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CORNELL 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF 
 A COLLECTION MADE BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 PR 4104.M9 1873 
 
 My little girl; a novel, by the authors of 
 
 3 1924 013 434 786 
 
^l^S^^^T 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013434786 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 % iofei. 
 
 BY THE AUTHORS OF "READY- MONEY MORTIBOY." 
 
 Wat I +£.-r "T^ '<■-■ & a ^t ?; la»»f£, T?, ; 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 ^LATB TICKNOB & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,) 
 
 124 Tremont Street. 
 1873- 
 
Stireoiy^ed and Printed b}! Rand, Azierji, &» Co. 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 BOOK I. — IN THE ISLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the great stormy ocean — that part 
 of it which is bounded by the Bay of Ben- 
 gal on the west, and the coast of Mexico 
 on the east (or thereabouts) — lies the is- 
 land which the French, when they had it, 
 called lie des Palmistes ; but which the 
 English, on taking it at the beginning of 
 this century, patriotically named after their 
 great and good regent, Prince George. 
 The geography books call it Prince George's 
 Island still ; but no one out of England 
 knows it by any other name than the He des 
 Palmistes : and all English people, with the 
 exception of the Colonial Office, know it by 
 the name of Palmiste Island. It lies, in its 
 rounded and graceful curves, like a maiden 
 at rest, within a silver ring of surf, break- 
 ing over the coral reef, in latitude 18° S., — 
 a latitude, which I take to be the most de- 
 lightful in the world, especially in a coun- 
 try where you can get highlands to live in, 
 and a constant sea-breeze to fan you. In 
 Palmiste Island the sea-breeze blows all the 
 year round, sometimes giving way to a 
 warm west wind, which comes from the 
 neighboring continent, and sometimes lash- 
 ing itself to fury, no one knows whj-, and 
 performing prodigies as a hurricane. It is 
 bad at thesQ. times to be at sea, because all 
 the ships go down : but it is perhaps worse 
 to be on shore ; for there the roads are 
 mere rushing rivers, down which the way- 
 farer is hurried by the flood to meet an un- 
 timely fate. The gardens are stormy lakes, 
 trees are blown about like leaves, roofs of 
 houses are lifted like sheets of paper, and 
 
 men, if they are so unlucky as not to get 
 shelter, are sometihies take up towards 
 heaven, like Elijah ; only, like the prophet, 
 they generally come down again with 
 the breakage of a good many legs, arms, 
 ribs, and whatever bSfies happen to be 
 most easily fractured. If the hurricane 
 lasts long enough, the people, shut in their 
 houses, are starved for want of provisions ; 
 and, while it blows, there is no means of 
 cooking what they have. It has its advan- 
 tages ; for, after it is over, all the planters, 
 who were shaky before take the earliest.op- 
 portunity of going through the form of bank- 
 ruptcy, and excite universal commiseration 
 for their hard fate, as they enlarge on the 
 thousands of pounds' worth of canes or 
 coffee that the hurricane has destroyed. 
 Once clear of debt, they go on again with 
 light hearts and renewed hope. By pome 
 curious inversion of the laws of political 
 and social economy, very few, either debt- 
 ors or creditors, unless they are English, 
 seem the worse for their calamities. I 
 have some idea, though not in this place, 
 of putting forth a treatise on this important 
 subject from a novel and tropical point of 
 view. My readers will perhaps bear this 
 in mind, and buy me, when I do appear, on 
 " The Northern and Temperate Zone Sys- 
 tem." 
 
 After the hurricane, the papers — there 
 are six daily organs of opinion in the is- 
 land, two on straw paper, two on a peculiar 
 fabric something stiffer than tissue, and 
 something coarSer than homespun, and two 
 on real paper — live for a fortnight at least 
 on the correspondence which pours in. 
 An " Occasional Correspondent " writes to 
 detail the effects in his town, an important 
 centre of at least three hundred people ; a 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Special " narrates the eflfects in the ad- 
 joining hamlet, half a mile removed 
 " Our Own " writes from the other end of 
 the island, fully thirty miles away : they all 
 sign their names, and run up to town the 
 next day to receive the congratulations of 
 their friends. They arrive with iblded 
 arms and brows knit. This illustrates the 
 majesty of literature, since even these small 
 dallyings with the muse produce such 
 mighty throes 6f the mental system. And 
 in a month all is repaired : the fields move 
 again with the yellow-green canes, the dark 
 coffee bushes blacken the hillsides, the 
 roofs are all put on brand-new, the bank- 
 rupts have got fresli estates, or retain their 
 old ones through the clemency of their 
 creditors, and all is as it was. And in the 
 lie des-Palmistes nothing changes but the 
 men. 
 
 These are a heterogeneous race. They 
 lie like a parti-colored pyramid, the single 
 - stone at the top representing his Excellen- 
 cy the Governor. The lowest stratum is 
 composed of Coolies. These excellent 
 beasts of burden supply the place of the old 
 slaves. I do not think they are exactly 
 kidnapped ; but I believe it is demonstrable 
 that very few of tliem have distinct ideas 
 of their iuture when they embark on board 
 the emigrant ship off Calcutta or Madras. 
 On the other hand, their condition is cer- 
 tainly improved by the step. They get 
 better wages and a larger access to drink ; 
 they do not work very hard ; they are well 
 fed ; and, if they are beaten with sticks, they 
 may, if they like, have up their employer 
 for assault. To be beaten with sticks car- 
 ries, however, no sense of personal degrada- 
 tion with it, and generally hurts little, much 
 less than the docking of wages, which is 
 the only alternative. Consequently, despite 
 laws and fines. Old Father Stick, the first 
 lawgiver, still retains a certain amount of 
 authority. Then, again, their children can 
 go to school, if there happens to be a school 
 near ; and, when they are taught to write, 
 come in handy at forging leaves of absence, 
 passes, and such-like small helps to making 
 life pleasant. At least once in six months, 
 too, a missionary comes their way, and be- 
 guiles the time for half an hour after sun- 
 down by telling them they are going to that 
 place where they will find all their good 
 resolutions. This raises an animated dis- 
 cussion for the evening, and helps to fill up 
 the missionary's trimestrial letter. Rewrites 
 this the next morning, after a comfortable 
 dinner at the planter's house, with half a, 
 dozen cigars, and two or three goes of bran- 
 dy and soda. The English collector of 
 those stray shillings which go to make up 
 the million a year spent in this noble work 
 may read the half-hour described as follows : 
 
 " Tuesday. Eose half an hour before 
 dawn. Thought of Zech. li. 32. Rode, on 
 my journeying, throngh the gigantic forest 
 to the estate of Fontainebleau. Having 
 obtained permission to preach the Word, 
 spent a long time in deeply interesting con- 
 versation with the laborers in the village. 
 All were eager to learn. Alamoodee, an 
 aged Tamul man of sixty-five, was particu- 
 larly anxious to hear the good tidings. 
 And I was greatly pleased with the intelli- 
 gent look ot Mounia >nd Cassis, two young 
 Indian women of about sixteen. I left them ' 
 a few tracts, and they laughed, putting their 
 fingers in their mouths in the artless Indian 
 manner. They cannot read, but others can 
 read to them. In the evening news came 
 that the husband of Mounia was beating 
 her for some alleged misconduct. How 
 sweet it is to sow the seed 1 Alamoodee, 
 poor fellow, was brought in next morning 
 on a charge of drunkenness, but dismissed 
 with a fine and caution. I have reason to 
 believe it was a conspiracy. The hard toils 
 of the humble missionary have often no re- 
 ward but hope." 
 
 The next stratum on our pyramid is 
 coal-black. This is composed of all the 
 negroes now left alive. Thirty- six years 
 ago they were emancipated, — a hundred 
 thousand, of all ages. There are now 
 about ten thousand. For receiving their 
 freedom with a joy which argued well for 
 the future, as their admirers said, they pro- 
 ceeded to make a solemn covenant and 
 agreement; not on paper, for they had 
 none, and could not write ; nor by special 
 Parliament, for they never met ; nor by 
 mutual exhortation, for they never talked 
 about it, — but by that more certain method, 
 the silent consent of the nation, the inar- 
 ticulate vox populi. They agreed, one with 
 the other, that they would never do any 
 more work at all. And they never have 
 done any. They have kept this resolution 
 with the unbending obstinacy of the medi- 
 cal student who promised his p.unt that he 
 would lay aside his studies on the sabbath. 
 It has been a pleasant time with them, but 
 somehow they have not prospered. Thoy 
 are dying out. They live in little patches 
 of garden, where they plant potatoes' and 
 lettuces, bananas, beans, and such thinn-s 
 as grow by themselves, and cost little trou- 
 ble. What they cannot eat themselves, 
 they sell for rice and rum. When they de- 
 sire to make a feast, the nearest planter's 
 poultry-yard supplies the materials. They 
 smoke their pipes in great peace, while the 
 vertical sun strikes upon their roofless hats, 
 and penetrates pleasantly through the 
 woolly protection of nature ; they talk but 
 little, and then of soothing subjects, such as 
 the cheapness of rum, the excellence of 
 
MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 their bananas, and their own amazing sa- 
 gacity ; and they laugh on small provoca- 
 tion, sseiug great jokes and effects of hu- 
 m6r when graver men look on with a smile. 
 Sometimes they call themselves — all out 
 of the gayety of their hearts — carpenters ; 
 and, if you trust them, will build you a 
 house whose windows are of unequal height 
 and differing dimensions. They laugh 
 when you point out this incongruity of 
 things ; and, if you foolishly get into a rage, 
 they only laugh the more — but at a dis- 
 tance. When they marry, they buy a large 
 mosquito curtain as a proof of respectabil- 
 ity ; and their highest ambition is to have 
 a piano. 
 
 Their wives and daughters love to go to 
 church in white kid gloves and a parasol. 
 Their husbands follow, walking behind in 
 bare feet, battered straw hats, and blue 
 stuff coats. Or, if they are richer, they 
 have a black coat and blue stuff trousers. 
 The ladies are mightily devout, and go 
 through the external part of religion with 
 great fervency. The men kneel down, and 
 continue kneeling, with what is called the 
 sweet, sad intelligence of the African race, 
 till they catch the eye of a friend ; then 
 you may see two frames convulsed with a 
 mighty struggle. Finally, quite overcome, 
 they go out into the churchyard, and Jaugh 
 on a tombstone till the service is over ; 
 taking turns to laugh at each other, like an 
 Aristophanic chorus. 
 
 By degrees they get old : their wool be- 
 comes gray ; the fine calf which once 
 adorned that part of the leg with us called 
 shin, shrinks and shrivels ; the heel pro- 
 jects another two inches or so behind, the 
 frame gets bent, but the man is the same. 
 He does not know that he is old ; he does 
 not know how long he has lived, or how 
 long men usually live. Presently, to his 
 utter amazement, he positively dies ; and 
 thinks himself cut off prematurely, although 
 he has numbered eighty summers. Cer- 
 tainly he has had no winters, because there 
 is no winter there. 
 
 The best of them go fishing, and are very 
 handy with their boats. Some few have 
 been pushed on in thei/orld; but their 
 patrons generally drop them, on account 
 of defects which make them a little lower 
 than those angels we English once took the 
 race to be. The half-educated fellows are 
 , very bad specimens indeed. A hog in 
 black clothes, a monkey with a book before 
 him, would be fair types^f their morals and 
 philosophy. As a rule, they drink them- 
 selves to death ; and as there are, fortu- 
 nately, but few of them, they hardly count. 
 
 Let us get a step higher. The next 
 stratum is the oddest of all : it is the Chi- 
 nese layer. I have the greatest liking for 
 
 this folk. There is a profundity, coupled 
 with cynicism, in their look, that few Eng- 
 lish philosophers possess. They seldom 
 laugh, they despise all people but them- 
 selves, they make money diligently, live 
 laboriously, fare badly, drink little, are 
 clever artisans, can be relied upon in mat- 
 ters of work ; and, with all these virtues, 
 are so clogged and burdened with vice that 
 they cannot rise. To smoke opium, to 
 gamble all day, and to do one or two other 
 things that Western civilization denounces, 
 form their ideal heaven. They are conviv- 
 ial too. Their gravity is the result of ed- 
 ucation, not of nature ; it is "grafted, not 
 indigenous. Witness tlae air of suppressed 
 fun, inseparable from the nature of the ac- 
 tion, with which two of them carry a pig 
 between them on a pole, or attend a pork- 
 devouring religious ceremony, or let off 
 crackers at the funeral of a friend, or sell 
 you a box of sardines. And more remark- 
 able still, they are all alike. I do not know 
 how they get over the possible complica- 
 tions that might be caused by this circum- 
 stance. I suppose care is taken so far as 
 the rights of property and the domestic re- 
 lations are concerned. Ai least, I never 
 heard but once of any case in which the 
 national likeness was taken advantage of. 
 This was when Ah-Kang — 1 knew him 
 well ; a good fellow, but deficient in the 
 finer shades of moral principle — going 
 into the shop of Kong-Fow, found his poor 
 friend lying dead behind his own counter. 
 He thereupon conceived the brilliant no- 
 tion of burying him in the garden, and 
 taking his* place. This plan he carried 
 into effect, and for three months drove a 
 good trade, his friend's name and titles, 
 painted by an imperfectly educated Creole, 
 being all the time on the door-post as 161- 
 lows : — 
 
 Me Kongfov^ Esqtt 
 IRE LiCENSD Dee 
 
 LER m TOBAC 
 
 CO Ketailkk 
 OP Spibruts 
 
 N.B. — Day akd Martin's Best 
 Blacking. 
 
 Then he was found out. I forget how. 
 
 Another step. We are among the mu- 
 lattoes. I suppose this is the most intelli- 
 gent class in the community, because they 
 are always saying so. For the same rea- 
 son, they are the most truthful, the least 
 addicted to the ordinary frailties and back- 
 slidings of human nature, the most religious, 
 the most trustworthy, the most enterpris- 
 ing, the most polished, and the bravest. 
 
 That no one else says so is a clear proof 
 of the malignity of other people. Scandal 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 hints that they hate their fathers for being 
 ■white, and despise their mothers for being 
 black : their enemies maintain that they 
 have the vices of both races, and the vir- 
 tues of neither ; and, though they have 
 barristers, physicians, and lawyers of their 
 own, assert that their science is worthless, 
 their eloquence froth, and their law chican- 
 ery. When all is told, I dare say, if they 
 could forget their black blood, they would 
 not be a bad set. The thing that rankles 
 in their bosoms, the injustice that sets their 
 blood aglow, is that white people, who 
 shake hands with them on the Exchange, 
 and meet them on terms of equality in the 
 courts of law, will neither enter their 
 houses, nor sit at meat with them, nor intro- 
 duce them to their wives. The law, which 
 formerly forbade them to wear boots, has 
 given them all the rights of civic equality ; 
 but no law can remove the prejudices of 
 caste. Are they worse off than we in Eu- 
 rope ? Are there not houses where we, 
 who grace the district of W.C., enter only 
 on a kind of sufferance ? Does not the 
 Faubourg St. Germain still exist, eighty 
 years after the Revolution ? Would the 
 Duke of St. Smithfield, whose grandfather 
 began life as a jouraeyman baker, and end- 
 ed as an earl, sully his blue blood by let- 
 ting his fair daughter marry me — me, the 
 author ? And are we, therefore, dear in- 
 habitants of Bloomsbury, to eat out our 
 hearts in malice ? 
 
 Our pyramid narrows. Next we come 
 to the planters and the merchants, the 
 English and the French. With the mer- 
 chants we have nothing to do. Let me, try 
 to show you a planter's house. But first, 
 for 1 am tired o£^ my pyramid, let me clear 
 it off and have done with it. The next 
 stratum is the governing body, — the offi- 
 cers sent out by England. Palmiste Island 
 is a Crown colony. Therefore, the officers 
 are generally men of good family, if of 
 small means. Their posts do not enable 
 them, as a rule, to save much, but they 
 save a little ; and, when the time comes for 
 retiring, they have something more than 
 their pension to fall back upon. They. are 
 not usually a remarkably brilliant set of 
 men ; but they are generally well-bred, and 
 possessed of tact. The Government cart 
 goes on smoothly enough. There are few 
 real grievances, and there would be no im- 
 aginary ones were it not for the daily 
 papers. The judges are just ; the Crown 
 Iaw:officerB have sufficient ability; the 
 bishop is pious and bland; the Colonial 
 Secretary is cautious : things get put by 
 for a more favorable opportunity, and then 
 right themselves. And the top story, the 
 apex, the crown of the building, his Excel- 
 lency the Governor-General of Prince 
 
 George's Island and its dependencies, gives 
 dinners to the elite, balls to society in gen- 
 eral, receives whom the Colonial Secretary 
 sends to him, and composes long despatches 
 recommending reforms which will make the 
 colony a paradise. He is obliged to write 
 them, to show his zeal, though it must 
 be a fearfuU bore. And, when they come 
 home, some young clerk in the Coloni^'l 
 Office, who knows as much of Palmiste 
 as of Timbuofoo, annotates the labored 
 thoughts of the experienced statesman, 
 and snubs him. This done, according to 
 rule, the despatches are put in a book, and 
 carefully bound up to be preserved forever. 
 There are now so many of these hapless 
 children of thought, smothered as soon as 
 born, and kept as calf-bound mummies in 
 Downing Street, that a few years since they 
 were compelled to move them all to the 
 cellars. Their weight was pressing out 
 and crushing down the walls ; and it was 
 feared that their presence, longer contin- 
 ued, might possibly result in the demolition 
 of the whole fabric. Shades of departed 
 governors, pe nsionless wanderers by Brigh- 
 ton sands, consider with gratitude ithe 
 JSTemesis that waits on the contempt of 
 your labors 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The estate I am going to take you to is 
 called Fontainebleau. All the estates in 
 the He des Palmistes have these pretty 
 French names. One is called Mon Songe, 
 another Mon Reve. There is a Trianon, 
 a St. Cloud, a Soreze, an Amboise, a Che- 
 nonceux : there are Beau Plan, Belle Vue, 
 Riche en Eaux, Belle Riviere, Savanne; 
 there are Lucie, Eugenie, Adrienne, and 
 Louise. All the poetry in the heart of the 
 owner is lavished on 'the name of his es- 
 tate. " All the same," as a wandering 
 jockey once observed to me, " as the owners 
 of the 'orses in the Derby," — a remark 
 which seems to throw a new and very pret- 
 ty light upon horse-racing. ^ 
 
 Fontaineblea i lay on the confines of the 
 great forest thiit filled the centre of the 
 island. On one side rose hills — not the 
 round, indolent hills of England ; but sharp, 
 eager, ambitious little mountains, scarped 
 with precipices fifty and a hundred feet 
 high, jagged with peaks, and cut with 
 passes, for all the world like a row of Alps. 
 These pretentious elevations tower upwards 
 at least five hundred feet, and are covered 
 with wood, except in small spaces cleared 
 for cofiee. They look down upon the broad 
 fields of Fontainebleau. Planted with 
 canes, the acres stretch down the sloping 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 land towards the sea, kindly mother earth 
 rounding, as it were, into a breast of fertil- 
 ity. As the sun takes his swift, long course 
 midway in the heavens, the yellow-green 
 crops wear a thousand different shades of 
 li^ht : now as the wind turns up the dark 
 hidden side of the leaf, — now as it flutters 
 out the bright upper part ; now when the 
 cane is in flower, when it blows about the 
 feathery beauty like the trappings of a hel- 
 met ; or now, when the clouds fly here and 
 there in dark shadows along the glorious 
 colors ; and always the sea-breeze raises 
 the gentle waves of the field, like the sweet 
 un'rest of a sea which never knows a storm. 
 
 An English corn-field, when the sun 
 shines upon it, is a sight to aldmire ; but an 
 estate planted with canes, in all their rich- 
 ness of color and beauty of form, is one to 
 fill the eye with those tears which rise at 
 the contemplation of nature at- its best, — 
 tears from no divine despair, but perhaps 
 from a sense of the unfitness of man for 
 the earth. In the cities, it is not felt ; but 
 in the lonely corners of the world, in those 
 tiny spots of the ocean where God's finger 
 seems to have lingered longest, delicately 
 shaping sweet river-courses, shady glens, 
 ravines, cascades, and quaint mountain 
 tops, where nature is most productive and 
 man most out of sight, the heart is sadden- 
 ed, the eyes dimmed. 
 
 Fontainebleq,u was a very quiet place, 
 and a lonely. To north and east lay the 
 great silent forest. To south only, it open- 
 ed out ; and, standing in the road, one could 
 see ten miles of land — ten miles, rather, 
 of waving canes — before the ocean seemed 
 to rise up like a wall, and bar the prospect. 
 Looking over the sailless sea — for no ships 
 ever came that way — the misanthrdpe 
 might derive a sense of freedom from feel- 
 ing, that, far and wide, no land interposed 
 between the headland beneatli him and the 
 barren peaks of the Antarctic shores, far 
 to the south ; but the broad fields looked 
 hot, thirsty, and parched. It was better to 
 turn northwards, and, climbing over the 
 wall which kept out the deer, and was a 
 nightly gymnasium for the monkeys, dive 
 into the glades and recesses of the forest. 
 
 I suppose it would have been difficult to 
 lose one's self in it. One might, perhaps, 
 wander about in it for a few days ; but 
 sooner or later the end of it must hive been 
 reached. It is not very large, — ten miles 
 one way, by perhaps thirty another. There 
 are few paths in it ; but a man has only to 
 keep going by the sun to arrive somewhere 
 near his destination. And then there are 
 no perils in it. Nothing more harmful lurks 
 in its recesses than the monkey, — a gigantic 
 beast, — species, say, ourang-outang — of 
 at least a foot and a half high. There are 
 
 also deer, the little bristly jungle pig, and 
 perhaps a wild cat or two, — that is, a tame 
 cat gone wild ; not a panther or a leopard, 
 or any thing of that nature, understand. 
 There was a tiger. He got away from a 
 menagerie, and betook himself to tlie woods. 
 Of his end there are two legends. For 
 some maintain that he died of indigestion, 
 having eaten an old negro who disagreed 
 with him ; others, with greater plausibility, 
 affirm that his nature has been changed, — 
 anlmum cum caelo, rautavit, — that he has 
 been distinctly visible in the gray of the 
 morning, filing his teeth in bowlders, and 
 that he lives retired in the mountains, — a 
 vegetarian, shunning the siglit of man. 
 And this they allege as a proof of the mild- 
 ness and placability induced by the climate 
 of Palmiste Island. There was once, also, 
 a crocodile. He, too, escaped, being yet 
 quite young, and unfortunately mistook a 
 water-pipe for a cavern or retreat made 
 specially for his behoof. There, many 
 weeks afterwards, he was discovered, 
 choked, — a gruesome body ; and English- 
 men must needs take consecutive sodas and 
 b.'s as a corrective and preservative against 
 any small matter of putrefaction that may 
 have entered their bodies through incau- 
 tiously drinking the water unmixed, — a 
 thing quite improbable on the face of it, and 
 entirely contrary to their known habits. 
 Lastly, there was once found — as the 
 ballads say, I do not lie — half a snake, the 
 tail half. How it got there, where the other 
 half was, whether he had a sister or a 
 brother, a father or a mother, or a dearer 
 and nearer one still, in the jungle, was 
 never ascertained. And in all the annals 
 of Palmiste, no other snake, crocodile, or 
 tiger was ever found in the whole island. 
 
 As a set-oflf against this immunity from 
 danger, the forest is almost silent and inex- 
 pressibly dreary. Save here and there the 
 faint chatter of a monkey, or the occasion- 
 al cry of a coq-de-bois, the silence is pro- 
 found and oppressive. Few birds are there 
 in Palmiste , — very few in the forest. 
 They have two natural enemies, — monkeys 
 and hurricanes. The former take down 
 their nests, and destroy their eggs, — all 
 out of pure mischief; and the latter 
 
 But besides the mourafulness of its silence, 
 the mere aspect of the forest sadi^ens if youi 
 stay in it too long. For a bright, cheery, 
 glorious wood, where you may picnic, wan- 
 der, or build castles of future greatness, I 
 prefer the New Forest ; for a poetical, 
 dreamy place, where you may make poetry 
 and chansons de geste that of Fontainebleau 
 — in France, I mean ; for a sweet-smelling, 
 sentimental wood, a place where one can 
 
8 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 walk -with one's love, and fall into tender 
 talk of eternity and heaven, and all sweet 
 hopes and confiding, trusts, I prefer a pine 
 forest on the lower slopes of a Tyrolese Alp. 
 But for a place where death and decay stare 
 you in the face, — where if you stay your 
 steps, you fall presently to musing on a mis- 
 spent life, go to the forest in the centre of 
 Palmiste. There, when you mark the giant 
 creeper crushing the life out of some great 
 monarch of the wood, curling round him 
 like the prieve, with its countless, arras, 
 think of evil habits, and remind yourself 
 hoV man never . shakes them off, and how 
 the soul is choked with them Then re- 
 member your own, and abandon hope. Or 
 when you see the dense mass of trees, — so 
 thick that they press against one another, 
 so close together that they never dream of 
 such a thing as leaves till they are thirty 
 or forty feet high, — think of m^n in great 
 cities, how thick they are, and how they 
 'fight for life, and give up all prospect of 
 aught but toil and labor and oblivion, till 
 the end comes. Presently you will come — 
 it lies in your path — upon a large pillow- 
 like .mass of green, soft moss ; put your 
 foot upon it — it sinks through to the hip. 
 This was once a great tree. It lies where 
 it has fallen ; its wood is rotten and wasted ; 
 no one ever noticed its beauty, and it 
 served no purpose in life or in death, Then 
 draw your moral, sitting in the shade. 
 
 I extract most of this description from a 
 discourse I once pronounced in my friend 
 Venn's rooms. He maintains that such a 
 forest as I have described would affect him 
 with a lively joy; and points out how all 
 that I have named would but serve to raise 
 his spirits, and fill him with gratitude and 
 iope. Nature can be read in two ways. In 
 all her moods there are joy and- hope, and 
 in all there are mockery and despair. Itell 
 of the forest as it affected me. 
 
 There are two or three little water-cour- 
 ses running out of the forest through the 
 estate, which the simple islanders call 
 rivers. These bubbling streams speedily 
 cut out little ravines for themselves, and go 
 brawling about among the bowlders at the 
 bottom as if most important business, not to 
 be deferred a moment, hurried them down. 
 Here and there they disappear, and you 
 may hear them grumbling below. When 
 tli«v emerge, it is to make a great leap, as 
 if for joy, into a basin where the water 
 runs round and round in a mighty hurry 
 to get away. These ravines are dark and 
 narrow ; the steep, sloping banks crowded 
 with trees and brambles. Rich and rare 
 ferns lurk under the shadows, orchids almost 
 priceless are found in the Ijranohes ; and 
 you never by any chance meet any one if 
 you care to wander down the ravines ex- 1 
 
 cept perhaps a bevy of Indian damsels with 
 their hair down, performing their ablutions, 
 like Bathsheba of old, in the open. 
 
 By one of these rivers stands the residence 
 of Fontaiinebleau. It is a large, deeply- 
 veranded wooden house, with wooden 
 tiles for roofs, all on one floor. All the 
 rooms open into each other, and on the 
 veranda. They are furnished with a 
 curious mixture of things costly and things 
 rude. There is a rough, common table side 
 by side with chairs that might do duty in 
 Belgravia. A piano-forte which has never 
 been tuned, and never been opened for no 
 one knows how many years, is in" one 
 corner, littered with powder-flasks and 
 shooting gear ; a tall bookcase, filled with 
 volumes whose bindings have once been 
 splendid, but which are now dropping off 
 the books from damp ; a few pictursjs, a 
 great pile of newspapers, and a general air 
 of comfort and negligence, — mark a draw- 
 ing-room where there has been no lady for 
 many years. The dining-room is behind : 
 it has a great table and a side-board, both 
 of which were once, it may be presumed, 
 new, but which are now mere monuments 
 of neglected mahogany. It has no other 
 furniture, because -the chairs of the house 
 have generally succumbed to time the de- 
 stroyer ; and now at dinner-time they take 
 them out of the drawing-room, and bring 
 them back after dinner. Not that they are 
 ever wanted ; for easy chairs stand on the 
 veranda, and cigars are best smoked in 
 the cool night air. 
 
 At the back of the house, outside, stands 
 the kitchen of the Indian cook, — a place 
 whence come savory things, but within 
 which no one was ever known to penetrate, 
 except one man. He came out with pale 
 face and trembling limbs. They gave him 
 brandy. Presently he recovered ; but he 
 never afVerwards was known to touch pud- 
 ding in Palmiste. I believe too, that he 
 died young. And the bedrooms, each fur- 
 nished with gay little iron bedsteads and 
 mosquito curtains, are, like the sitting- 
 rooms, made to open on the veranda. 
 There are- not many of these inhabited 
 now ; for the gay days of Fontainebleau are 
 over, and the gray-haired man who lives 
 there now ha.s little companionship save 
 that of his son and his nephew. The soci- 
 ety of the town twenty-five miles away has 
 nothing to do with him. He is out of it 
 now, and forgotten ; save once or twice a 
 year, when at some great hunting party in 
 the forest, he appears pale and melancholy, 
 and old men whisper that poor George 
 Durnford is the ghost of himself. Time 
 was, they tell you, when George was the 
 soul of the island. The ex-calvary officer, 
 who got into such a devil of a mess with 
 
MT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 9 
 
 his colonel, and had to sell out ; who came 
 to Palmiste twenty years ago, and bought 
 Fontainebleau ; who married Adrienne — 
 la belle Adrienne — niece ' and ward of 
 Henri de Rosnay ; who led the life of the 
 place, and was foremost in every thing 
 social and genial, — can it be the same per- 
 son? 
 
 More of him hereafter. Let me finish 
 with the house. 
 
 About the veranda, or in the dining- 
 room, or about the kitchen, are the boys — 
 Indians — =■ who belong to the service of the 
 house. There are some half-dozen of them, 
 dressed in a sort of tight cotton jacket, 
 with little caps, looking, as they are, full of 
 intelligence and life. These, with the 
 bright, fearless look in the eyes, and the 
 slender grace of the limbs, vanish when 
 the boy passes the threshold of manhood ; 
 and he becomes heavy, sluggish, and sen- 
 sual. At present, however, the boys are 
 from eight to twelve years old, and make 
 the best servants in the world. Mendacious 
 they are, it is true, and as destructive as 
 monkeys ; but, if one is going to be thrashed 
 for breaking a glass, it is just as well to say 
 , that another did it. You get no more if 
 you are found out. Logically, and with 
 respect to immediate results, they are quite 
 :;ight. It has not yet entered ' into the 
 heads of the residents of Palmiste that 
 they might Christianize their servants. 
 Certainly the specimens turned out by the 
 missionaries are not encouraging. The 
 converted Hindoo is, in most cases, pre- 
 cisely the kind of man that no one will em- 
 ploy; and though things may be better 
 in those districts of Southern India which 
 have been largely Christianized, I think 
 that the least said about missionary labor 
 among the Indians the better. 
 
 At the side of the house stretches its 
 great garden, filled with all sorts of English 
 vegetables, and all kinds of tropical fruits. 
 Here are rows of pines which Covent 
 Garden cannot hope to equal. There are 
 too many for eating, and they are rotting on 
 stalk. Here is an orchard of Letehi trees, 
 the fruit that Warren Hastings tried to 
 acclimatize in England, but failed. I would 
 he had succeeded. Here are mangoes, with 
 vanilla trained upon the trees. Here are 
 custard apples, oranges, , citrons, and gua- 
 vas. Here, too, are strawberries, peaches, 
 mulberries, and grapes. You may look, 
 however, in vain for apples, pears, and 
 such things. These grow not in Palmiste ; 
 and Englishmen, eatmg fruits more deli- 
 cious far than these, grumble that they can- 
 not get a pear, and would almost go back 
 to England to get a plum. 
 
 In front of the house lies its lawn, — a 
 broad, rolling piece of ground, set with 
 flower-beds, mostly neglected, and planted 
 round with rose-trees. Side by side with 
 English flowers are others which remind 
 you of greenhouses, Kew Gardens, and 
 the Crystal Palace. They are not, however, 
 so sweet as our own ; and yonder bed of 
 mignionette fills the air with a perfume far 
 more delicate than any of the heavy-laden 
 tropical plants. Here is a sensitive plant. 
 Touch it : all the leaflets near your finger 
 close, and shrink together in a kind of fear. 
 Here is a gorgeous dracsena. You remem- 
 ber one like it in the Palm House. Here 
 is a honeysuckle climbing up the wall of the 
 house ; and here, in heavy masses over the 
 veranda, are creepers, which, if left un- 
 checked, would climb Over and embrace 
 the whole house, and tear all down to- 
 gether. 
 
 My picture of still life must finish. 
 Throw into the background a row of slen- 
 der palms ; put in, if you can, that glimpse 
 to the right of a miniature gorge, some, fifty 
 feet deep ; mark its tree ferns, tall and sym- 
 metrical, with their circled glory of leaves ; 
 throw in for light, the soft, white rays of a 
 sun that wants yet half an hour of sotting ; 
 let your air be warm and mild ; let a breeze, 
 cool and crisp, from the south-east, blow 
 through the branches ; while, from the camp 
 of the Indians, not far, away, imagine — for 
 you cannot paint it — a confused murmur 
 of tongues, cries of children, an occasional 
 quarrel among the women, the monotonous 
 beat of the tumtum, and the drone of the 
 Indian story-teller. Then try to fancy 
 that you have lived in all this so long that ■ 
 Europe with its noisy politic3,and England 
 with its fiei-ce battle for life, and London 
 with its fevered pleasures and bitter sor- 
 rows, seem all dreams of a former existence : 
 that the soft lassitude of the climate has 
 eaten into your very marrow ; and that you 
 no longer care to think, or to work, or to 
 do any thing violent or in a hurry ; that 
 your chief pleasure is to sit at early dawn 
 on the veranda, with a cigar, and see the 
 day rise over the hills; or, at evening, 
 watching the southern cross, and letting 
 your thoughts roam here and there un- 
 checked ; your chief hope, — save at mo- 
 ments when a sickness for home comes on 
 you, and a yearning for the life and vigor 
 of England, — always to go on like this : to 
 have no sickness, to feel no sorrows, to be 
 tormented by no sympathy, to make no al- 
 teration or improvement, to dream life 
 away, to eat the lotus day by day, in 
 a land where it is, indeed, always after^ 
 noon. 
 
10 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 Come 133015; with me ten years before my 
 tale begins. We are still at Fontainebleau. 
 It is a dark, dreary night in January, — 
 cold, though it is the middle of the hot sea- 
 son. A fierce gale, to which the wind 
 blowing about the trees is a sort of fringe 
 or outside robe, is ragiag somewhere at sea. 
 The rain falls at intervals in a continuous 
 sheet of water ; doors and windows are 
 closed ; and George Durnford is sitting 
 alone in his dining-room, with an untasted 
 bottle of claret before him, and a bitter sor- 
 row at his heart. That morning he had 
 'followed to the grave the wife who but two 
 days ago was alive and well. From a room 
 close by comes the prattle of two children, 
 in bed, but not yet asleep. To them the 
 dismal Qeremony of the morning was a pa- 
 geant which conveyed no meaning. One 
 of them has lost his mother ; and he sits 
 now on his little white bed, a great-eyed, 
 fair-haired, solemn boy of two, with an pn- 
 easy sense of something wrong, and a grow- 
 ing wonder that the familiar hands do not 
 come to smooth his sheets, and the famil- 
 iar lips to kiss his good-night. The other, 
 — a year or two older, with blacker hair 
 and darker complexion, — in the opposite 
 bed, is singing and laughing, regardless of 
 tlie nurse's injunction to make no noise and 
 go to sleep. He is Cousin Phil, and the 
 little two-year-old is Arthur Durnford. 
 
 The baby voices do not rouse the lonely 
 mourner in the room outside them. He 
 sits musing on his brief three years of love 
 and happiness ; on the dreary scene of the 
 stormy morning's funeral ; of death and of 
 sorrows that come to mar the brightest 
 
 Eromise. He thinks of the day when he 
 rought home his young bride, flushed with 
 joy and hope'; and of her cold "waxen fear 
 tares when he took the last look at the fair 
 face that had nestled at his heart. The 
 hope and vigor of his life seem suddenly 
 taken out of him ; and he shudders as he 
 remembers the long years to come, — per- 
 haps thirty or forty, — alone in misery. 
 For all sorrow seems to be endless when it 
 begins ; and, when the pain dies away into 
 a sad regret, its very poignancy is remem- 
 bered as a kind of evil dream. 
 
 The storm outside increases. Roused 
 by the crash of thu nder, he raises his head ; 
 and then, for the first time, he sees that he 
 is not alone. 
 
 How long she has been sitting there, 
 when she came in, and how, he knows not. 
 
 She is a young mulatto woman, not 
 darker than many a black-haired woman 
 of Provence, apparently about twenty years 
 of. age. Her jet black hair is rolled up in 
 
 a wavy mass. She holds her hat in her 
 hand. Her dress is wet and draggled, but 
 her hands ar.e not rough. In her face, as 
 she gazes steadfastly on Durnford, there is 
 a look of mingled triumph and pity. - 
 
 He starts with surprise. 
 
 " Mai;ie 1 why do you come here ? I 
 thought you were in England." 
 
 She does not answer for a while, and 
 then begins in a sort of slow, measured way 
 — speaking English fluently, but with 
 something of a foreign accent. 
 
 " Why do I come to-night, George Durn- 
 ford ? I think I.eame to triumph over your 
 sorrow, because I heard about it in the 
 town when I landed yesterday ; but I heard 
 things when I came along which forbid me 
 to triumph any longer. Why should I 
 triumph ? You, who loved me once, would 
 love me again if I chose. You, who de- 
 serted me for that gopd, dead girl — you 
 see, George, I can be just — would, if I 
 chose, take me again to be your plaything." 
 
 " Never," said Durnford. " Wontan, can 
 you not understand that a man can cease 
 to do evil V " 
 ' " But," she went on, as if he had not 
 spoken, " I do not choose. I will be no 
 man's plaything. You taught me some- 
 thing, George. You taught me that a 
 woman, to be what a woman should be, 
 must learn many things. We, the daugh- 
 ters of a despised race, are good enough to 
 be the , mistress of an hour, but not good 
 enough to be the companions of a life. 
 We have our year of fondness, and think, 
 poor fools,, it will last forever. We have 
 but one thing to give you, — our love. You 
 take it, and trample on it. We have noth- 
 ing but ourselves. That is yours ; and 
 when you are tired of the toy, you throw it 
 away in the dirt. As I am only one of 
 the many, — only a mulatto girl, — I ought 
 not to. complain. It has been my fate, and 
 I accept it. Besides, you are a gentleman. 
 Not every girl gets an Englishman for a 
 lover. You were kind to me; you put 
 ideas into my head ; you taught me things ; 
 3'ou made me fpel, without meaning it, how 
 grealj a gulf there is between your race and 
 mine ; and you showed me how to pass the 
 gulf. You did more, not as a salve for 
 your own conscience, because I suppose 
 your conscience never pricked you about 
 it ; nor as a bribe for me to go away and 
 never trouble you again — you gave me 
 money on that day — the day before' you 
 married — when you bade me farewell. I 
 used the money well, George. Even you 
 will confess I used it well. 1 have been to 
 your great city, — your big, cold, dreary 
 London. I put myself to school there. 
 I have learned all .that a woman should 
 learn, and more. Shall I play to you? 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 11 
 
 Shall I sing to you ? Shall I prove to you 
 that even your cast-off mistress can be, if 
 she pleases, as perfect a lady as — No, 
 George, I will make no comparison. Adri- 
 eune, my mistress — my poor darling — 
 whom I played with and loved, I shall never 
 be like you I " 
 
 Durntbrd made an impa,tient gesture. 
 
 " I must say what 1 have to say. I want 
 to say a good deal. Besides, it pleases me 
 to talk. I have talked to no one since I 
 left England, and you must listen. Don't 
 think, to begin with, that I love you any 
 more. The poor, ignorant creature that 
 trusted you, and thought herself honored 
 by having your arm about her, is gone. 
 George, she is dead. All that is left of her 
 and her life is a memory and an experience, 
 I remember, and I knpw. She could have 
 done neither. She would have gone away, 
 back to her own cousins, — the swine who 
 live in the huts by the seaside, and scramble 
 once a week for the wretched fish that will 
 keep them till another week. She would 
 have married some black clown, as ignorant 
 as herself, and far more brutal, and would 
 have brought her children up like their 
 father. George, where is my boy ? " 
 
 Durnford pointed to the bedroom' door. 
 
 She snatched a light, and came back 
 directly with little Phil, still asleep, in her 
 arms — kissing and crying over him like a 
 madwoman. 
 
 '• O Phil, Phil I my darling, my dar- 
 ling 1 Could I leave you all alone ? 
 Speak to your mother, my son — my son ! 
 Will you never know her ? Will you never 
 be proud of lier, and cling to her, and be 
 good to her ? " 
 
 The child opened his eyes, looked up 
 sleepily, and then heavily turned his face 
 from her, and was asleep again in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 She took him back, and placed him 
 again in his cot, and took the light, and 
 looked long and steadfastly at the other. 
 She returned, and sat down again, sighing 
 deeply. 
 
 " Your child is njiine, Marie," said Durn- 
 ford. " What I swore to you then, I swear 
 to you now. He will be brought up like 
 the other, educated with him, and shall 
 share with him. " 
 
 " Will he never know the story of his 
 birth ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " It is my hope that he never will. He 
 will be called — he is already called — my 
 nephew. I told all to my wife. She had 
 forgiven.'' 
 
 " When you die, will he, or will the 
 other, have this estate ? " 
 
 Dunford hesitated. At last he looked 
 steadily at her, and said, — 
 
 " My lawful son will be my heir. What 
 
 wealth I, have shall be his. Your son will 
 have a competence ; but I will not — I can- 
 not Marie — defraud my heir of w"hat is 
 his." 
 
 Marie sat silent for a time. 
 
 Then she began to walk about the room. 
 
 " I am not myself to-night, George. I 
 was angry as I walked here through the 
 forest. I am only repentant now. The 
 love for my poor Adrienne drowns the 
 resentment that filled my heart an hour 
 ago. I came to upbraid you — I cannot. 
 Her spirit is in this house. I felt her 
 breath as I leaned over the face of her boy. 
 I saw her face as I came in at the door. 
 I feel her here now, George. If I think 
 more of her, I shall see her. I do see her I 
 She is here — before me. Adrienne," — 
 she bent forward with streaming eyes and 
 supplicating hands — " forgive me. For- 
 give the poor, passionate girl that never 
 did you any harm, but whose heart has 
 beenfilled with bitterness against you. You 
 did not wrong me, my poor dear ; and as 
 for him who did — here, in your presence, 
 I forgive him. George, for throe long 
 years, far away from here, among strangers, 
 I have had but one prayer every night, I 
 have prayed that misery might fall on you 
 and yours. Adrienne, Adrienne, speak 
 to me if you can. Give me some sign 
 that my prayer was not answered. Let me 
 go away at least forgiven." 
 
 As she spoke, the hurricane swept with 
 all its fury against the house. The wind 
 howled like ■ an accusing spirit. George 
 rose from his chair, pale and trembling. 
 
 " Woman," he cried, " you are answered." 
 
 But as suddenly the wind dropped, and 
 with one last effort blew back the shutter 
 of the window. Durnford hurried to re- 
 place it ; and, with the driving rain that 
 came in, like tears of wild repentance, a 
 poor dying dove was blown through the 
 window, straight to Marie's bosom. 
 
 " 1 am answered," she said, folding the 
 creature in her hands. 
 
 Neither spoke. Presently Marie fell on 
 her knees, with the dove in her hand, and 
 prayed aloud. Great tears rollfed down 
 Durnford's face. When she had finished, 
 he lifted up his voice and wept, saying, — 
 
 " God have mercy upon me a sinner." 
 
 It was midnight. Marie rose from her 
 knees, another Magdaletie. 
 
 " I must go," she said ; " but first, George, 
 aid me to carry out my plan of life. 1 
 am going back to London. I have got a 
 great voice, — a splendid voice, George, — 
 a voice that will bring me, they say, more 
 money than I can spend. I shall save it 
 for the boy. To make it useful, I must 
 study and work. Let me haye some more 
 
12 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 money. I don't think it degrades me to 
 ask it of you, does it V My real degrada^ 
 tion no one knows over there. You must 
 give me money, George." 
 
 He told her how he would help her in 
 England, and give her what he had. 
 They were both very quiet and subdued. 
 
 " I have seen you," she said, " and I 
 hav,e not cursed you. But, ah ! my heart 
 misgives me. I came through the lonely 
 forest to-night, and heard sounds that mean 
 misfortune." 
 
 " Marie, it is superstition." 
 
 '■ Perhaps. I cannot help it. It is in 
 my blood. And a voice whispered in my 
 ear, as I came along, that I should have no 
 joy with my boy ; and that you would 
 have no more pleasure in life ; that my for- 
 tune was to come, but my misery and pun- 
 ishment with it. George, was it no bad 
 omen that my child turned away his face 
 from me ? Is it good to come to a house 
 of sudden death and mourning ? Shall I 
 begin the world afre.sh with a brighter 
 spirit for this night of tears and repent- 
 ance V " 
 
 " You are shaken. Stay to-night. Take 
 the child to sleep with you. In the morn- 
 ing you can go, if you will."' 
 
 " No — now, now," she said. " I cannot 
 stay here. Take care of him, George — 
 take care of him. Some day, perhaps " — 
 - " You cannot go through the forest to- 
 night." 
 
 " I must — I cannot stay here. Fare- 
 well, George. I think I shall never see 
 you again. Pray God to forgive us both. 
 I will pray every day. They say God 
 hears if you go on praying. And write to 
 me sometimes to tell me of the boy." 
 
 They stood one moment, face to face. 
 . George took her hand ; and then their 
 faces met. There was no passion now, in 
 that last embrace. The memory of the 
 wife came between them like a spirit. 
 They kissed each other, like children, in 
 token of forgiveness and in self-abase- 
 ment; and then, lifting the latch, Marie 
 went out into the darkness, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 George Durnford, lighting a cigar me- 
 chanically, went outside .to the veranda. 
 The Indian guardian, whose duty it was to 
 make the rounds, and keep oflf" nocturnal 
 thieves, was coiled up in a corner, fast 
 asleep. The storm had died away. A 
 pure sky, bright with the southern constel- 
 lations and with a clear half-moon, was 
 overhead. George's eye fell on the cross 
 of the south, — that heavenly sign that once 
 filled the sailors with hope. He felt the 
 ■warm, soft air of the summer night. Sit- 
 ting down, he presently fell asleep. When 
 he awoke the_ day was breaking ; the mill 
 
 was lighted up ; the day's work was begun ; 
 and he pondered in his mind whether he 
 had not dreamt it all. 
 
