other considerations 
 to the winds, and exclaiming : ' The poet you love, oh, 
 Adelina, is not your unhappy Adolphus ; it is another ?' 
 The position, you must own, was peculiar. Tor an ardent 
 
278 A PRIZE POEM. 
 
 lover to tell the young lady who adores him that she loves 
 another, is a task which requires delicacy to accomplish it 
 satisfactorily. 
 
 So things went on — Jones still the affianced husband of 
 the girl who loved me, and T still allowing the girl who 
 loved me to go on loving Jones. I gave up writing poetry : 
 it became hateful to me. Over and over again I would cry 
 aloud, ' Oh ! that I was ever born a poet !' I couldn't cry 
 it aloud often, because the governor's office was close to 
 ours, and he would send out to ask who was ill. One day, 
 while I was sitting in the office immersed in thought, and 
 trying in vain to add up a column in the ledger, the 
 governor opened the door of his private office and called 
 me. 
 
 I fancied my absent manner of late had attracted 
 attention, and that I was about to receive a month's 
 notice. 
 
 I went in fear and trembling, for the house was one of 
 the oldest and best in the City, and to be discharged from 
 it was fatal to. a young man's chance of ever becoming 
 Lord Mayor of London. 
 
 Judge of my surprise when, on entering the private office, 
 I saw, standing with his back to the fire, the father of 
 Adelina. The ex- Lord Mayor eyed me up and down for a 
 moment, said ' Humph !' and then, taking a letter from his 
 pocket, handed it to me. 
 
 ' Take that letter, sir I' I took it. ' Eead that piece of 
 poetry, sir I' I read it. 
 
 ' Oh, Adelina, ever dear, 
 The world is fair when thou art near ; 
 But when thy face I do not see, 
 A desert it mnst be to me. 
 A sunbeam thou, the earth to cheer, 
 Oh, Adelina, ever dear !' 
 
A PRIZE POEM. 279 
 
 ' Now, sir, did Adolphus Jones write that ?' I blushed, 
 and hesitated. ' Answer me, sir !' 
 
 What could I say ? I said what I could — ' No.' 
 
 ' Did you write it, sir ?' 
 
 I blushed again, I hesitated again, and then I fell on my 
 knees, and begging Adelina's father's forgiveness, I sobbed 
 out, ' Yes.' 
 
 I expected an avalanche, and I was astonished as the 
 seconds passed on and nothing fell on my bowed head. I 
 felt a hand gently touch my shoulder, a kind voice bade me 
 rise, and the ex-Lord Mayor,, taking my arm, led me to his 
 carriage and pair, which was standing at the door. 
 
 Before I could recover from my surprise we were whirled 
 through the City streets, and presently we stopped at the 
 doors of a magnificent mansion in a West-end square. 
 
 Two powdered footmen descended and assisted me out, 
 and the ex-Lord Mayor personally conducted me into the 
 drawing-room. There I found Adolphus and Adelina both 
 bathed in tears. Adolphus had confessed all in a moment 
 of agony, and the indignant ex-Lord Mayor had rushed off 
 for me at once. I cast a timid glance at Adelina, a pained 
 one at Adolphus, and then bowed my head and shuffled my 
 feet. I never felt so supremely uncomfortable in the whole 
 course of a long and eventful life as I did at that moment. 
 The ex-Lord Mayor paused a moment, and then, with a 
 little preliminary cough, attacked the situation. 
 
 ' Adelina, my child, this young gentleman is the author of 
 the poems with which Adolphus Jones has basely ensnared 
 your affections. As a City magistrate, as an Englishman 
 and a father, I am bound to see justice done. You engaged 
 yourself to Adolphus, believing him to be a poet. The poet 
 is this youi_g man. You must therefore renounce Adolphus 
 and marry this young man.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' wailed Adolphus. 
 
280 A PRIZE POEM. 
 
 ' Oh, papa I' shrieked Adelina. 
 
 ' Spare us !' they both exclaimed together, looking appeal- 
 ingly at me. 
 
 My lips trembled, and I tried to speak, but the ex-Lord 
 Mayor interrupted me. 
 
 'This young man has nothing to say; it is I who am 
 master here. Now, Adelina, do you renounce the false and 
 accept the true ? do you give up Adolphus, and accept this 
 young man ?' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, I cannot ! I have grown to love Adolphus.' 
 
 ' But this is the poet !' 
 
 ' Alas, papa I the information comes too late. I would 
 sooner Adolphus had been a poet, but since he is not, I will 
 take him as he is.' 
 
 The ex-Lord Mayor rang the bell. A powdered footman 
 entered. 
 
 ' John, request Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, to pack 
 Miss Adelina's boxes at once, and prepare to accompany 
 her to the Langham Hotel.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! what would you do ?' cried the poor girl. 
 
 ' Silence, miss 1 you are no longer a child of mine. Mrs. 
 Smith will remain with you at the Langham Hotel until 
 you become the wife of Adolphus, if he chooses, to marry 
 you, knowing that my vast wealth will go to another.' 
 
 ' To another ?' 
 
 ' Yes, to this young man, that justice, which has ever 
 been the watchword of London's Lord Mayors, may be 
 done. This young man ought to be my heir, as he ought to 
 have married my heiress, she having given her heart and 
 her hand to the writer of certain verses, and he being that 
 writer. My child does not see the matter in that light — 
 she has not passed the civic chair. I have.' 
 
 Let me draw a veil over the bitterness of the parting, 
 over the sobs of Adelina, and the humiliation of Adolphus. 
 
A PRIZE POEM. 281 
 
 Suffice it to say that he too had a wealthy father, so that it 
 did not much matter. Adelina became his wife, and they 
 are supremely happy in one of the noblest mansions on 
 Wimbledon Common. 
 
 And I am supremely happy as the heir of the millionaire 
 ex-Lord Mayor : his partner in a magnificent business, and 
 his constant companion at all the civic banquets and com- 
 pany dinners. My poetry has paid. Had I not written 
 poetry, I might still have been toiling at the desk. But I 
 do not write it now for remuneration, nor do I ever write 
 it for other fellows to pass off as their own and send to 
 young ladies, and so win their confiding hearts. 
 
 I am, however, engaged in writing a poem, and it is 
 addressed to a young lady ; but she is the particular young 
 lady who will very shortly lead me to the hymeneal altar, 
 and become the proud bride, not of a poor poet, but of the 
 heir of a millionaire ex-Lord Mayor. 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 
 
 Fok the following narrative I am indebted to my old friend 
 Mary Jane, formerly Miss Mary Jane Buffham, housemaid, 
 and now, as the reader is of course aware, Mrs. Harry 
 Beckett, hotel proprietor. Those of my readers who have 
 perused ' Mary Jane's Memoirs ' and ' Mary Jane Married,' 
 will require no further introduction. For the benefit of 
 those who have not made themselves acquainted with Mary 
 Jane's contributions to contemporary literature, I need only 
 say that both as a housemaid in various families and as the 
 wife of a prosperous innkeeper, Mary Jane kept a diary and 
 a note-book, and plunged one eventful day head-first into 
 authorship. 
 
 She has not written anything lately, because the superin- 
 tendence of a large hotel and the cares of a small family 
 have left her little spare time for the gratification of her 
 literary instincts, but she has not ceased, as she herself 
 expresses it, ' to keep her eyes and ears open '; and it is 
 whispered that she has lately acquired sufficient material 
 for a little work, which she contemplates bringing out one 
 of these fine days, and which she intends to call ' > ome of 
 our Guests.' 
 
 It was in connection with this contemplated work, of 
 which I had heard rumours, that I called upon her the 
 other day at the excellent hotel in a Midland town of which 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 283 
 
 she is now the honoured hostess. I was anxious, if possible, 
 to secure the editorship. Mary Jane, in spite of her many 
 excellent qualities both as an authoress and a woman of 
 business, still requires ' editing,' and I confess that I should 
 feel it very deeply if that pleasant task were confided to 
 anyone but myself. 
 
 I discovered her, I gave her the words of encouragement 
 which induced her to give her ' Memoirs ' to the world, and 
 I look upon her as my literary protegee. 
 