 Little Philip, coming to him at six 
 o'clock, began to ask who had taken him 
 out of bed. And lying on the floor George 
 Durnford found a handkerchief with the 
 name of Marie on it. Then he knew that 
 he had not dreampd this thing. And he 
 kept it in his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mk. Alexander MacIntyhe used to 
 describe himself, as a dingy card on Mr. 
 Durnford's table testified, as Professor of 
 the Classics and Mathematics, Instructor 
 in Foreign Languages, Fencing, Fortifica- 
 tion, Hindustani, and the Fine Arts. He 
 was a most accomplished man. With the 
 exception of the last-named department of 
 learning, — which I fancy he inserted rath- 
 er ■s^'ith a view to the effect and roundness 
 of the sentence than with any intention of 
 instructing in the Fine Arts, — he really 
 knew, and could teach, the things he pro- 
 fessed. He was not a Porson in Greek, 
 but he made boys fairly good^ in Greek 
 scholarship. He would not have become 
 senior wrangler, but he kneW a good lot of 
 school mathematics. He could really 
 fence ; he could talk Italian or French or 
 German with equal fluency ; and he could 
 and did swear horribly in Hindustani. 
 Finally, on occasion, he talked about forti- 
 fication as glibly as Capt. Shandy. 
 
 This great luminary, of science was .en- 
 gaged for some years as private tutor to 
 the two boys at Fontainebleau. He used 
 to ride over on a little pony from his house, 
 some two miles off, and ride back again in 
 the evening. .Sometimes when he staid 
 to dinner, Mr. Durnford woqld leave him 
 on the veranda, smoking and sitting in 
 friendly proximity to the brandy bottle. 
 Then it was the delight of the two boys — 
 for Mr. Durnford had got into a habit, of 
 late years, of going to his own room about 
 nine o'clock .; — to observe their revered in- 
 structor drink tumbler after tumbler of 
 brandy and water, getting more thirsty 
 after each, and more rapid in his despatch 
 of the next. At the opportune moment, — 
 that is to say, when he was not too far gone, 
 — they would emerge upon the scene, and 
 engage him in talk. He would then make 
 a laudable effort to give the conversation a 
 philosophical and improving turn. Getting 
 into difliculties, he would try to help him- 
 self out by another pull at the brandy; 
 and when, as always happened, he got into 
 fresh complications, he would fall back 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 13 
 
 in his chair, and make use of a regular and 
 invariable formula. He would say, quite 
 clearly and distinctly, "I am a Master 
 of Arts of the University of Aberdeen — 
 I'm the Maclntyrel" Then he would 
 become speechless ; and the boys, with a 
 huge delight, would carry him neck and 
 heels to bed. In the morning he would 
 rise at six, and emerge with unclouded 
 brow. Perhaps, in the course of the day, 
 he would find occasion for a few remarks 
 on temperance, with an excursus on his 
 own moderation in spirituous liquors. 
 
 He was a small, spare man, in glasses, 
 with sandy hair, a )pale face, and a red nose. 
 He lived by himself, in a litl'le house of 
 three rooms, two miles down the road. He 
 had no pupils except the two Durnfords ; 
 and^ at odd moments, an uneasy conscious- 
 ness would seize him, that, when these went, 
 he would starve. Nor had he any friends 
 to help him. The voice of rumor, which 
 aggravates a man's vices and subtracts 
 from his virtues, said that he went drunk 
 to bed every night. As to his antecedents, 
 there were many repprts. Some said that 
 he had been in the army, but was cashiered 
 for embezzlement while he was adjutant ; 
 others, that he had been a courier, a bil 
 liard-maker, all sorts of things. Rumor 
 lied, of course. He had been none of 
 those things. He had, after a laborious 
 and meritorious career at Aberdeen, " gone 
 in " for Scotch mission-work in Constanti- 
 nople. Here he preached the gospel to 
 the Jews, till he preached his belief away. 
 This becoming known to his employers, he 
 was turned out with ignominy. Then he 
 wandered about the Levant, living no one 
 know how. After a few years, he turned 
 up again in England, and became a lec- 
 turer to some society. Difficulties about 
 the money ensued, and Mr. Maclntyre once 
 more left his native shores. This time he 
 came to Palmiste, with a, letter to Mr. 
 Durnford, and set up as a public teacher 
 of every thing in the principal town. Trou- 
 bles of all sorts fell upon him, and he re- 
 moved to the other end of the island, 
 partly to escape them, and partly to coach 
 Mr. Durnford's boys. He had a way of 
 introducing remarks — which at first ap- 
 peared to be of the profoundest wisdom, 
 and took in the unwary — with a magiste- 
 rial and Aberdonian "obsairve.". He was 
 sententious and deferent. He had no 
 morals, no principles, no self-will, no self- 
 control. All his better qualities wei-e 
 wrecked on the quicksand of drink ; and, 
 of the hard-working, hopeful days of Aber- 
 deen, nothing was left but the knowledge 
 he had acquired, and a habit of industry 
 which never deserted him. He was not, 
 it must be confessed, the best tutor possi- 
 
 ble for boys ; but education in Palmiste is 
 difficult. 
 
 Mr. Durnford liked to keep his boys at 
 home. There was less harm to be learned 
 there, at all events, than in the hot, un- 
 healthy town where the college stood. 
 And even Mr. Maclntyre could teach them 
 mere book learning. So they staid at 
 home, and grew in 'years and stature. 
 
 In appearance they were as different as 
 in manners : for Philip, the elder, was 
 strong, sturdy, and everbearing; Arthur 
 was slight, delicate, and yielding. If 
 Philip wanted any thing, he always had it. 
 Philip, too, wanted every thing. The best 
 pony was his, the best dogs, the best gun. 
 He was the cleverer, — the favorite with 
 Mr. Maclntyre, sharp of tongue, and cool 
 of temperament ; but he was not popular. 
 Arthur was. By his soft, feminine ways ; 
 by the gentle sympathy which he showed 
 for all alike ; by the kindly grace of his 
 manner, which he inherited from his 
 mother, — he won affection where his cousin 
 only gained fear. The children ran after 
 him when he walked through the village ; 
 the women came to him to adjust their 
 differences ; the Indians, when they had a 
 petition to offer or a point to gain, which 
 was nearly every day, waitad till they 
 could get hold of the chota sahib, — the 
 little master. Philip, though he pretended 
 to despise this popularity, was secretly an- 
 noyed at it. It rankled in his heart that 
 he, for his part, commanded no man's af- 
 fection. By degrees, too, as he grew up, 
 he began to ask questions about himself. ' 
 These his uncle put aside, quietly but 
 firmly. And gradually a sort of feeling of 
 inferiority toot possession of him. There 
 was something — what, he never guessed 
 
 — that was not to be told him something 
 that had better not be spoken of, something 
 that made him different from his cousin. 
 It was the germ of what was to grow into 
 a great tree,- — a tree whose fruit was poir 
 son, and whose very shade was noxious. 
 But at this time it only stimulated him. 
 It made him more eager to surpass his 
 cousin ; threw him with fresh vigor into 
 his studies ; and urged him to practise 
 more and more the arts which he thought 
 would lead to success in life. These — for 
 the boy's knowledge of life was very small 
 
 — he imagined to be chiefly skill at shoot- 
 ing and riding.. He did both splendidly. 
 Arthur did both indifferently. 
 
 Mr. Durnford seemed to take but little 
 notice of their progress. Still, from a word 
 here and there, they knew that he watched 
 them. Nor could Philip complain, when 
 his uncle gave him the best horse and the 
 costliest gun that could be got in the island, 
 that he was overlooked. There were few 
 
14 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 times when tlie grave man conversed much 
 with them. Sometimes, at breakfast, -^. 
 that meal which means, in a planter's house, 
 an early dinner at half-past eleven, when 
 the work of the day, which has gone on 
 ■ for five or six liours, is more than lialf over, 
 which is followed by two or three hours of 
 rest and lazy talk, — he would relax, and 
 tell them long stories of English life and 
 youthful adventure, at which their faces 
 were set aglow, and their hearts beating 
 with excitement. Or he would set forth 
 the perils of a young man's course ; hiding 
 little; letting them know some of the 
 temptations that lie in the way of life; 
 telling them something of the battle that 
 lay before them; and — for George Durn- 
 ford was now a religious man — backing 
 up his pictures with a homily on duty. 
 Surely there is but one thing needful to 
 teach boys, — to do their duty ; and one 
 thing above all to train in them, — the 
 power of will that will help them to do it. 
 On Sunday mornings they would read the 
 service of the Church, the three together, 
 
 — Phil taking the first lesson, and Arthur 
 the second. By this arrangement, th» 
 younger boy seemed to get all the teach- 
 ing of Christ, and the elder all the passion 
 and rebellious self-will of the Israelites. 
 
 Once a week or so they generally rode, 
 the two 'boys together, but sometimes Mr. 
 Durnford with them, to see Madeleine. 
 
 Madeleine, some three years older than 
 Arthur, was the one thing that kept the 
 boys alive to a sense of the social side of 
 life. She, like them, was motherless ; and, 
 like them, lived with her father, M. De 
 Villeroy, on a sugar estate, liis property. 
 She was everybody's pet and plaything, 
 
 — a bright , little black-haired beauty, 
 whose laughter kept the house gay. and 
 whose wilful ways were law. M. de Ville- 
 roy was one of those grand Frenchmen — 
 some day we shall see them all in their 
 proper place again — whose manners are 
 the perfection of courtesy, and whose ideas 
 chiefly date from a time when Louis the 
 Sixteenth was king, or, to speak more 
 truly, from a time when Francis the First 
 was kin^. Not that his own birth dated 
 from either of those reigns. He and his 
 were colonists in Palmiste Island, from 
 very early in the last century. The Mar- 
 shal de Villeroy he spoke of as his cousin. 
 He had the right, if he wished, to call 
 himself marquis. He had a profound con- 
 tempt for roturiers, and held that gentle- 
 man was a name that belonged to him by 
 divine right; but he held, too, that the 
 name involved duties, and truth, honor, 
 and bravery, were the three points of his 
 creed. For Christianity, I fear, that, like 
 too many of his countrymen, he considered 
 
 it as an admirable method of imparting no- 
 tions of order to the vulgar; and, though 
 he would not openly scoff at it, yet, when 
 alone with his friend Durnford, he would 
 let fall such slight indications of a con- 
 temptuous toleration as almost justified the 
 priests in calling hjm a Voltairean. Vol- 
 taire — or M. Arouet, as he preferred to 
 call him — he always declared to be a man 
 who had done an infinite amount of mis- 
 chief; and he held all men of genius in 
 equal dislike, from a persuasion that their 
 mission in life was to prematurely popu- 
 larize the ideas of the nobility. The 
 Revolution, he would explain, was the 
 work of men of genius. The ideas which 
 they propagated had long been current 
 among the more cultivated of the nobility. 
 These, however, forbore to carry to their 
 bitter end the logical consequences of their 
 convictions. Nothing in social and political 
 economy could be logical. All must be 
 compromise. But what the Kevolution 
 took thirty years to achieve would, he 
 maintained, have been accomplished by 
 the liberality of the divinely appointed 
 rulers of things in ten, without bloodshed. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, " Mira- 
 beau was a gentleman." 
 
 To which M. de Villeroy replied, that 
 Mirabeau's life was fatal to any kind of 
 purity of action ; and that, despite any al- 
 leged instances to the contrary, great; 
 things could only be done by men of pure 
 life. 
 
 We must not, however, waste time on 
 M. de Villeroy. He disappears directly 
 out of the story. But he was one of the 
 few influences brought to bear upon the 
 boys' daily life. Mr. Durnford, with his 
 high standard of duty and Christian hon- 
 or ; M. de Villeroy, with his standard of 
 a gentleman's ideal ; Mr. Maclntyre, alter- 
 nately presenting the example of a scholar 
 — various, if not profound — and the 
 drunken, helpless helot ; the ignorant, 
 childish mass of Indians and blacks on 
 the estate ; and prettj* little Madeleine, to 
 keep them gentle, and give them that deli- 
 cacy of feeling which only contact with the 
 other sex can impart. Let us bear these 
 things in mind, and remember, in the story 
 to come, how ever so little an accident 
 may mar the growth of the most promisincr 
 tree. 
 
 The accident happened thus. Phil was 
 now about fifteen, — a strong, handsome 
 boy, whose dark, wavy hair, and slightly 
 olive skin, were set off by a pair of bright 
 black eyes and regular features, closely 
 resembling those of Mr. Durnford. It was 
 some little time, he could not himself say 
 how it began, since the feeling had sprung 
 up, that I have alluded to, of his own in- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 15 
 
 feriority. As yet it was but an uneasy 
 thought, sometimes dying away altogether, 
 sometimes springing again full-grown into 
 his brain. But it was there. He awoke 
 this particular morning with it, and went 
 out in the early dawn morose and sullen. 
 Presently, when Arthur joined him, and 
 they walked about with their arms round 
 each other's necks in boyish fashion, the 
 ghost vanished, and Phil became himself 
 again. They got their ponies saddled, 
 drank their cdSee, and rode off to meet 
 the tutor. 
 
 Presently they came upon him, plodding 
 slowly up hill, on his broken-kneed Pegu 
 pony, with his huge straw hat on, and his 
 cigar in his mouth. 
 
 " Obsairve," observed the philosopher, 
 as they turned to go back with him, 
 " man's just the creature of habit." 
 
 He pronounced it " hahbit." 
 
 " So he is," said Phil, who immediately 
 guessed that his instructor had been more 
 than usually drunk the night before. 
 " Somebody else has made that remark be- 
 fore you, Mr. Maclntyre." 
 
 " Don't take the word out o' the mouth 
 o' the prophet of the — I mean your tutor, 
 young man," said Mr. Maclntyre. " Man 
 as I said, is the creature of habit." 
 
 They rode on in silence for a while, 
 waiting further light from the sage. 
 
 This presently came. 
 
 " Of all habits that flesh is heir to," he 
 went cgi, " let me caution you against in- 
 temperance. Whiskey, in my country, may 
 be taken in moderation ; brandy, never. 
 You will obsairve that it furs the tongue, 
 confuses the brain, and prevents that 
 orderly sequence of thought inseparable 
 from metapheesical study. Take the ad- 
 vice of one who has seen the world, young 
 men ; and, when you go into it, be careful 
 to stop at the fourth or fifth tumbler. 
 What is taken after that gives headache." 
 
 " Have you a headache 'this morning, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Philip, your question pains me. It is 
 true that I have headache, the result of 
 eating imperfectly cooked steak last night. 
 Bttt your question, in connection with my 
 warning and advice, might seem — I only 
 say seem — to imply suspicion that I had 
 been drinking last night." 
 
 " Not at all, sir," said Phil. " Steak is 
 indigestible. Let me bring you a bottle of 
 soda when we get in." 
 
 "Ye're a good lad," answered Macln- 
 tyre, " and I think I'll take it." 
 
 He took it, and they presently fell to 
 their studies till breakfast. The day 
 passed as usual till the afternoon, when 
 the clatter of hoofs told the approach of 
 •visitors. They were Madeleine and her 
 
 father. The boys ran to help her off her. 
 pony, and they all three went ofl[' to the 
 garden together. 
 
 Madeleine's favorite was Arthur ; but 
 Philip, as usual, wanted to appropriate her. 
 Already the girl was conscious of herself. 
 She took the usual feminine delight in be- 
 ing petted and caressed ; and expected 
 the homage of the boys with the air that 
 seems to come naturally to beautiful women. 
 She IV as born to be admired. Women 
 who have that destiny accept it without 
 any murmuring, and with no surprise. 
 
 Philip to-day, however, was cross-grained. 
 He did not want her to talk to Arthur : he 
 wanted to have her all to himself. Then 
 they begaij to quarrel. It was a children's 
 quarrel, that might have been ended di- 
 rectly but for a luckless remark of Philip's. 
 " Never mind, Madeleine," he said. " You 
 can play with Arthur if you like ; but when 
 we grow up you'll marry me." 
 , " Indeed I shall not," she said. " I am 
 going to marry Arthur," and went and held 
 up her face to be kissed by that blushing 
 youth. 
 
 " Arthur 1 " said Philip with great con- 
 tempt. " Why, I can turn him over as 
 ^asy as — See." 
 
 He caught his cousin by the shoulder, arid 
 turned him round, throwing him off, so that 
 he tripped and fell with his face to the ground. 
 Arthur, however, rose to the occasion ; and, 
 springing up, struck him smartly in the 
 face. 
 
 The battle lasted for a moment only, and 
 Philip stood victorious. Madeleine ran to 
 the rescue of her prostrate lover. 
 
 " Go away," she cried. " I believe what 
 people say of you. I will never speak to 
 you again." 
 
 " And, pray, what do people say ? " asked 
 Philip. 
 
 " They say that you are cruel and self- 
 ish : that you tease Arthur and vex him ; 
 and that you want to get every thing for 
 yourself. Go away." 
 
 Philip went away. It was the first time 
 the. boys had struck each other. He was 
 angry with himself, angry with Arthur, 
 angry with Madeleine ; and in this mood he 
 strolled along till he found himself at the 
 stables. Then he thought he would have 
 a ride. Going into his own pony's box, he 
 found the syce had not rubbed him down, 
 or even touched him since the morning, and 
 was now sitting — a tall, gaunt Indian of 
 six feet — eating rice in perfect content. 
 Phil's temper boiled over. He flew at the 
 man in a fury of rao;e, kicking, striking, 
 and cursing him. The poor groom was 
 first appalled ; and, standing up sideways to 
 the wall, he lifted his leg, and covered his 
 face with his 'arms, as some small proteo- 
 
16 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 tion against the- blows. At last they be- 
 came insupportable ; and, in self-defence, 
 he took the boyiy the shoulders, and held 
 him at arm's length. 
 
 Hindustani is gifted, above all languages, 
 with a capacity of swearing. The power of 
 insult is in no other language so great. Our 
 own noble vernacular, when judiciously 
 used,, say, by the mate of an American 
 sailing-ship, or an able seaman in our mer- 
 chant service, can do a good deal ; but its 
 resources are miserable indeed compared 
 with the strength and vivacity possessed 
 by its sister branch of the Aryan family. 
 
 Phil had picked up this knowledge. He 
 used it now, pouring out great volleys of 
 insult — words which he had often heard, 
 but never used before ; terms which con- 
 veyed reproaches he did not understand — 
 on the head of the offending groom. He, 
 for his part, only looked seared ; until, stung 
 beyond all endurance, he pushed the boy 
 back into the straw, seized the great wooc},- 
 en bar of the loose bpx, and brandished it 
 over him, crying, — • 
 
 " Bastard, I'll kill you 1 " ' 
 
 Phil looked at him, bewildered, "then, 
 suddenly, he seemed to take in the whole 
 force of the word ; and insteadof offering any 
 resistance, or making any retort, he seemed 
 to be suddenly crushed, and covered his 
 face with his hands. ^ 
 
 The groom put down the bar, and began 
 to tremble. Then he furtively — something 
 after the manner of a burglar on the stage 
 — stole out of the stables. Between the 
 stables and the nearest canes there was an 
 open space, cleared for some purpose or 
 other, of a quarter of a mile. Across this 
 he sped, half doubled up, in long strides, 
 and was lost in the canes. 
 
 Three weeks elapsed before he showed 
 up again ; then he was brought back, a mon- 
 ument of emaciation. He had been hiding 
 in the forest, making predatory excursions 
 at night to the nearest canes, and on these 
 he had hved. The watchman apprehended 
 him, and marched him in at daybreak, 
 brandishing his Ipng stick with an air of 
 great importance and grandeur ; the miser- 
 able prisoner, who was about two feet tall- 
 er than his captor, slouching along after 
 him. And when he came to the house, see- 
 ing Phil" alone on the veranda, he fell, a 
 mere mass of terror and despair, and grov- 
 elled before him. Phil kicked him up, and 
 ordered loftily that he should be sent back 
 to the stables. 
 
 But when he was left alone, he was, for 
 the moment, stunned. Suddenly it all 
 burst upon him. Without other evidence 
 than the mere insult of the Hindoo, he knew 
 it was true. The position he held in the 
 bouse ; the superior consideration in which 
 
 Arthur was held ; the silence of his uncle 
 about his own father, — all were proofs to 
 him. He rose and came into the open air, 
 as miserable as boy could well be. 
 
 Suddenly, .however, another thought 
 struck him. 
 
 Imagine that you have been brought up 
 to believe — not by being taught in, so 
 many words, but by power of association — 
 that there are two distinct races of man- 
 kind ; that God has made one for mastery, 
 and the other for subjection ; that while it 
 is your duty, as a sovereign, to rule ,wisely 
 and mildly, you cannot but feel a certain 
 amount of contempt — proportioned, of 
 course, to your wisdom and mildness — for 
 the governed race. Suppose you have 
 gone o'n, being neither very wise nor very 
 mild, till your contempt has become over- 
 weeniiig, and your pride of race excessive. 
 Then suppose, in the height of your arro- 
 gance, you hear suddenly that you are an 
 impostor ; that you belong to the race you 
 despise ; that you are nothing more nor less 
 than one of the humblest of them. This 
 was Phil's thought. Like the first, it was 
 not a conjecture, but a certainty. Little as • 
 he knew of the wickedness of the world, 
 he knew well enough that illegitimacy im- 
 plied black* blood : Jiothing else was possi- 
 ble in Palmiste. He thought, too, of his 
 black wavy hair, his pale olive skin ; and 
 he moaned in his agony. 
 . There was one more test. He looked at 
 his nails. Beneath them was the blue stain 
 that the African blood always leaves ; and . 
 he gave up all hope. 
 
 Then he sat down and sobbed. It all 
 seemed so cruel ; it was so strange and so 
 dreadful. The pride of life was gone. 
 Nothing was left but shame ' and degrada- 
 tion. He crouched among the trees, and 
 would have cried for death, had death, oc- 
 curred to him as even a remote possibility. 
 He sat motionless, while the weight of his 
 grief bent down his young shoulders. 
 
 As he sat there, the sun got lower. Pres- 
 ently it disappeared behind the hills, Long 
 fingers of light came out, ,vibrating a sort > 
 of good-night to the world ; and then it be- 
 came dark. The darkness weighed upon 
 him. He got up, and wandered out, think- 
 ing how he should go into the house, and 
 found himself near the stables. There he 
 saw some one with a lamp. It seemed as 
 if the lamp was unsteady, shifting about 
 like a light at a masthead. 
 _ After studying this phenomenon for a 
 time, he went to discover its cause. I 
 regret to say that he' found his preceptor, 
 Mr. Maclntyre, very drunk indeed, making 
 shots at the stable door, with the view of 
 getting out his pony and tiding home to 
 dinner. 
 
MY IJTTLE GIEL. 
 
 17 
 
 He had been left alone all the afternoon, 
 and finding a brandy bottle in the immedi- 
 ate neighborhood, had finished it, with 
 these disastrous results. 
 
 Phjl helped him to open the etable-door, 
 and saddled his pony for him. 
 
 " Obsairve," s^id Mr. Maclntyre, " the 
 mind of man, as you will find from a study 
 of the Philosophy of the Condeetioned, has 
 a tendency to — to " — 
 
 Here he fell over the bar that the groom 
 l|ad left behind him. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre," said Philip, " you're 
 drunk again." 
 
 " Young man, no — no, young man. The 
 curry at breakfast was prawn cu ^- curry. 
 It always makes me so." 
 
 A thought struck the boy. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre," he said, " did you 
 know my father ? " 
 
 " Your father ? " repeated, the drunken 
 scamp. " Of course I know your father. 
 Misther Durnford's your father, and Marie's 
 your mother — pretty little Marie." Then 
 he began maundering on — " Pretty little 
 Marie, pretty little girl — wouldn't speak 
 to me." 
 
 " Marie — what Marie ? " 
 " Marie — never had 'nother name. 
 Went away — went away to England — 
 died." 
 
 Philip turned away and left him ; and 
 presently he heard the pony, who knew his 
 way better than his master, go clattering 
 down the road. 
 
 He went in, washed and brushed him- 
 self, and appeared at dinner, pale and quiet. 
 Madeleine and Arthur had it all their own 
 way for once, for he never even contradict- 
 ed them. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Time passed on. Philip said nothing 
 of his discovery, only he became quieter. 
 The boy of fifteen in a year changed into a 
 tall, resolute young man, who might have 
 been taken for two and twenty. The light 
 mustache on his upper lip proclaimed his 
 manhood. Boyhood grows more rapidly 
 into adolescence under the hot sun of Pal- 
 miste ; and his firm st«pand upright car- 
 riage announced one who, at any rate, 
 seemed ready to make a fight for it. 
 
 He never, but once, alluded to his con- 
 versation with Mr. Maclntyre. But one 
 day, after a long silence, Arthur being 
 out of the way, he reminded the tutor of 
 what he had told him. Poor Mr. Mac- 
 lntyre was thunderstruck. He remember- 
 ed absolutely nothing of it. 
 
 " Tell me," he gasped, his face becoming 
 2 
 
 fearfully red, — "tell me exactly what I 
 said, Phil. Ah I Loard, what an evil 
 spirit brandy is ! " 
 
 Phil told him. 
 
 " I suppose it was true," he added care- 
 lessly. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre rose, and -went out on 
 the veranda, looking round every corner 
 to see if there were any listeners about. 
 Then he opened every door, — there were 
 seven in the room, — and looked in each 
 chamber. No one was at hand, save in 
 the dining-room. Here there were two of 
 the Indian boys amusing themselves with a 
 rude dramatic performance ; for one had 
 put on a pair of spectacles, and, with an 
 empty bottle in his hand, was staggering 
 up and down, like one who was well drunk- 
 en, while the other looked on and applaud- 
 ed. Mr. Maclntyre himself wore glasses. 
 He could not, of course, imagine that the 
 representation was a description of him- 
 self; but, as a friend of discipline, he felt 
 bound to inflict chastisement, and accord- 
 ingly horsewhipped the one he caught, who 
 had been doing nothing, and then he came 
 back flushed with the exercise. 
 
 Sitting down again, and pouring out a 
 glass of brandy and water, he sighed 
 out, — 
 
 " Yes, Phil, it is true — more's the pity, ' 
 my poor bairn I It's just, awfu', the wick- 
 edness of the world. We fight against it, 
 we philosophers ; but we do awfu' little. 
 It's quite true ; but, Phil, no one knows 
 it. I know it, because I brought you here, 
 a wee bit thing of eighteen months, and 
 told the folks you were Mr. Durnford's 
 nephew ; and Mrs. Durnford knew it, for 
 her husband told her. Eh, she was good. 
 There must be a heaven, boy, for some 
 people, — if there's an after-life at all, which 
 I vara much doot. We, who have had our 
 backslidings, would not be comfortable in 
 the same place with her and her life. 
 They would have their own apairtments. 
 I sometimes think, Phil, I should be hap- 
 pier down below, near the bar." 
 
 " And no one suspects ? " 
 
 " I sometimes think M. de Villeroy sus- 
 pects. He's just a devil, that man. He 
 finds out every thing. Last week he came 
 to me, and told me that he'd found out how 
 Ihad" — 
 
 " Well ? " for the good man stopped. 
 
 "I think I'll take another glass, Phil. 
 Yes, thank you. You were saying " — 
 
 " What became of my n^other, then ? " 
 
 "I don't know Phil. I can't tell you. 
 She went away. Your father told me she 
 went to England. Afterwards he said 
 that she was dead. She was lady's maid, 
 companion, humble friend, whatever you 
 call it, to Mrs. Durnford before her mar- 
 
18 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 riage ; and remember, Phil, that she "was 
 the , handsomest woman in the island. 
 Hardly a touch of " — 
 
 " Stop 1 " shouted Philip, crimson — 
 " stop, I won't hear it 1 " 
 
 The tutor stopped, and presently went' 
 away, seeing no further opportunity for 
 philosophy or drink. 
 
 And for good reasons of his own, he 
 fbrebore to inform Mr. Durnford of what 
 had passed between himself and Phil. 
 
 But, one evening, Philip had a little con- 
 versation with his uncle, as he still called 
 him. 
 
 " If you can spare five minutes, sir," he 
 said one evening when Mr. Durnford had 
 smoked his cigar, and was showing the 
 usual signs of departure to his own quar- 
 ters. 
 
 " Certainly, Philip what is it ? " 
 
 He sat down to listen. Then Ehilip 
 began, with considerable trepidation, but 
 with a certain dignity of manner, to ex- 
 plain himself. 
 
 " You know, sir, that I am past sixteen V "' 
 Mr. Durnford nodded. " And I think you 
 ■will allow me to ask you if my father, of 
 whom you have told me nothing, gave me 
 at his death any means of entering life. 
 I have seen, sir, for some time, that there 
 are points connected with our family his- 
 tory that you do not wish known to me. 
 I shall never ask for information. My 
 father, as you have told me, was in the 
 army. I ask for nothing more. He was 
 a gentleman, because you are a gentleman. 
 That he did nothing to disgrace himself in 
 the eyes of the world, I am sure." 
 
 " In the eyes of the world ? No," said 
 Mr. Durnford. 
 
 " That is all I wanted to have from your 
 lips. Now, sir, am I a beggar ? — that is, 
 am I Wholly dependent on you ? " 
 
 Mr. Durnford did not answer for a few 
 moments. 
 
 " I am glad, Phil, that this talk has been 
 held between us. It must have come 
 sooner or later." 
 
 " Why should it not come, sir? " 
 
 " No reason at all — none ; only fam- 
 ily business is always disagreeable. Let 
 me tell you, once for all, that your father's 
 money was placed wholly and unreservedly 
 in my hands, for your benefit. I have done 
 for your benefit what I could for you. 
 You will be, at^ the age of twenty-one, the 
 master of four or five hundred pounds a 
 year. It is not much ; but, with a profes- 
 sion, it is plenty." 
 
 " It will do, sir," said Philip. " I am 
 glad it is so much." 
 
 " But what profession will you take ? 
 You are not a bookworm. The law would 
 do little for you. The church ? " 
 
 " Impossible I " 
 
 " Quite BO, as I was about to remark. 
 Then, what are we to do with you ? " 
 
 " I shall go into the army, sir. At least, 
 I can carry a sword." 
 
 " And use it, too, Phil, I think. We 
 will talk about this afterwards." But they 
 never did. 
 
 Early that year, while the hot rains of 
 January were still soaking into the steam- 
 ing earth, and the sun was vertical at noon- 
 day, there was brought a rumor — vague 
 at first, but too soon confirmed — that 
 cholera had appeared in the principal 
 town. Up to that day, cholera had been 
 unknown. No scourge of pestilence had 
 ever fallen on the island that insurance 
 companies ranked rather higher than Eng- 
 land, and on which they put a tropical per- 
 centage out of mere fun, and with the 
 cheerfulness of men who are certain to 
 make their money. Nobody ever died 
 young, except from drink. Nobody read 
 the" lessons about the uncertainty of life as 
 applying, even indirectly, to himself; and 
 the very parsons had forgotten that life 
 was ever any thing but threescore years 
 and ten — fully told. So that, when men 
 first heard that the cholera was come, 
 they laughed. 
 
 There were various rumors as to its 
 origin. One said that a captain of a coolie 
 ship had put ashore, being then in quaran- 
 tine, and, having spent the evening with 
 four friends, had gone back at night to his 
 ship : but the four friends died next day ; 
 and there was no one to tell whether the 
 captain had left the ship or not, for all his 
 sailors died. 
 
 Others said that it was produced by the 
 shameful excesses of the Chinamen in pork. 
 This was disproved by the fact that no 
 Chinaman died of cholera at all. They 
 went about in great glee, with mighty up- 
 lifting and pride of heart, rubbing their 
 hands when they came upon some poor 
 negro doubled up by the enemy that 
 seized him so suddenly and killed him so 
 easily. 
 
 Others, again, attributed it to the British 
 Government. That malignant power — 
 conscious for many years of the foe that 
 threatened the island — deliberately, and 
 with malice prepense, had left unguarded 
 all the avenues by which it might enter. 
 The editor of the most respectable paper, 
 daring to say that the enforcement of the 
 quarantine laws had been more rigid than 
 usual of late years, was set upon, one star- 
 ry evening, by a dozen public-spirited mu- 
 lattoes, and horsewhipped. That is, they 
 began to horsewhip him; but a soldier 
 happening to come round the corner, slung 
 his belt and dispersed them, devious, rapid- 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 19 
 
 ly flying. An account of the affair ap- 
 peared in both the straw-paper organs next 
 day, in which tlie brave assailants were 
 held up to public admiration as patriots of 
 the deepest dye. They were compared to 
 Titnoleon, to Brutus, to Harmodius, to 
 Mirabeau, to Soulouque, to Oliver Crom- 
 well, to Wilberforce, and to Toussaint 
 L'Ouverture. They were to have been, 
 brought before the magistrate for assault ; 
 but he and all the officials of his court 
 died of cholera, and the affair dropped. 
 And, as the pestilence grew worse, men's 
 hearts failed them for fear. The town of 
 St. Denys had a population of some sixty 
 thousand. These were dying at the rate 
 of three hundred a day. All day long, 
 and all night, the prisoners were kept at 
 work digging graves, — not single graves, 
 but long common fosses, fifty feet long and 
 eight feet deep. There was no time to 
 make coffins. As fast as the bodies were 
 brought, the upper part of the shell in 
 which they were laid was slipped out, and 
 the sand covered them up. The priests — 
 is there any fearlessness like that of a 
 Catholic priest ? — stood all day by the 
 grave, chanting the monotonous funeral 
 service, burials going on all the time. Now 
 and then one of the grave-diggers would be 
 struck down, and carried off, shrieking and 
 crying, to a hospital. For if a black is 
 once taken to a hospital, he abandons 
 hope; and, should he come out again, is 
 received by his friends — not with the re- 
 joicing that would await onp risen from the 
 dead, but rather with such disappointment 
 as greeted Martin Chuzzlewit when he 
 came back from Eden. 
 
 The shops were closed ; the wharves de- 
 serted ; the streets empty, save for the fre-, 
 quent bearers of the dead. Most mourn- 
 ful of all was the absence of mourners. 
 You might see a little procession slowly 
 moving down the street — one big coffin 
 and three little ones. Following them, not 
 some young and stalwart mourner, not 
 one whose life was still before him, but a 
 poor old down-bent black, the grandfather 
 of the little coffins, the father of the big 
 one, hobbliqg sideways after . the dead. 
 Or if it was bne who had lived long and 
 in high esteem, his coffin would be followed 
 by two or three out of the hundreds who 
 counted him friend, and who, in better 
 times, would have followed him to the 
 grave, and pronounced a funeral oration 
 over him. 
 
 Sometimes the closed shops never opened 
 again at all; and then, long after the 
 cholera had gone, the police would go at 
 dead of night, or in the early morning, and 
 execute their dreadful task. 
 
 Englishmen got together — they always 
 
 do in time of danger. I was once in a 
 French ship with some half-dozen English, 
 passengers. One was the most foul- 
 mouthed, blasphemous man I ever met — 
 abaft the fo'c'sle, that is. We had very 
 bad weather for a week. For one whole 
 day we thought we phould go down. In- 
 voluntarily we of Great Britain found 
 ourselves grouped together by the davits,' 
 holding on. Quoth the blasphemer, — 
 
 " Since we are to go down, we English 
 will stick together, and let the damned 
 Frenchmen drown by themselves. Is there 
 any fellow here that can sav a short pray- 
 er?" 
 
 It was a dreadful punishment to him for 
 his evil life, that he couldn't remember 
 even the shortest in the whole Church Ser- 
 vice ; and I am quite sure, so stanch an 
 Anglican was he, that he would far rather 
 have gone to the bottom with no prayer at 
 all, than with any thing extemporaneous or 
 irregular. Even the petition for rain would 
 have comforted him. 
 
 However, in St. Denys, the English mer- 
 chants sat together in each other's offices. 
 They drank a good deal of brandy in 
 those days, in little occasional nips, that 
 touched up the liver if they did not keep 
 off the cholera. No business was done of 
 any kind, nor was there any pretence at it. 
 No clerks came : these 'were mostly mu- 
 lattoes, and kept theniselves at home, with 
 the shutters half-closed, sitting in a horri- 
 ble circle in the dark, and with a fearsome 
 fluttering at their hearts. If they per- 
 ceived an internal rumbling, they took a 
 dose of cholera mixture. If any one said 
 he felt unwell, the rest sidled from him; 
 and if one was actually seized, they gener- 
 ally all ran away. The doctor in charge 
 of the hospital — he was not a Frenchman, 
 nor was he English, and it would be in- 
 vidious to proclaim his race — ran away, 
 from his post. He had a struggle of some 
 days between fear and honor. At last, as 
 the sick were brought in more thickly, 
 honor lost ground. He fled ; " L'exist- 
 ence," he said, "avant tout." It was an 
 honest confession, and proved a sort of 
 martyr's creed ; for when he came back, 
 alter the thing was all over, and the hospi- 
 tal swept up again, clean and neat, he was 
 astonished to find that the Government — 
 British, of course — was taking a harsh 
 view of the matter, and that he was kicked 
 out in disgrace. The straw-paper organs 
 made capital out of the event. The writer 
 of one crushing article crammed for it, like 
 Mr. Pott's young man. John Huss, the 
 early saints of the Church, Savonarola, 
 Cranmer, Sir Thomas More, and Louis the 
 Sixteenth furnished illustrations for this 
 admirable treatise. 
 
20 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 Nostrums came into great use. Men, at 
 other times supposed to be of sound mind, 
 went about peppering their noses with cam- 
 phor powder. Some swathed their bodies 
 with flannel, and some wore as little as 
 they possibly could. Some wouM, at in- 
 tervals, apply cold ice to the backbone ; 
 others, warm water. Others, again, would 
 breakfast off bitter beer and boiled eggs, 
 and dine on brandy and water and soup. 
 One man wrote to the paper, calling atten- 
 tion to the 'fact that few Englishmen died 
 of cholera; and that, as he had recently 
 discovered, the English colonists always 
 washed, every morning, all over. This he 
 recommended to his own countrymen, as a 
 thing not, indeed, suddenly to be adopted, 
 but to receive that serious attention and 
 thought which the gravity of the step de- 
 manded. For himself, he confessed he 
 sometimes washed his feet, but rarely. 
 
 One poor Briton nearly came to terrible 
 grief. He was a mariner ; and one even- 
 ing, finding himself , some miles from St. 
 Denys, overcome with liquor, he fell down 
 by the wayside and slumbered. Native 
 policemen, coming by with a cart, gathered 
 him up as bne dead ; and a grave being 
 already prepared, they laid him in it, for- 
 tunately removing the shell. The English 
 clergyman read the service, with sorrow for 
 the poor fellow cut off so suddenly, whoso 
 very name was unknown, and who lay 
 there, perhaps, to be looked for, many a 
 weary day, by wife and children. He had 
 finished, and they began heaving in the 
 earth. As soon as it fell upon his face, the 
 shock awakened him. Starting up, still 
 /Unsteady, he began to bawl out, " Ahoy 
 there! — ahoy!" The aborigines fled, 
 howling in terror ; nor would they ever 
 accept any other version of the story than 
 that it was a veritable post-mortem appear- 
 ance, a spectre, that greeted them. And 
 the churchyard is haunted by it to this day. 
 As for the sailor, he was taken home by 
 the clergyman, and took the pledge, which 
 he kept till he got to the next port. But 
 he always swore he would never get drunk 
 again in Palmiste. 
 
 They were not all cowards. Brave 
 deeds were done. Foremost of all, the 
 brave deeds of the divine Sisters of Mercy. 
 If I die poor and alone, forlorn and desert- 
 ed, may one of these ministering angels 
 come to me with her sweet, unlovely face, 
 and passionless tenderness of heart I 
 Then may she make me a Catholic, or a 
 Ritualist, or any thing she like, — all for 
 dear memory of the tilings I have known 
 her sisters do. . For to them all duties are 
 equally holy and equally divine. To them 
 is nothing loathsome, nothing revolting; 
 no form of disease or suffering too ter- 
 
 rible to help ; no accumulations of misery 
 and poverty, no development of sickness, 
 sufficient to keep them away. 
 
 Is It fair, without mentioning a living 
 man's name, to mention his deeds ? Per- 
 haps he will never see it in print. This is 
 what he did. In the height of the cholera, 
 two coolie ships put "into port, both with 
 cholera raging on board. They were 
 promptly sent off to quarantine off an islet 
 — a mere rock, half a mile across — twenty 
 miles away. 
 
 Thence, after some time, news came 
 somehow to Palmiste that their apotheca- 
 ry was dead, and the captain, and all the 
 English sailors but a few. And all the 
 coolies were dying with cholera. Who 
 would go there? One young army sur- 
 geon stepped out, so to speak, from the 
 ranks. To go there was to go to certain 
 death. It was a forlorn hope. There 
 would be no one to help ,him, no one to 
 talk to even ; no one to attend him if he 
 was seized." He went. For weeks he 
 Struggled with the pestilence, saving some 
 from the jaws of death, and burying others. 
 The place, which was a more charnel-house, 
 he turned into a hospital, — a Hotel Dieu. 
 The poor, terror-stricken Indians slowly 
 regained hope, and therefore health ; and, 
 when th(5 evil time died away, he was able 
 to bring back half at least of his flock, res- 
 cued from death. 
 
 It is a heroism that is beyond the power 
 of any Victoria Gi-oss to reward ; and 
 when it fires the blood, and sets the heart 
 aglow of him that reads it, the doer of the 
 geste has his fittest crown of glory, though 
 he never hear of it. 
 
 In the country, away down at Fontaine- 
 bleau, they were comparatively safe. Few 
 cases happened on the estate in the earlier 
 stage ; but when it began to leave town it 
 broke out in the country. Mr. Durnford 
 took no precautions. In these matters he 
 thought it was like a battle-field. You 
 could not, he said, devise any armor 
 against a cannon-ball. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, taking 
 a nip of brandy, " sonle men are killed by 
 a bayonet thrust." 
 
 But one evening, when Phil and Arthur 
 crme home from a stroll -vvith their guns, 
 they found Maclntyre in a state of wild 
 alarm on the veranda. Mr. Durnford had 
 been seized. No doctor had been sent for, 
 because none was within twenty miles. 
 They had no medicine, except brandy. 
 Mr. Maclntyre had been .giving him copi- 
 ous draughts. He had taken a bottle and 
 a half without the smallest effect ; and now 
 Mr. Maclntyre, seeing the boys go into 
 the bedroom, retreated to the other side 
 of the house, and begsin to drink the rest 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 21 
 
 of the bottle, glad to be relieved of his 
 charge. 
 
 There was very little hope. They sent 
 off a dozen messengers for as many doe- 
 tors ; but, with the utmost speed, no doc- 
 tor could arrive before morning. 
 
 All ni^ht lon» they watched and tended 
 him. Mr. Maolntyre by this time, what 
 with terror and brandy, was helpless. 
 They could do literally nothing. But in 
 the morning came collapse, and compara- 
 tive ease. The dying man lay stretched 
 on his back, breathing painfully, but con- 
 scious. Philip bent over him, and whis- 
 pered, with dry eyes and hard voice, while 
 Arthur was sobbing on his knees, — 
 
 " Father, tell me of my mother." 
 
 Mr. Durnford turnd his head and looked. 
 He would have spoken ; but a trembling 
 seized his limbs, and his eyes closed in 
 death. 
 
 He was buried the next morning. All 
 the people on the estate went to the fune- 
 ral. But Mr. Maclntyre was absent. For 
 in the night a thought struck him. 'It 
 was but a week since he had received, in 
 hard cash, the half year's salary due to 
 him. Now he saw his occupation gone. 
 Without any chance of finding employ- 
 ment in the island, he would be left strand- 
 ed. He was staggered at first. Then he 
 reflected that no one knew of the payment 
 e.Kcept his late employer. How if he could 
 get the receipt ? So, when the funeral 
 procession started, Mr. Maclntyre staid 
 behind, — no one noticing his absence. 
 
 The house clear, he stole into the dead 
 man's room. His desk was open, just as he 
 had left it. Here was a chance which it 
 was impossible to resist. 
 
 " It makes my heart bleed to wrong the 
 lads," said Maclntyre, wiping his eyes ; " but 
 one must consider one's self." 
 
 Then he looked out the receipt from 
 the file, and put it into his pocket. That 
 done, he searched for the private account 
 book, which also fell into his coat-tail pock- 
 et. Then it occurred to him that it 
 would be an admirable thing to get a whole 
 year's salary instead of a half, and he began 
 to hunt for the previous receipt. This he 
 could not find, though he searched every- 
 where. But he found something \yhich in- 
 terested him ; and he wrapped it in brown 
 paper, and took it also away with him. It 
 was a big, fat book, with clasps and a small 
 letter padlock, marked "Private." He 
 went down to his cottage, and cutting open 
 the clasps, he read it from end to end. 
 
 It was a sort of irregular journal, begin- 
 ning sixteen years before. It opened with 
 a confession of passion for Marie. 
 
 " If this girl were but a lady, — if only. 
 
 even, she were not colored — I would lake 
 her away and marry her. Why should I not 
 marry her ? What difference does it make 
 to me whether people approved of it or 
 not? 
 
 " I saw Marie to-day. Slie met me in 
 the garden behind her mistress's house. 
 How pretty the child looked, with a rose in 
 her black hair 1 She will meet me again 
 this evening." 
 
 And so on, all in the same strain. 
 
 In the leaves of the book were three short 
 notes, kept for some unknown reason, ad- 
 dressed to his wife ; but without date. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre, in afit of abstraction, took 
 pen and ink, and added a date — that of 
 Philip's birth. There was another paper in 
 the journal : the certificate of marriage of 
 George Durnford and Adrienne de Rosnay. 
 He took this out ; and, shutting up the 
 journal, began to reflect. 
 
 In the afternoon, when the sun grew low, 
 he went to the little Catholic church which 
 lies hidden away among the trees, about 
 three miles from Fontainbleau. 
 
 Just then it was shut up. For Father 
 O'Leary, the jolly Irish priest, who held 
 this easiest of benefices for so many years, 
 had only lately succumbed to age ; and, in 
 the (Jisturbed state of the colony, no priest 
 had yet been sent down. The presbytfere 
 was closed, the shutters up, and the church 
 ;door locked. 
 
 The tutor went to the back of the house ; 
 forced his way in with no difficulty, by the 
 simple process of removing a rotten shutter 
 from the hinges. 
 
 Hanging on the wall were the church 
 keys. He took these, and stepped across 
 the green to the vestry door, which he 
 opened, and went in shutting it after him, 
 whistling very softly to himself. 
 
 Then he opened the cupboard, and took 
 down the two duplicate church registers of 
 marriage. They were rarely used ; be- 
 cause in that little place there were few 
 people to get married except the Indians, 
 who always went before the registrar. 
 Turning over the leaves, which were stick- 
 ing together with damp, — Father O'Leary 
 was always the most careless of men, — he 
 came to a place where one double page had 
 been passed over. The marriage immedi- 
 ately before it was dated twenty years 
 since; that after it sixteen. He looked at 
 the duplicate register. No such omission 
 of a page had occurred. 
 
 Whistling softly, he filled up the form be- ' 
 tween Marie — no other name ^— and 
 George Durnford, gentleman, for a date 
 
22 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 about a year before Philip's birth. Then 
 he attested it himself, — " Alexander Mac- 
 Intyre," — in a fine bold, hand ; forged the 
 signatures of the others ; and added, as a 
 second witness, the mark of one Adolphe. 
 Then he rubbed his hands, and began to 
 consider further. 
 
 After this, he got the forms of marriage 
 certificates, and filled one up in due form, 
 again signing it with the name of the de- 
 ceased Father O'Leary. Then he re- 
 placed that one of the two books in which 
 he had written the forgery, put the forged 
 certificate in his pocket, and the other re- 
 gister under his arm ; then locked up the 
 cupboard. 
 
 When he had finished his forgeries he 
 looked into the church. The setting sun 
 was shining through the west window full 
 upon the altar, set about with its twopenny 
 gewgaw ornaments. He shook his head. 
 
 " A' blind superstition," he murmured. 
 " AVe who live under the light of a fuller 
 gospel have vara much to be thankful for." 
 
 He went back to the presbytfere, replaced 
 the keys, and walked home with his regis- 
 ter in his hands. 
 
 He had no servant, and was accustomed, 
 when he did not dine at Fontainebleau, to 
 sfcnd an Indian boy to the nearest shop to 
 buy some steak, which he curried himself. 
 He went into the kitchen, — a little stone 
 hut built at the back of the cottage, — lit a 
 fire of sticks, and proceeded to burn the 
 register and Mr. Durnford's private jour- 
 nal. 
 
 The book would not burn at all, being 
 damp and mouldy. 
 
 "At this rate of progression," he re- 
 marked, " I shall be a twal'month getting 
 through them. Let us bury them." 
 ' He dug a hole in a corner close to his 
 house, buried his books, piled the earth over 
 them, and cooked his dinner with a cheer- 
 ful heart. 
 
 " A good day's work," he murmured. 
 " Half a year's salary gained, and the pros- 
 pect of a pretty haul, if good luck serves. 
 Marie dead, O'Leary dead, one register 
 
 fone, the certificates in my possession, 
 laster Phil, my boy, the time will perhaps 
 come when you will be glad to buy ray 
 papers of me." 
 
 Mr. Durnford's death showed that he had 
 become a rich man. All his property went 
 by will to " my son," while of Philip no 
 notice whatever was taken. Only the law- 
 yer wrote him a letter, stating that by a 
 special deed of gift, dated some years back, 
 a sum of money was made over to him, 
 which had been accumulating at compound 
 interest, and had now amounted to five 
 thousand pounds. This, at Pahniste inter- 
 est, was five hundred pounds a year. As 
 
 his father had told him, it was his sole pro- 
 vision. 
 
 Philip's heart was stung with a sense of ' 
 wrong. That no mention was made of him ; 
 that, through all his life, he had not received 
 one word of acknowledgment or aflfection ; 
 that he had been evidently regarded as a 
 mere encumbrance and a debt, — rankled 
 in his bosom. He said nothing, not even 
 to Mr. Maclntyre, who, now that he had 
 no longer any further prospect of employ- 
 ment, began to turn his thoughts to other 
 pastures : hut he brooded over his wrongs ; 
 and now only one thought possessed him, — 
 to escape from a place which was haunted 
 by shame. 
 
 Arthur, too, wanted to go; and their 
 lawyer and adviser took passages for the 
 boys, and gave them proper letters to those 
 who were to take care of them in England, 
 till they were of age. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre, the day before they start- 
 ed, came to say farewell. He had an in- 
 terview with each of his pupils separately. 
 To Arthur, by way of a parting gift, he 
 propounded a set of maxims for future guid- 
 ance, including a rulfe of conduct for morals, 
 which he recommended on the ground of 
 having always adhered to it himself; and 
 he left his late pupil with a heavier purse, 
 and consequently a lighter heart. Mr. 
 Maclntyre, in all of his troubles, had never 
 yet wanted money. Asa Scotchman, he 
 never spent when he could avoid spending. 
 
 His conversation with Philip was of 
 greater importance. With much hesitation, 
 and an amount of nervousness that one 
 would hardly have expected of him, he 
 hinted that he was possessed of certain in- 
 formation, but that the time was not yet 
 arrived to make use of it. And then, bit- 
 ing his nails, he gave the young man to 
 understand, that, if he ever did use it, he 
 should expect to be paid. 
 
 '_' But what is your knowledge ? " asked 
 Philip ; " and if you have any, why, in the 
 Devil's name, don't you let it out at once ? 
 And how much money do.you want ? " 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre leaned forward, and whis- 
 pered in his ear. 
 
 " Suppose my information proved your 
 mother's marriage ? Suppose that a man 
 — I'm not for sayinCT that I should be the 
 man — brought all fliis to light ? " 
 
 " Poor Arthur ! " said Philip. 
 
 " That's not the point," urged the other. 
 " To be plain. What would that informa- 
 tion be worth ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Should we say five thousand pounds ? " 
 
 " You mean, that 1 am to give you five 
 thousand pounds for giving information 
 which you ought to give for nothing '? Mac- 
 lntyre you're a scoundrel ? " 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 23 
 
 " Eh 1 mon," replied the moralist. 
 
 " Can you give me these' proofs ? " cried 
 Philip, his voice rising. 
 
 " No, I cannot — not yet. And perhaps 
 I never shall be able to do so. Whether I 
 do or not, depends upon yourself. And 
 don't be violent, Mr. Philip Durnford. Re- 
 member," he added, with a touch of pa- 
 thetic dignity, " that you are addressing 
 your old tutor, and a Master of Arts of the 
 Univairsity of Aberdeen." 
 
 " Go to the devil I " said Philip, " and get 
 out of this. Go, I say I " 
 
 I am grieved to say that Arthur, who 
 was sitting outside, was startled by the fear- 
 ful spectacle of his reverend tutor emer- 
 ging with Philip's hand in his collar, arid 
 Philip's right fpot accelerating his move- 
 ments. 
 
 It was all done in a moment. Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre vanished round the corner, and liis 
 pony's hoofs were speedily heard clattering 
 down the road. 
 
 Arthur looked up for explanation. 
 
 "Never mind, old boy," said Philip. 
 " The man's a scoundrel. He's a liar, too, 
 1 believe. Arthur, give me yourjiand. 1 
 have been worried lately a good deal ; but 
 I won't wrong you ; remember that. What- 
 ever happens — you shall not be wronged." 
 
 The next night they were steaming gal- 
 lantly away. The headlands of Palmiste 
 lay low on the horizon as the sun set, and 
 touched them with his magic painter's 
 brush. 
 
 Arthur took off his cap, and waved it. 
 
 "When shall we see the dear old place 
 again, Phil ? " he said, with a sob in his 
 throat. 
 
 " Never, I hope," said Philip. " It will 
 be to me a memory of sickly sorrow and 
 disappointment. Never. And now, old 
 boy, hurrah for England and my commis- 
 sion I 1 am going to forget it all." 
 
 He stood there with the bright look of 
 hope and fearlessness that so soon goes out 
 of the eyes of youth, and the sea-breeze 
 lifting his long black hair, a possible — 
 nav, a certain hero. It is something in 
 every man's life for once to have been at 
 peace with God, — for once to have thrilled 
 with the warm impulse of true nobility. 
 
 BOOK II. — AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Home in England. It is ten years later 
 on. We are in Gray's Inn, on a certain 
 Saturday evening early in the year. The 
 chambers where we are met, like most of 
 
 those in that ancient hostelry, have the ap- 
 pearance of untidiness. Unlike most, they 
 are clean and carefully dusted. The fur- 
 niture is well worn, but comfortable, — easy 
 chairs with bits of the padding sticking out 
 here and there, and the leather gone in 
 parts. The books are those of a man who 
 regards binding less from an artistic than 
 from a useful point of view, and is not care- 
 ful to preserve their beauty, — in other 
 words, the books are greatly battered. 
 There is one' table littered with papers : 
 among them may be seen some in a girl's 
 handwriting. One of the bookcases is fill- 
 ed altogether with books pot often found in 
 a bachelor's room, — children's books, books 
 a little more grown up, and books of edu- 
 cation. In the window-seat, is a work-bas- 
 ket. On the mantle-shelf stands a glass 
 full of violets. There are antimacassars 
 on the warn old chairs and sofas ; and 
 amid the general air of bachelordom, pipes, 
 and lazy ease, there is, one feels, a suspi- 
 cion of some younger element, the handi- 
 work of a girl, — the breath of youth and 
 grace, — in these rooms whose walls are so 
 dingy, whose ceilings are so black, whose 
 furniture is so battered. 
 
 The tenant of this room is Mr. Hartley 
 Venn, who is now standing on the hearth- 
 rug in the act of receiving his visitors. 
 Of these, one is his old friend Lynn, of the 
 Inner Temple, • — ■ a grave man, who seldom 
 speaks and never laughs. He is sitting by 
 the fire with a pipe in his hand, not yet 
 lighted, ', stroking his heavy mustache. 
 The other is our old friend Arthur Durn- 
 ford, — a tall man now, of four or five and 
 twenty, not long come up to town from Ox- 
 ford : a man of slight proportions, and 
 somewhat stooping shoulders. He wears 
 his fair hair rather longer than most men, 
 and a light fringe adorns his upper lip. A 
 face of more sweetness than power ; a face 
 which may command love and respect, but 
 scarcely fear ; a face at which women 
 glance twice in the street, because there 
 are in it such vast possibilities of tender- 
 ness. He has not been a successful stu- 
 dent, if you measure success by the 
 schools. A second class rewarded his 
 labors, it is true ; and Arthur retired con- 
 tent, if not greatly pleased, at the result. 
 Success he did not greatly care for; and 
 he was too rich and too lazy to descend 
 into the arena, and fight with other men. 
 Poverty has its rights as well as its duties ; 
 and among these is a prescriptive law, — 
 ■ often enough violated, — that the rich should 
 keep out of the battle. Remember this, if 
 you please. Messieurs the Archbishops, 
 Prime and other ministers. Deans and dig- 
 nitaries ; and next time you condescend to 
 forward your invaluable, if prosy, contribu- 
 
24 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 tions to current literature, reflect that they 
 are taken — and would be taken, if they 
 were bad enough to corrupt the taste of a 
 whole fjeneration — for the name that they 
 bear. Then, be humble; or, better still, 
 don't send the rubbish at all, — I mean the 
 words of wisdom, — and let some poor pen- 
 ny-a-liner get the guineas. But Arthur 
 Durnford's disposition led Lira rather to 
 seclude himself; and to forget that, with all 
 but a chosen few, life is a conflict. He was 
 born for but one object, dilettante litera- 
 ture, — the investigation of the useless, the 
 recovery of lost worthlessness, the archte- 
 ological investigation of forgotten lumber ; 
 but of this, his high mission, he is yet all 
 unaware, and is at present starting quite 
 unconsciously in that road , which will 
 eventually lead him to distinction. For 
 the rest, a heart as innocent and a life as 
 blameless as any girl's, and, like that of 
 most girls, a, life as devoid of any active 
 interest or any benefit to other people. 
 Some men are born for this kind of passive 
 life. Their years float along in a kind of 
 dream, or among occupations which inter- 
 est without exciting, and occupy without 
 wearying.' Well for them if, as with Ar- 
 thur, accident has given them the means 
 to gratify their inclinations. 
 
 Venn is the son of his father's old tutor, 
 and therefore, he explains, a kind of uncle 
 to him. And to-night is the first time they 
 have met. Venn found out Arthur himself, 
 from some Oxford friend and " information 
 received." , 
 
 " Durnford," he explains, introducing 
 him to Lynn, " is my educational nephew. 
 I am his tutorial uncle. That is, his father 
 was a private pupil at the rectory, when I 
 was six years old. Your father afterwards 
 went to Palmiste Island, I believe ; yes, 
 and made a fortune there — by — by — 
 doing those things and practising those 
 arts by which fortunes are made, did he 
 not ? " 
 
 Arthur laughed, and said such was the 
 case. 
 
 " Palmiste Island is of a more simple na- 
 ture than London, Lynn ; that is the rea- 
 son why you and I, in spite of our merit, 
 have not got money. Now that you know 
 Mr. Arthur Durnford, we will proceed to 
 elect him, if you please, an honorary mem- 
 ber of the Chorus." 
 
 The ceremony of election gone through, 
 Arthur took an easy chair, and Venn pro- 
 ceeded to put bottles and glasses on the 
 table. Then he took up a position on the 
 hearth-rug, and, with his coat-tails under 
 his arm, turned to Lynn. 
 
 " The preliminary oration, Lynn ? " 
 
 " You make it," said Lynn, who had by 
 ■ this time lighted his pipe. 
 
 Venn bowed solemnly, and put on an 
 air of great meditation, stroking his mus- 
 tache. Presentlx he began, — 
 
 " It is customary, at the election of a 
 new member into this society, to instruct 
 him in the nature of the duties and respon- 
 sibilities he is about to undertake. In the 
 mysteries of the Cabeiri " — 
 
 "Pass two thousand years," growled 
 Lynn. 
 
 Venn bowed gravely. 
 
 " In deference to the opinion of my 
 learned brother, I pass to modern times. 
 In the mysteries of Freemasonry, it is pop- 
 ularly supposed that the candidate for 
 admission is put to bodily pain before re- 
 ceiving the terms of an oath so tremendous 
 that the secrets of the craft have remained 
 undisclosed from the time of Solomon, and 
 Hiram, King of Tyre, to the present mo- 
 ment. The fraternity of the Chorus heats 
 no poker, and administers no oath ; and 
 one penalty only awaits the offender, — we 
 expel him." , 
 
 " Was any one ever expelled ? " asked 
 Durnford. 
 
 " One, sir, was only last week expelled 
 for levity. His name was Jones. Jones, 
 at least, will never more be privileged to 
 sit in the Chorus." 
 
 Here a loud knock was .heard at the 
 door. Lynn opened it. It was Jones. 
 
 The orator, no way disconcerted, shook 
 hands with the new arrival with a greater 
 show of delight than his words absolutely 
 warranted, saying, as he pushed him into a 
 chair, — 
 
 " Why do you come here, man void of 
 shame ? Did you not distinctly under- 
 stand that you were never to appear again 
 on Chorus nights ? " 
 
 The new-comer, who iias a smooth-faced, 
 briglit-eyed little man in glasses, sat down, 
 and immediately began to twinkle. 
 
 " I come as a simple spectator," he said. 
 " I cannot keep away. 
 
 * From sport to sport, concealment's guile 
 
 Preys on this heart of mine; 
 And, when rlie worm provokes a smile, 
 I drown the grief in wine.* " 
 
 "Why," said Venn, "he is positively 
 doing it again ! Miserable man 1 was it 
 not for this we expelled you ? " 
 
 " It was," said Jones with a groan. " It 
 is chronic. I am truly wretched." , 
 
 " Silence, then ; and you, young candi- 
 date, listen. The Chorus was established 
 ten years ago as a refuge for the unsuccess- 
 ful. It was intended to answer the purposes, 
 in a small degree, of a literary and artistic 
 club, — admitting, however, only those pro- 
 fessional unfortunates who can achieve no 
 success. It is a club of the unfortunate. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 25 
 
 When fortune comes to gin of us, he shakes 
 his wings, and goes. We who remain wrap 
 ourselves in the cloak of poverty and neg- 
 lect, and meet mischance with smiles. Of 
 the original twelve who formed the first 
 brotherhood, there remain but Lynn and 
 myself. We do not care now greatly to 
 enlarge the circle. Jones, here, was ad- 
 mitted five years ago.^ He is but a chick- 
 en in disappointment, and has only just 
 begun to, wait. I have already told you 
 that he was expelled, and why." 
 " Not," said Jones solemnly — 
 
 ** * Not for a crimQ he did, nor 'cause 
 He broke their "own or nature's lawB ; 
 But for a simple trick he had 
 Of ijuoting what he learned and read.' " 
 
 Arthur began to feel as if he were stand- 
 ing on his head. The other two took no 
 notice of the interruption. 
 
 " Society takes no heed of these unfortu- 
 nates. They are legion. They occupy 
 that middle ground which is above a small 
 success, and cannot achieve a great one. 
 Lynn, here, would scorn to t« an Old 
 Bailey barrister. Yet he could dO| it ad- 
 mirably. He goes in for Equity, sir, and 
 gets no cases, nor ever will. Jones, I am 
 sorry that you must be excluded. Jones, 
 amongst other things, makes plays. No 
 manager has yet put one on the stage." 
 
 " The manager of the Lyceum is read- 
 ing my last play now," said Jones. 
 
 " He always is," said Venn. " I am, for 
 my own part, a writer. I write a groat 
 deal. Some evening, when Jones is not 
 here, I will read you a portion of my 
 works." 
 
 " Pray," said Jones, " why not when I 
 am here V " 
 
 " Because," said Venn, " the last time I 
 read you an essay you fell fast asleep." 
 " I did," said Jones ; " so did everybody." 
 " I have, at times, offered my productions 
 to editors. They invariably refuse them. 
 Under these circumstances, I retire into 
 myself, and put together the Opuscula 
 which will one day be eagerly bought by an 
 admiring public. On that day Lynn will 
 be made Lord Chancellor, Jones will get a 
 play acted which will run for three hun- 
 dred nights, and the Chorus will dissolve. 
 
 " You are to understand, then " — after 
 a pause, during which Jones pulled out his 
 handkerchief, and wiped his eyes in grief 
 at the prospect of dissolution — " that we 
 meet here weekly between the 1st of Oc- 
 tober and the 1st of April. During the 
 week and in the summer vacation, we make 
 observations which are afterwards commu- 
 nicated to the Chorus. Thus we form a 
 running commentary on passing events, 
 which will contain, when published, an 
 
 admirable collection of maxims calculated 
 both to inform and instruct. They are 
 chiefly of a moral tendency. Excluded by 
 our misfortunes from taking an active part 
 in the drama of life, we stand by and 
 remark. We are mostly resigned to our 
 position. Some, however, aspire. Dolphin, 
 for instance — you remember Dolphin, 
 Lynn?" 
 
 He grunted. 
 
 " Observe the dissatisfied air with which 
 Lynn receives that name. Dolphin aspired. 
 He now edits 'The Daily Gazette,' and pays 
 a fabulous income tax. Of all the excel- 
 lent remarks that have been made in this 
 room, Dolphin's \yere the poorest. Water- 
 ford, too, another instance. He now leads 
 a circuit. Jones, what are you pursing up 
 your lips about 7 If you have any thing 
 to say, get rid of it." 
 
 " I was thinking of Tennyson's lines," 
 said Jones, with great softness of manner. 
 
 " ' Prate not of chance — the name of luck 
 Is blown the windy ways about ; 
 And yet I hold, without a doubt. 
 He prospers most who has most pluck.' " 
 
 " Are those Tennyson's words ? " asked 
 Durnfbrd, taken off his guard. 
 
 " You will find them in the two hundred 
 and fortieth page of ' In Meraoriam,' " said 
 Jones readily. " The stanza begins with 
 the well-known lines, — 
 
 * Balloon, that, through the fleecy .rings 
 Of bosomed cloud and mottled sky, 
 Floatest athwart the wondering eye, 
 A winged eagle without wings.' " 
 
 " And this creature," said Venn, " as- 
 pires' to be a dramatist. Let me finish. 
 . The one unfailing rule, which is alone in- 
 capable of being rescinded, is the rule of suc- 
 cess. Any man who suocseds is turned 
 out. Ipso facto, he ceases to be a mem- 
 ber of the association. Success is of all 
 kinds, and we admit of no excuse or pallia- 
 tion — the offender goes." 
 
 " How if he write a book which does not 
 sell, but is yet praised V " 
 
 " He may, when his failure is quite es- 
 tablished, remain with us. More — we 
 allow him to be damned any number of 
 times. Jones's works, for instance : his 
 novel " — 
 
 Here Jones visibly blushed. 
 
 " It was really very bad, and no one took 
 the least notice of it — not even the review- 
 ers. Did any one buy a copy, Jones ? " 
 
 " I believe," he said, " that there are still 
 a few copies on the publishers' helves. 
 These can be had now at a reduction. 
 The published price was thirty-one shil- 
 lings and sixpence." 
 
 " Your poems, Jones ? " 
 
26 
 
 MY LITILE GIEL. 
 
 " My poems," said tlie bard, " were not 
 meant to be sold : I give tliem to my coun- 
 try." 
 
 "It is very liberal of you. I will pres- 
 ently detail my own experiences of failure. 
 Suffice it now to remark that I have never 
 succeeded in any thing. You will find in 
 me, sir, as my friends have already found 
 in me, a very Tupper in posse. I am the 
 representative man of mediocrity •■ — am I 
 not, Lynn ? " ' 
 
 The grave Lynn nodded. 
 
 " You say, so." 
 
 " I will now give you — as Jones is not 
 wholly acquainted with my fortunes, as 
 Lynn is a good listener, as you ought to 
 know something about me, and as it gives 
 a sort of early Bulwer-Lytton, or even a 
 Smollett-like air to the evening's talk — a 
 brief sketch of the career of an unsuccess- 
 ful man. Jones, will you kindly undertake 
 the bottle and jug department? Lynn, be 
 so good as to put the kettle on. Durnfbrd, 
 my dear boy, take tobacco, and help your- 
 self to drink. Qlaret is there, which I do 
 not recommend. That bottle of champagne 
 is rerharkable for its age. It is coeval with 
 the Chorus. Ten years have passed since 
 it left its native public. It is not to be 
 opened, but stands there for-respectability's 
 sake. There is port, if you like : it is pot 
 good. Sherry is in the middle bottle. 
 You can open it, if you please ; but I sliould 
 not advise you to do so. The bottled 
 beer I can strongly recommend, and the 
 Irish whiskey is undeniable. Jones, you 
 rhyming wretch, what will you take ? 
 Lynn, I have your permission to talk to- 
 night." 
 
 " Stop I " said Jones. " Have you got 
 any thing to say before he begins, Lynn ? 
 Have you, Durnford ? This is your only 
 chance. For my own part, I can only say, 
 with the poet Wordsworth, — 
 
 *Not the whole warhhng grove in concert heard, 
 So gladdens me as this loquacious bird.' " 
 
 " Proceed, Venn," said Lynn, " and 
 quickly ; for Jones is bubbling with another 
 quotation." 
 
 '• I will try not to be tedious. I began 
 life rather well, for I got into Eton as a 
 colleger, and actually gained a considerable 
 quantity of prizes. I also leai-ned to wear 
 my hat at the back of my head, to , despise 
 trade, to run bills, to make Latin verses, to 
 regard science and mathematics with a 
 proper and reasonable contempt, and to 
 consider Eton as the apex of civilization, 
 ancient and modern. So far, I resembled 
 other boys. Occasionally I was flogged. 
 And I very early formed the germ of that 
 grand idea which I have since made the 
 subject of an admirable essay."- 
 
 Jones wagged his head solemnly ; wheth- 
 er from admiration, envy, sym.pathy, ap- 
 proval, or some other emotion, was never 
 known. ' 
 
 " It is that all the mischiefs of the world 
 are due to the insufficient manner in which 
 boys are flogged. Some, sir, I am ashamed 
 to say, are never flogged at all. Jones, you 
 were never flogged." 
 
 " I was not," said Jones. " If it is any 
 extenuation of my master's crime, I may 
 mention that he often caned me." 
 
 '\ I knew it," Venn returned, with an air 
 of triumph. " There are subtle influences 
 about the older and more classical instru- 
 ment. It produces an effect which, in after 
 life, is only to be detected by those who 
 have made an early acquaintance with it. 
 Caning is merely a brutal mode of inflict- 
 ing fear and pain. The poetry of punish- 
 ment is in the birch. The actual perform- 
 ance, I admit — the mere physical process, 
 either active or passive — affords little food 
 for reflection ; but when I think of the 
 effects upon the sufierer, I am carried away, 
 gentlemen, efferor. There is tbe anticipa- 
 tion, so full of tumultuous fears and hopes, 
 with its certainties as to the future fact, 
 and its uncertainties as to vigor and dura- 
 tion ; its bracing influence of the volition, 
 its stimulating effect on the fortitude, its 
 cultivation of patient endurance. All this, 
 my friends, is truly poetical; Consider, 
 next, the after-glow. The after-glow is, 
 indeed, a magnificent combination of sen- 
 sations. Nothing that I can remember to 
 have experienced comes near it. It lingers 
 like the twilight ; and, like the summer,iwi- 
 Hght, it lasts all night. It warms like the 
 memory of a good action, or the blush of - 
 conscious virtue. It is as soothing as the 
 absolutidn of a bishop. It removes as many 
 cares as a confession, and it wipes ofi' sins 
 like ,a pilgrimage." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and looked 
 round. There was a murmur of applause, 
 Jones rubbing his leg with a painful air of 
 sympathetic abstraction. 
 
 " Let us go back to Eton. I was in the 
 sixth, and stood well to get into King's. 
 Unfortunately, the vacancy that should 
 have been mine came too late by half an 
 hour. I had till twelve on my last day, 
 and a messenger bringing news of a va- 
 cancy arrived, having loitured on the way, 
 at half-past twelve. The man, gentlemen, 
 died young. I say nothing about Nemesis 
 — ,1 merely ask you to observe that he died 
 young. So I went to St. Alphege. You, 
 Lynn, were- at the same time at Trinity. 
 At St. Alphege's, which is not a large col- 
 lege, we passed our time in intellectual pur- 
 suits which were not among those encour- 
 aged by the Senate. This body, Durnford, 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 27 
 
 ■which resembles a similar institution at 
 Oxford, having, after long consideration, 
 found out this most useless, branch of sci- 
 ence and the least useful method of study- 
 ing classical literature, has fixed upon these 
 .as tlie only means of an-iving at any of the 
 University distinctions. 1 could not do 
 mathematics, as I hkve said ; and, as they 
 ■would not let me take classical honors -with- 
 out knowing how to graduate the common 
 steelyard, and such useful scraps of knowl- 
 edge, I was fain to so out in the Poll. Sir, 
 if it had not been for the invention of that 
 infernal steelyard — an instrument which 
 I have never seen, and never had the least 
 necessity or desire to graduate, — I should 
 this day have been a Fellow of St. Al- 
 phe^e's. 
 
 "Having failed here, I returned home. 
 1 found^ray family in some little confusion. 
 My brother Bob, — you have met Bob, 
 Lynn ? " 
 
 Lynn nodded. 
 
 " An excellent fellow, Lynn, — most good- 
 hearted man, though he had his faults," — 
 here Venn rubbed his nose meditatively. 
 "Bob had just taken a stand. He an- 
 nounced resolutely, and without any chance 
 of misunderstanding, that he was never go- 
 ing to do any more work. The lino he took 
 ■was this. He said, ' I am not clever enough 
 to get money. I am clever enough to look 
 at other people getting money. Perhaps a 
 life of contemplation, for which I am evi- 
 dently intended, will lead to greater results 
 than a life of work. I simply, therefore, 
 say to the world in general, and my family 
 in particular. Keep me. Give me a suffi- 
 ciency to eat and drink.' " 
 
 " And how did the world receive this 
 demand ? " 
 
 " That very small portion of the exter- 
 nal world that ever heard it declined to 
 interfere. But out of my father — who, 
 though quite unable to see Bob's logical 
 position, could not let him starve, — he 
 got a sufficiency to eat, and more than a 
 sufficiency to drink. However, Bob hav- 
 ing taken this unexpected line, I had to 
 keep myself; and did, after a fashion, till 
 Bob and my father died. Poor Bob 1 You 
 remember him, Lynn, coming out of the 
 Crown, with his elbows squared, quite 
 drunk, and arguing with th^ policeman ? 
 Admirable traits of character were in that 
 man. His wife allowed him a shilling a 
 day, and his whole study latterly was how 
 to 'make the 'most of the money. It went 
 in six drinks ; and each drink involved a 
 pipe and an animated discussion in the 
 tap-room. Bob, you see, miscalculated his 
 forces. He had not the physique to stand 
 up against a long course of leisure, and he 
 succ'umbed. When he died, at the early 
 
 age of thirty-five, he sent for me, and 
 made over to me, witli his usual kindness 
 and thoughtfulness of heart, all he liad to 
 give me, — the care of his wife and 
 boy. 
 
 " At this time, I ■was working for a liv- 
 ing, — never mind how, — I got it, but 
 only just got it. Every attemjit that I 
 made to do any thing better for myself 
 failed. I had no energy, they said ; or else 
 no perseverance, or no luck, or no deter- 
 mination, and so on : you know the kind 
 of talk. The fruits of life turned, when I 
 touched them, to Dead-Sea apples. Then 
 I complicated matters by falling in love." 
 
 " Did you ? " said Lynn. " I never knew 
 that before." 
 
 " Yes,' I was in love. Oh, yes ! for some 
 months before I ventured to speak, and for 
 some months after." 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " She said, ' No,' in a very decided and 
 resolute manner. I did not so much mind 
 that, as I did the way in which she be- 
 haved afterwards. I made then the dis- 
 covery that there is nothing in the world 
 which more puffs out and inflates a woman 
 with pride, than the fact, that she has had 
 the heroism to refuse a man.- For at least 
 three mtinlhs after my rejection, there was 
 the mightiest feminine clucking ever heard 
 about it. Her strength -(vas overtasked, 
 they said ; and all the family went to Ma- 
 deira with her. No one asked after my 
 strength; and I staid in London, and 
 was regarded as a sort of involuntary mur- 
 derer." 
 
 " Did she die, then ? " asked Lynn. 
 
 " Oh, no ! — not at all. She came back, 
 very fat. She is in London now ; still un- 
 married, and likely to continue so. It may 
 sound uncharitable ; but, in the interests 
 of husbands, I do hope that siich a model 
 of womanly heroic virtue may never be 
 married." 
 
 " I also." said Jones, " have had my 
 share of blighted affections." 
 
 " Have you, too, been in love ? " asked 
 Lynn. 
 
 " I have," sighed Jones. '■ A most un- 
 fortunate attachment, — an impossible at- 
 tachment. Yet the dream was pleasant' 
 while it lasted." 
 
 He held his' head down, blushing mod- 
 estly, and went on, in a broken voice, — 
 
 " As a boy — slopes — Windsor — one 
 of the princesses. Not my fault original- 
 ly — mine to nurse the passion." 
 
 " Which was it ? " 
 
 " The prettiest, sir." 
 
 " But hojy, when, where could you speak 
 with the princess ? " 
 
 " We never interchanged words ; but the 
 eye spoke — at seventy yards. Poor 
 
28 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 thing I she's married now. I hope she got 
 over it. I did after a time." 
 
 Venn, bearing the interruption with an 
 air of sufferance, resumed his history. 
 
 " Getting over my love difficulties, I re- 
 solved to fall into love no more, and went 
 out of society. I have kept out ever since ; 
 and, on the whole, I prefer being out. 
 Then I began to write ; and the real story 
 of my failure begins. You see, I was not 
 absolutely obliged to do any thing when 
 my father died, but I fondly hoped to make 
 literature a staff. It has never been to me 
 even a reed. I had, of course, faint glim- 
 merings of success, gleams of hope. Every 
 time Tantalus stoops to the water, he fan- 
 cies that this time, at least, he will reach 
 it ; and I think that every now and then 
 he gets a few drops -^ not enough to 
 quench his thirst, but enough to revive 
 hope. My gleams of success wore like 
 that poor convict's drops of water. They 
 led to nothing more. I fancy every editor 
 in London knows me now. They say, ' Oh I 
 here's Hartley Venn again ; ' and I go into 
 the rejected pigeon-holes. So complete is 
 my failure, that evenmy own people have 
 ceased to believe in me, — so complete, that 
 I have ceased to believe in myself." 
 
 He paused ; and, mixing a glass of whiskey 
 and water, drank half of it off. 
 
 " You will remark — proceeding on the 
 inductive method — those whom God des- 
 tines to fail, he endows with 'excellent 
 spirits. Jones is, a case in point " — 
 
 " Why should sorrow o'er this forehead 
 Draw the veil of hiack despair ? 
 Let her, if she will, on your head ; 
 Mine, at least, she still will spare." 
 
 This was Jones's interruption. 
 
 " I am, also, myself a case in point. 
 Lynn is not, which is one reason why I 
 fear he will some day desert me. My own 
 equable temper is not, however, wholly due 
 to birth — partly to circumstances. You 
 will understand me, Lynn, when I explain 
 that when quite a little boy I used to sleep 
 in the same bed with my brother Bob." 
 
 " Not the least in the world," observed 
 Lynn. 
 
 " Dear me 1 The way was this. We 
 had a wooden bed against tlie wall. Bob 
 gave me the inside, and insisted on, my ly- 
 ing quite straight on the edge, while he 
 rolled up in the middle. By this arrange- 
 ment, 1 got the wood to sleep on, and the 
 wall to keep my back warm, with such 
 small corners of blanket as I could wrest 
 from Bob as soon as he went to sleep. If 
 immediate effects led to open repining, I 
 incurred punishment at once. I learned a 
 lesson from Bob, for which I have never 
 ceased to thank him, in resignation — 
 
 cheerful, if possible — to the inevitable. 
 Whenever, as happened to me this morn- 
 ing, I get a MS. sent back, I say to myself, 
 ' For this were you prepared in early 
 life by the wood and the wall.' " 
 
 Quoth Jones readily, . — 
 
 "You remember, of course, those lines 
 in Bunyan, quoted, I think, by Lord Will- 
 bewill? Observe the Bunyanesque turn 
 of the second^ line, with its subtlety of 
 thought : — 
 
 * He that is down may fear no fall ; 
 
 The monk may wear his hood : 
 GUve me, for moral warmth, tha wall ; 
 
 For moral bed, the wood.' 
 
 It was the answer to a riddle asked by the 
 prince at the banquet given when Man- 
 soul was taken, and Diabolus evicted. It 
 follows the conundrum of the Ked Cow, 
 and is omitted in some editions." 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Venn, 
 not smiling. " I have only one or two more 
 observations to make. The curious in the 
 matter of unsuccess may consult, if they 
 think fit, my unpublished Opuscula. They 
 will find there, clearly set forth, the true 
 symptoms of an unsuccessful man. Thus, 
 he may be known — not to be tedious — 
 first, by his good spirits, as I have said ; 
 secondly, by his universal sympathy ; third- 
 ly, his extraordinary flow of ideas ; fourthly, 
 by a certain power of seeing analogies ; 
 and fifthly, by his constantly being in op- 
 position. At all times he is a heretic. The 
 mere fact of a thing being constituted by 
 authority is sufficient to make him see, in 
 more than their true force, the arguments 
 on the opposite side." 
 
 " You remember,"' interrupted Jones, 
 with a sweet smjle, "the lines of" — 
 
 " Stop, Jones," cried Venn, " I will not 
 endure it. Lynn, I have finished. * We 
 will now, gentlemen, talk of general top- 
 ics." 
 
 They talked, as usual, till late in the 
 night. It was past three o'clock when Ven n 
 said, — 
 
 " This reminds me of a passage in my 
 essay on ' The Art of Success.' I will read 
 it you. The night is yet young. Where 
 are the Opuscula ? " 
 
 They looked at each other in dismay. 
 Venn searched for the essay everywhere ; 
 not finding it, he remembered that he had 
 taken it to bed with him the night before, 
 and went into the next room to get it. 
 When he returned, with his precious paper 
 in his hand, the room was empty, and there 
 were sounds of rapidly retreating footsteps 
 on the stairs ; for all had fled. He shook his 
 head in sorrow rather than in anger, and, 
 looking at his watch, murmured,. — 
 
 " A general exodus. They have left the 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 29 
 
 Desert of the Exodus. Past three o'clock ! 
 An hour's sleep before daybreak is worth 
 three after it. Shall I have my beauty 
 sleep? No: the, cultivation of the intel- 
 lect before all. Hartley Venn, my dear 
 boy, had you always borne that in mind 
 you would not now be the wreck you 
 are." 
 
 He sat down and read, with an admiring 
 air, the whole of his long paper from be- 
 ginning to end. Then he gave a sigh of 
 contenitment and weariness, and went to 
 bed as the first gray of the spring morning 
 was lighting up the sky. 
 
 CHAPTER n. ' 
 
 Hartley Venn — whose account of 
 himself to Arthur was, on the whole, cor- 
 rect-^ is at this time, a man. of eight and 
 thirty. In the course of his life he has 
 tried a good many things, and failed in 
 every one. He possesses a little income of 
 between three and four hundred a year, 
 comfortably housed in consols, where he 
 allows his capital to lie undisturbed, being 
 as free as any man in the world from the 
 desire to get rich. He is by actual pro- 
 fession a barrister, having been called 
 twelve years ago, at Lincoln's Inn. But 
 as he has never opened a law-book in his 
 life, or been inside a court of justice, it 
 may safely be asserted that he would have 
 great difficulties to encounter in the con- 
 duet of any case with which a too credu- 
 lous solicitor might intrust him. Friends 
 anxious to see him " get on," once per- 
 suaded him to buy a partnership in an 
 army coaching establishment, the previous 
 proprietor retiring with a large fortune. 
 All went well for a year or two, when, 
 owing to some of their pupils never passing, 
 and both himself and his partner being 
 hopelessly bad men of business, they found 
 themselves, at the beginning of one term, 
 with two pupils to teach. Naturally the 
 affairs of the institution got wound up after 
 this. Hartley being the loser of the fifteen 
 hundred or so which he had invested far 
 his share. Then it was that he retired to 
 Gray's Inn, and took those chambers where 
 we now find him. He then became, as he 
 was fond of calling himself, a literary man, 
 that is, he began that long series of 
 Opuscula, of which mention has already 
 been made. They were never published, 
 because editors invariably declined to ac- 
 cept them : no doubt they were quite right. 
 He was full of reading and scholarship, — 
 full of ideas ; but he never acquired that 
 way of- putting things which the British 
 public desires. 
 
 He disliked revision, too, which boi-ed 
 him ; and he had a habit of reading his 
 own things over and over again till he got 
 to know them all by heart, and their very 
 faults appeared beauties. To some men a 
 censor is absolutely necessary. I have 
 often thought of setting myself up as a pro- 
 fessed literary adviser, ready to read, cor- 
 rect, suggest, and cut down, at so much per 
 page, — say ten pounds. He had a sort of 
 uneasy consciousness that life would pass 
 away with him without bringing any sort 
 of kudos to him ; and though, from force of 
 habit, he still kept note-books, and covered 
 acres of paper yearly, he had begun to look 
 upon his works as precious private proper- 
 ty, written for his own recreation and in- 
 struction, — a treasure-house of wisdom for 
 those years of old age when his ideas would 
 begin to fail him. There are hundreds of 
 men like him. Reader, thou who hast nev- 
 er looked over a proof-sheet, are there not 
 within thy desk collections of verses, sheets 
 of essays, bundles of tales, which it is thy 
 secret pleasure to read and read, and thy 
 secret hope to publish ? Deny it not. We, 
 too, have had this time ; and there is no 
 such delight in reading the printed page — 
 especially when the world has received it 
 coldly — as in gloating over the glorious 
 possibilities of the manuscript. What is 
 the miser's joy, as he runs ' his fingers 
 through the gold, to the young writer's, aS 
 he sits, door locked, pen in hand, as modest 
 over the tender fancies of his brain as any 
 young girl at her toilette over her 
 charms ? 
 
 Venn is a smooth-faced man, with a 
 bright, fresh cheek, — in spite of late hours, 
 — and a light mustache. His hair is per- 
 fectly straight; and he shows no signs of 
 getting gray like Lynn, or bald like Jones. 
 His face is long, with a somewhat retreat- 
 ing chin, — sign of weakness, — and a long 
 drooping nose, — the melancholy and reflec- 
 tive nose. He is not a tall man, and his 
 shoulders stoop somewhat. He has still an 
 air of youth ; which I think will never leave 
 him, even when his hair is silvery white. 
 And his expression is one of very great 
 sweetness ; for he is one who has sympa- 
 thies for all. They talk of him still at the 
 butteries of his old college, where, in his 
 hot youth, he played many a harmless 
 frolic in his cups, and where hd endeared 
 himself to all the servants. Indeed, it was 
 no other than Hartley Venn who bearded 
 the great Master of Trinity himself on that 
 memorable night when, returning unstead- 
 ily from a wine, he accosted the doctor 
 leaving the lodge, and there and then chal- 
 lenged him to a discussion on the nature 
 of Jupiter's satellites. It was he, too, — 
 but why recall the old stories ? Are they 
 
30 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 not chronicled at the freshman's dinner- 
 table, handed down to posterity like the 
 legends of King Arthur ? The waiters at 
 his favorite places of resort regard him as 
 a personal friend. They whisper secrets 
 as to the best things up ; hide away papers 
 for him ; tell him even of their family af 
 fairs ; and sometimes consult him on mat- 
 ters of purely personal importance. It was 
 through Hartley, indeed, that I first con- 
 ceived the idea that waiters are human 
 beings, with instincts, appetites, and am- 
 bitions like the rest of us. It is really the 
 case. And at the British Museum, such 
 was the esteem with which the attendants 
 — he knew all their names, and would ask 
 after their wives and families — regarded 
 him, that he used never to have to wait 
 more than an hour to get his books. And 
 this, as every one who uses the reading- 
 room knows, is the height of civility and 
 attention. 
 
 An indolent, harniless, good-hearted 
 man, who could not run in harness ; who 
 ■could do no work that was not self-imposed, 
 and who did no work well except the self- 
 imposed task at which he had been labor- 
 ing for twelve years, — the education of his 
 little girl. 
 
 Everybody in the inn — that is every- 
 body connected with the administration 
 of the place — knew Laura CoUingwood. 
 Everybody, too, felt that the production of 
 so admirable a specimen of the English 
 maiden reflected the greatest credit on all 
 parties concerned, — on the benchers, the 
 barristers, the students, the porters, and the 
 laundresses ; but especially on Mr. Venn. 
 
 It was about twelve years before this 
 time, when Venn first took his chambers, 
 and in the very week when Mrs. Peck, his 
 laundress, began her long career of useful- 
 ness with him, that he found one morning, 
 on returning from the Museum, a little 
 child, with long light hair, and large blue 
 eyes, sitting on the steps in the doorway 
 of his staircase, crying with terror at an 
 evil-eyed, solemn old Tom cat, who was 
 gazing at her in a threatening manner be- 
 hind the railings. Unwashed, dirty, badly 
 dressed, this little rosy-cheeked damsel of 
 six touched Venn's soft heart with pity, 
 and he proposed at first to purchase apples, 
 a p\-oposition which he carried into effect ; 
 and leaving her with a handful of good 
 things, proceeded up stairs with a view to 
 commit to paper some of those invaluable 
 thoughts which were seething in his brain. 
 Presently, to his astonishment, the child 
 followed him up like a little terrier, and, 
 sitting down gravely upon the hearth-rug, 
 began to talk to him with perfect confi- 
 dence. Thereupon he perceived that here 
 was a new friend for him. 
 
 " What is your name, absurd little ani- 
 mal ? " he asked. 
 
 " Lollie .CoUingwood." 
 
 " And who are your amiable parents, 
 Miss Lollie CoUingwood, and what may be 
 their rank in life ? Where's your mother, 
 little one ? " 
 
 " Mother's dead." 
 
 "Father too?" 
 
 " Got no father. Grandmother told me 
 to sit still on the steps. Only the cat 
 came. Here's grandmother." 
 
 Grandmother was no other than Mrs. 
 Peck herself Later on, she explained to 
 Venn that her daughter, who had left her 
 to go into service, and was a " likely sort 
 o' gal " to look at, had come back to her 
 the year before with the child. 
 
 " Said her name was Mrs. CoUingwood. 
 Said her husband was dead. Oh ! dear-a- 
 dear-a-me I Said he was a gentleman. 
 And here was the baby, — great girl al- 
 i-eady. And then she pined away and 
 died. And never a word about her bus-* 
 band's relations ; and the child for me to 
 keep, and all. And bread's rose awful." 
 
 Hartley took the child on his knees, and 
 looked at it more closely. As he looked, 
 thinking what a sad lot hers would be, the 
 little girl turned up' her face to him, and 
 laughed, putting up her lips to be kissed 
 with such a winning grace that Hartley's 
 eyes ran over. 
 
 " I'll help you with the ohUd, , Mrs. 
 Peck," he said ; " don't be afraid about it. 
 WiU you be my little girl, Lollie ? " 
 
 " I'se your little girl now," said the child. 
 And they gave each other the first of manjr 
 thousand kisses. 
 
 " Now, wait here with grandmother, 
 while I go to get some things fpr you." 
 
 He set her down, and went to the estab- 
 lishment of a young lady, with whom he 
 had a nodding acquaintance, devoted to 
 the dressmaking mystery. The lady, by 
 great good luck, had a complete set of 
 clothes for sale, — property of somebody 
 else's little girl, deceased, and, by invita- 
 tion of Venn, went round to his chambers,, 
 where, first by the aid of warm water and 
 soap. Dame Nature's handiwork was made 
 to look clean and white; and then, with 
 needle and thread and scissors, the child 
 was arrayed in what to her was unspeaka- 
 ble grandelir. 
 