 I need hardly tell you that I was most heartily welcomed 
 both by Mary Jane and her excellent husband, Mr. Harry 
 Beckett. It was late when I arrived, and the children had 
 gone to bed, much to Mrs. Beckett's regret, and — I am 
 almost ashamed to confess it — rather to my relief. I love 
 children very much, but I am always at a loss for appro- 
 priate words when I feel that I am expected to express my 
 admiration for their beauty and intelligence. 
 
 I very soon felt at home in Mrs. Beckett's charming little 
 sitting-room, and when I found myself sitting in front of 
 the fire and smoking a pipe with Mr. Beckett, while Mary 
 Jane with her own fair hands made us a bowl of the whisky 
 punch for which her house has become famous, I felt that 
 it was just like ' old times,' and I said so. 
 
 That set us talking of old times, of course. 
 
 Is there anything more delightful than a chat by the fire- 
 side on a winter evening with old friends about old times ? 
 The poet has told us that 
 
 ' There is no joy the world can give, 
 Like that it takes away ;' 
 
 and, alas I there are few of us on the wrong side of thirty to 
 
 whom the sad truth contained in these exquisite lines does 
 
 not come home. 
 
 It is this that makes old times so pleasant to talk about. 
 
 We live again in the happy past. The future to few of us 
 
284 MASTER'S FRIEND. 
 
 who are old enough to talk of old times looks particularly 
 bright and encouraging, but the past teems with memories 
 that brighten up the passing hours with their afterglow. 
 
 It was impossible to talk long with Mary Jane without 
 mentioning her ' Memoirs,' and this gave me an opportunity 
 of introducing the subject of the book which I had heard 
 was contemplated. 
 
 Mrs. Beckett smiled and shook her head : 
 
 ' Oh yes,' she said ; ' it is quite true that I have talked 
 of writing another book, but I'm afraid I shall never get the 
 time. Things are so different now, you see. Eeally, I 
 haven't a minute to myself all day. There is so much to 
 see to, and in the evening I'm glad to sit down and rest a 
 little. You can't think bow I have begun to appreciate the 
 words of the poor old lady who said that her idea of heaven 
 was " a place where you did nothing for ever and ever." ' 
 
 Harry smiled. 
 
 ' My wife isn't so fond of writing as she was,' he said. 
 ' She's getting lazy.' 
 
 Mrs. Beckett bridled up a little. 
 
 'Lazy!' she exclaimed. 'Oh, these men, these men 1 
 They think that a woman ought never to be tired. They 
 can't understand the wear and tear of looking after every- 
 thing in a big house, and the trouble of servants. Why, 
 only to-day I have been worried nearly out of my mind. 
 The new cook and the housemaid have been quarrelling 
 fearfully. 
 
 ' It is all about the butcher's young man. Cook will give 
 me notice if I keep the housemaid. The head housemaid, 
 poor girl ! broke down and became quite hysterical when 
 she began to tell me how disagreeable cook was making 
 things for her ; and they're both valuable servants, and I 
 don't want to lose either of them. Upon my word, some- 
 times I wish there were no servants. 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 285 
 
 'We had a hambermaid at the beginning of the year 
 who drove me nearly mad. She made the most extraordinary 
 statements about me to people staying in the hotel. I 
 thought some of the gentlemen used to look at me strangely, 
 and one day a gentleman who had got to know my husband 
 very well through coming often, said : " What a sad thing 
 about your wife I" 
 
 ' "Eh," said Harry; "what! Sad thing! I don't know 
 what you mean." 
 
 ' " I beg your pardon," said the gentleman; " of course, I 
 ought not to have mentioned it ; it must be a very painful 
 subject." 
 
 ' Harry was dumfounded, as the saying is, so he said, 
 " My dear sir, for goodness' sake, tell me what you mean." 
 
 ' " Well, of course you know what I mean? I'm sorry I 
 mentioned it. It was very thoughtless of me. Let us talk 
 of something else." 
 
 ' " No," said Harry ; " you've gone so far you must go a 
 bit further. In plain English, what is there sad about my 
 wife?" 
 
 ' " Well, of course, it's sad about her having to be taken 
 to a lunatic asylum now and then ?" 
 
 ' " What 1" yelled Harry ; " why, you must be the person 
 that ought to be taken to a lunatic asylum. Are you mad ?" 
 
 ' " Do you mean to say that she doesn't go off her head 
 always — well, after there's an addition to your family?" 
 
 ' Harry couldn't speak for a moment. It took his breath 
 away. But presently he grasped hold of the gentleman's 
 
 arm, and he said, " Look here, Mr. , either you are 
 
 mad or I am. What put such an awful idea into your 
 head ? Where did you hear such a thing 1" 
 
 ' Then it all came out. 
 
 ' It was that dreadful chambermaid. She had told this 
 gentleman, and also one or two others, that I had gone out 
 
286 MASTER'S FRIEND. 
 
 of my mind after my first baby, and tried to drown it down 
 a well, and that I always went out of my mind after similar 
 circumstances, and had to be put away for fear I should 
 murder my baby. 
 
 ' When Harry came in and told me I felt that if I had 
 been a man my hair would have stood bolt upright ; but, of 
 course, with a woman, such a thing is impossible ; but I 
 thought I should have had a fit, and after I had given a 
 shriek I burst into tears. 
 
 ' " Oh, how infamous I" I exclaimed. " What a wicked 
 wretch I Send for a policeman !" 
 
 ' " No," said Harry ; " we'd better not make too much 
 fuss about it. We'd better see the girl and find out what 
 she means, and where she heard it." 
 
 ' I wouldn't see the girl. I was too upset, and I believe I 
 should have flown at her ; but Harry saw her, and when he 
 came up to me where I was crying with rage and shame in 
 my bedroom, he told me all he had been able to find out. 
 
 ' The chambermaid denied point-blank she had ever said 
 such a thing, and trembled and cried and went on in a wild 
 sort of way, and Harry said, " My dear, I don't think she's 
 quite right in her head." 
 
 ' " Eight or wrong," I said, " out she goes this minute, 
 and if you had a spark of manhood about you she'd be gone 
 now, and her boxes flung after her." 
 
 ' Harry said that wouldn't do. He must get to the bottom 
 of the scandal, and see if there was anybody else in it. 
 
 ' I was so ill over it that Harry, when our doctor passed 
 by, asked him to come in and see me, and then I told him 
 to go in and see that wicked buss v and when he came down 
 he said he couldn't make her uc. 
 
 ' So I said, " I can," and nothing satisfied me till she was 
 out of the place, and I made Harry inquire of all our regular 
 customers if they had ever heard the story, and told him to 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 287 
 
 deny it ; ' and, would you believe it 1 after she'd been gone a 
 week we found out that she herself had been, in a lunatic 
 asylum for that very thing, and the people who had given 
 her a character to us had said nothing about it, thinking 
 she was quite sane now, and not wanting the past to stand 
 in her way. 
 
 ' A nice thing, wasn't it ? And that's what you have to 
 put up with from servants. Then there was a servant we 
 had ' 
 
 Mr. Beckett raised his hand with a deprecating gesture. 
 
 ' Don't give us anything more about the servants to-night, 
 my dear. I've had nothing but her servants dinned into 
 my ears for the last fortnight, and I'm sure our friend 
 Mr. ' 
 
 I saw that we were approaching dangerous ground, so I 
 hastened to turn the conversation. 
 
 ' I suppose you've co'lected plenty of material for your 
 new book among the guests, Mrs. Beckett,' I said. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' replied Mary Jane, giving her husband a glance 
 that had a suspicion of malice in it. ' We've had plenty of 
 guests here who have been worth studying.' 
 
 ' A good hostess should always study her guests,' said 
 Harry. 
 
 Just a little contemptuous curl of the lip was all the 
 reward Harry received for his joke, and then Mary Jane 
 continued, without deigning to take any verbal notice of the 
 interruption : 
 
 ' I think I have material enough for a book, but I'm almost 
 afraid if I wrote it I shouldn't care to publish it.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' Well, you see, it might injure our house. People might 
 say, " Oh ! we shall never again stay at that hotel. Mrs. 
 Beckett writes books about her customers. We don't want 
 to be put in a book." ' 
 
983 MASTER'S FRIEND 
 
 I confessed there was some force in these arguments. 
 Very few people care to be put in a book. Charles Dickens 
 was constantly having trouble with people who declared that 
 he had put them in his books. 
 
 ' I myself, my dear Mrs. Beckett,' I said, ' have had 
 trouble even with my own relations, who declared that I had 
 put them in my books and held them up to ridicule. And 
 once I had a gentleman come to my house and make quite 
 a disturbance, declaring that I had libelled him by using 
 his name in a farcical comedy, and that his was the only 
 family of that name. He said he wouldn't have minded had 
 I made him a gentleman, but I had made him an awful little 
 snob. He said all his friends declared it was him ; but I 
 soothed him down by assuring him that it was impossible, 
 as nobody could mistake him for a snob. And we became 
 great friends afterwards.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mary Jane, ' it is awkward. Look at the 
 trouble you had about my "Memoirs" through people de- 
 claring that I had put them in and made them ridiculous. 
 Of course it didn't matter so much, I having ceased to be a 
 servant, and they being my masters and missuses no longer ; 
 but with an hotel it's different. You get people who would 
 be awfully wild to be written about, and those whose stories 
 are the best and most striking would, of course, be the first 
 to be recognised, and so the first to object.' 
 
 ' Take a case which only happened about a week ago,' 
 continued Mrs. Beckett. ' We had a nobleman and his wife 
 staying here ' 
 
 ' That is certainly a case in point,' I said. ' You cannot 
 expect the nobility to patronize your house if you make 
 stories about them.' 
 
 ' No, of course we couldn't, and that's where the difficulty 
 comes in. All the best stories are those that would be 
 recognised by the people they were written about. For 
 
MASTER'S FR/END. 289 
 
 instance, this nobleman and his wife would be bound to hear 
 about it if I put them in my book. Their story is such an 
 uncommon one.' 
 
 ' An uncommon story, my dear Mrs. Beckett ?' I ex- 
 claimed ; ' pray let me hear it. Uncommon stories 
 are rare in these days of over-production, when every 
 idea has been used up and every subject worn thread- 
 bare.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't mind telling you this story, because I can't 
 put it in my book, and it's one that I know you'll be in- 
 terested in. You see it was like this. About six months 
 ago we had a telegram to say that we were to keep a suite 
 of rooms for Lord and Lady Altonthorpe.' 
 
 ' Lord Altonthorpe ! Why, that is the nobleman they say 
 married a housemaid.' 
 
 ' Ah, you've heard it, have you ?' 
 
 ' I've heard that Lady Altonthorpe was a housemaid. I 
 saw a paragraph to that effect in one of the sixpenny 
 journals.' 
 
 ' But you don't know the true story, do you ?' asked Mrs. 
 Beckett, looking just a little disappointed. 
 
 I hastened to assure my amiable hostess that I knew 
 nothing except that there had been a rumour that Lady 
 Altonthorpe was a domestic servant, and I begged her to 
 continue her narrative, which I shall now proceed to give in 
 her own words, omitting the interruptions of which Mr. 
 Beckett — 'who would have his little joke' — was occa- 
 sionally guilty. 
 
 ' Of course, when I got that telegram,' said Mrs. Beckett, 
 ' I was anxious that everything should be right — not that it 
 is an uncommon thing for me to have aristocracy here ; but 
 still, it does the house good, and so I gave orders to have 
 the best rooms turned out and clean curtains put up, and I 
 carried a lot of the ornaments out of our sitting-room, and 
 
 19 
 
290 MASTERS FRIEND. 
 
 even changed the picture on the wall, which was a scene 
 from the French Bevolution. 
 
 ' That was Harry's idea. 
 
 ' He said noblemen mightn't always like to be sitting 
 opposite a picture of noblemen being put to death by the 
 common people. I thought he was right there, but if I had 
 known about Lord Altonthorpe I should have left the picture 
 up. You see that I didn't know anything of his history, not 
 being one to be constantly reading about the aristocracy 
 like some people will, even taking in society journals and 
 paying sixpence for them, just to read that Lord This has 
 gone to the South of France for the winter, or that Lady 
 That has taken a house in some square or other for the 
 London season. What possible interest that sort of thing 
 can be to anybody but their friends I never could make out. 
 
 ' You wouldn't believe the trouble I had with those rooms. 
 They were the best that we had empty, but the sitting-room 
 chimney smoked whenever the wind was in a certain direc- 
 tion, and I couldn't tell how the wind would be when my 
 lord and lady arrived. 
 
 ' Then we had had complaints about the best bedroom 
 lately. A clergyman who had slept in it declared that there 
 were mice in it, and that they ran about in the walls and 
 squeaked all night, preventing him sleeping. 
 
 ' " They're the best rooms in the house," I said to Harry. 
 " We've nothing else that will do for nobility, so they must 
 have them ; but it will be a dreadful thing if the sitting- 
 room chimney smokes them out all day and the mice keep 
 them awake all night." 
 
 ' However, it was no good worrying, so I hoped that the 
 wind would be all right for the chimney while they were 
 with us, and that the mice might perhaps be sleepy and not 
 play about all night. Still, I was anxious, and on the day 
 that my lord and lady were to arrive I got out of bed 
 
MASTERS FRIEND. 291 
 
 at six in the morning, and went to the window and looked 
 out at the weathercock to see which way the wind was 
 blowing. 
 
 ' It was the right way, thank goodness, and that was off 
 my mind, as they were only to stay a day and a night, as 
 they were on their way to Buxton for his lordship's health, 
 he suffering with rheumatism very much. 
 
 ' That worried me a little, too, because I knew how touchy 
 and fidgety people with rheumatism often are, declaring 
 that the windows don't fit, and that there's a draught from 
 the door, and being that fussy about their beds, never be- 
 lieving they are properly aired, etc. 
 
 ' When the fly drove up with them from the railway- 
 station, I was in the hall to meet them. His lordship got 
 out first. A gentleman about forty, he was tall, with a 
 clean-shaven face, and a slightly odd look, and what I 
 should call carelessly dresssd — that is, not much style, his 
 overcoat beiDg much too big for him and his pockets baggy, 
 and out of shape ; and his hat was quite a curious one — a 
 soft felt, like you see in the pictures of Lord Tennyson, only 
 it looked as if it had not been brushed for a week. 
 
 ' "While I was taking stock, as the saying is, of his lord- 
 ship, he assisted her ladyship to alight, and then they came 
 in together, and when I saw her ladyship (stylishly dressed 
 she was, but everything very new, and, as I thought, not 
 put on well), you might have knocked me down with a 
 feather, so to speak. 
 
 ' I looked at her and said, " Oh I" and then she looked at 
 me, and said, " Oh !" too, and then I knew I hadn't made a 
 mistake. The lady who was coming into my hotel as Lady 
 Altonthorpe was a young woman named Sarah Martin, who 
 had been under-housemaid at the very last place I ever had. 
 She was about seventeen then, and would be about seven- 
 and-twenty now. Lord Altonthorpe saw we recognised each 
 
 19—2 
 
292 MASTERS FRIEND. 
 
 other, and he turned to his wife and said, " Tou know this 
 lady?" 
 
 '"Yes, dear," she said; "we were fellow - servants 
 together many years ago." 
 
 ' He didn't seem a bit surprised at that, but put out his 
 hand to me and said, " Very glad to meet you, ma'am ; old 
 friend of my wife's, eh? How do you do?" and before I 
 could get over my astonishment at being shaken hands with 
 by a lord like that, he turned round, and was helping our 
 Boots to get the luggage off the fly, and said he'd give him 
 a hand to carry the heavy trunk of my lady's into the halL 
 
 ' I said to Harry afterwards, " Well, he's the queerest 
 nobleman I ever saw ;" and so he was, but a nice gentle- 
 man, and a real gentleman, too, as we found. Would you 
 believe it ! He never rang the bell, but when he wanted 
 anything would come down and ask for it ; and once, if I 
 hadn't stopped him, he would have carried a scuttle of coals 
 upstairs himself. 
 
 ' It was all a mystery to me, and I thought, of course, he 
 was mad, and that was how he had come to marry Sarah 
 Martin ; but in the evening, when he had gone out for a 
 walk, Sarah — my lady that is now, of course — sent for me 
 to come upstairs, and made me sit down, and told me all 
 about it. 
 