 "That's my little girl, Miss Nobbs," said 
 Hartley looking at the result with beaming 
 eyes. 
 
 " WeU, I'm sure, Mr. Venn I You might 
 have the good taste not to throw your child 
 in my teeth, I do think." 
 
 "My good soul, I didn't. Are your 
 teeth broken. Let me look at them." 
 Venn, you see, was younger then. 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 31 
 
 " Ila' done now, Mr. Venn. You and 
 your little girls, indeed 1 " 
 
 " My dear Miss Nobbs, you and I, I am 
 sure. Lave the greatest possible respect for 
 each other. Do not let me be lowered 
 in your eyes. I'he child is the grand- 
 daughter of my laundress, the aged but 
 still industrious Mrs. Peck." 
 
 " Snuify old woman she is ! I can't think 
 how you can have her about you. And 
 that is her grand-daughter ? " 
 
 " This is her grand-daughter — Miss 
 Laura Collingwood. . I propose, Miss 
 Nobbs, to devote a portion of my leisure 
 moments to the cultivation in this child of 
 those mental accomplishments and graces 
 which havB made you the admiration of 
 the quarter." 
 
 " Good gracious, Mr. Venn ! — you'd 
 talk a donkey's hind leg off. Don't be ri- 
 diculous I " 
 
 " And, secondly, Miss Nobbs, I propose 
 to ask your assistance in providing her with 
 a set of suitable clothes." 
 
 " Now you talk sense. Let's see — she'll 
 want six pr' of socks, two pr' of boots, 
 three new pettikuts, four pr' of — yes, four 
 pr' of" — 
 
 " Let us not go into all the details," said 
 Venn. " I need hardly say. Miss Nobbs, 
 that in selecting you out of the many 
 talented and tasteful costumieres in our 
 aristocratic and select neighborhood, I 
 rely entirely on that professional skill 
 which " — 
 
 " Lord, lord 1 " said Miss Nobbs, "if all 
 the gentlemen talked like you, where 
 should we all be, I wonder ? You let the 
 child come to me to-morrow, and then I'll 
 do all I can for her. You're a good man, 
 1 do believe, Mr. Venn, though you are so 
 full of talk." 
 
 " Take a glass of wine. Miss Nobbs, and 
 drink the health of Lollie." 
 
 This was the beginning of it all. Next 
 day the child was brought round, solemnly 
 arrayed in her new splendor, }o be looked 
 at. Hartley kept her with him all the 
 afternoon, and gave her the first glimpse 
 of the alphabet. This he found so amus- 
 ing, that he repeated it every day until he 
 had taught the child, who was wonderfully 
 ■quick and intelligent, to read. Then he 
 laid in an immense stock of picture-books, 
 and gave them to his little girl as fast as 
 she could read them ; and then he taught 
 her to write. 
 
 Three or four years passed on in this 
 way. The afternoon lessons had never 
 been interrupted, save when Venn went 
 away for a fortnight or so in the autumn. 
 They had gradually lengthened out, so as 
 to take up nearly the whole day. Lollie 
 came now between eleven and twelve, and 
 
 did not go home till six, arrangements 
 buing made with a neighboring purveyor 
 to send up luncheon to Mr. Venn every 
 day at two, which was LoUie's dinner. 
 She was then ten or eleven years old, — a 
 child with long fair curls hanging down 
 her back, knuckly elbows, and long legs, 
 such as most young ladies of her age may 
 show. Only her face is much the same as 
 when Venn picked her up on the doorstep, 
 with a soft, confiding expression. She 
 promises well — little Lollie — to grow up 
 into a beautiful woman. 
 
 CHAPTER ra. 
 
 The most perfect love and confidence 
 existed between Hartley and the child. 
 They were a strangely assorted pair. He 
 told Lollie, almost as soon as she could un- 
 derstand any thing, all his projects, all 
 his disappointments. She learned to know 
 him with that perfect knowledge which 
 comes of always reading one mind. She 
 knew what he would think, what he would 
 say, what he liked. Her whole life was in 
 him, and all her thoughts borrowed from 
 his ; for him, the girl had become a neces- 
 sary part of his existence. Her education 
 was his pleasure ; talking to her the only 
 society he had ; she the only person in the 
 world who seemed to care about what he 
 did and how he did it. 
 
 When she was ten or eleven, the child 
 had a fever. Then Hartley kept her in his 
 own chambers till she was well again. Her 
 grandmother came, too, — ■ deeply resentful 
 at being put out, but afraid to murmur. 
 When she hovered between life and death, 
 and prattled, when delirious, of green fields, 
 it was Hartley who sat up night after night, 
 watching her with anxious eyes, while the 
 old woman slumbered in the easy-chajr ; 
 and when she got better, — for it was bright 
 spring weather, — he took her away up the 
 river for a fortnight, where they rowed, and 
 walked, and talked, and the roses came 
 back to little LoUie's cheeks. 
 
 There was no question of affection be- 
 tween them, because there was no doubt. 
 Do you think Adam was always bothering 
 to know whether Eve loved him ? Rub- 
 bish 1 He knew she did. As for Hartley, 
 what had he to think about but the girl ? 
 What had the girl to think about but JHart- 
 ley ? Whom had she to love except him ? 
 What grace of life, what sweetness, what 
 joy, what hope, but in him, — her guai'dian, 
 her teacher, her protector ? 
 
 The fortnight up the river was the first 
 break Lollie had known from her town life. 
 Henceforth it was her dream, her ideal of 
 
32 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 all tliat constitutes real and solid pleasure. 
 She had, before the story begins, one more 
 break in a month by the sea ; but this was 
 not the same thing, because there was a 
 third person with them. This was how it 
 came about. 
 
 It was autumn, and Hartley was meditat- 
 ing his usual brief ilight to the seaside. 
 The girl was sitting in her usual place in 
 the window-seat, with her feet up, a book 
 in her lap, and in her hands some little 
 work. 
 
 " LoUie," said" Hartley, " how should you 
 like to go to the seaside with me ? " 
 
 She jumped off the seat with a cry of 
 delight. 
 
 " I am not quite certain whether I can 
 manage it ; but I am going to try. I shall 
 ask my sister to take you."' 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " But that won't be going with you." 
 
 " I shaill go too. Listen, Lollie. I want 
 you, as you grow up, to grow up a lady. I am 
 teaching you the things that ladies are sup- 
 posed to learn at schools ; but there are 
 some things which I cannot teach you. 
 Tliese you can only learn from a lady. I 
 refer, my child, not to those little dialectic 
 peculiarities, if I may call them so, of our 
 neighborhood " — 
 
 " O Mr. .Venn ! don't say I talk like a 
 little street-girl." 
 
 " Not to those idioms," he went on, as if 
 obliged to get rid of one sentence before he 
 could frame another — " invaluable as they 
 are to the philologist, but to the minor de- 
 tails of deportment." 
 
 She sat pouting. 
 
 "I'm sure you always said I behaved 
 very well." 
 
 " So you do, Lollie, my child ; and you 
 have always been the best of little girls. 
 That is the reason why you are going to be 
 on your "best behavior now. Put on your 
 hat, and walk part of the way with me to 
 Woburn Place, where Sukey lives." 
 
 Sukey was Miss Venn. Her real name 
 was Lavinia ; but her brothers — Hartley 
 and the unfortunate Bob already mentioned 
 — agreed early in life that so ridiculous a 
 name should be suppressed, and changed it, 
 without her consent, to the homely name by 
 which she was ever after known. She, too, 
 inherited a little money, with a house, from 
 her father, on which she lived in co'nsider- 
 able comfort, with the old family servant 
 Anne, and a subordinate maid. She was 
 a fat, comfortable sort of person, now ap- 
 proaching perilously near to forty. She 
 had given up all ideas of matrimony, and 
 chiefly occupied herself with her different 
 curates, — because she never could quite 
 make up her mind between Low and High 
 Church, — and with the little things to eat. 
 
 Hartley used to go and see her once in 
 three months or so, every now and thea 
 asking her to come and breakfast with him. 
 On these occasions he would provide kid- 
 neys, — " to keep, up the fanrjly tie," he 
 used to say. 
 
 Sukey received him with her usual cor- 
 diality, and rang the bell for Anne to come 
 up and shake hands with him. 
 
 "I am going to the seaside for three 
 weeks, Sukey," said he ; " and I want you 
 to come with me." 
 
 It was the very first time in his life that 
 Hartley had expressed any desire whatever 
 for his sister's company ; and she was, for the 
 moment, taken all aback. It took a consid- 
 erable time to get her to make up her mind 
 ^hat it would do her good ; and it was not 
 till Anne herself interfered despotically 
 that she gave way. 
 
 " Very well," said Hartley ; " then that's 
 settled. We'll go the day after to-morrow. 
 Oh ! I forgot to say that I am taking my 
 little girl with me." 
 
 His sister changed color. 
 
 " It is for your sake, my dear Sukey," he 
 said persuasively, — " for your sake en- 
 tirely. Far away from Anne, from your — 
 your pill-box and your little comforts, sup- 
 pose you were taken ill? So Lollie is to 
 go with us to look after you, and be your 
 companion in hours of solitude." 
 
 Sukey fairly burst out laughing. 
 
 " My hours of solitude, indeed I Hartley, 
 you are the greatest humbug I ever knew. 
 I am to go with you because you want the 
 child taught to be a lady. Oh, don't tell 
 me I A lady, indeed — the daughter of a 
 laundress ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Sukey. Her grand- 
 mamma occupies that position. Her father 
 was a gentleman. Our grandfather, my 
 sister " — 
 
 " Was a bishop, Hartley. Don't forget 
 that, if you please." 
 
 " We had two, dear. It may be un- 
 common ; but such is the fact. Iil our 
 family we had two grandfathers. One of 
 them was, if I may remind you, not 
 wholly unconnected with the wholesale 
 glue and "' — 
 
 "Don't be provoking I Well, Hartley, 
 though I must say your taking up with the 
 child at all" is the most ridiculous thing ; 
 and what you are going to do with her I 
 don't know. Yet " — 
 
 " Yet you'll go the day after to-morrow, 
 my dear Sukey. Come and breakfast to- 
 morrow at ten. That will not be too late 
 for you. At this season, sister, kidneys at- 
 tain to a size and flavor unknown as the 
 year advances." 
 
 And this was the way in which Lollie 
 got her education. 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 33 
 
 Time passes on his way ; and, as is his 
 ■wont, takes from one to give to another. 
 Little Lollie grew from a rosy-faced child 
 to a woman, — not so rosy, not so brimful 
 of mirth and glee ; but bright, happy, intel- 
 ligent, and beautiful. Do you know the 
 time — it may be a year, it may be a 
 month, it may be a day or an hour, accord- 
 ing to circumstances — which separates the 
 child from the woman ? It is a curious 
 time. Watch the young maiden of seven- 
 teen. You will find her fitful, fanciful, in- 
 clined to long reveries ; sometimes impa- 
 tient and petulant. The old habits of 
 thought are passing away from her, and the 
 new ones are as yet strange and awkward. 
 It is a time of transition. It lasts but a 
 little while ; for soon the sweet spring 
 breezes blow, the buds of thought and fan- 
 cy open into blossom, and your child is a 
 maiden, tempestiva viro, — fit for love. 
 
 It is at this time that Venn's little girl 
 has jirrived. Hartley is conscious, dimly 
 conscious, of a change in her. At times 
 an uneasy feeling crosses him that the old, 
 childish customs must be, some time or 
 other, modified. Then he puts the thought 
 from him, glad to get rid of an unpleasant 
 subject ; and things go on the same as be- 
 fore. Not that Lollie thinks any change 
 will ever come. To her, life means read- 
 ing, playing, working, in the old chambei-s ; 
 and pleasure means going up the river in 
 the summer, or to the theatre in the win- 
 ter, with her guardian. 
 
 It is a Sunday in early spring ; one of 
 thase which come in April, as warm as a 
 July day, and make the foolish blossoms 
 open out wide in a credulous confidence, 
 Vhich no experience can shake, that the 
 east wind is dead, and has been comfortably 
 buried.' " Courage," they say, like Charles 
 Keade's Burgundian soldier, " courage, 
 camarades ! le diable est mort." Taking 
 advantage of the weather, Mr. Venn has 
 brought liis little girl to Richmond ; and 
 they are 'floating on the river, basking in 
 the sun, — Lollie holding the strings, Venn 
 occasionally dipping his sculls in the water 
 to keep a little way on the boat. 
 
 " I've been thinking, Lollie," he begins, 
 after half an hour's silence. 
 
 " Don't let us think now. Look at the 
 flecks of sunlight on the water," she replies, 
 " and how the trees are green already. 
 Can vou not write a poem on the river, 
 Mr. Venn ? " 
 
 " What are we to do with each other ? " 
 he went on, without noticing her interrup- 
 tion. " We can't go on forever like this, 
 child." , 
 
 "Don't, Mr. Venn. Let us be happy 
 while we can. Listen I there are the 
 church beUs 1 the church bells ! " she went 
 
 3 
 
 on. "Why have you never taken me to 
 church, Mr. Venn? Why do we not go 
 like other people ? " 
 
 " There are various reasons why they go, 
 none of which seem applicable to us, Lollie. 
 They go because it is respectable : we are 
 not respectable. Poor, we are, it is true, 
 and scrupulously clean, but persons of no 
 occupation, and certainly not respectable. 
 Then a good many worthy people go be- 
 cause it is the custom : it is not our custom. 
 Because they want to wear their best 
 clothes : we, my dear, have no best clothes 
 at all. Because they want a little variety 
 and excitement : you and I take our plea- 
 sure less sadly. And some go out of reli- 
 gion and devotion, which we do not feel at 
 present." 
 
 She was silent. Somehow, perhaps, she 
 felt that there was a sort of separation be- 
 tween her and that respectable world of 
 which she could only know the outside. 
 
 " But when we do feel religious, we shall 
 go, shall we not ? " she" asked. 
 
 Venn nodded. He was full of thought 
 on this new question of the girl's future. 
 
 " Here is a water-lily for you, Lollie, — 
 sit steady, — the first of the season. . . . 
 Let us number up your accomplishments, 
 child. You can play the piano ; that is 
 something. You can sing a little, — not 
 much, it is true ; your voice being, as Su- 
 key would say, what Providence made it. 
 Very odd that they put all the failures on 
 to Providence ! You can read, and talk, 
 and write, French. You know Latin ; 
 though why I taught you Latin, I don't 
 know." 
 
 " If it was only to read Horace with 
 you," said the girl, half pouting, " I really 
 think you might have taught me something 
 else. With his wine, and his lyre, and his 
 eternal egotism 1 " 
 
 " He should have been here to-day, ly- 
 ing at your feet, Lollie, crowned with 
 myrtle, playing on his lyre, and singing, as 
 he floated down the sunny river, to the 
 spring, — 
 
 * Diffugere nives, redennt jam grauuna campis, 
 ArboribuBque comae.* " 
 
 "Which you translated, the other day, 
 when we read it, — 
 
 ' The year, for her reaBons, keeps changing her 
 
 seasons. 
 Now the leaves to the terrace return, and the crocus 
 
 to Kew. 
 Earth puts off her seal-skin; and, clad in her real 
 
 skin, 
 Smiles bright through her blossoms at spring wit^ 
 
 its suDsblne and dew.' " 
 
 Venn laughed. 
 
 " Yes, child ; that is, I believe, how 
 Horace might have written had he lived in " 
 
34 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 these latter days. You know how to touch 
 the tender place in my heart. If we have 
 any pride, it is in certain portions, unpub- 
 lished, of the Opuscula, where an imita- 
 tion touches — we only say touches — the 
 original. But we were talking about Hor- 
 ace. I introduced him to you, you know. 
 Surely you would like him — the fat little 
 man, melancholy because he is getting 
 older — to be with us now ? " 
 
 " Yes, pretty well ; only I suppose he 
 would have tired of us very soon. We are 
 not grand enough for him, you know. 
 Ovid would have been better. He would 
 have told us stories, like those we read to- 
 gether in the ' Metamorphoses,' about 
 Cephalus and Procris, for instance. But 
 no : I think I don't care much for your old 
 poets. I tell you what we will do when 
 the summer comes, Mr. Venn : we will 
 come here with Alfred de Musset, and 
 read ' La Nuit de Deoembre,' for contrast, 
 while the sun is high over our heads, in the 
 shade of a willow, — shall we? 1 some- 
 times think '' — here she stopped. 
 
 " What do you think, LoUie ? " 
 
 A child, you see, can tell you all ; but, in 
 the transition state, the thoughts grow con- 
 fused ; for then the mind ■ is like a gallery 
 of pictures lit up with cross lights, so that 
 none can be properly seen. She half 
 blushed. 
 
 " Go on with my accomplishments, Mr. 
 Venn." 
 
 " Well, we left off at the Latin. As for 
 Greek" — 
 
 " No, I will not learn Greek. You may 
 translate things to me, if you like." 
 
 " At the new College for Ladies, I be- 
 lieve they make the damsels learn Greek. 
 That shows your prejudice to be un- 
 founded." 
 
 " Never mind : I won't learn Greek.'' 
 
 " Well, then, I helieve you have come to 
 the length of your knowledge. Stay ! it 
 is not every girl of .eighteen who has read 
 Hallam, or who knows the literature of her 
 country half so well as you. Upon my 
 word, Lollie, I begin to think that our sys- 
 tem of education is a success. You are a 
 very learned little person : a few ologies and 
 we should be perfect. Unfortunately, I 
 don't know any, not one — not even the 
 ology of describing nasty things in ponds. 
 How long is it since the education began ? 
 Twelve years. You are eighteen, child : 
 we must think about " — he stopped for a 
 moment — " about sending you to the new 
 college, to carry off the prizes," he went on. 
 
 She shook her head, and he rowed on, 
 LoUie thoughtfully dipping her gloveless 
 finger in the bright water, as the boat 
 floated along under the bank. 
 
 " Could we not come always and live in 
 
 the country, Mr. Venn ? Why do people 
 choose to spend their lives in a great town ? 
 See, now : we could have a cottage, my 
 grandmother and I ; and you should have a 
 house like that, one, only smaller, with 
 willows over the river, and a sloping lawn. 
 We would sit out in the air all day, and 
 read and talk." 
 
 " And never get tired, — never want a 
 change ? " 
 
 " No, never. Why should we ? I have 
 such a lot of things, , sometimes, coming 
 into my head, — questions, thoughts. I 
 should like to put them all down as they 
 come to me ; and then bring them to you." 
 
 " Why don't you put them down, my lit- 
 tle girl ? " said Hartley, looking in her 
 face with his kindly eyes. " Why not come 
 to me '? And if I can't answer thein, we 
 will try to" find somebody who can. Tell 
 me some of them." 
 
 " I hardly remember. Only the con- 
 trast of the quiet and beauty out here with 
 London makes me sad sometimes, when I 
 oucht to be happy. Do you think I am 
 grateful, Mr. Venn ? " 
 , " It is I who am not grateful, Lollie. Do 
 you know all you have done for me ? " 
 
 " No. I am selfish. I am always think- 
 ing of what you have done for me. What 
 have I done '? " 
 
 " I can hardly tell you all, Lollie. I will 
 tell you something. It is about twelve 
 years now since I made out, quite clearly 
 and unmistakably, what fate had in store 
 for me. The prophetic voice said to me, 
 ' Hartley Venn, you are no good. You are 
 a person without common-sense, without 
 energy, without courage. You must there- 
 fore make up your inind to obscurity. 
 You will not be able to marry — you must 
 not fall in love.. You had better resign 
 yourself to live in your chambers until you 
 require a nurse.' I said, ' Very well, my ven- 
 erable sisters of the fatal spinning-machine. 
 I would hjive asked a few questions ; but 
 perhaps, as it is easier to ask than get an 
 answer, I had better hold my tongue. I 
 accept the position, ladies, with a general 
 protest against the inequality of things. I 
 accept the position. Perhaps,' I went on 
 to say, with withering irony, ' I may not be 
 so proud of your handiwork as to wish for 
 a continuance of my kind. You may brealj: 
 up my mould, if you please, and as soon as 
 you please. It won't be wanted again.' 
 They hadn't a word to say in reply." 
 - " I don't understand," said Lollie ; 
 " that is, I only half understand. You mean, 
 that you had not enough money for mar- 
 riage V " 
 
 " Exactly so ; and that I did not see my 
 way to getting any. The prospect was not 
 alluring. But then, you see, that com- 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 35 
 
 pensating power in nature, whom, I think, 
 the Komans sliould have, made.a goddess, 
 one who would go about , administering 
 compensatory gifts, gave me — you, child ; 
 and I have been happy ever since, watch- 
 ing you grow, and become wiser and bet- 
 ter ; trying to show me what a lady ought 
 to be, and getting younger myself in catch- 
 ing the enthusiasm of your youth. My lit- 
 tle girl, you have been the sunshine of my 
 Ufe!" 
 
 The tears came into LoUie's eyes. 
 
 " You are too good to me, Mr. Venn. 
 I will try and remember what you have 
 said to-day. But don't say it again. Nev- 
 er say it again, please." 
 
 "Why not, my child?" 
 
 " I don't know. When you said that I 
 was your sunshine — ah ! what, then, is my 
 sunshine ? A cloud crossed the river, and 
 it seemed as if your sunshine was suddenly 
 taken away. It is foolish — foolish — fool- 
 ish ! " she repeated, laughing ; " but please 
 don't say it again." 
 
 Venn was resting on his sculls, and look- 
 ing in her eyes witb a vague sort of anxiety. 
 Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips trem- 
 bled. She held out her hand to him, and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Forgive me. I am your little girl — 
 your daughter — your ward — and you are 
 my" — 
 
 " Not your father, child," returned Venn 
 hastily. " Here is Teddingion, LoUie. 
 Let us have no more confessions. Tell me 
 some of your thoughts while we go back, 
 and keep a look-out. Remember that day 
 when you ran me into a tree at Clieveden 
 Woods." 
 
 " Oh, what fun it was ! " she laughed ; 
 " and it took us half an hour to get the 
 boat out again. Now, then, we shall be 
 back in a quarter of an hour. What shall 
 I tell you — some of my old thoughts V I 
 used to think that if I was rich — very rich, 
 you know — what a dififerent world I would 
 make it. Every poor man's house should 
 be clean, every poor man should be taught 
 not to drink, there should be no cruel #ant 
 in the winter, bread and coals should never 
 ' go up,' and the world should not know 
 what was meant by the word hunger. 
 Those were doll's thoughts, you know. 
 Then I used to think, when I got a little 
 older, how that one person — tolerably rich 
 ^- might make a little street his own, and 
 by force of example show people how they 
 ought to live. Then I got older still ; and 
 now I think what one person could do, if 
 he had the strength and the will, without 
 any money at all." 
 
 "How would he do it, and what would 
 he do ? " 
 
 " He might live among poor people, and 
 
 find out the way to help them without mak- 
 ing them dependent. A man could do 
 it, if he was not always trying to make peo- 
 ple go to church. A clergyman might do 
 it, if he was not like tihose I see about. 
 But nobody will do it ; and the people are 
 getting worse and worse." 
 
 " Don't think too much of the people, 
 Loilie." 
 
 "But I must think of them, Mr. Venn. 
 Do I not belong to them ? Do I not live 
 among , them ? They are all good to me ; 
 audit goes to my heart that! have been 
 taught so many things, and can do so little. 
 Well, then, you see, I think about other 
 things, — myself and my lessons, and you, 
 and the dear old chambers, with the chairs 
 dropping to pieces. If I were rich, I should 
 cover the chairs, and get a new carpet, and 
 buy you a new dressing-gown, and have the 
 walls painted over again, and make them 
 so fine that we should hardly know each 
 other again." 
 
 " They do for us, LoUie." 
 " Ah, yes — they are delightful old cham- 
 bers. Do you know, Mr. Venn," she went 
 on with a sigh, " I should like to know 
 some young ladies. I don't mean like Miss 
 Venn, but quite young girls like myself 
 I see them walking' in the squares with 
 each other and their governesses. I won- 
 der what they talk about. Do you 
 know ? " 
 
 " I knew a young lady once,'' answered 
 Venn meditatively. " She used to ask 
 everybody if they liked ' In Memoriam,' 
 and she used to talk about dress a good 
 deal." 
 
 " I suppose in those houses about Tavis- 
 tock and Russell Squares, they have every 
 thing they want. Plenty of amusement, 
 with all nice people, — ladies and gentle- 
 men. They make all their interest in 
 study, don't you think ? With their op- 
 portunities, you know, they ought, to. 
 They are always trying to do good to each 
 other. They never have bad tempers, or 
 say unkind words to each other, lilce poor 
 people. They don't talk scandal, like 
 poor people ; and they are not always talk- 
 ing of finery, like poor girls — not always 
 craving for excitement, Bke my class. It 
 must be a delicious thing to be a young 
 lady. ' Manners makyth ye man,' as I 
 read the other day. Isn't it a funny thing 
 to say? But I should like to see how 
 manners makyth ye woman. I imagine 
 the life of one of these young ladies. 
 When I see one walking along, looking so 
 quiet and thoughtful and proud, I say, 
 ' My dear, you are very happy ; you have 
 no frivolous or foolish tastes, because you 
 are so well educated. You have read all 
 the best books, you know how to dress 
 
36 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 tastefully, you do not spend more than half 
 an hour a day over your things, you are 
 full of schemes for doing good, you are not 
 always thinking ahout sweethearts, but 
 some time or other your lover will come 
 to you, and take you away.' Every wo- 
 man must think of love a little, you know. 
 We are happy so, — isn't that the reason, 
 Mr. Venn ? Then, I see them going to 
 church. It must be a beautiful thing going 
 to church, — all kneeling together, without 
 a thought except of goodness and religion. 
 You can teach me, Mr. Venn, and edu- 
 cate me to all sorts of things ; but you can 
 never make me like one of the young ladies 
 I see as I walk about." 
 
 " I don't want to, LoUie. I like you best 
 as you are. Let me pull her in. Kow, 
 then, child, take care how you step." 
 
 They went back by train and dined to- 
 gether at seven; then up to Venn's cham- 
 bers, where LoUie, who was very quiet and 
 thoughtful, made test. After tea, she play- 
 ed for him on^ or two of his favorite 
 " Lieder ohne Worte," wliile he smoked a 
 pipe by the fireside, and looked at his little 
 girl. 
 
 She was a tall girl now, — not little at 
 all. Her light hair had darkened into 
 brown, her blue eyes were of a deeper color. 
 She had a perfectly oval face ; her mouth 
 was small, and her lips perhaps a little 
 too thin, tremulous ; her nose straight and 
 clear cut, her chin slightly, very slightly, 
 projecting — just enousjh to show possible 
 strength of will. Her wealth of hair 
 ■wanted ho artificial pads to set it up and 
 throw it off as it lay, like an Apooalytic 
 crown of virtue, upon her head. She was 
 dressed in a blue alpaca, simple and tasteful. 
 She had thrown off the jacket and hat she 
 had worn all day ; and her little fingers 
 rambled up and down the keys of the old 
 piano as if they knew, without any telling, 
 where the music lay. As she played, by 
 the upturned eye, by the trembling lip, 
 by the fixed gaze, you knew that her 
 soul was in the music, far away. 
 
 Venn looked at her long and earnestly. 
 What was he to do with this treasure, — 
 this pearl of maidens, that he had picked 
 out of the very guttei', and made a princess ? 
 Did you ever mark, in some rough, squalid 
 field, rank with coarse grass, foul with 
 potsherds and rubbish, some sweet wild 
 flower, blossoming all by itself, — the one 
 single pretty thing in the compound ? 
 Nature is always providing such wild flow- 
 ers. Over the ruinous wall she trains the 
 ivy, on the broken-down ramparts she plants 
 the wall-flower : she will not that any thing 
 should go on without some touch of beauty 
 to redeem the rest. On the seas are the 
 loveliest sunsets, in the desert the Child- 
 
 ren of Israel had their mirage. So you 
 have seen. In some coarsp, rough place in 
 London, in some reeking ibanufacturing 
 town, among faces blotched, faces smirched, 
 faces besotted, faces sharp with the gold 
 hunger, faces heavy with the remembrance 
 of crime, faces vulgarized by common and 
 stupid vices, faces low, bad, base, some one 
 face in a crowd so bright, so pure, so beau- 
 tiful, so lofty, that it seemed to redeem the 
 ligliness of all the rest, — and such was the 
 face of LoUie. 
 
 Venn put down his pipe, and stood be- 
 hind her as she played. She looked up in 
 his face without stopping. 
 
 " You are happy, child ? " he asked, 
 taking her face in his hands, and kissing 
 her forehead in his paternal way. 
 
 "As if I am not always happy here ! " 
 A C0I4 chill passed through Venn's 
 heart ; for he then, for the first time, per- 
 ceived that there was another side to this 
 picture. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ANOTnEii side to the picture 1 Yes : 
 for twelve long years the girl had been 
 growing at his feet, coming to him daily, 
 sitting beside him as he unfolded thfe treas- 
 ures of knowledge to her, and taught her, 
 within the bounds of innocence, all he knew 
 himself. - She came in the morning-; she 
 left him about six : for eight hours or so 
 she was his constant companion. Then 
 she went away, out of his thoughts, ac- 
 cording to his habit; and he went to his 
 club, to his restaurant, to his half-dozen 
 friends, talked, smoked, drank brandy and 
 water, and came home again. 
 
 And what did she do V 
 
 She went home — what she called home 
 — to Puddock's How. 
 
 There was once, in the old times, an un- 
 fortunate young person whose fate it was 
 to be half her lifi; an animal, — I believe a 
 cat if my memory, a treacherous one at 
 best, does not play me false; the other half 
 she might spend in the ordinary delight- 
 ful figure of the girl of the period. So, too', 
 Melusine, daughter of Pressine of Avalon, 
 and wife of the Knight Raimondin, who 
 was obliged to ferbid her husband ever to 
 look upon her on Saturdays, when she put 
 on, from waist downwards, the scales and 
 skin of a serpent. Little LoUie, very 
 early in life, realized that her life was to be 
 something like one of these ladies, — of 
 whom, however, she had never heard. From 
 ten to six, or thereabouts,- — Sundays as 
 well as week days, — civilization, light, 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 37 
 
 ease, cleanliness, comfort, culture ; all the 
 pleasures tliat can be had in talking, 
 learning, writing, and music ; a life of 
 affection, thougjitfulness, and care ; a time 
 spent with a man so much older than 
 herself, that even now that she was 
 grown up she looked upon him as almost 
 her father, and loved him as much as any 
 father could be loved. From ten to six, 
 a sweet innocence of trust, the growth of 
 twelve years' intercourse, of the outpour- 
 ing of confidence which she could give to 
 no other person in the world. From ten 
 , to six the modest pride that the girl had 
 in being the object of all this grace and 
 tenderness in her Bohemian protector. 
 
 But from six to ten, Puddock's Row. 
 
 To know Puddock's Row aright, you must 
 visit it at least every night in the week, at 
 each successive season. As the progress 
 of my story might be hindered in the de- 
 scription of eight and twenty nights,, let us 
 only give a few general details. Lollie's 
 grandmamma occupied a first floor, — four 
 and sixpence the two rooms. — in the row, 
 and was considered a rich and fortunate 
 woman. She had only one set of rooms to 
 attend, and Venn only gave her six and six- 
 pence a week for all her motherly care ; and 
 LoUie did not know that her own pension 
 money, weekly administered, in addition to 
 this, by Venn, was all they had to live upon. 
 The inhabitants of tlie row looked upon the 
 girl with respectful admiration. Of her 
 virtue there could be but one opinion, and 
 but one of her beauty. She was the pat- 
 tern of the court ; and moralizing mothers, 
 when they were sober enough to point the 
 moral and improve the tale, were apt to 
 fix her success as a theme, and narrate her 
 story to envying daughters as that of one 
 who had risen by her own merits. 
 
 They were a kindly, dissolute, improvi- 
 dent race, — always sinning, always repent- 
 ant, always sick and sorry. There was the 
 old lady at the end of the court, who 
 worked hard all the week, and got drunk 
 every Saturday night, and was wont to 
 come out at twelve, with her hand to her 
 head, crying aloud unto the four winds, 
 " O Lord, how bad I be ! " There were 
 the family of five brothers at No. 2, who 
 fought most nights in pairs, the other three 
 looking on. Tuaere were two or three laun- 
 dresses of the Inn, who were even worse, as 
 regards personal habits and appearance, 
 than poor old Mrs. Peck, and envious of her 
 superior fortune. There was a swarming 
 population all day and all night; there was 
 no peace, no quietness, no chance for any 
 thing but endurance. 
 
 And, in the midst of all this, the poor girl 
 had to spend her evenings and her nights. 
 Sometimes she would cry aloud for shame 
 
 and misery. Sometimes, when she was left 
 alone, the squalor of her surrounding cir- 
 cumstances would appear so dreadful, so 
 intolerable,"so miserable, that she would re- 
 solve to beg and implore Mr. Venn to take 
 her out of them. Sometimes she would shut 
 out the world around her by building cas- 
 tles in the air, and so forget things. Only, 
 as time went on, and things did not change 
 but for the worse, she found it becoming 
 daily more difficultto keep up the illusions 
 of hope, and persuade herself that all this 
 would have an end. 
 
 The poor grandmother was a trial. I am 
 afraid the wicked old woman.purloined half 
 the money that Venn gave her for his ward, 
 and put it into a stocking. She was not a nice 
 old woman to'look at. She had disagi'ee- 
 able habits. She was not reticent of speech. 
 She was interested mainly in the price of 
 the commonpr kinds of provisions, such as 
 the bloater of Leather Lane. And when she 
 was in a bad temper, which was often, she 
 was a nagster. From habit, Lollie always 
 let her go on till it was bed-time. Then, at 
 least, she was free ; for the little room at the 
 back belonged to her. She could have 
 comparative quiet there, at any rate. The 
 old woman preferred sleeping among her 
 pots and pans, as she had been brought up 
 to do, in the front room. Besides, she was 
 afraid of her grand-daughter, and yet proud 
 and fond of her. She felt more comforta- 
 ble when the child was gone to bed, and 
 she could nag all to herself, — audibly, it 
 is true, and with the assistance of a little 
 bottle containing some of Mr. Venn's bran- 
 dy. On the whole, she was well pleased 
 that she had but little of the girl's society. 
 For like will to like ; and inany were the 
 cheerful gatherings, not unenlivened with 
 gin, which took place on that first floor, 
 what time Lollie was gone, to the theatre 
 with Mr. Venn, with ancient contempora- 
 ries -of this dear old woman. 
 
 I think 1 see her now. " Tout ce qu'il y 
 a du plus afireux." An antique " front," 
 always twisted awry over a brow, — mar- 
 bled, indeed, but not with thought. A coun- 
 tenance in which deep lines were marked 
 with a deeper black than covered the rest. 
 Small, cunning eyes : if you lead a small, 
 cunning life, your eyes do most inevita- 
 bly become small and cunning of aspect. 
 Fat lips, such as might come from always 
 eating roast pork, — the greatest luxury 
 with which Mrs. Peck was acquainted. A 
 bonnet never removed day or night. A 
 dress, — but, no, let us stop. Is there not a 
 sort of sacrilege in describing, only to mock 
 at her, a poor old creature who was what 
 the conditions of life qiade her ? Let us 
 bring honor and reverence to old age. For 
 Mrs. Peck no more shall be said. To her 
 
38 
 
 MY LIITLB GIEL. 
 
 virtues very kind, Hartley Venn was to all 
 lier faults very blind. She cribbed every 
 thing. She never cleaned any thing;. She 
 smashed every thing. She cheated. But 
 she was Lollie's grandmother. 
 
 LoUie's education we have sufficiently de- 
 scribed. It had, as we have hinted, one ca,p- 
 ital defect. There was not one word of re- 
 ligion about it. Venn — not because he 
 was an infidel, which he was not; nor be- 
 cause he wished to make an experiment, 
 which was not the case ; but simply out of 
 pure carelessness and indifference, and be- 
 cause he never went to church himself — 
 taught his little girl no religion whatever. 
 She knew, from reading, something, — the 
 something being the most curious medley 
 possible, Trom a mixture of every kind of 
 Latin, French, and English authors. Venn 
 respected maidenly innocence so far as to 
 keep harmful books, as he thought them, — 
 that is, directly harmful, — out of her way ; 
 but he gave the child, first a literary taste, 
 and then access to writers whose ideas of 
 religion were more " mixed," than would 
 have been good for the most masculine in- 
 tellect. The Bible she had never seen ; for 
 tlie only copy in Venn's possession had, 
 many years before, tumbled behind the book- 
 case, and was thus lost to view. And of 
 ladies she knew but one. Miss Venn, who 
 still asked her to tea once or twice a year, 
 treated lier with exemplary politeness, and 
 sent her away with a frigid kiss. Miss 
 Venn, you see, was suspicious. She always 
 fancied her brother was going to marry the 
 girl ; and therefore made it her business to 
 try and make her understand the great 
 gulf which comparative rank establishes be- 
 tween people, — grandchildren of bishops 
 for instance, and grandchildren of laun- 
 dresses. She had two lovers, — past and 
 rejected, bien entendu. One was a gallant 
 young lawyer's clerk in the Inn, about her 
 own age, who accosted her one morning 
 with a letter, which she handed, unopened, 
 to Venn. It contained honorable proposals. 
 Venn descended to the court, where the 
 aspirant was waiting for an answer, and 
 there and then administered a light chas- 
 tisement with a walking-cane ; the police- 
 man, — he of the big beard and the twin- 
 kling eyes, not the thin one, looking on with 
 a grim but decided approval. 
 
 Then there was Sims the baker. A quite 
 genteel young man of a Sunday, if you see 
 him got up in his best blue tie and fldwer 
 in his button-hole, with a cane. He at- 
 tacked the fortress through the grandmoth- 
 er, and persuaded her to accept the first 
 oiteringB of love, in the shape of certain 
 fancy ones, which greatly pleased the old 
 lady. To her astonishment,, the child threw 
 the gifts out of the window j and Mr. Venn 
 
 went round the next day, and had a serious 
 talk with the young man. He put on 
 mourning the next Sunday, and walked up 
 and down the Gray's Inn road all day in the 
 disguise of a mute. But Lollie never saw 
 him ; so his silent sorrow was thrown away, 
 and he returned to his Sally Lunns. . 
 
 And this is all her story up to the point 
 when we left her in Venn's chamber, |)lay- 
 ing^ to him. 
 
 It was between nine and ten o'clock that 
 she left -Gray's Inn for home, — not five 
 minutes' walk, and one she always took 
 alone. Here she had a little adventure ; 
 for, as she was striding fast along the 
 pavement of Holborn, she became aware of 
 a " gentleman " walking beside her, and 
 gazing into her face. It was one of those 
 moral cobras, common enough in London 
 streets, — venomous but cowardly, and 
 certain to recoil harmless before a little 
 exhibition of daring. He coughed twice. 
 Lollie looked straight before her. Then he 
 took off his hat, and spoke spmething to her. 
 Then, finding she took no notice of him, he 
 took her hand, and tried to pass it under his 
 arm. 
 
 " We are old friends, my dear," he said, 
 with an engaging smile. 
 
 She shook him off with terror, crying out. 
 
 There were a few people passing at the 
 time who were astonished to see one gentle- 
 man take another gentleman by the coat- 
 collar, and kick that gentleman into the 
 gutter. 
 
 " Insulted a lady,'' said the champion to 
 the by-standers, and going back to Lollie. 
 
 " Yah ! " cried the mob, closing round 
 him, for he was down ; and, when Lothario 
 emerged from that circle, his hat was bat- 
 tered in, and probably a whole quarter's 
 salary of mischief done to his wardrobe. 
 The moral of this shows how prudent it is 
 not to be taken at a disadvantage ; also that 
 it is best to get up at once, if you are kicked 
 into the gutter, and to cross the road ; and 
 thirdly, that, as the mob is sure to join the 
 winning side, it is best to be the victor in all 
 street encounters. Some historians give no 
 moral at all to their incidents ; ibr my part, 
 my morals are my strong point. When I do 
 not give one, it is only because the moral 
 ■may be read in so many ways that even 
 three volumes cannot stretch so far. 
 
 " Permit me to see you safely part of 
 your way at least," said Loljie's knight. 
 
 He was a gentleman, though apparently 
 of a different kind to Mr. Venn, being very 
 carefully and elaborately dressed. His face 
 she hardly noticed, except that he had a 
 small and very black mustache; but she 
 was so frightened that she was not thinkinor 
 of faces. 
 
 " I live close by," she said. " Permit me to 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 39 
 
 thank you, sir, for your brave interference : 
 I have never been insulted before. You 
 have done me a great service. 'Good-night." 
 
 She held out her hand, with a ,pretty 
 grace. He took it lightly, raised his hat, 
 Baying, — 
 
 "I am very happy. Perhaps we may 
 pieet 9,gain under more fortunate circum- 
 stances. Au revoir, mademoiselle; sans 
 dire adieu." 
 
 She smiled, and turned into Gray's-inn 
 Road. She looked round once. No : her 
 champion was a gentleman ; he was not 
 following her. Why did he speak in 
 French ? — " Au revoir, sans dire adieu." 
 She found herself sayiAg the words over 
 and over again. Nonsense ! — of course she 
 would never see him again ; and, if she 
 should, he was only , a stranger to her. 
 
 She told Venn in the morning, who flew 
 into a great rage, and promised always to 
 take her home himself when she left his 
 rooms later than six. In the course of the 
 day becalmed down, and delivered an ora- 
 tion, .^— I am sorry I have no space for it 
 here, — on the nature and properties of the 
 common or street snob. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Pythagoras once cpmparedlife to the 
 letter Y. This letter, starting with a 
 trunk, presently diverges into two branch- 
 es, which represent respectively the two 
 lines of life: the good and consequently 
 happy, — that is the thin line to the right ; 
 and the bad and consequently miserable, — 
 the thick black one to the left. It is an 
 elementary comparison, and hardly shows 
 the sage at his best. For as to happiness 
 and misery, they seem to me somehow de- 
 pendent on public opinion and the length 
 of a man's purse. A man with a hundred 
 thousand a year may really do any thing ; 
 not only without incurring ignominy, but 
 even with a certain amount of applause. 
 He will not, of course, practise murder as 
 one of the fine arts, nor will he cheat at 
 whist ; and he will have little difficulty in 
 resisting the ordinary temptation to com-, 
 mit burglary. But, for the poor man, public 
 opinion is a mighty engine of repression. 
 "Virtue is his stern, and often bitter, por- 
 tion. Public ofiinion exacts from him a life 
 strictly moral and rigidly virtuous. In all 
 places except London, it forces him to go 
 to church : in a manner, it drives him 
 heavenwards with a thick stick. The rich 
 man, in whose favor any good point — 
 even the most rudimentary — is scored, 
 may be as bad as he pleases ; the poor man, 
 against whom we score all we can, is just 
 
 as bad as he dares to be. This is one ob- 
 jection to the Pythagorean comparison. 
 Another is, that young men never set off 
 deliberately down the thick line. It is, I 
 admit, a more crowded line than the other ; 
 but then there are constant passings and 
 re-passings to and fro, and I have seen 
 many an honest fellow, once a roysterer, 
 trudging painfully, in after years, along the 
 narrow and prickly path, dragged on by 
 wife and children — though casting, may 
 be, longing looks at the gallant and care- 
 less men he has left. 
 
 "I knew that fellow, Philip Durnford,"' 
 an old friend of his told me, " when first he 
 joined. He was shy at first, and seemed 
 to be feeling his way. We found out after 
 a while that he could do things rather better 
 than most men, and more of them. If you 
 cared about music, Durnford had a piano, 
 and could play and sing, after a fashion. 
 He could fence pretty well too ; played 
 billiards, and made a little pot at .pool : 
 altogether, an accomplished man. He was 
 free-handed with his money ; never seemed 
 to care what he spent, or how he spent it. 
 Queer thing about him, that he was a 
 smart officer, and knew his drill. I think 
 he liked the routine of the regimental 
 work. Somehow, though, he wasn't popular. 
 Something grated. He was not quite like 
 other men ; and I don't suppose that, dur- 
 ing the whole six years he was in the regi- 
 ment, he made a single good friend in it. 
 Perhaps he was always trying to be better 
 than anybody else, and he used to flourish 
 his confounded reading in your face ; so 
 that some of the fellows were afraid to 
 open their lips. We didn't seem to care 
 — eh ? about John Stuart Mill. Then, he 
 wouldn't take a line. The fast man we 
 can understand, and the man who preaches 
 on a tub and distributes tracts, and the 
 army prig we know, and the reading man ; 
 but hang me if we could make out a man 
 who wanted to be every thing all at once, 
 and the best man in every line. I can as- 
 sure you we were all glad when we heard 
 that Durnford was sending in his papers." 
 
 That was the state of the case. Phil 
 Durnford started heroically down the' thin 
 line. When we meet him again, he is in 
 the thick, thfe left-handed one,, with the 
 mob. This is very sad ; because we shall 
 have to see more than enough of him. 
 You see, he wanted patience. He would 
 gladly have won the Victoi-ia Cross, but 
 there was nothing in that way going 
 just then. He would have liked to climb 
 quickly up the tree of honor ; but this is 
 a tree which can be only attempted under 
 certain conditions. Had he been a drum- 
 mer in the French army, about the year 
 1790, he might have died Marshal of the 
 
40 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 Frencli Empire. But he fell not upon the 
 piping times of war. So he went in for 
 being a dashing young officer : rode — only 
 he did not ride so well as some others ; 
 gambled — only not with the recklessness 
 that brought glory to others ; and was a 
 fast man, but without high spirits. In 
 personal appearance he was handsome, 
 particularly in uniform. His cheek showed 
 — what is common enough in men of the 
 mixed breed — no signs of that black 
 blood which always filled his heart with 
 rage whenever he thought of it. His hair 
 was black and curling, his features clear 
 and regular. Perhaps bo might have been 
 an inch or two taller with advantage ; 
 while bis chin was weak, and bis forehead 
 too receding. 
 