 ' It seems his lordship was only the Hon. Thomas Jones 
 when she first met him, and was a poet and a Socialist, so 
 she said, but didn't quite know what that was. She was 
 living as housemaid with a gentleman who was a poet and a 
 great writer ; and the Hon. Thomas Jones was her master's 
 great friend, and very often a visitor. 
 
 ' " The first time he came, my dear," she said, " I thought 
 he was very curious, for he shook hands with me and called 
 
 me ' Miss,' and asked if Mr. (my master) was at home. 
 
 I was half afraid to leave him in the hall while I went to 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 293 
 
 see if master was in, because I'd read such things in the 
 paper about gentlemanly men, and overcoats and umbrellas; 
 but he gave me a card, and when I saw on it ' The Hon. 
 Thomas Jones,' of course I knew he must be honourable. 
 
 ' " I told the other servants about it (I was new to the 
 place), and they said, ' Oh, he's all right ; he's a Socialist, 
 and believes in the equality of everybody. He always calls 
 the servants "miss" and shakes hands with them. And 
 why shouldn't he ? for it's quite true what he says : we are 
 all born equal, and it's only money that makes the 
 difference.' 
 
 ' " Still, I will say," continued her ladyship, " that he was 
 always extra polite to me ; and one day, when I happened 
 to say I liked poetry, he gave me one of his books to read. 
 I am sure it was very clever, for 1 couldn't understand it ; 
 but I heard master say he was a great poet and a dreamer, 
 and born before his time ; and I began to respect him very 
 much. And one day, meeting me out, he walked as far as 
 the house with me, and talked to me a . jut the Jgnity of 
 labour, and said would I like to hear him speak at a Socialist 
 meeting, and gave me a ticket. 
 
 ' " At that time, you must know, my dear,'' said her lady- 
 ship, " the policeman on that beat was very friendly with 
 me, being a young man who came from my neighbourhood, 
 and he saw me walking with the Hon. Mr. Jones, and was 
 absurdly jealous and very impertinent, actually daring to 
 say that a servant couldn't walk with an honourable gentle- 
 man without losing her character. 
 
 ' " I was very cross ; but he was a very good-looking 
 young man, and going to be made a sergeant, and so we 
 made it up again, and walked out together — me and the 
 policeman, I mean — next Sunday; and it was settled we 
 were as good as engaged. 
 
 ' " And now, my dear, to make a long story short, I'll tel 
 
294 MASTER'S FRIEND. 
 
 you how it all happened. The Hon. Mr. Jones being, so to 
 speak, free of master's house, often came when he was out, 
 and went into the library and waited for him to come in, 
 and sometimes would sit and read there till late at night 
 when master was out for the evening. 
 
 ' " Just before Christmas the Hon. Mr. Jones went out of 
 town, and the day before Christmas master went unex- 
 pectedly, and cook had leave to go home on Christmas Day; 
 and it happened I was all alone on that day, taking care of 
 the house, and my sister and her young man were to come 
 and spend the day with me. Master was coming home late 
 that night ; but he had his latchkey, and told me not to sit 
 up for him. 
 
 ' " About ten o'clock, just as my sister was going, a knock 
 came at the door, and who should it be but the Hon. Mr. 
 Jones ? 
 
 ' " He said he had come back from the country in a hurry, 
 through the people where he had gone to speud Christmas 
 having scarlet fever break out all of a sudden ; so, being 
 lonely at his chambers, he thought he'd come and see 
 master. 
 
 ' " I told him master was out, and wouldn't be back till 
 late. 
 
 ' " ' Oh, all right,' he said ; ' I'll just go into the library, 
 and wait there till twelve ; and if he doesn't come, I'll go.' 
 
 ' " Of course, he being in the habit of doing that, I 
 couldn't say, ' You shan't !' and he went, and I went down- 
 stairs into the kitchen to sit up to let cook in, and took 
 up a book, which was the Hon. Mr. Jones's own poetry book, 
 which he had given me, and fell fast asleep. 
 
 ' " When I woke up and looked at the clock, it was two 
 n the morning, and I was quite cold. 
 
 ' " ' Good gracious !' I said, ' where's cook?' and thinking 
 perhaps she'd been ringing and I hadn't heard her, I went 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 295 
 
 up to the front door to look out ; and when I got to the hall, 
 I heard snoring in the library. 
 
 "" Good gracious !' I said, ' the Hon. Mr. Jones must be 
 there ;' and I knocked, and he said : 
 
 ' " ' Eh— what— who is it ?' 
 
 ' " 'Please, sir, it's two o'clock,' I said. 'Is master there?' 
 
 ' " ' Good gracious — two o'clock !' he said. ' I've fallen 
 asleep ; I must go.' 
 
 ' " He got up and apologized, and said he was very sorry 
 but he must have dropped off to sleep without knowing it 
 and I went to the door and let him out. 
 
 '" It was a moonlight night. 
 
 ' " On the doorstep he turned and shook hands, and 
 apologized again, and then he went down the steps and 
 walked away. 
 
 ' " I looked after him ; and then what do you think I 
 saw? 
 
 ' " On the opposite side of the road, standing in the 
 shadow, was bur cook and the policeman I was engaged to ! 
 
 ' " I was horrified. It was a terrible situation for a poor 
 girl, my dear, as you will understand, knowing how wicked 
 the world is. 
 
 ' " Cook came in then, bouncing and saying, ' Pretty 
 goings on !' and my policeman came to the gate, and called 
 me a traitrix, and said he should make a report to the in- 
 spector, who would send it to my master ; and I was never 
 to dare to speak to him again. 
 
 ' " It seems my policeman had seen the Hon. Mr. Jones 
 come in, and had watched and hadn't seen him come out ; 
 and when cook came by to come in, he said to her, ' Oh, 
 she's alone, is she ?' and told her what he'd seen ; and they 
 watched together. 
 
 '"I was so indignant I couldn't speak, so I slammed the 
 door to, and went to bed and cried ; and, only that cook 
 
296 MASTERS FRIEND. 
 
 was a hard-hearted wretch, I should have had hysterics ; 
 but I knew she would have let me shriek, and so I didn't. 
 
 ' " The next morning, when I got up, I found master had 
 come in and gone to bed, and directly he came down to 
 breakfast I told him everything ; but that mean wretch the 
 policeman had gone to the inspector, and, if you please, a 
 report came from the police to master that one of his ser- 
 vants had been seen letting a man out of the house at two 
 in the morning. 
 
 ' " Of course I explained to master, who, being a poet and 
 a Socialist himself, understood all ; but that horrid police- 
 man had spread it all over the neighbourhood, and when 
 cook was asked about it at the butcher's and the green- 
 grocer's she made the most of it; and my character was gone. 
 
 '"Well, the Hon. Mr. Jones heard of it — I suppose 
 master told him. At any rate, my dear, one day he came 
 to the house, and asked to see me alone, and he said, ' Miss 
 Martin, you have suffered a great wrong through my care- 
 lessness and thoughtlessness. I owe you a reparation. I 
 will marry you if you like ; I owe it to you to do so, if 
 you wish it.' 
 
 " ' Of course it was a great thing for him to do, but I 
 should have been a foolish girl to say ' No,' especially arc my 
 policeman would never have believed anything but what he 
 did believe, and I couldn't explain everything to the neigh- 
 bourhood, who didn't understand poets and knew nothing 
 about Socialists ; and so, my dear, I said ' Yes.' 
 
 ' " And a month afterwards we were married ; and we 
 hadn't been married a week when Tom's eldest brother 
 died, and only leaving eleven daughters and no son, my 
 Tom became Lord Altonthorpe, and I became ' my lady ' ; 
 and a better, kinder husband — though odd — no woman 
 could wish for. 
 
 ' " Only I do wish he'd go into society, and not be so fond 
 
MASTER'S FRIEND. 297 
 
 of calling servants ' miss,' and trying to make common 
 people believe they are his equals." 
 
 ' Of course I congratulated her, and said what a splendid 
 thing it was for her. And she told me that her husband 
 was very rich, but didn't care much about money himself, 
 or grandeur, or anything of that sort, only he let her have 
 everything she wanted ; and she told me she had had a 
 grand time in London — buying beautiful dresses and things, 
 and they were going abroad later on, and were to stay in 
 Italy, where my lord, being a poet, was always happiest, it 
 being the thing, it seems, for poets to be fond of Italy, and 
 to like to live there. 
 
 ' " And you know, my dear," said Sarah — I beg her 
 pardon, Lady Altonthorpe — " I do hope when I have him 
 more to myself out there, I shall be able to get him out of 
 his Socialism ideas a little. They are so absurd. As if it 
 was possible for common people to be the equal of an earl !" 
 
 ' I must say that Lady Altonthorpe was very nice, and 
 didn't seem spoilt, like so many people are by their good 
 fortune ; and when she went away she said my lord had 
 never been so comfortable in his life anywhere, and they 
 should recommend our house to all their friends. 
 
 ' That,' said Mary Jane, ' is the story of Lord and Lady 
 Altonthorpe, two of our guests. Don't you think it very 
 remarkable ?' 
 
 ' Very ; and I can quite believe it, because I know that 
 Lady Altonthorpe was a housemaid.' 
 
 ' You agree with me, though, don't you,' said Mrs. 
 Beckett, ' that it wouldn't be right of me to tell that story 
 in my book, " Some of Our Guests " ? You see, Lady Alton- 
 thorpe told it to me herself, and my being the landlord's 
 wife ' 
 
 ' Exactly, my dear Mrs. Beckett : it would be a breach of 
 conJkkLce on your part ; don't use it on any account.' 
 
298 MASTER'S FRIEND. 
 
 Mrs. Beckett said that she certainly should not, and then 
 we talked of old times till the clock struck one, and Mr. 
 Beckett began to yawn, and I saw that I was keeping them 
 up, so I said ' Good-night ' and went to bed. 
 
 I spent a very pleasant evening with the Becketts, and 
 the next day when I left (after duly admiring the children), 
 I had Mrs. Beckett's promise that if she did bring out a new 
 book I should edit it, as I had edited the previous volumes 
 of the Mary Jane series. 
 
 But as the story of Lord and Lady Altonthorpe is not to 
 be included, I have taken the liberty of using it myself, and 
 I sincerely trust that when Mrs. Beckett learns what I have 
 done, she will forgive me, in consideration of the services I 
 was able to render her when she was only ' Mary Jane,' and 
 not the prosperous buxom landlady of one of the best hotels 
 in the Midland counties. 
 
•COME TO ME.' 
 
 Mes. Tolboys stood at the entrance of the court leading to 
 Tolboys's Eegistered Lodging-house, looking up the street. 
 It wasn't a pleasant street to look up at the best of times, 
 but on this particular afternoon it was a slough of unutter- 
 able despond. From the 1st of December to the 6th it had 
 been a sharp frost, on the 7th it had thawed, and on the 8th 
 it had frozen again. On the 10th it had snowed heavily all 
 day, and on the 11th a dense fog, heavily charged with 
 ' London blacks,' had been succeeded by a rapid thaw. A 
 rapid thaw in a West-End thoroughfare is not an unmixed 
 blessing, but Oxford Street in a state of mud batter and 
 slush cream is Paradise compared with Furrow Street, Mint, 
 when the black snow begins to melt into the blacker mud, 
 and the unswept roadways, rich with the accumulated 
 cabbage-stalks and orange-peel and general refuse of the 
 surrounding tenements, are inundated with a thick, greasy, 
 and malodorous garbage soup. 
 
 When to this brief description of the thoroughfare I add 
 the information that Mrs. Tolboys was a comely matron of 
 fifty, with a bright colour, a clear kindly eye, a spotless 
 white apron, and a general air of comfortable well-to-do-ness 
 about her, you will at once come to the conclusion that it 
 is not for the purpose of admiring the scenery that the 
 good lady looks up the street. Take a peep inside the 
 
300 'COME TO ME.' 
 
 court at the entrance to which Mrs. Tolboys stands, and 
 you will at once be struck with astonishment that under 
 any circumstances whatever Mrs. Tolboys should be tempted 
 to look up the street at all. 
 
 Just through the court is a little open square, half yard, 
 half garden. A few green plants still ornament the narrow 
 bed which runs round the wall. Half a dozen thoroughly 
 respectable hens, accompanied by a sedate and well-man- 
 nered cock, are leisurely promenading the little gravelled 
 centre square. A flagged path leads across the open square 
 to the house ; the flags are scrupulously clean, and the 
 doorstep is as white as Mrs. Tolboys's cap and apron. 
 
 Pausing in astonishment at the neatness, the comfort, 
 and the cleanliness of this little oasis in a desert of disorder 
 and dirt, you see through two lower windows the fires burn- 
 ing brightly, one in a charming and cosy little parlour, and 
 the other in a beautifully-scrubbed, newly-whitewashed 
 kitchen. You are not left long in doubt as to what this 
 comfortable, well-to-do-looking tenement is, for as you run 
 your eyes above the front door, which stands temptingly 
 ajar, you are confronted with a painted board, which you 
 must, if you know anything of the poorer parts of London, 
 have seen over and over again in the course of your pere- 
 grinations : ' Eegistered Lodging-house. Beds 4d. a night.' 
 
 Yes; this is a registered or a common lodging-house. No 
 wonder, if you are familiar with the ordinary common 
 lodging-houses of the Metropolis, you almost doubt the 
 evidence of your senses. Air, light, comfort, cleanliness, a 
 neatly-kept garden, a yard in perfect order I What does it 
 mean? 
 
 The meaning is clear as soon as you learn a little more 
 about Mr. Tolboys, the finely-built, handsome north- 
 countryman who, assisted by his good wife, manages this 
 house. The house is his own property ; by it he makes his 
 
'COME TO ME! 301 
 
 living ; but attached to it and forming part of the premises 
 is a mission-hall — none of your circularizing, begging-for- 
 subscriptions, advertisement, and appeal-inserting missions, 
 but a sound, robust, manly affair — a mission of bone and 
 muscle and sinew, not a mission of hysteria. 
 
 Tom Tolboys is a Eadical and a teetotaler and a philan- 
 thropist. From the first moment he purchased the pro- 
 perty and took up his residence in the slums he saw that it 
 was quite possible to run a common lodging-house on sound 
 commercial principles, and yet to try and do something to- 
 wards humanizing the inmates. It was not long before he 
 made the acquaintance of a Nonconformist minister — an 
 earnest temperance advocate, who was known far and wide 
 as ' the Bishop of the New Cut.' The bishop laid himself 
 out to try and rescue drunkards from ruin and misery, and 
 to put them on the right road again. 
 
 To him, in consequence of his reputation for kindness of 
 heart, there came day after day men and women with 
 terrible tales of sin and misery and remorse, and hopeless 
 struggles with the fiend that held them help 1 ess and writhing 
 in its grasp. 
 
 Money himself he could not give. It would have brought 
 every loafer, every impostor to his door with some whining 
 promise of reform. But he gave practical help and sym- 
 pathy wherever he thought there was a chance of better 
 things. 
 
 Many a broken-down, helpless, homeless wanderer did he 
 send to Tom Tolboys, telling him to take them in and 
 house them, and, if they showed an inclination to go 
 straight, not to bother them about their nightly fourpence 
 for a bit, but to hold him responsible for it. 
 
 In this way Tolboys's lodging-house began to get together 
 quite a remarkable class of customers. Often enough in 
 the common kitchen might be found seated together in 
 
302 'COME TO ME.' 
 
 front of the fire worn and tattered victims of the struggle 
 for life, quite fifty per cent, of whom were men of first-class 
 education — men whom drink had brought from prosperity to 
 penury — barristers, gentlemen, naval and military officers, 
 merchants, scholars, doctors, — ay, even clergymen. 
 
 I have sat by the kitchen fire of this common lodging- 
 house, and I have heard tattered and ragged outcasts of the 
 London streets, gray-bearded old men some of them, con- 
 versing together on some great subject of the day in the 
 purest English, and illustrating their arguments with quo- 
 tations from classical authors. You had not to listen long 
 before you knew that you were in the presence of men of 
 birth and education, men who had in their day held their 
 heads high in good society, and had some of them been 
 brilliant ornaments of the professions to which they 
 belonged. And yet there they came night after night to the 
 common lodging-house, and sat among street hawkers and 
 odd- job men, and match-sellers and vagrants — mixed with 
 them, talked with them, made pals of them, and often 
 enough paired off with them in the daytime as partners and 
 companions in the wild hunt through the streets of the 
 great city for the cost of their night's lodging and a copper 
 or two over for a little food. 
 