 Always weak of will,bis heroic element 
 has now, though he is only six and twenty, 
 almost gone out of him. He looks for' 
 little beyond physical enjoyment of life : 
 he has no high aims, no purposes, no hopes. 
 Worse than all, he has no friends or be- 
 longings. So his heart is covered with an 
 incrustation, growing daily harder and 
 deeper, of selfishness, cynicism, and un- 
 belief. When the Devil wanted to tempt 
 him to do something worse than usual, it 
 was his wont to showhim his finger-nails, 
 where lay that fatal spot of blue which 
 never leaves the man of African descent, 
 though his blood be crossed witU ours for a 
 dozen generations. Then he waxed fierce 
 and reckless, and was ready for.any thing. 
 If the consciousness of descent from a 
 long line, which has sometimes done well 
 and never done disgracefully, be an incen- 
 tive to a noble life, surely the descent 
 from a lower and inferior race must be a 
 hinderanoe. 
 
 ~ He thought nobody knew it, and trem- 
 bled lest the secret should be discovered. 
 Everybody knew it. The colonel and the 
 major had been in Palmiste, and knew 
 more. They knew that George Durnfbrd, 
 late of the lOtb Hussars, had only one son 
 by his marriage, and never had any broth- 
 ers at all. Then they put things together, 
 and formed a conclusion, and said nothing 
 about it, being gentlemen and good fel- 
 lows. 
 
 No brandishing of the sword in front of 
 a wavering line of red ; no leading of for- 
 lorn hopes, — nothing but garrison life and 
 camp life : what should a young man do ? 
 Here my former informant comes again to 
 my assistance. 
 
 " Durnford," he said, " used to be always 
 trying to out-pace some other fellow. 
 Don't you know that a hunchback always 
 makes himself out a devil of a lady-killer ; 
 and a parvenu is always the most exclu- 
 sive ; and a fellow with a nose like a door- 
 
 knocker atways thinks himself the hand- 
 somest dog in the regiment? Well, you 
 see, Durnford was a mulatto, an octoroon, 
 or a sixteenth-oroon, or something. He'd 
 read in a book, I suppose, that mulattoes 
 were an inferior race ; so nothing'would do 
 for him but showing ^himself an exception 
 to the rule by proving himself our superior, 
 — : all the same as making himself out a 
 bird by trying to fly. He muddled away 
 his money ; but, bless you I lie couldn't' 
 really chuck. Chucking is a grand gift of 
 nature, cultivated by a course of public 
 school, army coach, and garrison life. 
 Durnford did not understand the art. 
 Now, young BIythe of ours, when he 
 heard of the step vacant, wrote to his gov- 
 ernor about it. Well, the governor actual- 
 ly sent him the money, instead of paying 
 it into Cox's. The young beggar screamed 
 with delight. ' O Lord ! ' he said, ' look 
 what the governor's done 1 ' And chucked 
 it all in a fortnight, without purchasing the 
 step at all. Durnford could never come 
 up to that, you know. He didn't drink 
 much ; but there was one thing men liked 
 iri him. If loo was on, Durnford never 
 played sober against men screwed. Al- 
 ways reputed the soul of honor in that re- 
 spect. But be wanted too much. He 
 would have liked to be popular among all 
 classes', and he was popular among none." 
 My friend, upon this, took to philosophiz- 
 ing upon the nature and basis ■ of popular- 
 
 "I believe," he said, with some plausi- 
 bility, " that a fellow is popular if he is be- 
 lieved to be better than be seems. One 
 man, A., is a frightful villain, but he loves 
 and respects B., another tremendous scoun- 
 drel and ruffian, because he thinks him 
 possessed of some noble and. elevating qual- 
 ities wanting in himself. He once saw B. 
 toss a halfpenny to a beggar, and say, 
 'Poor devil.' Now, that showed a fine vein 
 of native generosity. You don't like a man 
 you think to be worse than yourself, be- 
 cause he must belong to such a deyilish bad 
 lot ; and the formula of A,,'the big rascal,, 
 is always that he ' may not be a relij;ious 
 man, by gad 1 ' but there are some things 
 which lie would not do. . . . Well, you see, 
 that poor beggar Durnford was believed to 
 be worse than he really was. He did it 
 himself. Used to scoff at religion : which 
 is bad form, in my opinion, — religion be- 
 ing the business of the chaplain ; and I'd 
 just as soon seofi" at the adjutant or the 
 sergeant-major. That did him barm ; and 
 in spite of his riding and fencing, and all 
 the rest, be really had very little strength 
 in his body. Fellows said he padded." 
 
 When we pick up Philip, which is on the 
 evening wben he — for it was he — gal- 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 41 
 
 lantly came to the rescue, he has not yet 
 sold out, but is enjoying the beginning,rf)f a 
 long furlough from Malta. His affairs are 
 not yet desperate, though he has got 
 through a considerable portion of his for- 
 tune ; having less than half of it left, and a 
 good pile of debts, whenever it shall- suit 
 him to pay them. I fear that the account 
 his old brother officer gave of him was, on 
 the whole, correct. Certainly Philip 
 Durnfbrd, having had a six years' run of 
 " pleasure " and dissipation, knew most 
 things that are to be learned in that time, 
 and was almost beginning to think that the 
 years had been purchased by too great an 
 expenditure of youth, health, and capital. 
 
 When the girl left him, he staid for a 
 moment looking after her, as she tripped 
 up the street with her light and- buoyant 
 step,. and, turning on his heel with a sigh, 
 strode off westward. He went to Arthur's 
 club. Not finding him there, he went to 
 his lodgings, and caught him reading in his 
 usual purposeless, studious way. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Arthur," 
 asked Philip, lighting a cigar, and taking the 
 best easy-chair, " with all your reading V " 
 
 " Spare me," said Arthur. " I am one 
 of the men who are always going to do 
 every thing. Prankly, it is useless. I 
 want some one to pull me out of my own 
 habits ; but you, Phil, have got energy for 
 all the family." 
 
 " I've used some of it to-nisht," said 
 Phil, laughing, and telling his story. " Such 
 a pretty girl, Arthur ! Oh I such a beauti- 
 ful girl, — tall, sir, and as straight as an 
 arrow ! I should like to meet her again. 
 I don't believe too much in the sex ; but I 
 do believe in the possibility of my making 
 a fool of myself over one, at least ; and, by 
 Jove I it would be this one." 
 
 " Take care, Phil." 
 
 " Were you never in love, Arthur ? 
 Come, now, gentle hermit, confess. Was 
 there not some barmaid in Oxford ? Was 
 there never a neat-handed Phillis — ne sit 
 aneillse tibi amor pudori — at the college 
 buttery V " 
 
 "I have not been in love, Phil," said 
 Arthur, lifting his fair, serious face, " since 
 we left Palmiste ; and then I was in love 
 with Madeleine." 
 
 " Poor little Madeleine ! So was I, I be- 
 lieve. And where is she now ? " 
 
 " She was sent to Switzerland, after her 
 father's death, to be educated." 
 
 " The education ought to he finished by 
 this time. Why don't you go, old fellow, 
 and search about the playground of Eu- 
 rope ? You might meet on the summit of 
 the Matterhorn. ' Amanda ' he, and 
 ' Amandus ' she ; and all would be gas and 
 fireworks." I 
 
 Then they began to talk about' old times 
 and boyish freaks ; and Philip's better na- 
 ture came back to him, for a time at least. 
 He saw little of Arthur. They had not 
 much in common. When they did meet, 
 it was in great friendship and kindliness ; 
 but they were almost strangers ; and it was 
 only now — Philip being home on furlough, 
 and Arthur just come up to London — that 
 they had come together at all since the old 
 days in Palmiste. 
 
 j forgot to mention one curious thing in 
 Philip's life. On the first day of the year, 
 some unknown person always paid into his 
 account at Cox's the sum of two hundred 
 pounds. This came with a recurrence so 
 regular that Phil looked for it, and counted 
 on it. He put it down to a freak of Ar- 
 thur's. Certainly Arthur had a good deal 
 more of his own than he at all knew what 
 to do with ; but it was not Arthur, — who, 
 living so simply himself, did not understand 
 that his cousin might sometimes be in want 
 of money. Philip took the money, spent 
 it, and wished it had been more ; and he 
 said nothing about it to Artliwr. The foun- 
 tain of benevolence, you see, is a source 
 which may possibly be muddled and spoiled 
 by the uncalled-for tears of gratitude. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 So, about this time. Hartley Venn began 
 to be seriously troubled about the future of 
 his proMg&. He realized, for the first 
 time, that she was now a woman ; and yet 
 he was loth to change any of the little 
 customs which had gone on so long. For 
 instance, that kiss at arrival and d(;parture. 
 A man of thirty-eight is certainly old 
 enough to be the papa of a girl of eighteen. 
 
 On the other hand, many men of thirty- 
 eight are not too old to be the lovers of 
 girls of eighteen. He could not put a stop 
 to that tender little caress. And yet, of 
 late days, he caught himself blushing, and 
 his pulse quickened, when his lips touched 
 herforchead, and her lips touched his cheek. 
 Only quite lately this feeling of constraint 
 had sprung up. Not on her part : the last 
 thing the girl thought of was love on the 
 part of her guardian. There was no con- 
 straint with her, — only that hesitation and 
 doubt which came from the birth of new 
 ideas within her. The germ of many a 
 thought and aspiration is sown in child- 
 hood, lying concealed in the brain till the 
 time of adolescence makes it appear, and 
 brighten into life. 
 
 Then Hartley, putting the question of 
 love out of, sight, resolutely refusing to ad- 
 mit it at all into his mind, set himself to 
 
42 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 •work out, as he called it, a practical prob- 
 lem. As 'he was the most unpractical to 
 men, the result did not appear likely of 
 " come out." 
 
 He appealed, in his, distress, to his sister 
 Sukey. 
 
 " You've educated that child," said his 
 sister, " till she can laugh at young ladies. 
 You've put your notions into her head, till 
 she is as full of queer thoughts as you are 
 yourself. She talks about nothing but 
 philanthropy and history and what not. 
 She is like no other girl under the sun. 
 And then you come and ask me what you 
 are to do with her. Do you want to get 
 rid of her ? " 
 
 " Get rid of her ! Why, Sukey, you 
 must be mad to think of such a thing., Ko. 
 I want to put her in some way " — 
 
 " Of earning a livelihood. Quite prop- 
 er. And time she did it. By rights she 
 should be a kitchen-maid. Not that I am 
 unkind to her, dear Hartley," she added, 
 as her brother flashed a learning look at 
 her — "not at all. And she is, as I be- 
 lieve, a very good girl — spoiled, of course. 
 What do you say, now, to the bonnet-mak- 
 ing?" 
 
 Hartley shook his head. 
 " She shall not work for her bread, Su- 
 key. I have taken a decisive step. I've 
 made my will, Sukey. 'You don't want 
 any more money. Bob's boy is looked 
 after by his mother's people. And, besides, 
 you can leave him your money, you know." 
 " I always intended to," said his sister. 
 " You needn't go on, You have left all 
 yours to Laura. Well, of course it's a 
 shame, and all that. But you can do' as 
 you like with your own, What do you 
 want my advice about ? " 
 
 " That is just the' difficulty. I want, 
 somehow, to do something for her that will 
 take her into a brighter atmosphere, out of 
 the dingy surroundings of her life." 
 
 " She lives with her grandmother, does 
 she not ? At least, I have always under- 
 stood that this was the very proper ar- 
 rangement." 
 
 " Yes : where her grandmother lives 1 
 have never thought about till the other 
 day. Sukey, my dear, I am a selfish animal. 
 It-was all to please myself that I made a 
 toy of the child. To please myself, I 
 watched her intelligence grow under my 
 hands ; only to please myself, I put into 
 her head ideas and knowledge. In my 
 own selfish gratification, I have made her 
 ten times as well taught as young ladyhood 
 is apt to be. I have never thought about 
 what was to come of it — or of me. And 
 now — now — she is a woman — and I " — 
 Sukey laughed. 
 
 " My poor dear Hartley, and you ? - 
 
 you are in love with he^ 1 I knew it was 
 coming, all along. Of course it is a blow. 
 After all your brilliant prospects, and the 
 grandson of a bishop, and a Blaster of Arts, 
 and a barrister-at-law, and a scholar, and 
 all — and — oh! dear, dear! But I always 
 expected it, and always said it. If you 
 will kindly ring the bell and call Anne, 
 she will tell you that I have prophesied it 
 any time this last six years." 
 
 When the misfortune comes upon you, 
 it is, at least, a consolation to your friends 
 to have foretold it ; but Hai'tley was 
 walking up and down the room, not listen- 
 ing.' 
 
 " In love with her ? I in love with Lol- 
 lie ? I have loved her ever since she 
 looked up in my face, the very first day I 
 saw her, and put up her lips to be kissed. 
 In love with her ? I have never thought 
 of it. Upon my word, Sukey, I have never 
 even thought of it till the last few days. 
 It is nonsense — it is absurd. I am twenty 
 years older than LoUie. She looks on me 
 as her father : told me so last Sunday. 
 Love ! Am I to think of love, at my age ? 
 I thought it was all put away and done 
 with. Sukey, forget wha.t you have said. 
 Don't raise up before me the vision of a 
 life with such love as that. Let me go on 
 having the child's childish affection and 
 trust. It is all I am fit for. It is more 
 than I deserve." 
 
 Hartley was not a demonstrative man. 
 It was rare, indeed, that the outer crust of 
 a good-natured cynicism was broken, and 
 the inner possibilities laid open. 
 
 " Ask her. Hartley, if she can love you." 
 " No; no ; and lose all that I have ! " 
 « Shall I ask her, then ? " 
 " You, my dear sister ? " he replied, 
 laughing. " He that cannot woo for him- 
 self is not worth being woed for. No. 
 Let things be as they are. Only I should 
 like to see a way " — 
 
 " At any rate, there is no such great 
 hurry." 
 
 "If she had any creative power, it 
 might be worth while to make her a novel- 
 ist. But she hasn't. She only imitates, 
 like most of her sex — imitative animals. 
 Man, you see, originates. Woman re- 
 ceives, assimilates, and imparts^ In a 
 higher state of oivilizatioui women will be 
 teachers in all the schools, from Eton down- 
 wards. Flogging, I suppose, will then " — 
 " Hartley, do be consecutive." 
 " I've tried her at writing, and she really 
 makes very creditable English verses. 
 Her Latin verses are a failure, principally 
 because she will not study the accuracies 
 of language." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you have taught 
 her Latin ? " 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 43 
 
 " Why not ? Of course I have. We 
 read together portions of Horace, Ovid, 
 Virgil, and other poets. LoUie is a very 
 fair Latin scholar, I assure you. Well, I 
 suggested that she should write a novel ; 
 and, after a great deal of trouble, we con- 
 cocted a plot. That was last year. We 
 went up the river, and elaborated it all one 
 summer's afternoon. It was a capital plot. 
 Three murders which all turned out to„be 
 no murders, a bigamy, and the discovery 
 of a will in a bandbox, formed the main in- 
 cidents. Unfortunately we couldn't string 
 it together. The result was not satisfacto- 
 ry ; and we took it out one day, tied a 
 great stone to it, and buried it solemnly 
 above Teddington Lock. It lies there still, 
 in a waterproof oilskin ; so that when the 
 river is dredged for treasure in a thousand 
 years' time it may be found, and published 
 as a rare and precious relic of antiquity. 
 There we are, you see. We can't be liter- 
 ary or musical ; our gifts and graces are so 
 wholly receptive, that we cannot even be- 
 come a strong-minded woman. What are 
 we to do ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know. I only half 
 understand what it all means." 
 
 " It means, Sukey, plainly, that the time is 
 staring me in the face when I must do some- 
 thing for the child which will bring her 
 into the world, and — and — away from 
 my old chambers, where the atmosphere, 
 very good for children, may prove delete- 
 rious for a young woman." 
 
 " If she could be honorably married," 
 said Sukey. 
 
 " I suppose," murmured her brother, 
 " that would be the best thing." Then he 
 shook himself together, and brightened 
 up. " My dear sister, I never come here 
 — it is wonderful to me why I come so 
 seldom — without getting tlie solution of 
 some of those problems which, as I am not 
 a mathematical man, do sometimes so 
 sorely worry me . Married, of course 1 
 She shall be married next week." 
 
 " But to whom, Hartley ? Do not laugh 
 at ev8ry thing." 
 
 " Eh V " His face fell. " To be sure. 
 I never thought of that. There is Jones — 
 but he has no money ; and, besides, I 
 ^ould certainly not let her marry Jones. 
 And Lynn — but he is poorer than Jones, 
 and I should not let him have my little girl. 
 Then there is — Sukey, you have floored 
 one problem only to raise another and a 
 worse one. To whom shall I marry her Y " 
 
 He put on his hat, shook his head mourn- 
 fully, and went away. Next day he pro- 
 pounded some of his difficulties to LoUie. 
 
 " A.nd so, after a long talk with my sis- 
 ter, the most sensible woman that at pres- 
 ent adorns the earth, she gave me, Lollie, 
 
 the answer to the question I have been 
 troubling myself with for so .long. She 
 says, my child, that there is only one way : 
 you must be comfortably and honorably 
 married. Her very words." 
 
 » I, Mr. Venn ? " The girl looked up 
 and iaugJled in his face, with those merry 
 blue eyes of Tiers. ■" What have I done, 
 that I must be married V " 
 
 " Don't raise difficulties, Lollie," he said, 
 in a feeble way. " After all the trouble 
 we had in getting Sukey to give us the 
 right answer too." 
 She laughed again. 
 
 " I suppose I am not to be married un- 
 less I like ? " 
 
 " Why, no — I suppose not. No. Oh, 
 certainly not I bub you will Hke, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " And who am I to marry ? " 
 " Why, you see, Lollie " — Ho grew 
 confidential. " The fact is, I don't know. 
 Jones won't do." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! He is too — too — un- 
 dignified." 
 
 " Mr. Lynn ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Is there any one 
 else ? " 
 
 " Not at present, my child ; but we shall 
 see. Let us look around us. London is a 
 great place. If London won't do, there is 
 all England ; besides the rest of; Great 
 Britain, Berwick-upon-Tweed, and the 
 colonies." 
 
 " What does it all mean, Mr. Venn ? " 
 she asked, sitting at his feet on the foot- 
 stool. " Last Sunday you were talking in 
 the same strain. You are not going away, 
 or any thing, are you ? " 
 He shook his head. 
 " I have not ofiended you, have I ? " 
 He patted her cheek, and shook his 
 head agkin. 
 
 " And you love me as much as always, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 "More, Lollie, more," he said, in a 
 queer, constrained voice. But she under- 
 stood nothing. 
 
 " Then, what is it ? Do you think I am 
 not grateful to you V " 
 
 " Don't, child — don't talk of gratitude." 
 " Do you think I do not love you enough? 
 O Mr. Venn 1 yon know I do." 
 
 Perhaps it would have been well if he 
 had spoken, then, the words which rose to 
 his lips, — , 
 
 " It is that I think you can never love 
 me as I love you — no longer as your guar- 
 dian, but your lover ; no longer as a child, 
 but with the hungry passion of a man who 
 has never known a woman's love, and 
 yearns for your love." 
 
 But he was silent, only patting her 
 cheek in a grave and silent way. 
 
44 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 " Would you really like me to be mar- 
 ried, Mr. Venn ? " 
 
 He left her, and bet;an walking about ; 
 for the spectre which he had deliberately 
 refused to see stood before him now, face 
 to face, — the spectre of another feeling, 
 newer, sweeter, altogether lovely ; but he 
 faced it still. 
 
 " Can there be a better thing for a girl 
 than to be married, Lollie ? I wish what 
 is best for you." 
 
 " Would" it be best for me to give up 
 coming here every day ? " 
 
 " No, child, no," he replied passionately. 
 
 " Then why want me to ? " 
 
 "It would break my heart not to see 
 you here every day," be went on, not dar- 
 ing to look her in the face. " But — but 
 — there are other things. Lollie, I want 
 you to be happy during those long hours 
 when you are not with me." 
 
 She turned red, and the tears came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I have been, as usual, a selfish beast," 
 he said. " I have only, since Sunday, real- 
 ized in a small degree what a difference 
 there is, of my making, between you, and 
 the people in whose midst you live. Lollie, 
 you are a lady. Believe mo, there is no 
 girl in 'all Entjland better educated than 
 yourself. I think, too, there is no girl so 
 beautiful." 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. He 
 had never before even hinted at the possi- 
 bility of her bein'j; beautiful. 
 
 " Am I pretty V O Mr. Venn I I am so 
 ' glad." 
 
 " Mind," he went on, careful to guard 
 against possible error, " I only think so. 
 I've got no experience in these things, you 
 know." 
 
 " Ah 1 " she replied, " and very likely 
 you are mistaken. I suppose all girls like 
 to be beautiful, do they not? And you 
 are not in such a very great huny to see 
 me away, married, or any thing else, are 
 you ? " 
 
 He smiled in his queer way. Hartley 
 Venn's smile was peculiar to himself; at 
 least, I never met anybody else with it. 
 There was always a sort of sadness in the 
 curve-of his sensitive lips. He smiled with 
 his eyes first, too, like the damsel in 
 Chaucer. . 
 
 * Hir eyen greye and glad also, 
 That lauahedeu ay in hire igemblaiint, 
 First or the mouth by covenant." 
 
 " Not in a hurry at all, Lollie — only I 
 thought we would talk things over some 
 day. Now let us do something. It is six 
 o'clock. We will dine together, and go 
 to the theatre. Shall we ? Enough of sen- 
 
 timent, and of confidences enough. We 
 will rejoice. What does Horace say ? — 
 
 * Hie dies vere mihi festus ' " — 
 
 " That is delightful," said Lollie, clap- 
 ping her hands. " When you begin to 
 quote, I know you are happy again. Let 
 us have no more talk of marrying, Mr. 
 Venn. One thing, you know," she said, 
 placing her hand on his arm — -/'I ,could 
 never marry anybody but a gentleman ; 
 and as no gentleman will ever love me, 
 why I shall never marry anybody at all ; 
 and we shall go on being happy together, 
 you and I, — 
 
 ' r n'y a que moi qui ai ses idi5es la. 
 (Grai la riette — gai, lira, lire.' " 
 
 .And so, singing and dancing, she put en 
 her hat and gloves, and taking Hartley's 
 arm, went out to the restaurant which 
 knew them well. As she passed through 
 the portals of the dingy old Inn, with her 
 springing step and the laughing light of 
 her happy face, the old porter rubbed his 
 eyes, the policeman assumed an attitude 
 of respectful attention, and the cads who 
 loafed about for odd jobs became conscious 
 of something in the world superior to beer 
 and a dry skittle-ground. Whenever I 
 meet a maiden happy in her beauty, me- 
 thinks, in my mind's eye, I see again Aph- 
 rodite springing up anew from the ocean. 
 Happy Aphrodite i She reigns by no vir- 
 tue of her own ; she is not wise, or strong, 
 or prescient ; she does not hold the tliread 
 of destiny ; she is unconnected with tlw 
 electric department ; she has no control 
 over the weather ; she is not consulted in 
 the distribution of wealth or honors ; and 
 yet she is Queen among goddesses, Empress 
 over gods — Begina Cseli. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 The days passed on, and Lollie thought 
 no more of her champion ; but Philip 
 thought of her ; and, when he took his 
 walks abroad, more often than , not bent 
 his steps down Oxford Street and Holborn, 
 praying silently that he might chance upon 
 her again. He might have walked up and 
 down Holborn forever on the chance of 
 seeing her again, and yet missed her alto- 
 gether. But one day, thinking of some- 
 thing else, he was walking round a square 
 in'Bloomsbtiry, when, raising his eyes from 
 the ground, — I believe he was thinking of 
 his bets, — he saw the maiden of his exploit 
 tripping along a few yards before him. 
 There was no mistaking her. She came 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 45 
 
 along, with a light, elastic step, full of 
 youth and health, with her frank, sweet 
 face, her deep blue eyes, and her tall, lithe 
 figure : only by day she looked ten times 
 as well as by night. 
 
 She, too, saw him, and blushed. 
 
 Philip took off his hat. She hesitated a 
 moment, and held out her hand. 
 
 " I ought to thank you properly," she 
 said. " I was very much frightened." 
 
 Philip took her hand, and turned. The 
 girl went on, and he went with her. You 
 see, it was one oi'the radical defects of her 
 education that she positively did not know 
 the dreadful " wrongness " of letting a man, 
 not properly introduced, speak to her, and 
 walk with her. 
 
 _" I shall tell Mr. Venn I met you," she 
 said. " He will be glad. Come and pee 
 him yourself, for him to thank you." 
 
 " May I ask — excuse me, but I do not 
 know Mr. Venn." 
 
 " He is my guardian. I am going to 
 him now. lie lives in Gray's Inn." 
 
 It seemed strange to the girl that all the 
 world did not know Mr. Venn. 
 
 Philip did not know what to say. As 
 he walked along by her side, he turned 
 furtive glances at her, drinking in the lines 
 of beauty of her j'ace and form. 
 
 " Do you live near here V " 
 
 " No, I am here by accident. I am 
 living in St. James Street, in lodgings. I 
 am on leave from my regiment. 
 
 " I don't think," said LoUie, " that I 
 should much like to be an officer." She 
 always took the male point of view, from 
 habit. " I should like best to be a writer, 
 a dramatist, or perhaps a barrister. But I 
 should like to wear the uniform. Once I 
 saw a splendid review at Windsor, when 
 the Viceroy of Egypt was here. Ai-e you 
 in the cavalry ? " 
 
 " No. I am in the line." 
 
 " Why do you^not go into the cavalry? 
 It must be delightful to charge, with all the 
 horses thundering over the ground. Do 
 you like your profession ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so — as well as any 
 thing." 
 
 " xou know," said the girl, '" it is absurd 
 for a man to take up with a thing, and 
 then take no interest in it. I should like 
 something I could throw my whole heart 
 into." 
 
 " I could only throw my whole heart 
 away upon one thing," Philip replied 
 softly, and with a half-blush ; for he was 
 afraid he was making a foolish observa- 
 tion. 
 
 " What is that ? If I were you, I should 
 take it up at once." 
 
 " I could only throw my whole heart 
 away — upon a woman." 
 
 Laura received the remark as one of 
 profound philosophical importance. 
 
 " That is a very curious thing. Not a 
 right thing at alL I should think it would 
 be so much better to put your heart into 
 work." 
 
 " Tell me," said Philip, in a half-whisper, 
 " Do you not think love a worthy object 
 of a man's life ? " 
 
 " I really do not think any thing about 
 it," said the' girl. " And now I must leave 
 you, because I am going down here, and 
 so to the Inn. Won't you come in and be 
 thanked by Mr. Venn ? " 
 
 " No, it is enough to be thanked by you. 
 May I — ami impertinent in asking you 
 — will you tell me your name ? " 
 
 " I am called Laura Collingwood," she 
 answered freely and frankly. '" What is 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Philip Durnford." 
 
 "Philip Durnford — I like the name. 
 Mr. Venn has a/riend of your name, b* I 
 have not met him yet. Good-by, Mr. 
 Durnford." 
 
 " One moment. Shall we never meet 
 again ? " 
 
 He looked so sentimental that Laura 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " You look as if-you were going to cry. 
 I think we shall very likely never meet 
 again." 
 
 Phil grew desperate. His hot Southern 
 blood rose at once. 
 
 " I must speak — laugh at me if you like. 
 I have been hanging about Oxford Street 
 in hopes of meeting you, and for no other 
 reason. I think you are the sweetest-look- 
 ing girl I ever saw, and — and — I am a 
 fool to say it, when I have only spoken 
 twice — I love you." 
 
 She looked at him without a blush on 
 her face — quite coldly, quite openly, as if 
 it were the most natural thing in the world 
 for a man to tell her this at the second 
 meeting. 
 
 " Do you mean, you want to marry me ? " 
 
 The question, so abruptly and boldly 
 stated, took Philip by. surprise. 
 
 " Of course I do," he cried hastily — 
 "of course I do." 
 
 " Oh 1 " she replied slowly, " I don't know. 
 You see, I've no experience in marriagei 
 matters. I must ask Mr. Venn what he 
 thinks about it. He told me the other day 
 he should like to see me married. I shaE 
 see what he says about it first. AVe must 
 never do serious things in a hurry, you 
 know." 
 
 Surely the quaintest answer that ever 
 man had to a proposal. Philip felt as if he 
 were in a dream. 
 
 " Won't you come and see him yourself ? " 
 she asked. 
 
46 
 
 Mr LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " I have been too hasty," he said. " Par- 
 don me. I am rude and uncouth. Miss 
 CoUingwood, I ask your forgiveness." 
 
 " I wonder wliat for ? " thought LoUie ; 
 but she said nothing. 
 
 " Let us wait," he said. " Marriage is a 
 very serious thing, as you say. I am worse 
 than a fool. Believe only that I love you, 
 as I said ; and meet me again. Let me 
 learn to love you more, and try and teach 
 you to love me." 
 
 " I will ask Mr. Venn." 
 
 " No," said Philip, with a sharp pang of 
 conscience, " do not ask him. Wait. Meet 
 me once more first, and let me speak to 
 you again. Then you shall tell him. Will 
 you promise me so much ? Meet me to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " I promise," said Laura. " But " — 
 
 " Thanks — a thousand thanks. You 
 will meet me to-morrow, and you will keep 
 the secret," 
 
 He took off his hat, lightly touched her 
 fingers, and walked away. 
 
 LoUie went in to Mr. Venn. It was four 
 in the afternoon, and the sage was hard at 
 ■work on his last essay. 
 
 " I thought you would never come, child. 
 What did Sukey say ? " 
 
 " Miss Venn is better, and much obliged 
 for the papers; and, Mr. Venn! I've 
 had an adventure, and I've got a secret ! " 
 
 " What is the adventure, Lollie ? " 
 
 " That is the secret. I will tell it you as 
 soon as I can. Tell me, Mr. Venn, is it 
 wrong to have a secret V " 
 
 " That is a wide question, involving a 
 profound study of all casuistry and debated 
 points ftom Thales to Mill. I would rather 
 refer you to their works genera;lly." 
 
 " Well, then, may I have a secret ? " 
 
 " Fifty, my dear, if you will. You look 
 a great deal better to-day, Lollie ; and, if 
 this east wind would be good enough to go 
 away, — where would it go to, and what 
 becomes of all the other winds when they 
 are off duty ? " 
 
 " Eurus keeps them In a bag, you know." 
 
 " So he does — so he does. Well, in 
 spite of the east wind, let us go and look at 
 the shops, Lollie." 
 
 They did ; and at ten, after a little music 
 and talk, the girl went home as usual, but 
 feeling strangely excited. 
 
 Let us follow her newly-found lover, and 
 tell how his evening was spent. 
 
 Just now this part of the day was usu- 
 ally devoted to the billiard-room of the v6ry 
 respectable club to which he had been 
 elected on his arrival in England. He was 
 an indifFerentljr good player, -r- nowhere in 
 good company, but could hold his own in 
 
 bad. He had ilo scientific knowledge of 
 the angles of the tp.ble ; he handled his cue 
 clumsily ; and was not within thirty-five 
 points in a hundred of the best plaiyers at 
 his club. Besides, he was not really fond 
 of the game : it was the money element 
 that made him play at all ; and he never 
 cared to jilay without having from a half a . 
 crown to a sovereign on his game. Philip 
 was that very common animal, a born 
 gambler. Now, pool always presented the 
 attraction of chance ; ^o Mr. Phil played 
 much more at this than he did at billiards. 
 He generally got put out of .the game 
 among the first. Still, there is always a 
 large element of luck about it ; and, though 
 you are knocked out, there is a chance of 
 a bet or two on the lives left in. It was a 
 mild enough affair, — three-shilling pool 
 and shilling lives, just enough to keep the 
 spark of gambling alive. At the pool- 
 table, as a matter of course, Philip picked 
 up a few friends — Capts. Shairp and 
 Smythe, late of the — th, in which regi- 
 ment they had lost all their money, and 
 perhaps a little of their honor ; living now, 
 it is whispered, largely on their wits. Gen- 
 tlemen such as these play well at most 
 games, whether of chance or skill. They 
 have a habit of making friends with new 
 members of the club, though it is observed 
 that these friendships seldom last long ; 
 and yet Smythe and Shairp were two of 
 the most agreeable, polite, open-hearted 
 fellows it is possible to conceive. 'No men 
 corrected the marker's mistakes so softly : 
 no men called to the waiters for a drink in 
 so jolly and affable a tone. Yet nobody 
 cared for their society. Perhaps the cap- 
 tains were to blame for this. Who knows. 
 On the other hand, people might be wrong 
 in whispering away their fair fame. The 
 fact is indisputable, -^ they had the misfor- 
 tune to be disliked. 
 
 Philip Durnford knew nothing of .ill this 
 when he joined his club.; and so, in two 
 days' time, he nodded to the captains as 
 they Chalked their cues for business, chat- 
 ted in a week, and was a friend in a fort- 
 night. Perhaps, if Smythe and Shairp 
 had known the exact amount of Mr. Philip's 
 balance at his agent's, they might not have 
 been so free and open-handed in the matter 
 of cigars. 
 
 It was on the evening of this, his second 
 meeting with Laura, that Philip dined at 
 his club, and went quietly into the billiard- 
 room after dinner : intending to play till 
 nine, and then go the French play, where 
 he had a stall — centre of the second row. 
 The evening proved a sort of turning-point 
 in his career ; for, unluckily, he never went 
 to the French play at all. His two friends 
 had also two friends with them,— ^ very 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 47 
 
 young fellows, with the aii- of wealth about 
 them. In a word, pigeons being plucked. 
 Two or three other men were -playing in 
 the pool with them : among these was 
 young Mylles, cornet in the Hussars, the 
 most amiable and the silliest young gander 
 in the club, a little looked down upon, 
 because his father had been connected 
 with the soap-boiling interest. Said Shairp, 
 when Phil proposed to put down his cue 
 and M, — 
 
 "If' you would stay, we could make up 
 two rubbers. Pray don't go, — that iS, if 
 you can stay." 
 
 It poured in torrents. Phil looked out 
 into the wet street, hesitated, and was lost. 
 
 The card-room was cosey enough, bright 
 and warm ; though the rain jielted hard 
 against the windows, and came spitting 
 down the chimney into the fire. Over the 
 fireplace hung the 'usual rules against 
 heavy bets and games of chance, — a fact 
 which did not restrain the astute Shairp. 
 He said, after a rubber, — 
 
 " By Jove ! Whist is a very fine game, 
 and a very noble game, and all that ; but 
 at the risk of being thought an ass, I must 
 say it is not exciting enough to please me." 
 
 Ca.pt. Smythe concurred. 
 , So did Phil. He hated whist with all 
 his heart./ He was a bad player. 
 
 " I really think, now, if you will excuse 
 me, I shall go to the play. It is past ten 
 already, and I want to see Mdlle. Dufont." 
 
 " But you can't go out in this rain, you 
 know. It's absurd to have a cab to cross 
 the street in. Wait a bit." 
 
 Phil waited. Another rubber was played 
 through. Smythe walked to the window, 
 threw up his arms over his head, an^ 
 yawned loudly. 
 
 " Smythe's tired," said Shairp. 
 
 « So am I," said Phil. 
 
 " We might have a little something else 
 for a change, eh ? " 
 
 " Ah," said Smythe, " we might. Con- 
 found it, though, we can't play here, and" 
 — pulling out his watch — "I've got a most 
 particular appointment at eleven." 
 
 " I haven't had a hand at loo for — let 
 me see — six months, I know, if it's a day," 
 said Shairp. 
 
 His friend had ten objections — over- 
 ruled in ten seconds. 
 
 One of the party never played at loo, 
 and loft them. The younger pigeon, who 
 had just got into newly furnished chambers, 
 said, — 
 
 " It paws so with wain, or we might go 
 to my diggings. What a baw it is ! One's 
 boots would be sopped thrwough before one 
 could get into a hansom." 
 
 So uiey played at the club. 
 
 " Just ten minutes, you know," said 
 Shairp and Smythe. 
 
 The ten minutes grew into an hour and 
 a half. The strikes were doubled twice, 
 and the game was " guinea unlimited," 
 when the pigeons were so thirsty that they 
 risked ringing the boll. 
 
 " Brandy and soda, waiter." 
 
 The drinks arrived, and with them a 
 hint that they were breaking the rules of 
 the club. , > 
 
 Phil was the heaviest loser, and with his 
 money he lost what is of much more value 
 at games of chance, — his temper. He an- 
 swered the polite message of the servant 
 with an oath. Two minutes afterwards the 
 steward came. Civilly he pointed to the 
 rules hanging over the fireplace, and asked 
 the gentlemen to desist. 
 
 Shairp and Smythe said he was quite 
 right, and mentally calculated what they 
 had won by handling the money in their 
 pockets. 
 
 But Philip acted differently. He 
 said, — 
 
 " It's an infernal silly rule, that's all I've 
 got to say." 
 
 '■ It is the rule, sir,'' said the nettled ser- 
 vant. 
 
 " Then d — n the rule, and you too." 
 And he tore the cardboard from the nail it 
 hung on, and tore it into a dozen pieces. 
 Some fell in the fend'er, some in the fire. 
 
 " I say, Durnford," said Shairp, " I think 
 that's rather strong." 
 
 Phil laughed. The man said he must 
 report the act to the secretary, and left the 
 room. 
 
 They played till there was a single. 
 Then everybody but Philip and one of the 
 two pigeons had had enough. They Were 
 either winners on the night, or had not lost. 
 So the pigeon, backed by Phil, insisted 
 that they could not leave off yet ; and the 
 party of seven adjourned in two four-wheel- 
 er's to the pigeon's chambers. 
 
 Here, when the fire was lighted, and they 
 had tried the quality of their host's liquors, 
 the game went on. A fresh place, new 
 cards. 
 
 " My luck will change, you'll see," said 
 Phil. But it did not ; and, as all his ready 
 money was gone, he put in I O Us, written 
 on scraps of paper, 'and signed P. D., with 
 an apology. ' 
 
 " A man can't carry the Bank of Eng- 
 land about with him," he said. 
 
 "I suppose he is good," whispered 
 Shairp." 
 
 " Eight as the mail," replied Smythe. 
 
 So they went on, and the two friends 
 took Phil's paper as readily as their young 
 pigeon's notes. 
 
 The same waxed warm. The stakes 
 
48 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 got liigh. Their host emptied two gold- 
 topped scent bottles filled with sovereigns 
 out of his dressing-case on to the claret 
 cloth of his card-table, and they were gone 
 in three rounds. The bottles held fifty a- 
 piece too. 
 
 "My usual luck," growled Philip. 
 " Looed again." 
 
 " I never saw any thing like it," said 
 Smythe. " It must turn, though, and we 
 need not hurry." 
 
 " Oh, no — play forever, if you like, he- 
 ah," said their host. He was getting rath-, 
 er tipsy. 
 
 But Shairp and Smythe, who had earn- 
 ed their money,, got fidgety, and began to 
 feel very' sleepy. 
 
 Shairp nodded in his chair. Smythe 
 looked at his watch every few minutes, al- 
 though there were three French clocks in 
 the rooms, chiming the quarters, and his 
 own^vatch had stopped at half-past three. 
 
 Phil's luck had not turned, and he was 
 very much excited. His head ached, his 
 eyes ached, the brandy he had drunk had 
 made his legs feel queer, and his temper 
 was what a gentleman's is when luck has 
 been against him all night. 
 
 There were frequent squabbles as to the 
 amount of the pool, the division of it into 
 tricks, as to who was looed and who was 
 not ; but oftenest about who had not put 
 his money in. 
 
 Little silly, honest Mylles was now the 
 soberest of the party — always excepting 
 the two confederates — and he was' only 
 kept out of his bed in his father's house in 
 Eaton Square by the feeling that he ought 
 not to be the first to run away, as lie had 
 not lost much. 
 
 Phil was inaccurate, and Mylles correct- 
 ed him more than once. The others sup- 
 ported Mylles's view, and this riled Phil, 
 At last, when Phil exclaimed, — 
 
 " Somebody has not put in again," he 
 looked pointedly across the table. 
 
 " I put in," said Shairp, wide awake. " I 
 know mine. It was a two half sovs and a 
 shilling." 
 
 " I saw you," said Smythe, quite careless 
 whether the assertion possessed the merit 
 of truth or not. 
 
 " parcit 
 
 Cognatis macuUs similis feta." 
 
 " I know I put in," said Shairp and every- 
 body. 
 
 " Then it's put on to me again," said 
 Phil snappishly. 
 
 " You did . not put in, I know," said 
 Mylles quietly. " I saw who put in." 
 
 « That te d— d," said Philip, his fea- 
 tures swelling, and his lips twitching. 
 
 The cornet turned a little pale. 
 
 " If you mean those words, I must leave 
 th& room." 
 
 " Consider them repeated," said Philip, 
 in a fury. 
 
 " I must go," said Mylles, rising. 
 
 " Go, then ; and be d — d to you." 
 
 To two persons present it did not matter. 
 Their end was served -^- for the night. The 
 three gentlemen who heard it were shock- 
 ed, and ran after Mylles ; but he could not 
 bu prevailed on to come back. 
 
 When they returned without l:pm, Phil 
 was laughing iinmoderately, with laughter 
 half real, half affected. 
 
 " rll tell you what I'm laughing at," he 
 said. ".I was thinking what a scene 
 Tljackeray would have made out of all 
 this." 
 
 " Thackeray, at least, would never have 
 behaved so to anybody," said the soberest 
 of the men. 
 
 Phil laughed, feeling a good deal ashamed, 
 and the party separated. Phil, with a note 
 of the amount of the I O Us, — a good 
 deal heavier than he at all expected, and 
 a promise to send checks the next morn- 
 ing, — went home to bed. 
 
 It was broad daylight, and therefore tol- 
 erably late. 
 
 As he felt for the latch-key, he found the 
 ticket for the stall in his pocket. 
 
 " Wish I'd gone there," he sighed. 
 
 Morning brought repentance. He sent 
 his checks ; he sent in his resignation to 
 the club ; he sought out Mylles, and apolo- 
 gized ; and then — most fatal act — he met 
 Smythe, and accepted a proposal of that 
 gallant officer to put his name down at 
 the Burleigh Club. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 Ip you want to see Marguerite waiting 
 for Faust, as likely a spot as any to find 
 her is the left-hand walk, below the bridge, 
 in St. James's Park, — that part of the 
 walk which is opposite to the Foreign Of- 
 fice, and has an umbrageous protection of 
 liaaves and branches. I am told that the 
 British Museum is another likely place. 
 Certainly it has never yet been satisfacto- 
 rily explained why so njany pretty girls go 
 there. South Kensington is greatly fre- 
 quented by <youn^ ladies who delight in 
 those innocent dallyings with a serious pas- 
 sion which we call a flirtation. According 
 to some authorities, the Crystal Palace is 
 the most ■ likely place of all ; but my own 
 experience leds me to select St. James's 
 Park. There, between the hours of ten 
 and one, or between three and five — be- 
 cause Marguerite dines with her family at 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 49 
 
 one — you may always see some pretty 
 rosy-cheeked damsel strolling, apparently 
 ■with no purpose except that of gentle ex- 
 , ercise, up and down the shady walks. 
 Sometimes she stops at the water's edge, 
 and contemplates the duiiks which adorn 
 the lake, or impatiently pushes the gravel 
 into the water with the point of her parar 
 sol. Sometimes she makes great play wiLh 
 her book; but .always she is there first; 
 for very fear, poor child, that she may miss 
 him. Ahd he always comes late. 
 
 On this particular morning, — a fresh, 
 bright morning in May, — the east winds 
 having gone away earlier than usual, and 
 the leaves really beginning to feel tolerably 
 safe in coming. out, a young girl of eighteen 
 is loitering up and down, with an anxious and 
 rather careworn look. Big Ben chimes the 
 quarters, and people come and go ; but she 
 remains, twisting her glove, and biting her 
 lips with vexation. The appointed time 
 was half-past ten. She was there at a quar- 
 ter before ten. It is now eleven. 
 
 " And he said he would be there punctu- 
 ally," she murmurs. 
 
 Presently she leaves off tapping the 
 ground impatiently. Her cheek flushes. 
 Her eyes begin to soften. She hesitates. 
 She turns into the shadiest part of the 
 walk, while a manly heel comes crunching 
 the gravel behind her. There is no one in 
 the walk but a policeman. He — good, 
 easy man — as one used to the ways of 
 young people, and as experienced as the 
 moon herself, turns away, and slowly leaves 
 them alone. 
 
 " Laura," whispers the new-comer, taking 
 both her hands. 
 
 She makes a pretence of being angry. 
 
 " Philip ! And you promised to be here 
 at half-past ten." 
 
 " I could not help it, child. Regimental 
 duties detained me." 
 
 " But your regiment is at Malta." 
 
 " That is it. ' Correspondence. Letters 
 which had to be answered." 
 ' Lovelace himself n^ver told a greater fib. 
 
 And presently they sit down and talk. 
 
 " See what I have brought for you, Lau- 
 ra," says the lover, lugging out a pair of 
 earrings, in the child's eyes worthy to be 
 worn by a duchess. " Will you wear-them, 
 and will you think of me every time you 
 put them on ? " 
 
 Laura takes the earrings, and looks up 
 ■at hini in a grave and serious way. She 
 has none of the little coquettish ways of 
 girls who want to play and sport with their 
 lovers, like an angler with a fish. That 
 was because she had never associated with 
 girls of her own age at all. Straightfor- 
 ward, and perfectly truthfiil, she answered 
 him now wilh another question. 
 
 " Will you tell me again what you told 
 me when we met last, — the second time we 
 ever met ? " 
 
 " I told you that I loved you, and I asked 
 you to marry me. Tell me in return that 
 you love me a very little. If you give me 
 back a tenth part of my love for you, Lau- 
 ra, I should be rich, indeed, in love." 
 
 " I don't know," she'' ans'vered, looking 
 him full in the face. " I like you. You 
 are a gentleman, and — and handsome, and 
 you are pleasant. Then you fall in love 
 with me, which, I am sure, must be a silly 
 thing to do. That's against you, you 
 know ; but how am I to know that I love 
 you V " 
 
 " Do you want to see me ? " 
 " Yes," she answered frankly ; " else I 
 should not be here now." 
 " Do you love anybody else ? " 
 " Oh, no I " 
 
 " Do you think of me ? " 
 " Why, of course. I've been thinking of 
 nothing else. It is all so strange. I've 
 been dreaming of you, even," she added, 
 laughing. 
 
 " And you have said nothing to Mr. — 
 what is his name, your guardian ? " 
 
 "Mr. Vepn? No — nothing. I only told 
 him I had a secret and wanted to keep it 
 for the present. 
 " Good child." 
 