 Now that you know the peculiar character of Tolboys's 
 ' doss-house,' commonly called ' The Ark,' you will not be 
 surprised to learn that Mr. and Mrs. Tolboys took consider- 
 able personal interest in their lodgers, and tried to be on 
 friendly terms with them. Some of them remained, from 
 the first night they entered the house to the day they 
 quitted it, silent and sullen, refusing to be drawn out as to 
 their past, coming none knew whence, going none knew 
 whither, with the secrets of their stormy lives hidden away 
 in their own hearts — heroes, many of them, in that series 
 of mighty melodramas, ' The Mysteries of Life,' which far 
 
i COME TO ME.' 303 
 
 surpass in horror and intensity, in passion and pathos, in 
 sorrow and surprise, any that the boldest playwright has 
 ever dared to fashion for the mimic scene. Others, on the 
 contrary, were only too glad of a sympathetic ear into 
 which to pour their woes, and confided to the genial ' boss ' 
 and his helpmate materials for a series of romances of real 
 life which would have made the fortunes of half a dozen 
 ordinary novelists, and given even a Zola plenty of material 
 for a new series of human tragedies. 
 
 ' The bishop ' cases were always the most interesting to 
 Mr. Tolboys. The bishop had a keen eye for character, and 
 he never sent a lodger to the ' Ark ' unless it was what is 
 technically know as ' a good case ' — a case worth taking up 
 and giving time to and taking trouble over. 
 
 On the night of the 10th of December a man had come to 
 the 'Ark' with a note from the bishop to Tom Tolboys: 
 ' Make room for the bearer if you can. It is a terrible 
 case, and I am deeply interested.' 
 
 Tom Tolboys read the note and looked up at the 'case.' 
 He was a tall slim man of about forty- two, with a fair 
 brown beard and large dreamy eyes. The face had been 
 handsome and refined once — you could see that at a glance 
 — but it was terribly lined now, and bore unmistakable 
 signs of drink and dissipation. The man had taken off his 
 hat with a graceful bow as he entered the * deputy's ' 
 room, in which Mr. Tolboys received his lodgers ; and his 
 long wavy hair, in spite of its unkempt and touzled 
 condition, added to the striking picturesqueness of his 
 appearance. 
 
 ' What is your name ?' asked Mr. Tolboys. 
 
 He always entered the bishop's cases in his note-book for 
 future reference. 
 
 ' William Stanton.' 
 
 • And your occupation 9 " 
 
304 ' COME TO ME! 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders, and a grim smile 
 momentarily lit up his haggard features. 
 
 ' I have no regular occupation. I have been a good many 
 things. I sell vesuvians, call cabs, lift luggage — do any- 
 thing, in fact. How much a night is it here ?' 
 
 ' Fourpence. Are you going to pay ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the man, a little proudly ; ' I'm not a 
 casual yet. If I hadn't the price of my lodging about me 
 I shouldn't have come here — I should have slept in the 
 street.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I thought, from Mr. sending 
 
 you, perhaps ' 
 
 ' No ; I met him accidentally this afternoon. We got 
 into conversation, and -he told me to change my lodging and 
 come here. Here I am, and here's my fourpence.' 
 
 He handed the money to Mr. Tolboys, who took it, and 
 then said kindly : 
 
 ' It's a cold night ; you'll be glad to get to the fire. 
 There's plenty of room ' ; and then, motioning the man to 
 follow him, he opened the door of the common kitchen and 
 pointed to a bench in front of the roaring fire. 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' said Stanton ; then, looking 
 around him, he murmured under his breath, ' Clean and 
 decent — what a luxury !' 
 
 Then he made his way to the fire, sat down, and, draw- 
 ing from his pocket a thick slice of bread, wrapped up in a 
 bit of old newspaper, commenced to eat. 
 
 ' He's a gentleman, my dear,' said Mr. Tolboys to his 
 ■wife, when he told her that the bishop had sent another 
 case ; ' a perfect gentleman — refined, cultured, and sells 
 vesuvians, and calls cabs. Oh, this terrible curse of drink ! 
 Seeing what I see day after day, knowing what I know, I 
 sometimes feel inclined to cry aloud to God that the curse 
 He put upon the world when He let the drink fiend loose 
 
' come to me: 305 
 
 upon it is the vengeance of a remorseless tyrant rather than 
 
 the punishment of a loving Father.' 
 
 ' Hush, Tom, hush !' cried his wife. ' These are mysteries 
 
 we cannot fathom. We see it at its worst, dear. We live 
 
 on the desolate shore where the fierce winds drive the 
 
 drowning and the drowned. But because we only see the 
 
 storm we mustn't curse the sea, and say that He who 
 
 made it meant it only to strew the shores with wreckage.' 
 ***** 
 
 The next day Mrs. Tolboys managed to have a little talk 
 with William Stanton. She found him what her husband 
 had described — a polite, cultured gentleman ; a gentleman 
 in rags, with the mud of the streets caked about the thread- 
 bare clothes in which he shivered. But she drew nothing 
 from him, except that he would return that night. He went 
 out once — and he came back again. She knew where he 
 had been in a moment : to the public-house. 
 
 She said to him gently : 
 
 ' You have seen Mr. ' (mentioning the bishop by 
 
 name). ' Did he not ask you to try and do without drink 
 for a little while ?' 
 
 Stanton looked at her for a moment as if he resented the 
 question ; then his manner altered. 
 
 'He spoke to me about it,' he said; 'but I gave no 
 promise. I shall never give up the drink ; it is the one 
 thing that drowns care, and I've so much care to drown.' 
 
 ' You have been unfortunate — unhappy ?' 
 
 ' Unfortunate, no. I deserved all that has happened to 
 me. Unhappy, yes. I shouldn't think there is a more 
 miserable wretch on earth than I am.' 
 
 ' 1 am so sorry. Is there nothing that I can do for you 
 to help you to see things differently?' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said the man softly. ' No one can 
 do anything for me now.' 
 
306 COME TO ME* 
 
 ' God can do all things.' 
 
 ' God P cried the man fiercely ; ' yes, there is one thing 
 He can do for me : take the miserable life that I am too 
 great a coward to take myself.' 
 
 Then, evidently anxious to close the conversation, he 
 turned away and went into the kitchen ; and then after- 
 wards he went out into the streets. As he passed Mrs. 
 Tolboys in the courtyard he raised his hat and said, ' I 
 shall come back to-night.' Then, with his hands thrust 
 into his pockets, he strode up the muddy street, and was 
 out of sight. 
 
 It was William Stanton that Mrs. Tolboys was watching. 
 It was after his retreating figure that she looked up the 
 awful street. 
 
 ' Poor fellow !' she said to herself with a deep sigh; ' what 
 a terrible life's history his must be, to have sunk so low as 
 this. How I pity him — how I pity him P 
 
 And the tears came into her kindly eyes as she thought 
 of her own happy life — of her good husband, of her stalwart 
 son growing up into manhood, her pride, her hope, her life 
 — and she murmured, half to herself, half to Heaven, with 
 trembling lips : 
 
 ' God keep my boy from the curse that brings men down 
 to this I' 
 
 ***** 
 
 William Stanton, the ragged outcast, made his way list- 
 lessly towards the West-End. When he came into the busy 
 streets where well-to-do, well-dressed people abound, he 
 pulled his battered hat lower down over his eyes, he thrust 
 his hands into his pockets, bent his head, and gradually lost 
 the independent, defiant manner he had assumed in the 
 lodging-house. 
 
 Once or twice in these streets, in the broad daylight, he 
 had been recognised. He had seen men he had known in 
 
' COME TO ME! 307 
 
 his old professional days, and heard them exclaim, ' My 
 God ! Stanton !' The look of horror and pity was more 
 tban he could endure. One man having recognised him — 
 having probably heard a rumour of his utter degradation 
 — had come to him with money in his hand. Stanton had 
 turned upon him fiercely. ' I don't know you 1' he had 
 exclaimed, with an oath, and had walked away rapidly. 
 
 There was one thing William Stanton had retained amid 
 all his degradation, and that was his pride. He was a 
 proud man in his rags ; a proud man in his maddest 
 moments of drink delirium ; a proud man when fierce 
 hunger gnawed at his entrails ; a proud man when he 
 slept the long nights through in the parks or in the stone 
 recesses of the bridges, or under the dark railway arches, 
 one of a little herd of vagrants and homeless outcasts 
 huddling close together for warmth and comfort. He had 
 never once in all the awful years of disaster asked for alms. 
 He flattered himself that he still earned his living. He sold 
 his matches, his theatre programmes, outside the doors 
 when he could, and, when he had nothing to sell, he fetched 
 cabs, lifted luggage, did anything that turned up, and for 
 his work he took whatever pay his employer chose to 
 tender him. 
 
 And this man was a doctor of medicine — a man who at 
 one time had a brilliant reputation in the large provincial 
 town in which he established himself. Young Dr. Stanton, 
 at the age of thirty, had a magnificent future before him — 
 a skilled surgeon, a brilliant writer upon professional sub- 
 jects, a universal favourite, looked up to, courted, admired, 
 already beginning to be quoted as an authority upon certain 
 branches of his art, making money fast, married to a beauti- 
 ful girl who idolized him — everybody prophesied that he 
 would soon be at the top of the tree. 
 
 And here he was, ten years later, at the bottom, prostrate, 
 
 20—2 
 
3o8 'COME TO ME} 
 
 humiliated, crushed — not only at the bottom, but trodden 
 down into the soil. 
 
 How did it happen ? 
 
 ' Alas, how easily things go wrong !' 
 
 Things began to go wrong with young Dr. Stanton when, 
 in order to get through the heavy labours of the day, he 
 began to resort too freely to stimulants, and the habit grew 
 upon him before he was aware of it. They went terribly 
 wrong when he lost his only son, a bright little fellow of 
 four, by a terrible accident, of which he was himself the 
 cause. In the long garden at the back of his house he had 
 put up a target, at which he used to practise with & bow 
 and arrow. He was practising one afternoon, and didn't 
 notice that his little boy was in one of the side-walks with 
 the nurse. The little fellow, hearing his father's voice, ran 
 out from behind some bushes — ran right between the target 
 and his father. The arrow struck the child in the throat. 
 At the time of the accident Stanton knew that he was 
 stupidly the worse for drink. 
 
 The boy lingered for weeks. His father, maddened by 
 grief, hoping against hope, despairing and tortured, gave 
 uncontrolled sway to his grief, neglected his profession, and 
 then — the story is as old as the hills — why need I dwell 
 upon it ? 
 
 He began to drink more heavily still to help him to 
 endure the sight of his child's agony. He drank to drown 
 his sorrow when the child died, and then he drank to seek 
 refuge from the thought that he had begun to suffer in 
 name and reputation, and that his patients were dropping 
 away from him. 
 
 His wife, his gentle Mary, conquered her own terrible 
 grief for her boy in order to console and strengthen her 
 husband. Her pleadings, her tears, were all in vain. As 
 the outlook grew blacker, as his nerve and skill deserted 
 
'COME TO ME.' 309 
 
 him, as his brain became duller and duller, he drank more 
 fiercely still. 
 
 He neglected everything and everybody — his wife, his 
 home, his profession — and at last his name became a by- 
 word and a scandal in the town where he had been honoured 
 and revered. The drink curse was upon him, and was 
 dragging him down to the lowest depths of degradation. 
 
 Gradually the whole of his patients dropped away from 
 him. A terrible scandal gave the last blow to the crumbling 
 idol, and shattered it to the ground. Summoned to give 
 evidence at an inquest on the body of a man whom he had 
 formerly attended, he came before the court in a state of 
 speechless intoxication, and had to be supported into the 
 witness-box. 
 
 After this his madness took a new phase. In his senseless 
 fury he turned upon his wife, met her appeals with curses, 
 her tears with blows. The man was mad — delirious — there 
 was no doubt of that. He threatened her life, and at last 
 she feared that in a moment of drunken insanity he might 
 really Mil her. She did not fear for herself, but for him. 
 It was to save him from the crime, not herself from death, 
 that she left him at last, and went to live with her friends. 
 
 Even then she made effort after effort to save him, but 
 all was in vain. The end came rapidly, and at last, ruined, 
 bankrupt, penniless, Dr. Stanton disappeared, and was lost 
 in the great City of London. 
 
 From the day he left the town where he had practised 
 little was heard of him. Now and then came the rumour 
 that he had been seen, shabby and out at elbows, haunting 
 some well-known drinking-bar. Then it was whispered 
 that he had been recognised in a hospital by a former col- 
 league. He wrote to no one, called upon none of his old 
 friends in London, and his wife never heard from him from 
 the hour they separated. 
 
 At last he came down to the slums — to the common 
 
310 'COME TO ME! 
 
 lodging-houses. Everything went in drink, save the few 
 coppers he needed for a night's shelter, but he didn't get 
 enough drink to madden him now : he couldn't buy it. 
 Then conscience, free for a time from the stupefying fumes 
 of the alcohol, awoke, and in the long, lonely nights he 
 suffered all the agonies of remorse. He caught sight of 
 himself once in his mud-stained rags as he passed a shop- 
 window at the West, and he stopped and spat at the image 
 he saw in his horror and loathing. 
 
 He was ashamed now to be seen in the daytime, but at 
 night, under cloak of the darkness, he plied his trade of 
 cab-tout outside the theatres. 
 
 On the night of the day that Dr. Stanton left Tolboys's 
 lodging-house, he made his way to the Lyceum. He was 
 miserable and dejected. As he had come along the Strand 
 he had stopped to hear a blind man who was singing and 
 accompanying himself on the concertina. 
 
 The man had a sweet sympathetic voice, and was singing 
 
 a ballad. The two first lines kept ringing in the ears of the 
 
 outcast — 
 
 ' Come to me 
 When all Life's dreams have ended.' 
 
 It was the tender wail of a woman to the lover who had 
 left her to come back again when he had discovered the 
 falseness of the world, and needed love and sympathy. 
 
 ' Come to me 
 When all Life's dreams have ended.' 
 
 The words haunted him. He found himself singing them 
 under his voice till the tears came into his eyes and trickled 
 down his haggard cheeks. All the mad folly of the past 
 came back to him. For him all Life's dreams were ended 
 — for him there was now neither love nor hope nor 
 sympathy. He had but to wait till Heaven saw fit to ring 
 the curtain down upon his terrible life's tragedy, and let 
 him rest in a nameless pauper's grave. 
 
'COME TO ME: 311 
 
 When the people came pouring out of the Lyceum an old 
 gentleman touched him on the shoulder, and told him to 
 get a cab. He brought it as soon as he could. The old 
 gentleman returned to the theatre, and brought out a lady 
 muffled up in a cloak, and with an opera-hood over her 
 head. When they were in the carriage, and Stanton had 
 closed the door, the old gentleman gave him sixpence. 
 
 Stanton lifted his eyes to thank him. The lady was 
 sitting nearest the door, and their eyes met just as the cab- 
 man whipped up his horse. The lady gave a cry of horror. 
 The cab-tout started back with a groan of shame. Husband 
 
 and wife had met again 1 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' Come to me 
 When all Life's dreams have ended.' 
 
 William Stanton murmured the lines again and again as 
 he strode aimlessly through the almost deserted streets at 
 one o'clock in the morning. She had come back to him — 
 the wife of his young manhood, the companion of his happy 
 days. She had come back to him for one brief moment. 
 He had looked upon her face, and in that one short moment 
 his whole life had surged up in his brain for him to see and 
 understand at last. She had come back to him ' when all 
 Life's dreams had ended,' but that was not what the song 
 had meant to him. No ; it was the cry of the woman — the 
 ever-loving, ever-pardoning woman — to the erring wanderer 
 to return — to return when he had seen all the coldness and 
 cruelty of the world, when the hollowness of all life's fancied 
 joys was known, when all the wild dreaming was over, and 
 the wearied heart sought a haven of rest to anchor in, and 
 be at peace at last. 
 
 ' Come to me 1' He thought of her, he thought of him- 
 self — the lost, disgraced, drink-sodden wreck. Would she 
 ever breathe those words to him? No, no ; between them 
 rolled a great ocean of black waters. What had she to do 
 with such as he ? 
 
312 'COME TO ME: 
 
 And then came the horror of the idea that she should 
 have seen him as he was ; that she should have learnt how 
 low he had sunk. He wondered what she would think — 
 what she would say. 
 