 " Then I told him yesterday that I was 
 coming here — all part of my secret — at 
 half-past ten." 
 
 " You told him you were coming here ? " 
 said Philip, starting up. " Th^n he is quite 
 sure to come too." 
 
 " Mr. Venn is a gentleman, Mr. Durn- 
 ford," said Laura, with great dignity. " He 
 trusts people altogether, or not at all." 
 
 " By Jove 1 " murmured Phil, " he must 
 be a very remarkable man." 
 
 " Mr. Venn told me to keep my secret as 
 long as ever I pleased. So that is all right. 
 And now I must tell you two or three 
 things about myself; and we will talk about 
 love and all that afterwards, if you like." 
 
 " No : let us talk about love now. Never 
 mind the two or three things." 
 
 " But we must, you know. Now, listen. 
 Who do you think I am ? Tell me honest- 
 ly, because I want to know. Quite honest- 
 ly, mind. Don't think you will offend: 
 me." 
 
 " Well, honestly, I do not know and. 
 cannot guess. You dress like all young 
 ladies, but you are somehow different." 
 
 " Ah," replied Laura, " I never shall be- 
 like them." 
 
 " But, child, you are a great deal better. 
 You don't pretend to blush, and put on all 
 sorts of little affectations ; and you haven't 
 learned all their tricks." 
 
60 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ''What affectations, — what tricks? " 
 
 " And I like you all the better for it. 
 Now tell me who you are, and all about 
 yourself." 
 
 " My mother was a poor girl. My father 
 was a gentleman — I am glad to know 
 that. He died before I was born. My 
 grandmother is a poor old woman, who 
 gets her living by being a laundress in 
 Gray's Inn. And if it had not been for 
 Mr. Venn, I should have been — I don't 
 know — any thing. He took me when I 
 was five years old, and has been educating 
 me ever since. I never spoke to any lady 
 in my life, except Miss Venn, bis sister. 
 I never go anywhere, except with Mr. 
 Venn ; and I never spoke to any gentle- 
 man, except Mr. Venn's most intimate 
 friends, until I met you. I have no re- 
 lations, no friends, no connections. I belong 
 to the very lowest stratum of London life. 
 Now, Mr. Durnford, you have all my story. 
 What do you think of it ? " 
 
 His face wore a puzzled expression. 
 
 " Tell me more. Have you no broth- 
 ers ? " 
 
 " No, none." 
 
 " That's a good thing. I mean, of course, 
 it is always best to be without brothers and 
 cousins. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It must be nice to have 
 one brother all to yourself, you know. 
 There's a large family of brothers, grown- 
 up brothers, living next door to my grand- 
 mother's. They get tipsy every Saturday 
 evening, and fight. I should not like 
 " broth^s like them. To be sure, they are 
 stone-masons." 
 
 " And now tell me more about your guar- 
 dian, Mr. Venn. I suppose he is a fidgety old 
 gentleman, — likes to have you about him 
 to nurse him, and all that ? " 
 
 LoUie burst out laughing. 
 
 "Mr. Venn, is not an old gentleman at 
 all. Older Jjiari you, of course, ever so 
 much. ' He ijiust be thirty-seven, at 
 least." 
 
 " Oh I '^Philip's face lengthened. " And 
 does Mr. V^ijn, juever — never make love 
 to you, oijhi? ow,ji account ? " 
 
 She laugh?4 thei louder. 
 
 " Oh, what,i)pftsense I " she cried : " Mr. 
 Venn .milking Ipve.to me 1 He has told 
 me twice J;hatc he wants me to marry a 
 gentleman. Xhat ris why I agreed to 
 meet ypu again." 
 
 "So there. was, 00; love for me at all," 
 said Philip. 
 
 " I wish you wouldj))'t talk like that," re- 
 plied the girl. .. ','«J',yie told you already. 
 What more can I a^y-'l You asked me if 
 I loved anybody else. Of course I do 
 not. Then you askpd ipe if I liked you. 
 Of course I do, An^ if. I, have been think- 
 
 ing about you. Of course I have. Now, 
 sir, what more do you want ? " 
 
 " Laura, if you loved rae, you would 
 long to see rae again ; your pulse would 
 beat, and your face would flush, when you 
 met me ; but you are cold and passion- 
 less. You know " — his own face flushing 
 — " that I think of no one but you. You 
 know that — that there is nothing in the 
 world I would not give to win you. And 
 yet you play with me as if I were a statue 
 of marble." 
 
 She looked at him in a kind of surprise. 
 
 " I don't understand you at all. What 
 am I to say ? You tell me you love me. 
 That makes me very proud, because it is a 
 
 freat thing to be loved by a gentleman, 
 am grateful. What more do you want V 
 My pulse-doesn't beat any faster when I 
 see you coming along the walk — not a bit. 
 If it did I would tell you. Toll me what 
 it is you want me to do, and I will do it. 
 But of course you would not like me to 
 tell you any thing but the truth." 
 
 She looked at him with her full, earnest 
 eyes. His fell before them. They were 
 so reproachful in -their innocence and 
 purity. 
 
 " I want nothing, Laura," he said, in a, 
 husky voice — " nothing. Only I love you, 
 child, and you must be mine." 
 
 " Oh I " she replied, clapping her hands. 
 " Then I will tell Mr. Venn at once. He 
 Will be glad. And you shall come up with 
 me to see him." 
 
 " I am afraid that will hardly do," said 
 her lover feebly. "No. Listen, Laura, 
 dear. Mr. Venn knows you have a secret, 
 and has given you permission to keep it, 
 hasn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then we will keep it. We will keep 
 it till the day we are married ; and then we 
 will go together to his chambers, you and I, 
 and you shall say, — 
 
 " ' Mr. Venn, I have done what you 
 wanted me to ^o. I have married a man 
 who loves me — wha is a gentleman ; and 
 I have done it, first, because you will be 
 pleased, and, secondly, because I love him 
 too." ' 
 
 She pondered a little. 
 
 " I wonder if that is right. Don't you 
 think I ought to tell him at once ? " 
 
 " Oh, no 1 certainly not yet. Not till 
 we are actually married. Think how grat- 
 ified Mr. Venn will be." 
 
 She was not yet satisfied. 
 
 " I will tbink it over," she said. " Mr. 
 Venn always says that going to bed is the 
 best thing for bringing your opinion right. 
 Whenever he is troubled with any tliTng, 
 he goes to bed early ; and, in the morning, 
 he is always as happy as ever. I am quite 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 61 
 
 sure he would be very glad to be told all 
 about it at once. Some day, how proud 
 and happy we shall all be to have known 
 him." 
 
 " Very likely ; and meanwhile, Laura, 
 nothing will be said to him." 
 
 "No: I will go on keeping. the secret. 
 But, Philip, it will be so delightful when 
 we can all three go together up the river. 
 , Do you know the Bells of Ouseley ? Wo 
 often go there in the summer, row down 
 the river, you know, have dinner, and row 
 back again in the evening for the last 
 train. There is nothing in the world so 
 delightful." 
 
 " But, if we are married, you may not be 
 able to be so much with Mr. Venn." 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " Tell me," she said. " Marriage does 
 not mean that 1 am to be separated from 
 Mr. Venn, does it ? Because, if it does, I 
 would never marry any one. No, not if 
 he loved me — as much as you say you 
 
 " Marriage, ihy little innocent pet," said 
 Philip, laughing, " means, sometimes, that 
 two people are so fond of each other that 
 they never want anybody else's society at 
 all ; but with you and me, it will mean 
 that we shall be so proud of each other, so 
 pleased with each other's society, that we 
 shall be glad to get Mr. Venn, whom you 
 are so fond of, to share it with us. He 
 shall be with us all day if you like, as 
 many liours in the day as you spend with 
 him now ; but all the rest of the day you 
 will spend with me, and my life will be 
 given up to make you happy." 
 
 She looked at him again with wonder- 
 ing eyes, softened in expression. 
 
 " "That sounds very pleasant and sweet. 
 I think you must be a good man. Are you 
 as' good as Mr. Venn V " 
 
 " I don't know how good Mr. Venn is." 
 
 " I could tell you lots of things about 
 Mr. Venn's goodness. There was poor 
 Mary. That is four years ago now, and 1 
 was avery little girl. I don't know what 
 she did ; but her father turned her away 
 from his doors, and she was starving. I 
 told Mr. Venn, and he helped her to get a 
 place in a theatre, where she works now. 
 Poor Mary I I met her the other day ; and, 
 when she asked after Mr. Venn, she 
 burst out crying. Then once, when old 
 Mrs. Weeks's son Joe fell off the ladder, — 
 it was a terrible thing for them, you know, 
 because he broke his leg, and was laid up 
 for weeks, and nothing for his mother 
 while he was in the hospital, — Mr. Venn 
 heard of it, and kept the old woman till 
 Joe came Out of the hospital again. I saw 
 him, one Sunday, carrying a leg of mutton 
 himself, wrapped up in' ' The Observer,' to 
 
 Mrs.' Weeks's lodging. And I think Joe 
 would cut off his head to do good to Mr. 
 Venn." 
 
 Big Ben struck twelve. 
 
 " There's twelve o'clock ; and he will be 
 waiting for me. Good-by, Philip. 1 must 
 make haste back." 
 
 " Keep our secret, Laura." 
 
 " Yes : he said I might. Good-by." 
 
 " Meet me here/ next Monday. To-day 
 is Friday. I will be here at ten. Will 
 you ? " 
 
 She took his hand in her frank and hon- 
 est way, and tripped away. Presently, she 
 came running back. 
 
 " Please, Mr. Durnford," she said, " give 
 me some money for a cab. I cannot bear 
 that he should wait for me." 
 
 " He." Always Mr. Venn first in her 
 thoughts. 
 
 She took a florin from the silver Philip 
 held out to her, and ran out of the park. 
 
 He lit a cigar, and, strolling round the 
 ornamental water, began to think. 
 
 What did he mean to do about the girl ? 
 
 At this point he hardly knew himself, 
 except that he was madly in love with her. 
 Tt was but the third time they had met. 
 He loved her. The passion in his heart 
 was born a full flower, almost at first sight. 
 He seemed now no longer master of him- 
 self. So great and overwhelming was his 
 desire ^to get this girl for himself; but 
 how ? He knew very well that there was 
 little enough left of the original five thou- . 
 sand. How could he marry on a subaltern's 
 pay ? How could he take this young lady, 
 with her very remarkable education and 
 history, her . quaint and unconventional 
 ideas, and her ignorance of the world, into 
 his regiment? And lastly, how about Mr. 
 Venn ? Thei-e was another thing. When 
 she accepted him — which she did, as we 
 know, after a fashion quite unknown to fic- 
 tion and little practised in real life — when 
 she listened to his tale of love, it was all in 
 reference to Mr. Venn. The very frankness 
 with which the innocent girl had received 
 his suit was galling to a man's pride, es- 
 pecially if it happen to be a man with a 
 strong sense of personal superiority. Had 
 he been a hunchback, had his legs been 
 bowed and his back double, had he been an 
 idiot and a cretin, she could not well have 
 been colder or less encouraging. She did 
 not love him, that was clear ; but was he 
 sure that all this innocence was realY 
 Could a London girl be so brought up as to 
 have no sense of the realities of life ? 
 Would it be possible that a girl would ac- 
 cept a man, promise to marry him on the 
 very first offer, solely because her guardian 
 wanted her to marry a gentleman ? 
 
 Some men's passions are like a furnace, 
 
52 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 not only because they are so hot and burnino;, 
 but also because they are only fanned by 
 cold air. Had Laura met her lover's fond 
 vows by any corresponding affection, he 
 would have tired of her in a weeli ; but she 
 did not, as we have seen. Met him with a 
 cold logk of astonishment. " Love you ? 
 Oh, de.ir, no ! I cannot even tell what you 
 mean by love. Yes, I love Mr. Venn." 
 Amaryllis, pursued by Corydon, laughs in 
 his face, and tells him that she will marry 
 him because she loves Alexis, and Alexis 
 wants her to marry somebody. And yet 
 poor Corydon loves her still. 
 
 Corydon, meditating these things, and try- 
 ing — to do him justice — to repel and si- 
 lence certain wicked voices of suspicion and 
 evil prompting which were buzzing in his 
 ears, slowly walked round the ornamental 
 water, and emerged into Pall Mall. On 
 either shoulder was seated a little devil, one 
 of the kind chiefly employed for West-end 
 work — young, but highly promising, and 
 well-informed. 
 
 " You love her," said one. " She is 
 young and innocent, unsuspecting and cred- 
 ulous." 
 
 " She does not love you," said the other ; 
 " she only wants to please the man she 
 really loves." 
 
 And so on, amusing themselves as such 
 little imps are wont, while he sauntered 
 along the " sweet shady side," a prey to all 
 kinds of imaginings' and doubts. Perhaps, 
 . after all, the imaginings came from the depths 
 of his own brain, and not from any little 
 imps at all ; and, certainly, the existence of 
 these animals does present enormous diffi- 
 culties to the speculative philosopher, and 
 since the times of the Rev. Mr. Barham 
 they have not been prominently before the 
 public. If they have any functions to per- 
 form in this generation. I should think they 
 are used chiefly to influence men like our 
 poor Philip — whose strength of will has 
 been corrupted by evil habit, by vanity, by 
 false shame — to draw a veil over what is 
 good, to represent the bad as fatal, inevita- 
 ble, and not really so bad as has been made 
 out. 
 
 Now, as he turned the corner of Water- 
 loo Place, a thing befell him which must 
 really have been the special work of the 
 chief of the Metropolitan Secret Iniquity 
 Force. I may seem harsh in my judgment, 
 but the event will perhaps justify me. 
 
 There came beating across the street, 
 from the corner of Cockspur Street to the 
 far corner of Waterloo Place, with intent to 
 go down Pall Mall, a team of animated 
 sandwiches. With that keen sense of the 
 fitness of things which always distinguishes 
 the profession, they had selected this as the 
 fittest place to advertise a spectacle at the 
 
 Vicixjria Theatre. The ways of this curi- 
 ous and little-studied folk afford, some- 
 times, food for profound reflection. I 
 have seen the bearer of a sandwich, 
 on one side of Which was inscribed 
 the legend, " Silence, tremble ! " and, on 
 the other, words more sacred than may 
 here be lightly written, heavily drunk 
 outside a public, while a friend, engaged in 
 making known the Coal Hole and the 
 Poses Plastiques, was expostulating with 
 him on his iinmorality. The perfunctory 
 preacher had not taken his own text to 
 heart. The ffrineiple is exactly the same 
 as that by which the Cambridge undergrad- 
 uate from far Cathayjwho confesses tljat 
 there is but one God, and Mohammed is his 
 prophet, passes that barrier to distinction 
 called the Litile Go, wherein he has to 
 master Paley's" Evidences of Christianity," 
 and goes back to his native land and to 
 Islam. 
 
 This particular procession 'Consisted of 
 thirteen men. On thb proud shield which 
 each bore in front and behind was blazoned 
 a scene of almost impossible splendor and 
 magnificence, while a single letter on 
 each enabled the whole to be read by 
 the curious, as the pageant streamed past, 
 as " Titania's Haunt." " Streaming past " 
 is poetical, but scarcely correct. It 
 rather shuffled past. Most of the knight?, 
 or esquires, — scuti/eri, — were lined with 
 men well-stricken in years, their faces lined 
 with thought, or it may have been ex- 
 perience. After some five or six had 
 passed along, one experienced a feeling as 
 of red noses. Their dress was shabby and 
 dirty ; their looks were hopeless and blank ; 
 some of them seemed to have once been 
 gentlemen ; and the spectator, looking at 
 the men who carried rather than the thing 
 they bore, was touched with a sense of pity 
 and fear. 
 
 Poor helots of our great London. You 
 are paraded,, I suspect, by the philanthro- 
 pists, — perhaps it is the great, secret, un- 
 suspected work of the Society for the Sup- 
 pression of Vice, — who make you carry a 
 shield to hide their intentions and spare 
 you unnecessary shame. They spend their 
 money upon you, — not too much, it is true, 
 — that we may have before our eyes a 
 constant example of the effects of drink. 
 March ! Bands of Hope, with colors flyino-, 
 and music playing, sing '• Sursum, corda^" 
 and strengthen resolution by speeches and 
 hymns; but, on your way home, look at 
 this poor creature of sixty, who was once 
 delicately nurtured and carefully brought 
 up, — a scholar and a gentleman, — and 
 tremble lest you give way ; for .the sand- 
 wich men mean drink, drink, drink. Bet- 
 ter to have these woe-begone faces before us 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 53 
 
 as we walk down the street than the La- 
 cedaemonian helot staggering foolishly in 
 front. , 
 
 Phil stood and watched them dodging the 
 cabs. One by one they S!ot across that dif- 
 ficult and dangerous corner where there 
 ought to be an island every three yards to 
 protect us. Presently the bearer of the 
 letter I arrived on the curb, and fell into line. 
 Philip dropped his cigar, and started. The 
 man was looking straight before him. His 
 face was perfectly white and pale, and with- 
 out hair. His locks were of a silvery 
 white, although he could hardly have been 
 much more than fifty. His nose — a fat, 
 prominent organ — was deeply tinged witb 
 red ; his mouth was tremulous ; crow's-feet 
 lay under his eyes, which were small, 
 bright, and cunning, set beneath light brown 
 or reddish eyebrows. The aspect of the 
 man, with his white hair, smooth face, and 
 bushy eyebrows, was so remarkable that 
 many people turned to look at him as they 
 passed. 
 
 Philip walked with the procession, keep- 
 ing behind him. 
 
 A tall hat, well battered by the storms of 
 life, a thick pea-jacket, and a thin pair of 
 Tweed trousers, seemed to make all his 
 dress. 
 
 Presently Phihp touched him on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 The man turned upon him with a glare 
 of terror, which, to a policeman, would have 
 spoken volumes. 
 
 Philip looked at him still, but said noth- 
 ing. He shuffled along with the rest, 
 trembling in every limb. ' Then Philip 
 touched him on the shoulder again, and 
 said in a low voice, — 
 
 " Obsairve, Mr. Alexander Maclntyre." 
 
 The ex-tutor looked at him in a stupid 
 way. • 
 
 " I know you, man," said Philip. " Come 
 out of this, and talk." 
 
 They were at the corner of Jermyn Street. 
 To the surprise of his fellows, letter I sud- 
 denly left the line, and dived clown Jermyn 
 Street. They waited a little. He was 
 joined by a gentleman ; and, after a few 
 moments, he slipped his head through the 
 boards, and, leaving them on the pavement, 
 hurried away. 
 
 This was what passed. 
 
 " You will remeinber me presently," said 
 Philip. " I am Philip Durnford. There 
 is my card. Get food, clothes, not too much 
 drink, and come to my lodgings at eiglit 
 o'clock this evening. Here is a sovereign 
 for you." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre spoke not a word, but 
 took the coin, 'and watched his patron go 
 striding away. Then he bit the sovereign 
 to see' if it was good, a dreadful proof of 
 
 his late misfortunes. Then he laughed in 
 a queer way, and looked back at his boards. 
 After that of course, he went round the 
 corner ; gentlemen down in the world al- 
 ways do. There was a public-house round 
 the corner. He felt in liis pocket, where 
 jingled three-pence, his little all, and dived 
 into the hostelry. A moment after lie came 
 out, his eyes bright, his mouth firm, his head 
 erect, and walked briskly away. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In the evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. 
 Maclntyre presented himself at Philip's 
 lodgings. He was greatly changed for the 
 better. With much prudence he had spent 
 the whole of the sovereign in effecting an 
 alteration in his outward appearance, cal- 
 culating that his old pupil would be at least 
 good for two three more golden tokens of 
 esteem. He was now, looked at from be- 
 hind, a gentleman of reduced means,; every- 
 thing, from his black coat tq his boots, hav- 
 ing a second-hand and " reach-me-down "' 
 look, and nothing attaining to what might 
 be called a perfect fit. The coat was ob- 
 tained by exchange or barter, the old pea- 
 jacket having been accepted in lieu of pay- 
 ment ; while the other articles wore the 
 result of Ions ha2;2lin2 and beatins; down. 
 He looked, however, complacently on his 
 new garb, as indicating a partial return to 
 respectability. 
 
 Philip greeted him with a friendly shake 
 of the hand. ' 
 
 " Why, man, do you mean to say that a 
 Sovereign has done all that ? " 
 
 " All," said his tutor. " I'll just tell you 
 how I did it. First, the trousers. Sax- 
 penoe the man allowed for the old ones, 
 wliieh I left with him. They're just drop- 
 ping to pieces with fatigue. Eh, they've 
 had a hard time of it for many years. Then 
 I got a second-hand flannel shirt. He 
 wouldn't give me any thing for the old one. 
 Then I got the coat for my pea-jacket, 
 which, though a most comfortable garment, 
 was hardly,' you'll obsairve, the coat for a 
 Master of Arts of an old and respectable 
 univairsity." 
 
 " Well — well. Did you get any thing 
 to eat ? " 
 
 " Dinner, ten-pence. I'm no saying that 
 I'm not hungry." 
 
 Philip rang the bell, and ordered some 
 supper, which his guest devoured ravenous- 
 
 " Short commons of late, I am afraid ? " 
 " Vera short, vera short 1 I'll trouble you 
 
 for two, three, more slices of that beef. 
 
 Ah, Phil, what an animal is the common ox I 
 
54 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 You feel il when you come to be a stranger 
 to him. And bottled stout. When — eh, 
 man ? " 
 
 He took a pull which finished the bottle, 
 and proceeded to eat ; talking, at intervals, 
 quite in his old style. 
 
 " Obsairve. The development of the 
 grateful ifeeling, commonly supposed to be 
 wanting, — ■ thank ye, Phil, one more slice, 
 with some of'the fat and a bit of the brown 
 — wanting to the savage races, must be 
 mainly duo to the practice of a higlier order 
 of eating. My supper has lately been the 
 penny bloater, with a baked potato. No, 
 I really ca'nnot eat any more. The spirit 
 is willing, for I am still hungry, Phil ; but 
 the capacity of the stomach is limited. 
 I fear I have already injudiciously crowded 
 the space. Is that brandy, Phil, on the 
 sideboard ? " 
 
 Philip rose, and brought the bottle, with a 
 tumbler and cold water, and placed it before 
 him. > 
 
 " Brandy," he murmured. " It has been' 
 my dream for four long months. I have 
 managed, sometimes, a glass of gin ; but 
 brandy I — oh, blessed consoler of human 
 suffering 1 Brandy ! " He was clutching 
 the bottle, and standing over it with greedy 
 eyes. " Brandy 1 — water of life 1 — no, 
 water that droons the sense of life — that 
 brings us forgetfulness of every thing, and 
 restores the fire of youth — stays the gnaw- 
 ings of hunger. Brandy I And they say 
 we musn't drink I Oh, Phil, my favorite 
 pupil, for those who have memories, brandy 
 is your only medicine." 
 
 He filled a tumbler half full of spirit, 
 added a little water, and drank it off at a 
 draught. Then he looked round, sighed, 
 sat down, and, to Phili]p's astonishment, 
 burst into violent sobbing. This phe- 
 nomenon was quite unprecedented in the 
 history, so far as Philip knew, of his late 
 tutor. 
 
 " Nay," he said kindly, " we shall man- 
 age to mend matters somehow. Cheer up, 
 man. Have another glass." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre gave a profound sniff, and 
 looked up thx'ough his tears. 
 
 " Give me a pocket-handkerchief first, 
 Phil. I want to blow my nose. I pawned 
 my last — it was a silk one — for ten-pence 
 ha'penny." 
 
 Philip brought him one from his bed- 
 room, and he began to mop up. 
 
 Then he took another glass of brandy and 
 water. 
 
 " Tears, — it is indeed a relief to have an 
 old friend to talk to, — tears are produced 
 from many causes. There are tears of 
 gratitude, of joy, of Sorrow, even of repent- 
 ance, if you think you are going, to be found 
 out. Mine are none of these. They rise 
 
 from that revulsion o' feeling projuiced by a 
 sudden and strong contrast. Obsairve. The 
 man unexpectedly or violently removed from 
 a state of hopeless destitution to the prospect 
 of aflluence must either cry or laugh ; and 
 not even a philosopher can always choose 
 which. I have got decent (Uothes; an old 
 friend ; and my brains — a little damaged 
 by a hard life perhaps — are still greatly 
 superior to the average." 
 
 " And you have been really destitute ? " 
 
 " For four months I have been a walking 
 advertisement. Part of the time I was get- 
 ting eighteen-pence a day as one of the As- 
 sociated Boardmen. Eh, Philip Durnford, 
 think of your old tutor becoming an Associ- 
 ated Boardman ! Then I got dru — I mean 
 I took too much one day; and they turned 
 me out in the cold. I starved a day or two, 
 and then got employment at one and three- 
 pence, which I have had, off and on, ever 
 since. It is not a difficult employment. 
 There is little responsibility. No sense of 
 dignity or self-respect is required. On the 
 Sunday, there is no work to be done ; con- 
 sequently, for four months I have eursed the 
 sawbath, — the Lord forgive niel Don't 
 ask me too much, Philip : it has been a sad 
 time — a terrible time. I am half-starved. 
 I have had to associate with men of no edu- 
 cation and disagreeable habits. A bad time, 
 — a bad time." He passed his hand across 
 his forehead, and paused a moment. " A 
 time of bad dreams. I shall never forget it, 
 never. It will haunt me to my grave, — 
 poison my nights, and take the pleasure out 
 of my days. Don't ask me about it. Let me 
 forget it." 
 
 " Tell me only what you like," said Philip. 
 
 " The passions, I have discovered, the fol- 
 lies, and the ambitions, of man depend a'to- 
 gither on the stomach. The hungry man, 
 who has been hungry for threeiuonths, can 
 only hope for a good meal. That is the 
 boundary of his thoughts. He envies none 
 but the fat. He has no eyes for beauty. 
 Helen would pass unnoticed by a sandwich 
 man, only for plumpness. He has no per- 
 ception of the beauties of nature, save in the 
 streakiness of beef; none for those of art, 
 save in the cookshops. He has no hatred 
 In his heart, nor any love. And of course 
 ho has no conscience. Obsairve, ray pupil, 
 that religion is a matter for those who are 
 assured of this world's goods. It vanishes 
 at the first appearance of want. Hence a 
 clause in the Lord's Prayer." 
 
 " You — '■ I mean your companions between 
 the boards — are honest, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Ah, well — that's as it may be. It is 
 one of the advantages of the profession that 
 you must be honest, because you can't run 
 if you do steal any thing. No line of life 
 presents fewer opportunities for turning a 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 55 
 
 dishonest penny. Otherwise — you see — 
 stomach is king at all times; and if not 
 satisfied, my young friend, stomach becomes 
 God." ' ^ ^ ° 
 
 " Tell me, if you can, how' you came to 
 fall into these straits.' 
 
 " Infandum jubes renovare dolorem. Eh 1 
 — the Latin tags and commonplaces, how 
 they stick. It is a kind of consolation to 
 quote them. When you saw me last was 
 on that unfortunate occasion when you 
 treated your old tutor with unwarrantable 
 harshness. I have long lamented the mis- 
 conception which led you to that line of con- 
 duct. Verbal reproach alone would have 
 been ill-fitting to your lips ; but actual per- 
 sonal violence ! Ah, Phil I But all is for- 
 given and forgotten. You went away. I ap- 
 plied to M. de Villeroy for a testimonial. I 
 still preserve the document he was good 
 enough to send me. It_is here." 
 
 He produced a paper from a bundle which 
 he carried in an old battered pocket-book. 
 
 " There are papers here, Phil, that will 
 interest you some day, when you have 
 learned to trust me. Now listen. This is 
 what your poor father's old friend said of 
 your old tutor." 
 
 He shook his head in sorrow, and read, — 
 
 " I have been asked to speak of Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre's fitness for the post of an instructor 
 of youth. I can assert with truth that I 
 have on several occasions seen him sober ; 
 that Mr. Durnford, his late employer, never 
 detected him in any dishonesty; that his 
 morality, in this neighborhood, has been 
 believed in by no one ; and that, in his 
 temperate intervals, he is sometimes indus- 
 trious." 
 
 " There, Philip. Think of that." 
 
 " You do not show that testimonial much, 
 I suppose V " said Philip. 
 
 " No," replied the philosopher. " I keep 
 it as a proof of the judeecial blindness which 
 sometimes afflicts men of good sense. M. de 
 Villeroy is dead, and so it matters little now. 
 Do you know where Miss Madeleine is ? " 
 
 " No. In Palmisto, I suppose." 
 
 " There ye're wrong, bhe's in London. 
 I saw her yesterday with an old lady in 
 Regent Street, and followed her home. 
 She's bonny, vera bonny, with her black 
 hair and big eyes. Oh, she's bonny, but 
 uplifted with pride, I misdoubt. ' Why 
 don't you marry her, Philip? She's got 
 plenty of money. Arthur will marry her 
 if you don't. Give me Arthur's address." 
 
 " You want to borrow money of liim, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " No. I want just to ask him to give me 
 money. Ye're not over-rich, I'm afraid, 
 Philip, yourself, my laddie." 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 " My father gave me five thousand pounds. 
 All that is left of it is in our old agent's 
 hands in Palmiste. I get ten per cent foi* 
 it. As I only got a hundred and fifty last 
 February, a good lot of it must be gone ; 
 and I've had another little dig into' the pile 
 since then." 
 
 " Ah, ay ? — that's bad ; that's vera bad. 
 But perhaps a time will come for you as 
 well as the rest of the world." 
 
 " Arthur can help you, and I dare say 
 will ; but you must not tell him too much." 
 
 " I do not intend to tell him any thing," 
 said the man of experience lofUly, " ex- 
 cept lies." 
 
 " Tell me something, however," said 
 Philip. " Tell me how you got into such a 
 hole." 
 
 " I went to Australia from Palmiste. 
 Spent all my money in Melbourne, trying 
 to get something to do, and at last I got 
 put into the school of a little township up 
 country, where my chief work was to cane 
 the brats. Such an awfu' set of devils I 
 That lasted a year. Thien there came a 
 terrible day." 
 
 He stopped and sighed. 
 
 " I shall never forget that day. It was a 
 Saturday, I remember. The boys were 
 more mutinous than usual, and I caned 
 them all — there were thirty-five. And 
 when one was caned, the others all shouted 
 and laughed. At twelve, I read the pray- 
 ers prescribed by the authorities, with my 
 u^ual warmth and unction. Then I dis- 
 missed the boys. Nobody moved. There 
 was a dead silence, and I confess I felt 
 alarmed. Presently the five biggest boys 
 got up, and approached my desk with de- 
 termined faces. I had a presentiment of 
 what would happen, and I turned to flee. 
 It was too late." ■ 
 
 " What did they do to you ? " 
 
 " They tied me up, sir. The/ tied me 
 up to my own desk, and then they laid on. 
 They gave their reverend dominie the most 
 awful flogging that ever schoolboy had. 
 None too small, sir, to have a cut in. None 
 so forgiving as to shirk his turn. Not one, 
 Philip, relented at the last moment, and 
 spared some of his biceps. Pairf'ect silence 
 reigned ; and when it was over, they placed 
 me back in my chair, with my cane m my 
 hand; and then the school dispersed. 
 What I felt, Philip, more than the igno- 
 miny. Was the intense pain. A red-hot iron 
 might projuice a similar, but not a greater, 
 agony, if applied repeatedly on every 
 square inch over a certain area 6f the 
 body. A thirty-handed Briareus, if he 
 turned schoolmaster, could alone rival the 
 magnitude of that prodeejious cowhiding. 
 " Next day I left the town. It was dup- 
 
56 
 
 MY tITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ing church-time ; but the boys were wait- 
 ing for me ; and, as I stole out with my 
 bundle in my band, they ran me down the 
 street on a rail, singing ' Drunken Sawnie 1 ' 
 That was a very bad time 1 had then. 
 
 " I tried Sydney after that, and got on 
 pretty well in business — till I failed ; and 
 then the judge wanted to refuse my certifi- 
 cate, because, he said, the books were fraud- 
 ulently kept. That wasn't true, for they 
 were not kept at all. So I came away, and 
 got to the Cape. A poor place, Phil — 
 very poor, and dull ; but the drink is good, 
 and the food is cheap. I learned to speak 
 Dutch, and was very near marrying the 
 daughter of a Dutch farmer, well to do, 
 only for an unlucky accident. Just before 
 tlie wedding, my cruel fate caused me to 
 be arrested on a ridiculous charge of em- 
 bezzlement. Of course I was acquitted ; 
 but the j udge — who ought to be prose- 
 cuted for defamation of character^ — ruined 
 me by stating that I only got off by the 
 skin of my teeth, because the jury under- 
 stood English imperfectly. I came back to 
 England, and went down to see my rela- 
 tions. My cousin, only four times removed 
 — the baillie of Auchnatoddy — ordered 
 me out of his house, and wadna give me 
 bite nor sup. Then I came up to town, 
 and here I am ever since. Ye won't do 
 me an ill turn by telling Arthur my story, 
 will you, Philip ? " 
 
 " Not I ; particularly as you have only 
 told me half of it." 
 
 " May be — may be. The other half I 
 keep to myself" 
 
 It was as well he did, for among the sec- 
 ond half were one or two experiences of 
 prison life, which might not have added to 
 his old pupil's respect for him. These 
 other adventures he omitted, partly, per- 
 haps, out of modesty, and partly out of a 
 fear that their importance might be exag- 
 gerated. 
 
 The astonishing thing was, the way in 
 which he emerged from all his troubles. 
 They seemed to be without any effect upon 
 his energies or spirits. Utterly careless 
 about loss of character, perfectly devoid 
 of moral principle, he came up, after each 
 disaster, seemingly refreshed by the fall. 
 Mother Earth revived him ; and he started 
 anew, generally with a few pounds in his 
 pocket, and always some new scheme in 
 his head, to prey upon the credulity of good 
 and simple men. That he had 'not yet 
 succeeded argued, he considered, want of 
 luck rather than absence of merit. 
 
 His projects were not of very extraordi- 
 nary cleverness. But he was unscrupulous 
 enough to succeed. Cleverness and free- 
 dom from scruples do somehow seem the 
 two main requisites to produce the success 
 
 of wealth. Tlie cleverest rogue becomes 
 the richest man, often the most rev.ered. 
 He has been known, for Instance, to get 
 into the House of Lords. Mr. Gladstone 
 will always, if he spends £20,000 on the 
 cause, make him a baronet. But quite 
 lately a new feeling had come over Mr. 
 Maclntyre. He was beginning to doubt 
 himself. For four months he had lived on 
 about three half-crowns a week ; and as the 
 days went on, and he saw no chance of es- 
 cape, he grew more and more despondent. 
 It was a new sensation, this, of privation. 
 He suffered, for the first time in his life. 
 And also, for the first time, he saw no way 
 to better tilings, — no single spot of blue 
 in all the horizon. Rheumatic twinges 
 pinched him in the shoulders. He was 
 fifty-three years of age. He had not a 
 penny saved, nor a friend to give him 
 one. In the evening he crept back to his 
 miserable lodging, brooding over his fate ; 
 and in the morning he crept out again 
 to his miserable work, brooding still. 
 
 But now a change, unexpected and sud- 
 den. Hino illse lacrimae. Hence those 
 tears "Of the tutot-, wrung from a heart 
 whose power of philosophy was underniined 
 by a long-continued emptiness of stomach. 
 That night he slept on Philip's sofa; and 
 the next day, after taking a few necessities 
 — such as a shirt, a waistcoat, collar, and 
 so on — from his benefactor's wardrobe, 
 making philosophical reflections all the 
 while, he devoured a breakfast of enormous 
 dimensions, and proceeded to call upon 
 Arthur. 
 
 " Ye'll remember, Mr. Philip Diirnford," 
 he said, putting on his bat ; " by the way, 
 lend me two or three pounds, which I shall 
 repay from what I get fVom Arthur : I must 
 Jiave a better hat — ye'll remember to for- 
 get the little confidential narrative I im- 
 parted to you last night. It is not always 
 possible to preserve the prudence of a phi- 
 losopher, and to know what things should 
 be said and what concealed, — quae di- 
 cenda, que celanda sint. I told you more 
 than I should ; but I trust to 'your promise." 
 
 He found Arthur at work *in his. usual 
 purposeless way. That is, he was sur- 
 rounded by a great pile of books, and had 
 a pen in his hand. Arthur was not happy 
 unless he was following up some theory or 
 investigating some •' point," and had a Syb- 
 aritish Vay of study which led to no re- 
 sults, and seemed to promise nothing : a 
 kind of work which very often lands the 
 student among the antiquarians and archiB- 
 ologists ; but there was a tone about Ar- 
 thur which impressed Mr. Maclntyre with 
 a sense of constraint and awkwardness. 
 Philip he somehpwfelt to belong to his own 
 stratum of humanity. With Philip he was 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 57 
 
 at ease, and could talk familiarly. Ar- 
 tiiur belonged to that higher and colder 
 Iqvel where self-respect was essential, and 
 any confidences of the criminal Christian 
 would be out of place. Philip, for instance,, 
 had insisted upon his fortifying his stomach 
 against the rawness of the morning air with 
 a glass of brandy before going out. Ar- 
 thur, on the other hand, oflfl'.red him noth- 
 ing ; but, giving him a chair, stood lean- 
 ing against the mantle-shelf, and contem- 
 p.lating his visitor from his lieight of six feet. 
 " I hope you are doing well, Mr. Macln- 
 tyre," he began. 
 
 " I am not doing well," replied the 
 Scotchman. " I'm doing very badly." 
 
 " I do not ask your history since I saw 
 you last." 
 
 " Mr. Arthur Durnford, you are ray old 
 pupil, — I may add, my favorite pupil, — 
 and you are privileged to say what you 
 please. My life is open to any question 
 you may like to ask. The failure of a 
 school in Australia, through my — my firm- 
 ness in maintaining discipline; that of a 
 prosperous place of^business in Sydney, 
 through an unexpected rise in the bank- 
 rate ; and the breakdown of my plans in 
 Cape Town, brought me home in a condi- 
 tion of extreme penury. From this I was 
 rescued by the generosity of Lieut. Philip 
 Durnford, who has most liberally assisted 
 me ' out of his very slender means, — 
 his very slender means. Ask me any 
 questions you like, Mr. Durnford ; but do 
 not, if .you please, insinuate that I have 
 any thing to conceal." 
 
 He smote his chest, and assumed an air 
 of Spartan virtue. 
 
 "Well, well. Only, the fact is, Mr. 
 Maclntyre, I rememberthat the last time I 
 saw you, you were 'receiving punishment 
 fi7om Philip's hands for some disgraceful 
 proposals." 
 
 " Pardon me — Mr. Philip was under a 
 mistake. This, I believe, he will how ac- 
 knowledge. I have forgiven him." 
 
 " I hope he was mistaken. Anyhow, my 
 opinion of you, formed as a boy, could not 
 possibly be favorable." 
 
 " At the time you speak of, I was suffer- 
 inor from deepspmania. I am now re- 
 covered, thanks to having taken the pledge 
 for a term of years, now expired." 
 " What are you doing now ? " 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " 
 » Starving." 
 
 " What do you want to do ? " 
 " I want you to find me some money. I 
 cannot promise to pay it back, because I 
 am too poor to promise any thing ; but if you 
 will advance me filty pounds, I think I can 
 do something with it." 
 
 Arfhur took his check-book, and sat 
 down thoughtfully. 
 
 " I will do this for you. I will lend you 
 fifty pounds, which, as you are a thrifty 
 man, ought to last you six months. You 
 will spend that time in looking about you, 
 and trying to get work. At the end of six 
 months, if you want it, I will lend you an- 
 other filty ; but that is all I will do for you. 
 And I shall specially ask Philip not to give 
 you money." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre was not profuse in his 
 thanks. He took the check, examined it 
 carefully, folded it, and put it in his pocket. 
 " I knew you'd help me," he said. " I 
 told Philip so this morning. Can I for- 
 ward you in your studies now ? The phee- 
 losophical system of Hamilton, for instance." 
 "Yes ; never mind my studies, if you 
 please. Is there any thing else I can do 
 for you ? " 
 
 " 1 do not ca' to mind that there is. I'll 
 look in again when there is. Have you 
 seen Miss lyiadeleine, Mr. Durnford, since 
 she came to London ? " 
 
 '■ Madeleine 1 No. Is she in London ? 
 What is her address? — how long has she 
 been here ? " 
 
 " I dare say I could find out her address ; 
 but it might cost money." 
 
 He looked so cunning as he said this, 
 that Arthur burst out laughing. 
 
 " You are a cool hand, Mr. Maclntyre. 
 How much would it cost? — five pounds ? " 
 '• Now, really, Mr. Arthur, to suppose 
 that a main can run all over London for five 
 pounds ! And that to find the address of 
 your oldest friend." 
 
 " Well, tvrenty pounds ? — thirty pounds ? 
 Hanff it, man, I must know. 
 
 " I should think," said the philosopher, 
 meditating, "it might be found for forty 
 pounds, if the money was paid at once." 
 
 Arthur wrote another check, which 
 Maclntyre put into his pocket-book as be- 
 fore. 
 
 " This does not prejudice the fifly pounds 
 in six months' time ? " he said. " Very 
 well. I remember now that I have her ad- 
 dress in my pocket. I followed her home, 
 and asked a servant. Hei-e it is, — No. 31 
 Hatherley Street, Eaton Square." 
 " Did you speak to her 1 " 
 "Is it likely?" replied Mr. Maclntyre, 
 thinking of his boards. 
 
 " Confess that you have done a good 
 stroke of business this morning," said Ar- 
 thur. " Ninety pounds is not bad. ' You 
 can't always sell an address for forty 
 pounds." • 
 
 " Sell an address ? My dear sir, you 
 mistake me altogether. Do not, if you 
 please, imagine that I am one of those who 
 sell such little information as I possess. 
 
58 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Remember, if you please, that you are ad- 
 dressing a Master of Arts of an ancient " — 
 
 " You are quite yourself again, Mr. 
 Maolntyre," said Artliur. " Good-morn- 
 ing, now. Keep away from drink, and " — 
 
 "Sir, I have already reminded you 
 that " — 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Maolntyre." 
 
 He went away, cashed both his checks, 
 and, taking lodgings, proceeded to buy such 
 small belongings as the simplest civiliza- 
 ' tion demands, such as a hair-brush, linen, 
 and A two-gallon cask of whiskey. Then 
 he ordered the servant to keep a kettle al- 
 ways on the hob ; sat down, rubbed his 
 hands, lit a pipe, and began to meditate. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was quite true. Madeleine was in 
 England. 
 
 Eight years since, Madeleine, before 
 leaving her native island, had ridden over 
 to Fontainebleau to take farewell of a 
 place where she had spent so many happy 
 days. The house was uninhabited and 
 shut up ; but the manager of the estates was 
 careful to keep it in repair. It all looked 
 as it Used to. The canes, clean and well 
 kept, waving in the sunlight, in green and 
 yellow and gray ; the mill busier than 
 ever, with its whir of grinding wheels ; 
 the sweet, rich smell of the sugar; the 
 huge vats of seething, foaming juice, and 
 the whirling turbines. But the old veran- 
 da was no longer strewn w,ith its cane mats 
 and chairs; and, when the doors were 
 opened for her, the house felt chill and 
 damp. She lifted the piano-lid, and touch- 
 ed the keys, shrinking back with a cry of 
 fright. It was like a voice from the dead, 
 — so cracked and thin and strident was 
 the sound. In the boys' study were their 
 old school-books lying about, just as they 
 had left them ; in a drawer which she 
 opened, some paper scribbled with boyish 
 sketches, One of these represented a 
 gentleman, whose features were of an 
 exaggerated Scotch type, endeavoring to 
 mount his pony. The animal was turning 
 upon him with an air of reproach, as one 
 saying, " Sir, you are drunk again." This 
 was inscribed at the back, " Philippus 
 fecit." Then there was another and more 
 finished effort, signed Arthur, of a girl's 
 head in chalk. Perhaps the merit of this 
 picture was slender ; but Madeleine blushed 
 when she looked at it, and took both pic- 
 tures away with her. 
 
 There was no other souvenir that she 
 cared to have ; and, leaving the house, she 
 paid a visit to the garden. Oh, the gar- 
 
 den! Where once had been pine-apples 
 were pumpkins ; where had been straw- 
 berries were pumpkins ; where there had 
 once been flower-beds, vegetables, or shrubs, 
 were pumpkins. Pumpkin was king. He 
 lay there — green, black, or golden — 
 basking in the sun. He had devoured all, 
 and spread himself over all. 
 
 So Madeleine came away ; and, under 
 the maternal wing of the Bishopess, — 
 whose right reverend husband, as happens 
 once in two years to all colonial bishops, 
 had business connected with his diocese 
 which brought him to England, — was duly 
 shipped to "Southampton, and presently 
 forwarded to S\^itzerland. 
 
 Education. Her guardian was a French- 
 man by descent, a Swiss by choice. He 
 had enlarged views, and brought up the 
 girl as a liberal Protestant. He had her 
 taught the proper amount of accomplish- 
 ments. He made her talk English, though 
 with a slight foreign accent, as well as 
 French ; and, what was much more im- 
 portant, gave her ideas as to independence 
 and unconventionality which sank deep, 
 and moulded her whole character. Inso- 
 much that one day she announced her in- 
 tention of going away and setting up for 
 herself. 
 
 " I am of age," she said. " I want to 
 see the world a little. I want to make up 
 my mind what to do with myself." 
 
 Old M. Lajardie chuckled. 
 
 " See what it is," he observed, " to bring 
 up a girl as she ought to be brought up. 
 My dear, if if had not been for me, you 
 would at this moment be wanting to go 
 into a convent." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I know the sex, child. You belong to 
 the class which takes' to religion like a duck 
 to water. This being denied you, you will 
 take to philanthropy, usefulness,- all sorts 
 of things. That is why I taught you Eng- 
 lish, because England is the only country 
 possible for a full exercise of these virtues. 
 Then you are of a temperament which 
 would have induced blind submission in a 
 man, and makes a delightful obstinacy in a 
 free woman." 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear guardian " — 
 
 "And then, my child, there is another 
 quality in you, which would have made 
 you the most rapturous of sisters, which 
 will make you the best and most devoted 
 of wives. You will marry, Madeleine." 
 