 Then he began to wonder what her life had been since 
 they parted. He realized for the first time that she too 
 might have suffered — that her anguish and agony might 
 have been worse even than his, and that now she might be 
 still further shamed and humiliated by the idea that she 
 was tied for life to a loathsome God- and- man- forsaken 
 wretch such as he. 
 
 A dozen times he had thought of ending his life, but had 
 never had the courage. Now, slowly but surely, the idea 
 crept into his brain again. That chance meeting, that one 
 glance exchanged between them, had brought back the old 
 love that drink and madness had crushed down in his heart. 
 Henceforth his life would be one burning agony of remorse 
 — one long wail of grief for the love that might be his no 
 more. 
 
 And while he lived she was bound to him. He might at 
 least do one. deed that was brave and noble — one deed that 
 would give her freedom for a newer and happier life, and 
 break the chain that bound her, good and pure and gentle, 
 to a ragged vagrant, to the companion of thieves and out- 
 casts. 
 
 He had spent his last copper in drink before the houses 
 closed. He had rushed to the drink after that meeting ; it 
 was always his friend in trouble, always his refuge from 
 remorse. He hadn't a farthing about him now, so he 
 couldn't go back to Tolboys's. He wandered down a side 
 street in the Strand and on to the Embankment. 
 
 There was no moon in the sky. The snow, which was 
 beginning to fall heavily again, had driven the homeless 
 prowlers from the seats, and he had the riverside to 
 himself. 
 
'come to me; 313 
 
 Yes, he would end it all now. But his wife must know 
 that she was free ; he wanted her to know that, in spite of 
 all his wickedness, his last thought was of her and for her. 
 Then he thought of the kindly woman who had spoken to 
 him in the morning — Mrs. Tolboys : if he could only send a 
 message to her ! He had nothing to write with — nothing to 
 write on. 
 
 A slow, heavy tread along the Embankment. Stanton 
 stood up in the shadow, and waited for the policeman to pass. 
 
 Instead of passing, the constable turned his lantern on 
 him. 
 
 ' Hullo I* he said ; ' why didn't you want me to see 
 you?' 
 
 Stanton shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' I'm doing no harm here, am I ?' 
 
 ' Not as I knows of ; but it's a queer pitch on a night like 
 this. Ain't you got any other ?' 
 
 Stanton saw his chance now. 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm lodging at Tolboys's, in the Mint. Would you 
 like to know my name and my age, and where I was vacci- 
 nated? My name is William Stanton— Dr. William 
 Stanton. You'll remember that, won't you ?' 
 
 'Get out with you!' replied the constable. 'You looks 
 uncommonly like a doctor, you do. If you was a doctor, I 
 should think the best thing you could do would be to order 
 yourself plenty of nourishment, and to be kept warm ; but 
 I'm afraid you've been going in too much for the " mixture 
 as before" — eh?' 
 
 The policeman lavghed at his own wit, and Stanton 
 laughed with him, just to keep on friendly terms. 
 
 Then the policeman, apparently satisfied that the shiver- 
 ing wretch wasn't going to rob anybody, as there was 
 nobody about, closed his lantern and resumed his beat, 
 nodding his head and exclaiming with a chuckle : 
 
 ' Good-night, doctor. You'd better go home and put your 
 
314 'COME TO ME: 
 
 feet in hot water ; your voice is thick. There's plenty of 
 cold about, but you ain't likely to put your feet in that ; cold 
 water ain't what you perscribes for your complaint generally. 
 Good-night, doctor.' 
 
 The man went slowly on down the ^Embankment, 
 chuckling at his own humour ; but he had served Stanton's 
 purpose. He would remember that the man who had said 
 his name was Dr. William Stanton had given his address at 
 Tolboys's ; and when his body was found, he would recog- 
 nise him. 
 
 The policeman should know that he was the man who had 
 committed suicide. Stanton went rapidly in the direction 
 the policeman had taken, passed him, then climbed upon 
 the parapet, and, with a cry of ' God have mercy on my 
 soul !' flung himself into the black waters of the Thames. 
 ***** 
 
 William Stanton, aged forty-two, was charged, as soon aa 
 he was well enough to leave the hospital to which he had 
 been taken, with attempting to commit suicide. The police- 
 man on duty told his story, the men in the police-boat who 
 had rowed off and pic'.;ed him up told theirs ; and, as the 
 whole story came out, the reporters in court at once saw 
 their way to a fine report, with a good head-line. A doctor 
 in rags charged with attempting to commit suicide was a 
 romance that did not fall to a reporter's lot every day. But 
 even those gentlemen of the press who saw a good sensa- 
 tional report when the case was half through, were unpre- 
 pared for the sensational end. 
 
 While the magistrate, having heard the evidence, and 
 having ascertained that the miserable, broken-down man 
 before him was really the once celebrated Dr. Stanton, was 
 uttering a few sympathetic platitudes, and wondering 
 whether to order the poor fellow to the workhouse or to 
 send him to prison, a lady, with a sweet gentle face, rose in 
 court, and, addressing the magistrate in a low voice, pleaded 
 
'COME TO ME: 315 
 
 for the prisoner to be set at liberty. ' If you will discharge 
 him, your worship,' she said, ' I will guarantee that he has 
 every care and attention and a home, and he shall never 
 come to this terrible position again.' 
 
 The prisoner raised his head as the words fell on his ears ; 
 then, with a little cry, he broke down utterly, and fell 
 against the side of the dock, sobbing hysterically. 
 
 It was his wife who was pleading for him — his wife who 
 was offering to take him back to her heart and to her 
 home, the poor lost wanderer, the miserable outcast of 
 the London streets. She had seen the case of the at- 
 tempted uicide reported in the papers, and she had come 
 to the court to claim him and to save him if she could. 
 ***** 
 
 It is two years since Dr. William Stanton, of Tolboys's 
 common lodging-house, was fished out of the Thames and 
 charged with attempting to commit suicide. It is Christmas 
 Day, and in a charming little house in the suburbs of 
 London a Christmas family party is gathered together. 
 Dinner is over, and the guests are all in the drawing-room. 
 The piano is open, and a sweet-faced, graceful, happy- 
 looking woman of two or three and thirty is searching 
 among the music for a song. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Tolboys have come in for a couple of 
 hours, after presiding at a splendid Christmas dinner which 
 has been provided for the lodgers at the ' Ark.' The old 
 gentleman we saw at the Lyceum is there, and the lady 
 of the house calls him uncle, and there are one or two old 
 friends of hers and her husband's as well. 
 
 The husband is a tall, handsome man of four-and-forty. 
 As his wife finds the music she wants, he rises and crosses 
 and stands by her at the piano. She is going to sing her 
 favourite song. Presently her lovely voice floods the room 
 with melody. 
 
3 i6 ' COME TO ME: 
 
 ' Come to me 
 When all Life's dreams have ended,' 
 
 she sings, and steals a little side-glance at her husband. 
 There are tears in his eyes as he stoops before them all and 
 kisses her brow. Mrs. Tolboys lets two big drops roll down 
 her cheeks, and uncle and Mr. Tolboys cough as though a 
 piece of walnut had gone the wrong way, and their eyes 
 are very bright and shining. 
 
 Por they all know what that song means to those two 
 hearts united after long years of separation. The wanderer 
 has returned to the fold. On the breast of her who forgave 
 him all and never ceased to love him he has found rest at 
 last. And he has left the old cruel past far behind. The 
 curse has been taken from him. He will not be dependent 
 upon the money his wife has inherited from her father. 
 He has struggled manfully and bravely, and to-day there 
 is a brass plate upon the door of the happy little home, 
 and that plate bears the name of Dr. William Stanton. 
 Patients are coming fast, and he is once more on the high 
 road to prosperity. 
 
 That night, when Mrs. Tolboys leaves, the good motherly 
 soul clasps Dr. Stanton's hand as they stand in the hall, 
 and exclaims, ' Did I not tell you that there was hope for 
 you?' 
 
 And from the inner room there still floats softly, as they 
 speak, the voice of the loving woman who sings half 
 dreamily to herself : 
 
 ' When the hopes of youth are withered 
 And scattered in the blast, 
 Come to me when thou art weary, 
 And would forget the past 1' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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