 "It is possible," she said. "It may 
 come in my way, as it does in most people's 
 lives; but I do not count upon marriao-e 
 as a part of my life." ° 
 
 " You are rich, Madeleine. You have 
 
 well, more than your fair share of beauty. 
 Black hair and black eyes are common ; 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 59 
 
 but not such splendid hair as yours, or 
 eyes as bright. There are girls as tall as 
 you, but few with so good a figure." 
 
 " Don't, guardian," said Madeleine, with 
 a little moue and a half-blush. " I would 
 rather you told me of my faults." 
 
 " I know the sex, I tell you," repeated 
 the old man. " When 1 was young -7- ah, 
 what a thing it is to be young! — I made a 
 profound study of the sex. It is quite 
 true,^ Madeleine, though I am only an old 
 man who says it, that even Madame Reca- 
 mier herself, in her best days, had not a 
 more finished style than yours.- You will 
 succeed, my child : you will be able to mar- 
 ry any one — any one you please." 
 
 " You do not imagine, I suppose, that I 
 am to fall in love with the first rich young 
 man who tells me that he loves me ? As 
 if there was nothing in the world for wo- 
 man to think of but love." 
 
 " Most women," went on her critic, " like 
 to be married to a lord and master. I 
 prophecy for you, Madeleine, that your 
 husband will be content to obey ratlier 
 than to command. So, child, you shall see 
 the world. Let me only just write to our 
 friend, Mrs. Longworthy, who will act as 
 your chaperon. You will find yourself 
 richer than you think perhaps. AH your 
 money is in the English funds, and the in- 
 terest has been used to buy fresh stock. 
 Go now, my ward — I will think over what 
 is best to be done." 
 
 The old man attended her to the door, 
 and, shutting it after her, went through a 
 little pantomime of satisfaction. That 
 done, he took down a volume of Voltaire's 
 " Philosophical Dictionary," and wagged 
 his head over the wisdom that he found 
 therein. 
 
 " Independent," he murmured ; " rich, 
 self-reliant, able to think, not superstitious, 
 not infected with insular prejudices, phil- 
 anthropic, beautiful. She will do. EUe 
 ira loin, mon ami," he said, tapping his own 
 forehead. " You have done well. ' When 
 revolutions come, and lines of thought are 
 changed, it is gftod to have such women at 
 band, to steady the men. France rules the 
 world, and the women rule France. Hein ? 
 it sounds epigrammatic. Has it been said 
 belbre ? " 
 
 So to England Madeleine came. A chap- 
 eron was found for her in the widow of 
 an old friend of M. Lajardife, — a certain 
 Mrs. Longworthy, who was willing — and 
 more than that, able — to* take her into 
 society. They took one of those extremely 
 comfortarhle little houses — the rent of 
 which is so absurdly out of proportion to 
 their size — close to Eaton Square : a house 
 with its two little drawing-rooms and 
 greenhouse at the back, — a little narrow 
 
 as regards dining-room accommodation, but 
 broad enough, as Mrs, Longworthy put it, 
 for two lone women. 
 
 Madeleine's chaperon was only remarka- 
 ble for her extraordinary coseyness and love 
 of comfort. A cushiony old lady, — one 
 who sat by the fireside and purred ; and, 
 when things, went badly with her, went to 
 bed, and staid there till they came round 
 again. An old lady who went to church 
 every Sunday, and, like the late lamented 
 Duke of Sussex, murmured after each com- 
 mandment, " Never did that : never did 
 that." So that the rules of prohibition did 
 not affect her own conscience. For all the 
 rest, she entirely trusted and admired Mad- 
 eleine, and never even ventured on a re- 
 monstrance with her. 
 
 Madeleine was what her guardian de- 
 scribed her. In her presence most men felt 
 themselves above their own stratum. There 
 was a sort of gulf; and yet, with all the 
 men's experience, the clear light of her 
 eyes seemed to read so far beyond their 
 actual ken. If she liked you, and talked to 
 you, you came away from her strengthened 
 and braced up. Beautiful she certainly 
 was, in a way of her own : striking, the 
 women called her, — a word which the sex 
 generally employ when they feel envious 
 of power and physique beyond their own. 
 Bolls of black hair ; a pale and colorless 
 cheek ; a small and firm mouth ; clear and 
 sharply-defined nostrils ; eyes that were 
 habitually limpid and soft, which yet might 
 flash to sudden outbreaks of storm ; and a 
 "figure beyond all expression gracieuse. A 
 woman who could talk ; one whom young 
 warriors, having to take her in to dinner, 
 speedily felt beyond them altogether ; one 
 who liited a man up, and made him breathe 
 a purer air. This is, I take it, the highest 
 function of woman. We cannot, as a rule, 
 run comfortably in signal harness, but are 
 bound by the laws of our being to have a 
 mate of some kind. It is surely best for us 
 to find one whose sense of duty is stronger 
 than our own, and whose standard is higher. 
 We may have to do all the work ; but we 
 want a fellow in the harness to show us that 
 the work is good, and that it behooves us to 
 do well. 
 
 M3,deleine was not, it is certain, one of the 
 girls whom a certain class of small poets 
 love to style " darling," " Pet Amoret," 
 " sweet little lily." Not for any man's toy ; 
 no animated doll to please for a while, and 
 then drop out of life ; nor yet that 
 dreadful creature, a " woman's rights," 
 woman. Perhaps she was not clever 
 enough. 
 
 Arthur Durnford called upon her the 
 same day on which he got the address. He 
 was a little prepared to gush, remembering 
 
60 
 
 MY, LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 ■"the little sylph with whom he used to play 
 twelve years ago ; but there was no oppor- 
 tunity ibr gushing. The stately damsel who 
 ~ rose, and greeted him with almost as much 
 coldness as if they had parted the day before, 
 silenced, if she did not disconcert him. 
 
 " I knew that we should meet again some 
 time," she said ; " and I had already writ- 
 ten to- Palmiste for your address. Mrs. 
 Longworthy, this is my old friend, Arthur 
 Durnford, of whom I have so often told 
 you." 
 
 He saw a little, fat old lady, with a face 
 like a winter apple, crinkled and ruddy, 
 sitting muffled up by the fireside. 
 
 " Come and shake hands with me, Arthur 
 Durpford," she cried, in the pleasantest 
 voice he had ever heard. " I knew your 
 father when he was a wild young fellow in 
 the Hussars. Let me look at you. Yes, yon 
 are like him ; but he had black hair, and 
 yours is brown. And you stoop, — I sup- 
 pose because you read books all day. Fie 
 upon the young men of the present 1 They 
 all read. In my .time there was not so 
 much reading, I can tell you, but a great 
 deal more love-making and merriment. 
 Now, sit down, and talk to Madeleine." 
 
 She lay back on her cushions, and pres- 
 ently fell fast asleep, while the two talked. 
 
 They talked of Palmiste and the old 
 days ; and then a sort of constraint came 
 upon them, because the new days of either 
 were unknown. 
 
 " Tell me about yourself, Arthur," sai4 
 Madeleine. " I am going to call you Arthur, 
 and you shall call me Madeleine, just as we 
 used to. Mrs, Longworthy, — oh I she is 
 asleep." 
 
 " No, my dear, — only dozing. Wake 
 me up by telling me something pleasant." 
 
 " I was going to tell Arthur that I am 
 sure you would like him to come here a 
 great deal, - — I should. " 
 
 " That ought to be enough, Mr. Durnford. 
 But I should too. We are a pair of 
 women ; and we sometimes sit, and nag at 
 each other. Don't look at me so, Maddy I ' 
 — if we don't actually do it, we sometimes 
 want to. Come a great deal, Mr. Durnford. 
 Come as nearly every day as you can man- 
 age. It is very good for young men to have 
 ladies' society. We shall civilize you." . 
 
 " You are very kind," Arthur began. 
 
 " But I must say one thing. Do not 
 come early in the morning. I consider 
 that the day ought to be a grand procession- 
 al triumph of temper. That is why I 
 always take my breakfast in bud. Handle 
 me delicately in the morning, and a child 
 may lead me all day. Come, if you want 
 to see me, in time for luncheon, at two ; if 
 you want to see Madeleine, at any time she 
 tells you." 
 
 " And how is Philip ? " asked Madeleine. 
 
 " Who is Philip V " said Mrs. Longworthy, 
 
 " My cousin, the son of my father's 
 brother." 
 
 " Your father, my dear boy, never had 
 any brothers." 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Longworthy," 
 
 She shook her head, and lay back again. 
 
 " And what is your profession, Arthur ? " 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 "What do you do with yourself? " 
 
 " I waste time in the best way I can. I 
 read, writ.e a little, make plans ; and the 
 days slip by." 
 
 " That seems very bad. Come and help 
 me in my profession," 
 
 " What is your profession ? " 
 
 " Come some morning at ten, and I wiU 
 tell you.' Send Philip to call upon me." 
 
 As Arthur went out of the room, he 
 heard Mrs. Longworthy saying, — 
 
 " I am not wrong : I am quite right, 
 George Durnford was an only son ; and 
 so was his father. The De Melhuyns, 
 quite new Ipeople, told me all about it." 
 
 A sudden light flashed upon Arthur's 
 minJ. He knew, in that way in which 
 knowledge of this sort sometimes comes, 
 that Philip was his half-brother. He was 
 certain of it. He reasoned with himself; 
 set up all the objections; proved to him- 
 self that the preponderance of chances was 
 against it; marshalled all the. opposite evi- 
 dence ; and remained absolutely certain of 
 the truth of his conviction. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 But Arthur went round, the same even- 
 ing, to Philip's lodgings. 
 
 " How much did Maclntyr^ charge you 
 for Madeleine's address ? " asked the man 
 of larger experience. 
 
 Arthur colored, — 
 
 " Well, we did drive a bargain. Why 
 did you not send it to mo ? " 
 
 "First, because I did not possess it; 
 secondly, because, if I had, Maclntyre wa^ 
 so entirely frank with me as to what he in- 
 tended, that it -would have gone to my 
 heart to spoil his little game. Tell me how 
 Madeleine is looking." 
 
 " Here is the address. Go and see her 
 yourself," 
 
 " Is she milk and water ? But of 
 course " — 
 
 " Go and see her yourself." 
 
 " I don't know that I shall, Arthur. We 
 are dlfTerent, you and I. You are an eligi- 
 ble jjarti.- I am only a detrimental." 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, there is no ques- 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 tion of that sort of thing. Madeleine is not 
 like the ordinary girls you meet." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Philip, " is she not ? I don't 
 gC! into society much myself, because I ieel 
 out of my element in that rank of life in 
 which my fortunes allow me to circulate. 
 The domestic business, with the conven- 
 tional young woman, lacquered with accom- 
 plishments which get rubbed off when the 
 babies come ; the piano for the last new 
 , piece, and the song for the dear creature 
 who breathes hard, and thinks she sings ; 
 the mind without an idea outside the nar- 
 row circle in which it has been trained — 
 I do not think, Arthur, that my idea of 
 happiness is quite this." 
 
 " Well, well ; but all women are not so. 
 Madeleine is not." 
 
 " Give me," he went on, . — " give me 
 some girl brought up out of ladies' circles 
 and -women's ways, brought up by a man; 
 full of ideas, thoughts, and quaint fancies ; 
 pretty, in a way that the Tyburnian misses 
 are not pretty ; able to talk, able to amuse 
 you, able to please you, when the little 
 stock of accomplishments • is all run 
 through." 
 
 He was thinking of Lollie. 
 
 " A lady, and not brought up by ladies ? " 
 said Arthur. 
 
 " I was in ' society ' the other day : five 
 and ti*enty young ladies, whispering bitter 
 things of each other, bursting with envy 
 and malice. I want a girl who does not 
 look on all other girls as rivals and ene- 
 mies. I talked to one of them." 
 
 '■ You did not expect the poor girl to 
 pour out her soul at the first interview." 
 
 " She had very little to pour. . That 
 little was poured. I came away early. 
 
 " That is not society. Come with me to 
 see Madeleine.", * 
 
 The other, who was in his bitterest mood, 
 sneered in reply, — 
 
 " Thby are all alike. Every woman 
 wants to be admired more than other 
 women in the room. That is the first thing. 
 Without that, there is no real happiness. 
 Then they want to be rich : not because 
 they may live well, for they do not under- 
 stand eating and drinking ; not for the sake 
 of art, because they only know the art 
 chatter. If they felt art, do you think they 
 would dress as they do ? ,No, sir : they 
 want money in order to make their ac- 
 quaintance envious. For themselves, what 
 a woman desires and likes most in the 
 world is to be kept warm. , Give the squaw 
 her blanket, or the lady her cushion, and 
 she is happy. . Warmth, wealth, admira- 
 tion : those are the three things she desires. 
 What can we expect ? Read the literature 
 about women, from Anacreon to the comic 
 
 against the sex. We have agreed to ke 
 them foolish and vain, — to limit their : 
 pirations to dress ; and deuced well ' 
 have succeeded." < 
 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 "Take the Newgate Calendar, Phil, 
 represent manhood, if you like. Just 
 well exaggerate the faults of women, a 
 make them represent womanhood-. Worn 
 love admiration because it is an instin^ 
 Their influence is through their beauty, 
 is a net spread by nature to entrap a 
 catch men, in order that they may be 1 
 heavenwards. Wild beasts, like you, w 
 prefer the woods, full of pitfalls and snan 
 to the soft green glades " — 
 
 « Rubbish," said Philip. 
 
 " Not rubbish at all. Don't despi 
 women, — don't cry them down. Go 
 for marrying, and try the domestic hap] 
 ness you declaim against." 
 
 ■ " All which means that you are ep- 
 with _Madeleine yourself, 1 suppose. It 
 perhaps, the best thing you can do. • B 
 look a,t the other side of the picture. Su 
 pose that what we call the highest kind ( 
 life — by which you mean, I take it, tl 
 calm cultivation of all that is artistic, u 
 biassed by pas.sion and undisturbed by i 
 grets — is out of your reach, because yt 
 can't afford it, don't you think it prude 
 to say, ' Young man, you are not intendi 
 to marry. Do not be an accomplice in tl 
 production of a, generation of paupei 
 On the other hand, get as much as you cc 
 out of life with the resources at your di 
 posal.' " 
 
 " Every man may lead the higher life.' 
 
 " Perhaps, if he remains unman-ie 
 What kind of higher life is that in whic 
 one trembles at the butcher's bill, and ea 
 out his heart thinking of the childrei) 
 future ? And, besides, your higher life, ■ 
 what is it? Bah I Wine, love, sonj 
 Get what you can, and leave the gods tl 
 rest. It is their care, I suppose, — th 
 ' rest,' whatever it is." 
 
 But he did call on Madeleine. Went 
 see her the very next day. Madeleine wi 
 alone, as it was one of Mrs. Longworthy 
 sick days, or, as she put it, one of tho; 
 days when temper got the better ( 
 her. 
 
 Madeleine was not so unconstrained wil 
 him as with Arthur. Perhaps it w 
 something in his look, r- perhaps the mei 
 ory of old childish quarrels. People vei 
 seldom take kindly in after-life to tho 
 who have teased them as children. SI 
 was colder than to Arthur, — asked but fe 
 questions of him, and turned the convers 
 tion on things general. -Philip, in h 
 unhappy way, chafed at his rece^tio 
 
62 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 welcomed, — putting it down as due to that 
 fatal taint of blood. 
 
 " Do you like the army as a profession ? " 
 asked Madeleine. 
 
 " There is not much to like or dislike in 
 it," he replied carelessly. " It does - to 
 carry one along." 
 
 " To carry one along, — yes, but not as 
 the highest object of one's lite, I suppose 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " I certainly did not mean that," replied 
 Philip. " 1 know nothing about highest 
 objects in life. My life consists in H:etting 
 as much enjoyment as my income will ad- 
 mit. Very low aims, indeed, are they 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " At the same time, suppose I was to go 
 in for the higher kind, — very odd thing, 
 Arthur is always talking about the higher 
 life, — I suppose I should do it because 1 
 enjoyed it best. Do you not tjiiut so ? " 
 
 " Yes. But one ought not to be think- 
 ing about enjoyment." 
 
 " Pardon me, — I only said that one does 
 think about enjoyment." , 
 
 '■ There is duty, at least," said Made- 
 leine. 
 
 " Yes, — my duties are light and easily 
 fulfilled. When I have got through those, 
 there is nothing left but to fill up the time, 
 as I said, with as much amusement, enjoy- 
 ment, frivolity, whatever you like, as my 
 money will cover. As we are old acquaint- 
 ances, Madeleine, it is just as well that I 
 should not pretend to any thing but what I 
 am. Now, tell me, if I may be imperti- 
 nent, what you think I ought to do ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " Life is so 
 terrible a thin^ at best, so full of responsi- 
 bilities, of evils that must be faced, and 
 dreadful things that cannot be suppressed, 
 that I don't know what to say. It seems 
 to me as if the whole duty of the ricli 
 man " — 
 
 " I am not a rich man." 
 
 " The man of leisure, the man of cul- 
 ture, were to tlirow himself among the peo- 
 ple, and try to raise them " — 
 
 " You would make us all philanthropists, 
 then?" 
 
 " I hardly know. If only — without so- 
 cieties and organizations — people would 
 go among the poor and teach them, — help, 
 without money, you know. But one ean 
 only do one's self what one feels right." 
 
 Here, at least, was a woman different 
 from the type he had set up the preceding 
 night, — different, too, from L(aura. 
 
 " You are talking to a mere man of the 
 world," said Philip, rising. " We have no 
 ideas of duty, ^ou know, only a few ele- 
 mentary rules of right and wrong, which 
 we call the laws of honor. My friends, for 
 
 instance, always pay up afl;er each event. - 
 On the other hand, it is dangerous to have 
 to do with them in the matter of horses ; 
 and they will take any advantage that fair- 
 ly offers in the way of a bet. We like 
 gathering in club smoking-rooms, drinking 
 good wine, smoking good cigars. We like 
 to be well dressed, to do certain things well, 
 such as riding, billiard-plajing, and so 
 forth " — 
 
 "But, Philip, does not this life tire 
 you?" 
 
 "^ assure you, not in the least. Greatly 
 as I must fall in your eyes by the confession, 
 I declare that I do not care one straw for 
 my fellow-man. You tell me the people 
 are starving. I say, there are poor-rates, 
 rich men, and our luxurious staff of par- 
 sons, beadles, and relieving officers, to help 
 them. You say they are badly , taught. 
 Where, then, are the schools ? I meet with 
 the poor man in the street, and read of 
 him in the paper. He has, it appears to 
 me, two phases in his character. He either 
 fawns or bullies. He begs or tries to rob. 
 I am told that he gets large wages in the 
 summer, which he spends in drink, and has 
 nothing left for the winter. If I were a 
 poor man, and knew that I should be pitied 
 by charitable people directly I was hard 
 up, I should do just the same thing. What 
 is the ppor man to me ? I owe him' noth- 
 ing. I do not employ him. I do not get 
 rich by his labor. Tlierefore, you see, I 
 am quite indifferent to his sufferings, quite 
 awake to his vices, and quite careless about 
 his virtues." 
 
 Madeleine looked at him with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " You are frank, indeed," she said ; " but 
 believe me, you are quite wrong. 1 must 
 teach you that the poor, whom you despise, 
 are not worse than ourselves, — better than 
 your friends, if I may say so, because they 
 help each other, and have sympathy. Why 
 are you so frank ? Why have you told me 
 so much about yourself? " 
 
 " Because I am anxious that you should 
 know me as I am," replied Philip. 
 
 " But 1 am sorry you told me what you 
 are. After all, you have exaggerated. I 
 shall wait for a woman's love to soften 
 you." 
 
 A wondrously softened look did pass over 
 Philip's eyes. He was thinking of the girl 
 whom he was to meet the next day. 
 
 " Love," he said, " the old story. If I 
 am to be reformed, I would rather meet my 
 fate that way than any other. Forfive my 
 blCintness, Madeleine. You see, I do not 
 belong to your world." 
 
 "But do belong to my world. It really 
 is a better one than yours. Of course, we 
 have our little faults j and we may be slow 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 63 
 
 for you, and sometimes — what is it, that 
 quality for which the French have no word, 
 because they never understand it V — what 
 is it that people are when they not only do 
 their duty but overdo it V " 
 
 " You mean your world is sometimes 
 priggish." 
 
 " That is the word, — not a lady's word, 
 I know; but Mrs. Longworthy tells me 
 when I make mistakes. And this word 
 does so beautifully fit its meaning. Yes, 
 priggish. Only English and Germans are 
 that, I cannot tell why. But come into my 
 world." 
 
 Philip shook his head. 
 
 " You are on one side of the stream, and 
 I am on the other ; and the stream is widen- 
 ing. Arthur is on your side too. We can 
 still talk. The time may come when the 
 river will be so wide that we cannot even 
 do that." 
 
 "I think I know what you mean,'' she 
 replied'. " Cross at once, and stay with us 
 — -.with those who — who love you, in mem- 
 ory of old days." 
 
 "You cannot cross a river," he said, 
 smiling, " without a bridge or a boat. Just 
 at present 1 see none. The bridges are all 
 higher up, behind me ; and so are the boats. 
 And the two paths are getting farther and 
 farther apart. Good-by, Madeleine." 
 
 He left her with these words. Very 
 oddly, they recall my illustration from the 
 works of Pythagoras a few chapters back. 
 That must be because " les esprits forts se 
 roncontrent." 
 
 "Tell me," said Mrs. Longworthy, at 
 dinner, " what kind of man is this Mr. 
 Philip Durnford." 
 
 " He is not so tall as Arthur, has black 
 hair, a black mustache, and large, soft eyes, 
 — almond-shaped eyes." 
 
 " Oh ! Did you ever see eyes like his 
 anywhere else ? " 
 
 " Yes : they are like the eyes of the mu- 
 lattoes in Palmiste." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Mrs. Longworthy. 
 
 " He dresses very well, and he talks very 
 well. Only, my dear Mrs. Longworthy, 
 you know what 1 told you about the gar- 
 den at Fontainebleau, when I saw it last." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, Philip Durnford's mind is like 
 that garden, — all overgrown with pump- 
 kins." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Let us have," said Venn, trimming the 
 lamps on Chorus night, " a cheerful even- 
 ing. What fresh disappointment has any 
 one to communicate V " 
 
 " A lawyer," said Lynn, " who would 
 have sent me some cases, has absconded 
 with other people's money. That is all 
 that has happened to me." 
 
 " He may possibly come back," said 
 Jones. " My manager, who had accepted 
 my play, is a bankrupt. Perhaps Setebos, 
 who troubles every thing, ruined him to pre- 
 vent the play coming out. I mourn for 
 him. 
 
 'He was not fair to outward view; 
 
 He was not nice to see ; 
 His loveliness I never knew 
 Until he smiled on me.' " 
 
 " As an honorary member of the Chorus," 
 said Arthur, " I can hardly be expected to 
 have any misfortunes, — consequently, I 
 have none." 
 
 " This," said Venn, with a beaming face, 
 " is quite like old times. I, too, have had 
 my disappointment. I had' spent the last 
 twelve months in revising and polishing the 
 Opuscula. They are now as complete as a 
 Greek statue. I proposed them to a pub- 
 lisher. He kept my letter for a month, and 
 then sent me a refusal. It is his loss pecu- 
 niarily, the world's loss intellectually." 
 
 " It is very sad," sympathized Jones. 
 " And yet, I dare say, you would not ex- 
 change your literary fame for my dramatic 
 glory ? " 
 
 '• One great compensation of affliction," 
 Venn observed, " is the law of self-esteem. 
 No man, whatever his drawbacks, would 
 ohan^e with any other man. We admire 
 ourselves for our very afflictions. We lie 
 on our bed of torture till even the red-hot 
 gridiron becomes a sort of spring mattress ; 
 and then we pity the poor devils grilling 
 next to us. Following out this idea, as I 
 intend to do, I shall write a life of that Jew 
 whose teeth King John pulled out^ day by 
 day. I shall show that he rather enjoyed 
 it as he got on, and looked for it every 
 morning, till the teeth were all gone. Then 
 he talked about it for the rest of his life. 
 So, too, the old woman, who hugs her rheu- 
 matism to her heart." 
 
 " Ourselves are too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Still at the mirror do we waste our powers; 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours. 
 We give ourselves our praise, — a sordid boon." 
 
 Jones made the above remark, which fell 
 unnoticed. 
 
 " Another compensation," saya Lynn, 
 " may be got from the magnitude of mis- 
 fortunes. To have had more funerals than 
 .anybody else confers a distinction on any 
 woman. To have had more MSS. rejected 
 than anybody else confers a distinction upon 
 you, my dear Venn." 
 
 " Let us change the subject," Venn re- 
 
64 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 plied, with a blush, showing that he felt the 
 delicacy of the compliment. " I have now 
 ■to submit to the Chorus a scheme by which 
 all our fortunes may be made." 
 
 He drew forth a bulky manuscript, tied 
 witli tape. They all rose, and began to 
 look for their hats, with one accord. 
 
 Venn replaced the roll in the drawer with 
 a sidi. 
 
 "You may sit down again,'' he said. 
 " You will be sorry, some time, not to have 
 heard the prolegomena to the scheme. But 
 I will only read the prospectus. You are 
 aware, perhaps, that a million a year is col- 
 lected for the conversion of the blacks." 
 
 " It is a fact over which, in penniless mo- 
 ments, I have often brooded," said Jones. 
 
 " Then," said Venn triumphantly, " let 
 us raise the same sum for converting the 
 whites." 
 
 " Wliat are we to covert them to ? " 
 
 " I shall give nothing for converting any- 
 body," Lynn growled. 
 
 " Don't talk like an atheist, Lynn ; be- 
 cause this is a philanthropic scheme, and, 
 besides, one out of which money may be 
 made. We shall Christianize the world.' 
 We shall teach the people that their re- 
 ligion needs not consist in going to church 
 every Sunday, and sometimes reading a 
 ' chapter.' We shall begin with the House 
 of Lords. There is a great field open among 
 the peers and their families. The House of 
 Commons, — which comes next upon my 
 list — will, after a few years' labor among 
 them, be so changed that the constituents 
 won't know their own members again. So 
 more putting into office because a man makes 
 himself disagreeable out of it; no more bol- 
 stering a measure because it is brought for- 
 ward by a minister ; no more legislating for 
 class interests ; no more putting off for a 
 befiter day. And, above all, a stern sense 
 of Christian duty which will limit every 
 speaker to ten minutes, like a Wesleyan 
 preacher at\a field-meeting. Next to the 
 House of Commons, we shall take the Inns 
 of Court. Oh, my readers ! " — 
 
 " You are quite sure that you are not quot- 
 ing from the prolegomena V " said Jones. 
 
 " Pardon me, — I was about to delight 
 you with perhaps as fine a piece of declama- 
 tion as you have ever heard. Now you shall 
 not have it. The Inns of Court will be taken 
 by a series of door-to-door visitations ; and 
 the missionaries, who will not be highly paid, 
 will receive special allowances for repairs to 
 that part of their dress most likely to be in- 
 jured. If one converts a barrister, he shall 
 be promoted to the conversion of the bench. 
 If one convertsa judge, he shall be still fur- 
 ther promoted to the conversion of certain 
 ex-Lord Chancellors. In the army, after a 
 few months of our work,' you will find so 
 
 great a change that the officer will actually 
 work at his profession ; the same rules will 
 be maintained for officers as for men, — those 
 about getting drunk, and so forth. And in 
 the navy, similar good effects will be pro- 
 duced. The best results will be obtained 
 in the trading-classes. For then the grocer 
 will no more sand his sugar and mix his tea ; 
 the publican will sell honest drink ; and all 
 shall be contented with a modest profit." 
 
 " Of course," said Lynn, " the missionaries 
 will behave in exactly the same way as if 
 they were at Jubbulpore or Timbuctoo, — o-o 
 in and out, uninvited ; and, like district visit- 
 ors, they will make any impertinent obser- 
 vations they please ? " 
 
 " Of course ; and the consequences will be 
 part of the day's work." 
 
 " I quite approve of the scheme,'' said 
 Jones. " Only, I don't see my own share 
 in it." 
 
 " You are to be secretary, Jones. It is 
 your name that we shall put forward." 
 
 " Then I retire." 
 
 " Do not, Jones, let a promising scheme 
 be ruined at the very outset by an obstinate 
 selfishness. What matters it if the world 
 does scoff? " 
 
 But Jones was obdurate. 
 
 " Then, Jones, you shall have nothing, 
 while Lynn and I will divide all the profits. 
 I go on to a second theme. This will not 
 be so lucrative, but still safe. It is nothing 
 less, gentlemen, than the establishment of a 
 Koyal Literary College, — a college do- 
 voted to the art and mystery of writino-, — 
 not, understand, for the old and worn-out 
 purposes of conveying thought, but for the 
 modern purpose of conveying amusement." 
 
 " It sounds well," said Jones. " Of course, 
 as it is the project of the Chorus, it will fail. 
 
 ' Fair pledges of a fruitfifl tree, 
 Why do ye iafX so last? ' " 
 
 " And now listen to the prospectus, which 
 you will find to be drawn up with great care. 
 
 "'EOTAL LITERARY COLLEGE. 
 
 " ' The promoters of this institution, bear- 
 ing in mind the enormous increase in the 
 population, the consequent increase in the 
 number of readers, and the necessity of 
 providing for their daily, weekly, and 
 monthly requirements, propose to estab- 
 lish a college expressly for the training of 
 popular mediocrity. I'hey have observed 
 with pain, that, in spite of the efforts of able 
 editors, a great deal of time is still spent in 
 providing papers containing thought. And 
 though a large number of these leaders of 
 popular amusement care nothing for the 
 merits of a paper, "provided it be written by 
 a well-known man, there are yet a few who 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 65 
 
 study to present their readers with wtat 
 they require least, — food for reflection. 
 Among other objects, it is proposed to pre- 
 vent this lamentable waste of time and 
 energy ; and, in doing so, to anticipate the 
 tastes, of the age and the wants of the read- 
 ing public. Literature, in fact, is to be re- 
 duced to a science. Tlie increased demand 
 for literary men by no means represents an 
 increased supply of genius. On the con- 
 ■ trary, the promoters are of serious opinion 
 that genius was never at so low an ebb as 
 at present, and the art of writing upon 
 nothing, although it has not yet been 
 systematically taught, never at so high a 
 pitch. In order ta convince themselves of 
 this, the promoters, by means of a sub-oom- 
 mittee, liave carefully studied the whole 
 popular literature of the last twelve months. 
 They are liappy in being able to report that 
 there has not been, so far as their labors 
 have permitted them to discover, a single 
 new truth introduced to the British public, 
 not a single good thing said, nothing old 
 newly set, and not one good poem by a new 
 man. This they consider highly satisfactory 
 and gratifying. And it is in the hope of 
 perpetuating, improving, and extending 
 this state of things, that they desire to 
 found the Royal Literary College. 
 
 " ' In the ordinary course of events, it 
 cannot be but that an occasional genius will 
 arise. Should such appear by any acci- 
 dent among^ the students of the college, he 
 will be promptly and firmly expelled. But 
 the college will gladly welcome any one, of 
 either sex, who, having^ a quick memory 
 and a facile pen, is quite justified in con- 
 sidering himself a genius ; and every allow- 
 ance will be made for the weaknesses of 
 humanity, should any student give himself, 
 or herself, the airs of genius. 
 
 " ' As students of both sexes will be ad- 
 mitted within the college, the promoters, 
 considering how great a stimulus poverty 
 ' is to work, will encourage, by Svery means 
 in their power, early marriages. In case 
 of husband and wife being both students, 
 arrangements will be made to enable tbem 
 to starve together, with their innocent pro- 
 geny, outside the college walls. No chap- 
 lain will be appointed, as the promoters 
 desire to consider the college quite unde- 
 nominational. In deference, however, to 
 popular opinion, a chapel will be built, in 
 which service will be held on Sundays, in 
 as many Christian denominations as time 
 permits! The hall will be set apart for the 
 more advanced thinkers, who will not, how- 
 ever, be allowed to smoke during the deliv- 
 ery of orations. 
 
 " ' The great festivals of the college will 
 be Commemoration Day, Old Dramatist 
 Day, Old Chronicle . Day, Scandalous 
 i 
 
 Chronicle and Memoirs Day, Horace Wal- 
 pole Da^y, Boswell Day, and French Play 
 Day. On these days will be celebrated the 
 names of those great men who, by their 
 writings, have furnished models for copy- 
 ing, or provided storehouses for plagiarists. 
 Every student will be expected to produce 
 a panegyric in his own line. . Those which, 
 in the opinion of the examiners, have most 
 merit — from the Literary College point of 
 view — will be printed and kept for one 
 month. The successful students will read 
 them out in the college hall ; but no one 
 will be compelled to listen. 
 
 " ' There will be no holidays or vacations. 
 Every student will absent himself as often 
 as he pleases. On Sundays, conveyances 
 will be provided for intending excursion- 
 ists. 
 
 ",' The college library will not, on any 
 account, receive the works of the college 
 students. 
 
 " ' In the examinations for scholarships 
 and degrees, if any composition, in the eyes 
 of the examiners, should be found to par- 
 take of the nature of philosophy, research, 
 or erudition ; or should the reading of any 
 composition demand the exercise of thought; 
 or should any reflect on the glory and dig- 
 nity of light literature, the offender shall 
 be publicly reprimanded, and, on a repeti- 
 tion of the offence, shall be disgracefully 
 expelled. No objection will be made to the 
 offering up of prayers for any erring student. 
 
 " ' The college will be divided into sev- 
 eral sections. These, ■jvhich are not yet 
 quite settled, will be somewhat as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 '"I. Poetry. — Students will be rec- 
 ommended to take a year's course at this, 
 after the regular three years at any of the 
 other branches. Several gentlemen will be 
 invited to lecture from time to time. Mr. 
 Browning on the Art of Obscurity and Ap- 
 parent Depth; a\s6 on the Art of going on 
 Forever. Mr. Swinburne on the Attrac- 
 tiveness of the Forbidden, and on the 
 Melody of the English Language. Mr. 
 Tupper on Catching a Weasel Asleep, ap- 
 plied to the British public. Mr. Buchanan 
 on the Art of Self-laudation. Mr. Rossetti 
 on the Mystery of Mediaeval Mummeries ; 
 also on the Fleshly School and on the Art 
 of Poetical Pretension. Mr. Tennyson on 
 quite a new subject : The Yawning of Ar- 
 thur ; or, Guinevere Played Out. 
 
 " ' The students will be required to read 
 the mortal and perishable works of some of 
 these poets. They will also be examined 
 in the poems of Southey, Cowper, the imi- 
 tations of Pope, and the magazine poetry 
 of the day, particularly that which decorates 
 the monthlies. 
 
66 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " ' II. The second branch will be the 
 writing of essays. It is, of course, super- 
 fluous to say that A. K. H. B. will be invit- 
 ed to undertake the department of Com- 
 monplace and Glorified Twaddle. He will 
 be assisted, provided their services can be 
 secured, by the authors of the monthly 
 magazine essays. A large number of 
 clergymen, including the. Master of the 
 Temple and several of the bench of bishops, 
 will be asked to ii\struct in reeling off 
 ' goody ' talk by the foot or yard, as re- 
 quired, for religious papers. 
 
 " ' Certain essay writers will be excluded 
 altogether, — among them will be Emerson 
 and Oliver Wendell Holmes ; while but a 
 sparing use will be allowed of Sir Arthur 
 Helps. ♦ 
 
 " ' The authors from whom cribbing will 
 be recommended are Steele, Addison, Gold- 
 smith, and Johnson. Montaigne will also 
 be largely used. 
 
 " ' III. Historical Articles. — This 
 department is exceedingly difficult to ar- 
 range. It is hoped that Canon Kingsley 
 may be induced to give a lecture on the 
 Historical Forgiveness of Sins, based on 
 that celebrated essay of his where he has 
 shown that Raleigh's sins were forgiven be- 
 cause a baby was born unto him. He may 
 also be asked to give over again his Cam- 
 bridge course. The gentleman who writes 
 the weekly articles in " The Saturday," abus- 
 ing Mr. Froude, will be invited to illustrate 
 the method of establishing a raw, and al- 
 ways pegging at it. ' He will also be asked 
 to give a lecture on Mr. Freeman, called 
 " Moi et MoimSme." But the arrangements 
 for the historical course are not yet com- 
 pleted, and the promoters beg for further 
 time.' 
 
 " ' |V. We come next to leading articles. 
 On this head it will only be observed here 
 that the paper which has the largest circu- 
 lation, whatever that may be, will be 
 chosen as the model. " The Saturday,-' 
 " The Spectator," " The Examiner," and a 
 few other papers T^hich occasionally ad- 
 dress the intellect, will be excluded from 
 consideration. 
 
 " ' V. The department of novels will re- 
 ceive the most careful attention and the 
 most profound study. All the students, 
 without any exception, will be required to 
 pass through it; and no student shall re- 
 ceive a degree, a diploma, or any certificate 
 of honor, until he has produced a three- 
 volume novel, complete, finished, and ready 
 for the publisher. The professor of the 
 iaranch should be, if he will undertake the 
 duties, Mr. Anthony TroUope. There will 
 
 be lecturers to point out the secrets of man- . 
 ufacture in all the sub-divisions : the prin- 
 cipal of these will be the religious novel, in 
 which the works of Miss Yonge and Miss 
 Wetherell will, of course, form the most 
 useful guides to ih'i student. Lord Lytton 
 will serve for the student of the sentimental, 
 the political, and the highly-colored unreal. 
 There will be several forms of the muscular 
 novel, including the rollicking, the Chris- 
 tian hero, the sentimental, the pint-pewter 
 crushing, and the remorseful. Ouida, Miss 
 Broughton, Charles and Henry Kingsley, 
 and Mr. Lawrence, will be the chosen mod- 
 els for this sub-division. 
 
 " ' For the sensational, there can be but 
 one model. 
 
 " ' For the plain work of the department, 
 the mere story-telling, with puppets for 
 characters, of course Mr. Wilkie Collins' 
 will bp the guide. 
 
 " ' If there should be any student who 
 would rashly propose to make a picture of 
 real life, he will be set to study Charles 
 Reade ; but not in the. college, from which 
 Mr. Reade's works will be excluded. 
 
 " ' The promoters will have great pleas- 
 ure in receiving tenders and designs for a 
 building. Names of candidates will be re- 
 ceived at once by the secretary, Mr. Hart- 
 ley Venn, M. A.' " 
 
 " There ! " said Venn, " what do you 
 think of that?" He sat down, and wiped, 
 his forehead. "I have thought of you 
 both. You, Lynn, shall be the standing 
 counsel, with a large retaining fee. You, 
 Jones, shall be professor of the dramatic 
 art. You will observe, that, out of regard 
 to your feelings, I abstained from mention- 
 ing this department. I myself shall 'be the 
 first warden, with a salary of £2,000 a 
 year." 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 Madeleine's world and the two worlds 
 of the " boys," as she called them, were all 
 three wide enough apart. Woman-like, 
 she tried to bring them into her own 
 groove, and began by asking them to din- 
 ner. Arthur went with a sort of enthusi- 
 asm. The queenly beauty and the impe- ' 
 riousness of the young lady — ^ so great a 
 contrast to his own shrinking indecision — 
 fired his imagination. In her he saw some- 
 thing of what he himself might have been 
 but for his fatal shyness. Philip went too, 
 at first unwillingly, but presently with a 
 pleasure which astonished him. His pas- 
 time seemed to be to rouse the spirit ofan- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 67 
 
 tagonism in Madeleine ; and he delighted 
 to rouse her to wrath by opposing to her 
 enthusiasm the cold barrier of cynical self- 
 ishness. 
 
 " If it were not," she said one night, — 
 " if it were not that I know you exaggerate 
 your opinions, I should hate you." 
 
 " Do not hate me," Philip answered ; 
 " because hatred is an active passion. I 
 dislike a lot of people ; but I never take 
 the trouble to hate anybody, — not even a 
 bore." 
 
 " Then, do not talk as if self was the only 
 thing in the world." 
 
 " I must, Madeleine, if I talk at all. Yon 
 would not have silence at your table, would 
 you ? And Arthur never says any thing. 
 Arthur has made a wonderful discovery, 
 which is going to cover him wilh glory. 
 Has he told vou ? " 
 
 " No. What is it, Arthur ? " 
 
 Arthur blushed vividly. 
 
 " It is only a point of archajological in- 
 terest," he said. " There has been a dis- 
 pute in the Archajological Institute for 
 years about the number of buttons that 
 went to the shirt of mail, and I have at last 
 ' been enabled to settle the question." 
 
 " There," said Philip triumphantly, 
 " what did I tell you ? " 
 
 Madeleine sighed. It seemed to her so 
 sad that one of the boys should openly 
 worship self, and the other should fritter 
 away his time in the pursuit of useless 
 knowledge. 
 
 In the course of the evening she delivered 
 an animated oration on the subject, while 
 Mrs. Long worthy slumbered by the fire. 
 ThS boys stood before her, each in his turn 
 receiving punishment; Philip enjoying it 
 above all things, and Arthur, because he 
 saw that she was in earnest, with blushes 
 and shame. 
 
 " It is all true, Madeleine, every word," 
 he said. 
 
 " So it is," said Philip. " We are a dis- 
 graceful pair." » 
 
 " You are the worse, Philip, by far," went 
 on the fair preacher, " when I look at you, 
 and think what you might be doing " — 
 
 " See, now, Madeleine," Philip said : 
 " tell us exactly what we can do, and we 
 will have a try at it. The care of other 
 people may possibly have a charm in it 
 which is unknown to us at present. Who 
 knows ? I may yet be preaching on a tub, 
 while Arthur collects half-pence in his hat, 
 I fancy I see him now." 
 
 " You turn every thing serious into ridi- 
 cule." 
 
 " Seriously," Arthur said, " my life is 
 wasted. I suppose antiquarian research is 
 useless to the world. 1 am afraid, however, 
 I shall never quite give it up. What can 
 
 I do ? Do you want any money for your 
 objects, Madeleine ? " 
 
 " No — no — no," she replied impa- 
 tiently. " How often am I to tell you that 
 the real work of charity is done without 
 money ? Now, listen, and I will tell you 
 what a man of leisure should do. It is the 
 interest of everybody that the condition of 
 the poor should be raised, — by schools, 
 by giving them instruction in the arlfs of 
 life, by giving them sufficient wages for 
 good work, by maintaining their self-re- 
 spect." 
 ■ Philip began to groan softly. 
 
 " I will come to what 1 mean most." She 
 blushed a little, and went on : "I have 
 got a friend, a middle-aged woman, who 
 gives all her life to the care of a certain 
 house, where she receives and finds work 
 tor women. We give them as much work 
 as they can do, at a fair price. W^e ask no 
 questions, — we form no society. Some of 
 them live in the liouse, others in the neigh- 
 borhood. We do not let them work all 
 day, and we give them instruction in house- 
 work, in medicine, and all sorts of things 
 that may be useful to them when they 
 marry, as most of them do." 
 
 " I suppose," said Philip the irrepress- 
 ible, " they are driven to church three 
 times every Sunday." 
 
 " Not at all. Wexuever interfere with 
 their religion. Some of them are pious ; 
 some, I suppose, are not. We have one 
 broad principle, — that our work shall not 
 be mixed up with religion in any way." 
 
 " Good." 
 
 " And what do you do with their work ? " 
 
 " It goes to a shop which belongs to us. 
 We can sell as cheaply as any other, in 
 spite of our high wages ; because, you see, 
 there is no middle-man." 
 
 " Madeleine, you are a radical." 
 
 " I know nothing about that. I am de- 
 termined to do what I can to have women' 
 properly paid. All that come to me shall 
 get work, even if we lose, — though I think 
 we shall not lose by it, — so long as I have 
 any (noney left. Now, you two can help 
 me." 
 
 " I have never learned to sew," said 
 Philip, looking at his fingers. 
 
 " The girls and women have got brothers 
 and sons. We cannot find work for them, 
 too, but we want to geft up a night-school. 
 Will you come down and teach ? " 
 
 They looked at each other with alarm. 
 
 " Of course we will." said Arthur, " if 
 you wish it." 
 
 " Then come to-morrow." 
 
 They went. 
 
 It was in Westminster that Madeleine's 
 " house " stood ; properly speaking, three 
 or four small houses knocked into one. 
 
68 
 
 MY LITTLE GIELi 
 
 They went with her at seven o'clock, both 
 feeling horribly ill at ease. • 
 
 She took them up stairs iilto a room 
 made out of two, by taking down the wall 
 between, where a dozen boys were assem- 
 bled, under the care of a young man whose 
 pale cheeks and thin figure concealed a 
 vast amount of courage and enthusiasm. 
 With him, — a young martyr to the cause 
 which yearly kills its soldiers; — we have 
 here nothing to do. 
 
 '■ This is our school," said Madeleine. 
 "Mr. Hughes, these two gentlemen will 
 try to do something for us, if you. will put 
 them in the way." 
 
 Mr. Hughes bowed, but looked suspici- 
 ously at his two new assistants. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," he said, " there are 
 your pupils, — the more advanced boys. 
 Mine are down below." 
 
 He divided the boys into two | sets, one at 
 either end ; giving Philip care of one, and 
 Arthur that of the other. 
 
 " You will be firm, gentlemen," he whis- 
 pered. " Don't let any single step be taken 
 to destroy discipline. We have to be very 
 careful here. Here are books for you." 
 
 He gave Philip a geography, and Arthur 
 a little book containing hints of lectures 
 on all sorts of elementary subjects, chiefly 
 connected with laws of health, rules of life, 
 and of simple chemical laws. Arthur sat 
 down mechanically, and turned pale when 
 he opened the book ; for of s.cienoe he was 
 as ignorant as the pope himself. In a few 
 moments Philip came over to him. 
 
 "What have you got, Arthur ? " 
 
 " Here's science, — what am I to do 
 with it ? " 
 
 "I don't know. I've got geography. 
 What am I to do with that V" 
 
 " Draw a map on a board, and tell them 
 something about a country. Any thing 
 will do." 
 
 Philip went back and faced his class. 
 They were a sturdy, dirty-faced lot of young 
 gamins, all whispering together, and evi- 
 dently intent on as much mischief as could be 
 got out of the new teacher. Behind him 
 was a, blackboard and a piece of chalk. 
 
 " What country shall we take, boys ? " 
 he asked, with an air of confidence, as if 
 all were alike to him. 
 
 " Please, sir, yesterday we had Central 
 Africa, and Mr. Hughes told us a lot about 
 travellers there. Let's have some more 
 about Livingstone." 
 
 Philip was not posted up in Livingstone. 
 He shook his head, and tried to think of a 
 country he knew something about. Sud- 
 denly a bright thought struck him. 
 
 " Did you ever hear of Palmiste Island, 
 boys V " 
 
 They never had. 
 
 " By Jove," thought Philip, " I shall get 
 on splendidly now." 
 
 As he was drawing his map of the island, 
 he heard Arthur, in a hesitating voice, 
 beginning to describe the glory of the 
 heavens ; and nearly choked, because he was 
 certain that five minutes would bring him 
 to grief. 
 
 He began to talk as he drew his map, 
 describing the discovery of the island, the 
 first settlers, and their hardships ; and 
 then, warming to his subjeot, he told all 
 about sugar-making and coffee-planting. 
 From time to time Arthur's voice fell up- 
 on his ear ; but he was too busy drawing 
 his map, and decorating the corners of the 
 board with fancy sketches, illustrating the 
 appearance of the people, niggers' heads, 
 Chinese carrying pigs, — for Phil sketched 
 very fiirly, — and he did not look up. '. 
 Presently he turned round. All Arthur's 
 boys had deserted their instructor, and 
 come over to him, while their unhappy 
 lecturer, in silence, .sat helpless in his 
 chair, book in hand. As for his own boys, 
 they were all on the broad grin, enjoying 
 the lesson highly. 
 
 Philip stopped. 
 
 " I say," he said, " this won't do, you 
 know. Go back, you boys, to your own 
 end." 
 
 " He ain't no good, that teacher,'' said 
 one of the boys, with a derisive grin. 
 
 Arthur shook his head mournfully. 
 There was something touching in his atti- 
 tude, sitting all alone, with his book in his 
 hand. Perhaps Arthur had never felt so 
 humiliated in his life before. It was per- 
 fectly true : h6 was no good. In the brief 
 five minutes during which he lectured, he 
 made more mistakes in astronomical sci- 
 ence than generally falls to the lot of man 
 to make in a lifetime. Some of the boys, 
 who had been to national schools, found 
 him out in a moment, and openly expressed 
 their contempt before seceding to the other 
 end of .the room. 
 
 , " He ain't no good, that teacher," said 
 the boy. " You go on with your patter. 
 We're a-listeniu' to you. Draw us some 
 more pictures. Make a white man latherin' 
 a nigger." 
 
 " pbsairve," as a friend of ours would 
 aay, the instinctive Superiority of race. 
 
 " Boys," said another, rising solemnly, ' 
 " this one ain't no good neither. He's a- 
 gammonin' of us. There ain't no such 
 place. _ I sha'n't stay here to be gamnioned 
 on." 
 
 He was about four feet nothing in his 
 boots, this young Hampden. Phil, cut to 
 the heart by the ignominy of the thing, 
 caught him a box of the ears that laid him 
 sprawling. The urchin raised a howl, and, 
 
MT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 69 
 
 falling back upon his friends, pulled the 
 form over with him, so that the whole row 
 of a dozen fell together. The yells were 
 terrific for a moment ; and then, seized by 
 a common impulse, the boys grasped their 
 . caps, and fled down the stairs like one boy. 
 
 " Arthur ! " said Philip. 
 
 " Philip ! " said Arthur. 
 
 " You never experienced any thing like 
 this before, I suppose ? ' 
 
 " Never." 
 
 Just then Madeleine herself appeared, 
 followed by Mr. Hughes. All the forms lay 
 on the floor ; for, in the brief moment of tu- 
 mult, every boy had seized the opportunity 
 of contributing something to the noise ; and 
 at either end of the room stood one of her 
 new allies. Arthur, with his arms help- 
 lessly dangling, holding the unlucky book 
 of science, Philip tryirig with his pocket- 
 handkerchief to rub out some of the pic- 
 tures. 
 
 Madeleine looked from one to the other. 
 
 " Take this wretched book, somebody," 
 said Arthur, as if the volume chained him 
 to the spot. " Do take the book." 
 
 Mr. Hughes took the book, and Arthur 
 turned to Madeleine. 
 
 " It's a failure, Madeleine," he said, with 
 a sad sigh. " They only laughed at me." 
 
 " And what have you been doing, 
 Philip ? " 
 
 " I've been getting on capitally," he said, 
 trying toefiace the pig and the Chinaman. 
 " I've been giving a lesson on geography." 
 
 " Illustrated," said Mr. Hughes quietly, 
 pointing to the pig. 
 
 " Yes, illustrated. I've been telling the 
 hoys about Palmiste, Madeleine ; and they 
 actually refused to believe there is any such 
 place." 
 
 " Is much mischief done, Mr. Hughes ? " 
 asked Madeleine. 
 
 The question was like a box on the ear 
 to both. They looked at each other, and 
 Philip began to laugh. 
 
 " Honestly, Madeleine," he said, " I am 
 very sorry. We have done our best. I 
 thought we should have to give a lesson, 
 and was not prepared to give a lecture." 
 
 " Never mind, sir," said Mr. Hughes. 
 " I dare say we shall soon mend matters ; 
 and perhaps your pictures amused the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " You may take me home, both of you," 
 said Madeleine. 
 
 She said no more, though she was greatly 
 disappointed at the failure of her scheme. 
 
 "Madeleine," said Philip in the cai^ 
 riao-e, " I am inclined to think, that, on the 
 whole, I can serve my fellow-creatures best 
 by not teaching them." 
 
 " Try me again, Madeleine," Arthur 
 whispered. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Settling down in most respectable 
 lodgings, in Keppel Street, Russell Square, 
 with a clear six months before him of no 
 anxiety for the next day's dinner, Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre felt at first more elation than be- 
 comes a philosopher. We must excuse him. 
 When a man has had seven years of shifts, 
 hardly knowing one day what the next 
 would be like, racking his brain for con- 
 trivances to keep the wolf from the door, 
 busy with never-ending combinations for 
 the transference of cash from other people's 
 pockets to his own, a clear holiday of six 
 months seems almost like an eternity. ' 
 
 After a few days of seclusion and whiskey 
 toddy, Mr. Maclntyre awoke to the conclu- 
 sion that something would have to be done. 
 Reason once more asserted her sway. His 
 first idea was to take pupils ; and accord- 
 ingly he invested a small sum in second- 
 hand books, another in reports and exami- 
 nations, and another sum in advertisements. 
 No pupils came at all. Another thing he 
 did was to go to a lawyer, and instruct him 
 to write a certain letter to a firm of lawyers 
 in Palmiste. They were directed to search 
 the register of marriages at the Church of 
 St. Joseph for that of George Durnford 
 with Marie ; to make a formal and attested 
 copy of it, and to send it to London, — the 
 whole being strictly secret and confiden- 
 tial. 
 
 And then, this being fairly put into hand, 
 as he found he had a good deal of time upon 
 his hands, he began to spend it chiefly in 
 the society of Philip, watching him closely, 
 getting his secrets out of him, communicat- 
 ing his opinions, trying to get a real influ- 
 ence over him. 
 
 " Obsairve," said the philosopher one 
 night to Philip himself, " there are some 
 kinds of men who go uphill or downhill, 
 according as they are shoved. They have 
 no deliberate choice in the matter ; because, 
 if they had, they would prefer the better 
 path. While they are hesitating, some one 
 comes and gives them a gentle shove down- 
 wards." 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this, 
 Maclntyre ? " asked Philip, ignorant of the 
 application. 
 
 ," Ay, ay — the wise man talks in para- 
 bles, and is understood not. Ye've heard 
 of Mr. Baxter, and his ' Shove to Heavy 
 Christians,' Phil? He was a sagacious 
 man. There may as well be shovers up as 
 shovers down. I do what I can, but it's 
 vera little, — vera little, indeed. In me, my 
 pupil, you behold an up-shover ; in your- 
 self, — one who is shoved upwards." 
 
 In his easy way, having very few friends 
 
70 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEC. 
 
 and long leave, Philip fell back a good deal 
 on Maclntyre. First, the man amused 
 him ; then he took pleasure in his company, 
 because he flattered him ; thirdly, he fell 
 into the snares of a will stronger than his 
 own, and confided every thing to him. 
 Maclntyre, not by any means i a deep, de- 
 signing villain, had yet a game of his own 
 to play. He read the character of his ex- 
 pupil,'and began to consider his own plan 
 almost as good as carried out. 
 
 " See," he seemed to say, while he and 
 Philip sat opposite each other in the even- 
 ing, smoking and talking, — " see how 
 goodly are the fruits in the, neighborhood 
 of the Dead Sea. Let me give you a 
 friendly shove in that direction.. Obsairve, 
 how sickly is the perfume — how faint the 
 odor of the Jericho rose. Truly, the apples 
 of the plain are better than the grapes of 
 Eshcol. I have been myself, all my life, in 
 .search of these fruits ; unsuccessfully, I ad- 
 mit, through no fault of mine ; for I had no 
 scruples. I fought for my own hand. I 
 was a beggar born ; and, because circum- 
 stances were too strong for me, I am a beg- 
 gar now, at fifty-three. But mine is the 
 true road, and your philosopher knows no 
 scruples." 
 
 . Phil's secrets were simple. The young 
 fellow was in debt, of course, but not badly. 
 More than half of his little fortune was 
 gone. He always had a heavy balance 
 against him in his speculative transactions. 
 Worse than this, he was in Ijove. 
 
 All these things considered together, Mr. 
 Maclntyre was, perhaps, justified in rub- 
 bing his hands at night. What did he do , 
 though, with those two or three bits of 
 yellow paper which he was always reading, 
 holding to the light and examining, before 
 he put them up again in the dirty old pock- 
 et-book which he carried inside his waist- 
 coat ? 
 
 " I think," he murmurs, " that in three 
 months, or six at most, it may be doi^e. It 
 shall be done. The pear will be ripe. 
 Bah I it must drop into my hands." 
 
 He talked over the love matter. That 
 was the most pressing business. 
 
 " Ye cannot do it, Phil," he said ; " it's 
 beneath yourself." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Philip, coloring. "I 
 can make no mesalliance." 
 
 " Pardon me, you can. And if you knew 
 all — Obsairve, youn^ man, he who " — 
 
 " I know, I know. Do not philosophize. 
 I suppose you cannot imagine such a thing 
 as love, Maclntyre V " 
 
 " No, I think not. I've been married, 
 though ; so I know very well what is not 
 love." 
 
 " I believe you have been every thing," 
 said Philip. 
 
 " Most things I certainly liave ; and most 
 things I have made notes of. As, for in- 
 stance, that the British officer, does not, 
 as a rule, marry the girl of inferior position 
 whom " — 
 
 /' Maclntyre, stop I " cried Philip. " Do 
 not try me too far. I have been a gambler, 
 if you like — a profligate — any thing you 
 like to call me ; but I swear that I never 
 had that sin laid to my conscience." 
 
 " Aweel, aweel," said Maclntyre. " Was 
 I tempting you ? You apply a general 
 proposition to a particular case. A most 
 illogical race the English always were." 
 
 He changed the subject, but kept on re- 
 curring to it, night after night : while 
 Philip, meeting Laura but once a week or 
 so, was daily growing more and more pas- 
 sionately in love with the girl. 
 
 " A marriage beneath your station, ' 
 Philip," he said one night enigmatically, 
 " would be madness to you, just now." 
 
 " And why just now ? " 
 
 " Because you will have to take your 
 proper place ; give up the soldiering, and 
 become a country gentleman ; that is, as 
 soon as you like to hold out your hand and 
 ask." 
 
 " What is the man talking about ? " 
 
 " Never mind — we can wait. Mind, I 
 say nothing about the young leddy." 
 
 " She is too good for me." 
 
 "Nadoot, na doot. They always are. 
 She's all that you imagine, of course, and 
 more behind it ; but after a month, ye'd 
 wish ye hadn't done it. Eh, what a pity 
 that there is nothing short of marriage 1 
 Hand-fasting would be something." 
 
 It was the second time he had thrown 
 out this hint. This time Philip did not 
 spring from his chair. He only looked at 
 him thoughtfully, and shook his head. 
 
 " I must have her, Maclntyre — I must 
 have her. Only this morning I saw her. 
 See, here is a lock of her pretty hair. How 
 soft it is, the dear little look that I cut off 
 with her own scissors I and here is her face 
 in my locket. Look at it, — you, with your 
 fifty years of cold philosophy, — and warm 
 your blood for a moment. Think of what 
 you would have been, if you had met her 
 when you were young, when you were five 
 and twenty I Eh, Mephistopheles ? Did 
 you ever have any youth ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you about my youth some other 
 day," returned the preceptor, — " not now. 
 Well, it's a bonny face, a bonny face ; and 
 a good face too." 
 
 "By Heaven, sir," Philip went on, 
 " there's no woman like her, ;— not one. 
 
 ' There is none like her, none, 
 Nor shall bo till our summers have deceased.' 
 
MT LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 71 
 
 You kno-^, you know — 
 
 * Her Bweet voice ringing up to the sunny sky, 
 Till I well could weep for myself, so wretched 
 
 and mean, 
 And a lover so sordid and base.' 
 
 It isn't quite mht : but never mind. I 
 feel the touch, of her fingers in mine this 
 moment, man of the icy veins. I tell you 
 that I feel the warm blush on her cheek 
 when I kissed her ; I hear the sweet tones 
 of her voice, — the loveliest and sweetest 
 you ever heard. And she trusts me," he 
 went on, with a sort of sob, — " she trusts 
 me, and thinks I am good. Good I She 
 is not happy with the secret, poor child. 
 She longs to tell Mr. Venn, who is a friend 
 of Arthur's, all about it." 
 
 " And has she told Mr. Venn ? " cried 
 Maclntyre, greatly excited. 
 
 " Why, no. I tell her not to." 
 
 "Don't let her, Phil. Keep it secret. 
 Whatever you do, don't let Mr. Venn 
 know." 
 
 Phil was in a hot fit that night, and 
 Maclntyre let him down with his simple 
 remonstrance. 
 
 Next day he was despondent, because 
 things looked badly for a horse he had 
 backed. He began again. Philip answered 
 surily, — 
 
 " I am going to marry her, pillar of Pres- 
 byterian scrupulosity. My mind is made 
 up." 
 
 " I knew a man once," said Maclntyre, 
 filling his tumbler with brandy and water, 
 " much in your predicament. He was in 
 love with a girl beneath him." 
 
 "Now you are going to invent some 
 lies of your own," said Philip. 
 
 Maclntyre half rose. 
 
 " Sir, do not insult your own guest. 
 If it was not for — for this full glass of 
 grog, I'd go at once." 
 
 "No, no, — I beg your pardon. Go on 
 with your parable." 
 
 "It is no parable. Truth, sir, — plain, 
 unvarnished truth, will always be found 
 better than parable. This, sir," tapping 
 his breast, " is a wholesale depdt of truth. 
 I knew the man of whom I am telling you 
 well. A friend of his had been once an 
 ordained Presbyterian minister. He said 
 to him, 'I will marry you privately. The 
 marriage is.pairfectly good north of the 
 Tweed. What it is south, I do not know. 
 It will be time to raise the question after 
 the ceremony is completed.' Well, Philip, 
 they werejnarried. My friend performed 
 the service in his own house. The ques- 
 tion has never been raised, and never 
 will be raised, because the mamage turned 
 out happily — in consequence of the de- 
 mise of the leddy." 
 
 « Is that true ? " Philip asked. 
 
 " Quite true. I was the man who mar- 
 ried them." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre's powers of fiction are 
 already too well known for me to waste 
 any time in comment upon this speech. 
 No tear, I have reason to believe, blotted 
 that falsehood from the paper where it was 
 taken down. 
 
 "I was the inan," said Alexander the 
 Great without a blush. 
 
 "Were you ever in orders, — you?" 
 asked Phil. 
 
 " I, — why not ? I was ordained, called, 
 set aside, whatever you call it. It is true 
 that I was young and inxperienced." 
 
 " Good Lord, what a man it is I " 
 
 " I began by preaching in Edinburgh ; 
 but I failed in my very first appearance. 
 They said I wanted unction. I don't know 
 what I wanted. I had learned my dis- 
 course by heart the day before. Unfor- 
 tunately, I took too much on the Saturday 
 night ; and in the morning, what with the 
 whiskey and what with the position, and 
 the sermon half forgotten, I fear I made 
 but a poor appearance in the pulpit, a 
 sort o' stickit minister. I never preached 
 there again." 
 
 " What did you do next ? " 
 
 " They wanted a missionary for the Jews 
 in Constantinople. I went there. I stold 
 "seven years. I converted three Jews, who, 
 as I afterwards found, had been convert- 
 ed by all my predecessors in turn. They 
 did not cost much; and, as their names 
 were always changed, they helped to make 
 up the quarterly report. However, I had 
 to give that work up.; and I believe my 
 three converts all relapsed. Eh I the 
 hundreds of pounds those three rascals 
 cost our country. I say nothing, Phil ; 
 but you will think over my parable, as you 
 please to call it. Mind, I believe the mar- 
 riage was pairfectly legal. You may find 
 out afterwards, whatever you please. Ke- 
 member, the Church of Scotland is not yet 
 disestablished. It is as respectable as your 
 own church." 
 
 " Truly," said Philip, saluting him. 
 
 " I say, sir," repeated the reverend di- ^ 
 vine, " it is as respectable as yours. Other- 
 wise, I should not be in it." 
 
 "Quite so," said Philip, — "quite so." 
 
 " My friend, you see," he went on, " ar- 
 gued thus, by my advice : * If I choose, I 
 can at any time investigate the question of 
 legality. On the other hand, my wife will 
 always believe herself married. There 
 will be no question of a very ugly word, 
 because the Church will have done her 
 part. A blessed thing it is, Philip, that 
 there is a church to protect the world." 
 
 He stopped for a moment, and took a 
 
72 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 sip of half a pint or so of brandy and 
 water. Then his speech became suddenly 
 thick. 
 
 " A real-a-tooll-a 'lessed 'spensation of 
 Providence. What that friend of mine, in 
 love and all with most beautiful creecli', 
 would have done withou' th' Church, im- 
 possible to say." He steadied himself 
 with an effort. " Phil, my dear boy, bran- 
 dy always makes me ill. Gi' me a ma' hat, 
 ye blettherin* deevil, telling your stories, 
 and keeping your old tutor out of bed, 
 Gi' me ma hat, and le' me go. I'll tell ye 
 the rest to-morrow." 
 
 Philip, left alone, began to meditate. 
 The evil suggestion of his tempter lay at 
 his heart like a seedling waiting to put 
 forth its leaves. There was, over and 
 above the other difBculties of the position, 
 that of living if he were to marry. A very 
 considerable slice of the five thousand was 
 gone, that was quite clear. About the rest 
 he was not quite clear, but there could 
 not be much. 
 
 " What matters ? " he murmured. " I 
 will sell out, and we will do something, — 
 love like the birds, by gad. But I must 
 and will have the girl." 
 
 He took out the locket again, and look- 
 ed at the face which lay in it, with its 
 bright, innocent smile. As he looked, his 
 face softened. 
 
 " It is a shame," he said, " a shame I 
 That scoundrel, Maclntyre. No, child, no, 
 I will never wrong you." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Phil, you see, was born for better things. 
 His heart was open to all noble impulses, 
 as his eye and his ear were attuned to all 
 harmonies of color and sound. He had a 
 quick -appreciation, could take a broad 
 view of things. He knew his own powers ; 
 for men no more really deceive themselves 
 on the score of intellect than women on 
 that of beaTjty. If a man has brains, he 
 knows it. I reserve the rights of those 
 that are not clever and know it, and pre- 
 tend to be, and are proud of their preten- 
 sions. These are the men who go about 
 the world with all the letters of the alpha- 
 bet after their names, imposing more upon 
 themselves than on the credulous public. 
 There is yet another difference to be made. 
 Some few men are proud of the evepyem, 
 and many men are proud of the Syva/icc. 
 The pride of potentiality lingers long after 
 the power of real work has altogether gone, 
 long after the regret that tinges the first 
 twenty years of an idle man's life. You 
 may see, at Oxford and Cambridge, old 
 
 men who walk erect and proud, still flushed 
 with the triumphs they achieved as boys, 
 and proud still as men ; though their 
 strength has been measured against no 
 other competitors, and in no larger battle- 
 field, and though the men they once de- 
 feated have long since conquered in far 
 greater struggles, while they have grown 
 rusty over the combination port. 
 
 Philip was now at the age when regret 
 is. strongest. At no time do the possi- 
 bilities of life appear so splendid as at 
 twenty-five, or is the eoi^science quicker to 
 reproach us fdr wasted opportunities. But, 
 after all, what was he to do ? Life is but 
 a vague thing to a young subaltern of dis- 
 tinct ambitions, not clearly seeing what 
 glorious path to take up. Often enough 
 it becomes a merely ignoble thing, mean- 
 ing billiards, betting, brandy and soda, et 
 talia... In Phil's case, the life he led was 
 telling on his face, broadening his feat- 
 ures, giving them a coarse expression. 
 Our lives are stamped upon our faces. 
 Does there not come a time in every good 
 man's life when the hardest and unloveliest 
 of faces softens into beauty by reason of 
 the victory within ? Do not buy a " nose 
 machine," unlovely reader. Have patience, 
 and aim at the highest things ; and one 
 day your face, too, shall be beautiful* As 
 for Adonis, if he had lived the life of men 
 about town, his face would have been 
 coarse as theirs before the age of thirty. 
 
 The colored blood had something to do 
 with it. It helped to make Philip at once 
 sensitive, eager of distinction, and vain. 
 But not every thing. Fain would I put it 
 all down to color. Mighty comforting 
 thing as it is to us white men to reflect on 
 our superiority, we must be careful about 
 the theory. We may be the aristocracy 
 of Nature. To be sure, the creature who 
 walks about in the similitude of man, with 
 the leg in the middle of the foot ; whose 
 calf is in front, and shin behind ; whose 
 lips are thick ; whose hair is woolly ; whose 
 nose is flat; whose brain is small in front 
 and big behind ; who has had every chance, 
 and has clearly shown that he can do noth- 
 ing so well as the white man, — the full- 
 blooded negro, I say, must be regarded as 
 a distant cousin, a poor relation of human- 
 ity, and not a " brudder " at all. But as 
 for the mulatto class, I don't know. Take 
 a good quadroon mother, and a good white 
 father, and I really cannot see why the 
 resulting octorooh is a whit inferior to our 
 noble selves, — the aristocrats by color. 
 
 But the influence of color is always bad. 
 It helped to make Philip inferior to himself. 
 Let it be remembered about our Phil, the 
 backslider, that, till he was twelve years 
 old and more, he had been accustomed to 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 73 
 
 look on color aa the outward mark of a 
 dec^aded race. 
 
 It is all part of the same question. Take 
 the heir of all the Talbots — I mean noth- 
 ing personal to the heir of this distinguished 
 house. Rear him in pride of birth, in con- 
 tempt for low-born people, in ideas of the 
 responsibilities and dignities of rank, you 
 will turn out a creature whom the whole 
 world cannot match for pride, self-respect, 
 self-reliance, and the virtues of courage 
 pluck, and endurance, which depend on 
 these. 
 
 But take the little Echo boy. Suppose 
 he had been subjected from infancy to the 
 same teaching and treatment, would there 
 have been any difference ? 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre would have replied, "I, 
 vera much doot it." 
 
 " The future of a boy, sir," Venn said 
 one evening, " may be entirely prophesied 
 from an observation of his early habits and 
 prejudices. I have gathered, for instance, 
 a few particulaf s from the boyhood of great 
 men, which throw a wonderful light upon 
 their after-career. When I tell you, for 
 example, that Mr. John Stuart Mill, early 
 in life, had to submit his nails to a disfig- 
 uring course of bitter almonds to cure him 
 of biting them, you feel at once that you 
 understand the whole of the philosopher's 
 works." 
 
 " I do not, for one," said Jones. 
 
 " I have also heard," he went on, " that 
 Mr. Gladstone was birched more than once 
 for cutting Sunday chapel at Eton. Re- 
 mark that the years pass over his head, 
 and presently he disestablishes the Irish 
 Church. And I believe it is a fact that 
 Mr. Disraeli, as a boy, was wont to sit on 
 a rail, and suck sweets. The analogies 
 between these small circumstances and the 
 after-lives of these men are subtle perhaps, 
 but, once pointed out, ought to be clear 
 even to Jones." 
 
 It was on another occasion that Venn 
 showed how an apology might be made for 
 a criminal on higher ground than that 
 reached by the evidence. He delivered 
 his " Oratio pro Peccatore " one night in 
 wig aind gown. The following is a por- 
 tion : — 
 
 " Circumstances, my lud, have been 
 against my unhappy client. Brought up 
 under the contempt, or fancied contempt, 
 of society, he early manifested his superi- 
 ority to the ordinary trammels imposed on 
 the thick-headed by becoming a prig. I 
 do not mean assistant masters of Rugby or 
 Marlborough, who are all prigs, but the 
 common prig of the London streets. From 
 a prig of Holborn, the transition was easy 
 to being a pHg on a larger scale and in a 
 more extended sphere. Step by step, my 
 
 lud, and gentlemen of the jury, you may 
 trace every thing back, not to the want of 
 education, because my client was taught in 
 a National School, and possesses even now 
 a knowledge of the Kings of Israel, but to 
 the fact, that, in the circles wherein he 
 should have moved, his parentage was de- 
 spised, — his father, gentlemen of the jury, 
 having been a barrister at law, and his 
 mother at one time a lady of the ballet." 
 
 And with this as a preface,' he would 
 go on to defend his client. 
 
 You may leave out the preceding, if you 
 like ; but I would rather you read it. 
 Meantime, it is the month of May, — 
 
 " Ce fut en tr6s doux tenz de Mai, 
 Que di cuer gai, 
 Vont cie oiseillon chantant," 
 
 as the old French song has it. Laura has 
 met Philip in all about six or seven times 
 — always with another promise of secrecy. 
 She is to marry Philip. . That is agreed 
 up'on between them. It will please Mr. 
 Venn. Meantime, she is trying to under- 
 stand her lover. He is kind to her, but 
 not with the tenderness of her guardian to 
 whom she compares liim. He is not gen- 
 tle with her ; but passionate, fitful, uncer- 
 tain of temper, being, indeed, in constant 
 conflict with himself. Then he was suspi- 
 cious and jealous. Worse than all, he was 
 always asking her if she loved him more, 
 if she loved him at all, if she ever could 
 love him. It wearied and teased her, — 
 this talk of love. " What did it mean ? " 
 she asked herself over and over again, but 
 could find no answer. 
 
 " I don't know, Philip," she said. " Wliat 
 is the use of always asking ? " 
 
 " You must know if you love me, 
 Laurja." 
 
 " How am I to know ? " 
 
 " Do you love Mr.'Venn ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " — her face lit up at once ; 
 " but I don't feel at all like that — oh, not 
 in the least bit ! If that is love, why I sup- 
 pose I do not love you." 
 
 Philip ground his teeth. 
 
 " Always Mr. Venn," he growled. " Tell 
 me, Laura, do you like to be with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is pleasant — so long as you are 
 in a good temper — to talk to you. I like 
 you a great deal better than when I saw 
 you first. I don't think you are such a 
 good man as you ought to be, because I 
 have heard you swear, which is vulgar." 
 
 " You shall make me good, when we are 
 married." 
 
 " And when will that be ? " she asked 
 suddenly. "Because, you see, I will not 
 go on having secrets from Mr. Venn ; and 
 I must tell him soon." 
 
74 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Then, you will give me up," said 
 Philip gloomily. 
 
 " Very . well," she returned calmly ; 
 " that will be better than deceiving Mr. 
 Venn. To be sure, I am only deceiving 
 him with the idea of pleasing him. Of 
 course he will be pleased." She sighed. 
 " If only I felt- quite sure 1 But he told 
 me so distinctly that I was to marry a 
 gentleman. Oh, he will be pleased I and 
 I am sure he will like you." 
 
 " Only wait a little longer, my dear." 
 
 " No, Philip, I will not wait any longer. 
 We must be married at once, or I will tell 
 Mr. Venn all about it. I cannot bear to 
 have secrets from him. I believe, after all, 
 you are only laughing at me, because I am 
 not a lady." 
 
 The tears of vexation came into her 
 
 Philip's face was very gloomy. It was 
 in his moments of anger that the cloud 
 fell upon his face which altered his expres- 
 sion, and changed him almost to a negro. 
 It was then that his nostrils seemed to. 
 broaden, his lips to project, his cheeks to 
 darken. 
 
 " Tell him, then," he returned ; " and 
 good-by." 
 
 He turned on his heel : it was under 
 the trees in Kensington Gardens. She 
 sat down, and looked at'him. There was 
 no anger in her breast for the spretcs inju- 
 ria formce : none at the loss of a love, none 
 at the destruction of an idol ; for she had 
 no love. Philip Durnford had never 
 touched her heart. To please Mr. Venn — 
 Ictus say it again and again — to please 
 Mr. Venn, who wanted to see her married 
 to a gentleman, and because she was wholly, 
 utterly ignorant of the world and innocent 
 of its ways, she listened to Philip's plead- 
 ing, and almost offered herself to him in 
 marriage. What didmarriage mean V She 
 knew nothing. How was she to know? 
 She spoke to no one but Hartley Venn. 
 She never read novels or love-poetry. Her 
 life was as secluded as that of any nun. 
 
 Her lover was three or four yards off, 
 when his expression changed as suddenly 
 to his old one. He wavered, aiid half 
 turned. 
 
 '■ Philip," cried Laura, " come here." 
 
 Ho turned, and stood before her. 
 
 " I think I have made a great mistake. 
 Perhaps Mr. Venn would, not be pleased. 
 Let us say good^by, and go away from each 
 other forever. You will soon forget me ; 
 and, before I listen to any one agam, I will 
 take Mr. Venn's advice." 
 
 She spoke in a businesslike tone, as if 
 the whole thing was a mere matter of expe- 
 diency ; and shobk her head with an air of 
 the most owl-like wisdom, and looked more 
 
 beautiful than ever. It was one of the 
 characteristics of this young lady that she 
 had as many different faces as there are 
 thotights in the brain ; for she changed with 
 each. I think her best was when she was 
 playing in the evening — far away, in im- 
 agination, in some paradise of her own — 
 alone with Mr. Venn. , 
 
 Philip's blood leaped u,p in his veins. 
 All the love and desire he had ever enter- 
 tained for her seemed multiplied tenfold. 
 He seized her hand, and held it fast. 
 
 " My Laura I " he cried, " my little bird, 
 my pet I Do you think I will let you go ? 
 At least, not till I have had another chance. 
 It is all finished, — all the waiting and hop- 
 ing. I am ready to marry you whenever 
 you like. You shall name your own day, 
 and you shall tell Mr. Venn after we are 
 married. Only keep the secret till then." 
 ■' How long am^ I to wait ? " asked the 
 girl-. 
 
 '' A week, — ten days, not more. We 
 must make our. preparations. I must get 
 you all sorts of things, darling. I loVo you 
 too well to let you go in a fit of passion. 
 If I have been ill-tempered at times, it is 
 because I am sometimes troubled with 
 many things of which you know nothing. 
 Make a little allowance for me. You, at 
 least, shall never be troubled, Laura, my 
 pet. My happiness is in ypur hands. 
 Give it back to me ; and, in return, all my 
 life shall be spent in trying to please you." 
 " You frighten me," she said. " You are 
 so passionate. Why do you hold my hand 
 so hard? ,Look here, Philip — I will do 
 this. To-day is Wednesday. I will meet 
 you and marry you next Wednesday, if 
 you like. If you do not marry me then, 
 you shall not marry me at all. And now, 
 good-by till Wednesday morning." 
 
 She tripped away, without her heart 
 beating a single pulsation faster ; while he 
 was left trembling in every limb. 
 
 "Wednesday!" He' began to reflect 
 how people were married. " Wednesday. 
 A week. And there is every thing to be 
 got ready." 
 
 He went to the city, to his agent's, and 
 drew five hundred pounds. 
 
 " It is my duty, Mr. Burnford," said the 
 agent, " to remind you that you have only 
 a thousand pound's left. Although it is 
 invested at ten per cent, a hundred a year 
 is not a laf-ge income." 
 
 " You are quite rightj' said Philip. " It 
 is not, indeed, — too small to be considered, 
 almost. But I must have the five hun- 
 dred." 
 
 He lodged it at Cox's; and then went 
 to a miUiner's shop; and ordered a com- 
 jjlete trousseau, to be, ready packed in a 
 few days. They wanted to try things on ; ^ 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 75 
 
 but he picked out a young lady in the shop 
 of about Laura's dimensions, and told them 
 to try the things on her. 
 
 After that, he began to investigate thei 
 great marriage question, being as yet little 
 conversant with legal procedure of any 
 kind. He knew that you might go to 
 church, or that you might go to a registrar's 
 office ; so he found out the ofBce of a regis- 
 trar, and asked what he had to do. 
 
 It appeared to be very simple. You 
 must reside for a space of three weeks in 
 a parish, — that had already been done ; 
 but, which made it impossible, he must 
 have the names posted up in the office for 
 a fortnight. And so he went and bought 
 a special license. 
 
 He went home radiant with hope and 
 happiness, and spent a quiet evening alone 
 communing with the future. 
 
 The next day he went to see how the 
 trousseau was getting on, and bought a 
 wedding-ring. Then he ordered several 
 new suits of clothes to be made at once, 
 and a large stock of linen, with an unde- 
 fined feeling that married life meant every 
 thing new. 
 
 That was Thursday's work. 
 
 Then came Friday, and, with Fi'iday, a 
 visit from Mr. Maclntyre. 
 
 " You will not spend many more even- 
 ings with me," said Phil ; " so sit down, 
 and make yourself comfortable." 
 
 " And wherefore not ? " asked his tutor. 
 
 " Because I'm' going to be married next 
 Wednesday." 
 
 " Gude guide us 1 " The good man turned 
 quite pale. " Next Wednesday ? Is all 
 settled ? It is Laura, of course — I mean 
 Miss Collingwood." 
 
 " Of course it is Laura." 
 
 " And how are you to be married ? " 
 
 " By special license." 
 
 Mr.. Maclntyre looked as if he would ask 
 another question, but refrained ; and pres- 
 ently went his way. 
 
 On Tuesday evening, Mr. Maclntyre 
 looked up quietly, and asked, ^- 
 
 " What church are you going to be mar- 
 ried in ? " 
 
 Phil turned pale. 
 " Idiot that I am ! I never thought about 
 the church at all." 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 " Under ordinary circumstances, Lollie," 
 said Venn, on Tuesday morning, when the 
 child came round, — "under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, the middle-aged man awakes 
 in the morning with the weary feeling of a 
 day's work before him." He always spoke 
 
 as if he was oppressed with the duties of 
 labor. " By some unlucky accident, I feel 
 this morning as if the innocent mirth of 
 childhood was back again. I fear nothing. 
 I hope every thing. Two courses are 
 therefore open to us." 
 
 " What two courses 1 " asked the girl, 
 always watchful of Venn's' words, and nev- 
 er quite able to follow the conclusions to 
 which they led him. 
 
 " I ought, I siippose, to take advantage 
 of this unusual flow of spirits, and write 
 something with the real glow of joy upon 
 it. My works are, perhaps, too uniformly 
 meditative. I dare say you have remarked 
 it." 
 
 " I think they are beautiful, all of them," 
 replied the flatterer. 
 
 " Ah, Lollie, I ought to be a happy ma,n. 
 I have an audience — limited at present, to 
 be sure — which appreciates me. Moham- 
 med had his Cadijah. But there is anoth- 
 er course open to us. See the sun upon 
 the leaves of the two trees in the court. 
 Listen to the sparrows chirping with re- 
 newed vigor. They know that the hilari- 
 ous worm will be tempted forth to enjoy 
 the sun. The purring of the basking cat 
 is almost audible if you open the window. 
 The paper-boy whistles across the square. 
 The policemen move on with a lighter 
 step. The postman bounds as he walks. 
 The laundresses put off their shawls. 
 Lollie, what do these things mean ? " 
 
 " They mean going into the country, 
 do they not ? " she replied, catching his 
 meaning. 
 
 " They do, child. They mean Epping 
 Forest. We will take the train to Lough- 
 toi), and walk to Epping. They mean a 
 little dinner at the Cock, and a pint of 
 Moselle. They mean strolling through the 
 wood to Theydon Bois, and coming home 
 in the evening with roses in our cheeks." 
 
 Another time, Lollie would have jumped 
 for joy. Now she only looked up, and 
 smiled. 
 
 " What is the matter, my little girl ? " 
 asked Hartley, taking her face in his 
 hands. " For a fortnight past you have 
 not been in your usual spirit^. To-day 
 you are pale and worn. Are you ill, 
 Lollie V " 
 
 " No," she cried, bursting into tears, " I 
 am not ill ; only — only — you are so good 
 to me." 
 
 His own eyes filled as he stooped and 
 kissed her forehead. 
 
 " You are nervous this morning, little 
 one : you must go to Epping, that is 
 clear." 
 
 " It is not only that : it is something 
 else." 
 
 " What else, Lollie ? You can tell me." 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 "It is my secret, Mr. Venn." 
 " Well, then, LoUie, if that is all, I can 
 lit for this precious secret. So be happy 
 ;am." 
 
 " It is a secret that concerns you. I 
 ink it will make you happier — you said 
 ice that it would. Oh 1 I wish I might 
 11 you — I wish you would let me." 
 " Little Impatience I And what sort of 
 secret would that be which I know al- 
 ady ? Do you remember the man who 
 bispered his to the winds V Never tell a 
 cret, child ; because the birds of the air 
 ay carry it about." ^ 
 
 " I have been so unhappy about it," the 
 rl went on,. through her tears. "I can't 
 eep for ' thinking of it. Oh, you will be 
 eased, I know you will 1 But I wish I 
 luld tell you. I will — I don't care who 
 offended. Mr. Venn, I am going " — 
 " Stop, Lollie," he replied, putting his 
 iger to her lips — " Don't tell me. See, 
 give you perfect control over your secret 
 11 to-morrow. I refuse to listen — I am 
 $af If you try to tell me I shall begin 
 sing, and then the nearest cows will fall 
 , and the calves will lie down and ex- 
 re." 
 
 She sighed, and was silent. Alas I if 
 ily she had spoken. Fate was against 
 ir. 
 
 They went to Loughton, and took that 
 alk through the forest which only the 
 ast-end cockneys love. In the long 
 ades which stretch right and left the 
 iwthorn was in full blossom ; the tender 
 ■een of the new leaves, freshly colored, 
 id all of different hues, the soft breath of 
 le young summer, the sitence and repose, 
 11 on the girl's spirit, and soothed her. 
 or the moment she forgot the secret, and 
 most felt happy. And yet it lay at her 
 sart. Her life — she knew so much — 
 as going to be changed ; how much she 
 )uld not tell. The life of two would be, 
 le thought, a life of three. It was what 
 [r. Venn had wished for her ; and yet — 
 id yet — there was the shade of a danger 
 3on her, a foreboding' of calamity, which 
 le tried in vain to throw off. Venn pour- 
 1 out his treasures of fancy, — those half- 
 lought-out ideas and half-seen analogies 
 hich filled his brain, and evaded him when 
 3 tried to put them on paper. But they 
 11, for once, on unfruitful ground. She 
 lught some of them or only half caught 
 lem ; and then talk grew languid. 
 " My spirits of this morning seem to have 
 iled me," he cried impatiently : — 
 
 ' Not seldom, clad in radiant hue, 
 Deceitfully goes forth tho morn,' 
 
 . spiritual shower has fallen, and we have 
 3 umbrella. What is it, child ? " he asked 
 
 impatiently. " Why are we so silent and 
 sad to-day ? Let us be happy. Are we 
 drenched with the shower ? " 
 
 Lollie half laughed, and they walked pn. 
 
 Presently they came upon a woman, 
 toiling along with a baby in her arms, and 
 two children toddling after them. As they 
 came up to her, the woman turned, and 
 struck one of them sharply, for lagging, 
 
 " Don't do that, my good creature," said 
 Venn, " Perhaps the little one is tired," 
 
 " He's tired and hungry too, sir," she 
 replied ; " but I've got to get him to Epp- 
 ing, for all that, and walk he miist," 
 
 " Poor little man 1 " said Venn. " Say, 
 are you very tired ? " 
 
 The child was evidently worn out. 
 
 " V/e are going the same way," he said. 
 " I will carry him for you." 
 
 " You, sir ? — and a gentleman, and all ! " 
 
 " Why not ? Come, ray boy," 
 
 He lifted, the little one in his arms. 
 
 " Lollie, I am not going to let you carry 
 the other. He is big enough to walk." 
 
 " Ah, yes, miss, — don't ee now," said the 
 woman, " He's strong enough — ain't you, 
 Jackey ? " 
 
 Then they all walked away together, — 
 Venn talking to the woman, and she tell- 
 ing her little story ; how her husband had 
 got work at Epping, and she was walking 
 , all the way from town with her babies. 
 
 " I had a comfortable place, sir," she 
 said, " six years ago ; and little I thought 
 then of the hardships I should have to 
 undergo, God knows we've been half 
 starving sometimes." 
 
 " And are you sorry you married ? " 
 asked Lollie. 
 
 " Nay, miss, a woman is never sorry she 
 married," replied the poor wife. "My 
 man is a real good sort, unless now and 
 then when it's the drink tempts him. And 
 then I'v« the children, you see. Ah ! well, 
 sir, — God rives us the good and the bad 
 together. But never you think, miss, that 
 a woman is sorry she marrigd." 
 
 " Truly," said Venn, " marriage is a con- 
 tinual sacrament." , 
 
 " Are you married yourself, sir ? " 
 
 " I am not," he replied gravely. " So 
 far I am only half a man ; and now I shall 
 never marry, I fear," 
 
 Lollie looked up in his face, over which 
 lay that light cloud of melancholy which 
 alternated in Venn with the sweet smile 
 of his mobile lips. She walked on, ponder- 
 ing, " No woman ever sorry for being 
 married," There was comfort I 
 
 " You are happy when you are with your 
 husband ? " she asked presently. 
 
 The woman turned sharply upon her. 
 
 " Of course I am happy with my Ben,'' 
 she said. " Happiness with us is not made 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 7T 
 
 of the same sort of stuff as with you rich 
 folks." 
 
 "I am not a rich folk," said the girl, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Well, well, — never mind my sharpness, 
 miss. You're one of the kind folks, and 
 that's all I care about.'' 
 
 She trudged on, talking to herself, as 
 such women do, between her lips. Venn 
 was behind them now, talking to the boy 
 in hia arms ; and so they reached Epping. 
 At the outskirts of the long town, where' 
 the cottages begin, the woman insisted on 
 the boy being put down, and bjegan to thank 
 them. Venn gave her a little present of a 
 few shillings, and left her trudging along 
 with the children. 
 
 " There goes our Moselle, Lollie," he 
 said with a sigh. " Always some fresh dis- 
 appointment. I had set my heart on that 
 Moselle for you." 
 
 " Mr. Venn I As if I should be so 
 selfish." 
 
 "AH the same," he grumbled. "It was 
 a stroke of my usual bad luck, meeting that 
 woman." 
 
 The bottle of Moselle made its appearance 
 in spite of her ; but even the sparkle of the 
 wine failed to raise LoUie's spirits to their 
 usual level. The girl was profoundly de- 
 jected. Venn tried the wildest talk, told 
 her the wildest stories; but in vain. It 
 grew close to the hour of the last train, — 
 the Great Eastern, with its usual liberality, 
 having fixed the last train at eight, so as to 
 prevent everybody from enjoying the even- 
 ing in the Forest; They walked together to 
 the station, — silent, dejected, and unhappy. 
 " I wish — oh, I wish to-morrow was 
 over ! " the girl sighed, when they were 
 alone in the railway carriage. 
 
 " Does that secret worry you, Lollie ? Is 
 that the wretched cause of your de'pression^ 
 Forcet it, — put it out of your mind." 
 "Let me tell it you." 
 " Nonsense, child," he laughed : " as if I 
 wanted to know. Think of Midas, as I told 
 you this morning. You shall not tell me 
 now." 
 
 " Tell me once more," she said, " what 
 you would like me most'of all to do." 
 
 He hesitated. Had he followed the 
 promptings of his own heart, he would have 
 said, — 
 
 " To marry me, Lollie : to go away with 
 me from London ; to live together, never 
 to get tired, in some country place, — the 
 world forgetting, by the world forgot.' ' 
 
 If he had but said so 1 — for it was not 
 yet too late, and the girl was yearning to tell 
 him all. 
 
 " I think, child," he said slowly, after a 
 pause, "' there is but one thing I really want 
 you to do. I should like, before all else, to 
 
 see you married happily. Sukey settled 
 that for us, you know. I haven't seen Su- 
 key now for two months. ' Let us go there 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Not to-morrow,'' said Lollie. " Do you 
 really mean, — really and truly mean what 
 you say ? You would like to see me mar- 
 ried ? " 
 
 Heavens, how blind the man is ! He does 
 not see that the girl's whole heart is ' his ; 
 that after all those years her nature is re- 
 sponsive to his own ; that she has but one 
 thought, one afiection, one passion, — 
 though she knows it not, — the love of 
 Hartley Venn. 
 
 " Mean it ? " he says, with his tender 
 smile.' " Of course I mean it. Recollect 
 what the woman said to-day. You have 
 seen how love may survive poverty, hunger, 
 misery, and rise ' triumphant over all. 
 Think what love may be when there is no 
 misery to beat it down." 
 
 "Love — yes, love. They -are always 
 talking about love. I mean marriage." 
 " They go together, Lollie." 
 " Does," — she checked the name that 
 rose to her lips — " do people, wiien they 
 talk of marriage, always mean love." 
 
 " They are supposed to do so, Lollie. On 
 the other hand, when they talk of love, 
 they do not always — Ah, here is Fen- 
 church Street." 
 
 No more was said that night. The girl 
 went up to his room, and made him tea ; and 
 at half-past nine, she put on her hat. 
 
 " To-morrow, Mr. Venn — ah 1 to-mor- 
 row — I shall tell you my secret." 
 
 " Sleep soundly, little bird, and forget 
 your secret. What time am I to know it ? " • 
 " I don't quite know. I should think, in 
 the afternoon." 
 
 " Very well, then ; I shall stay in from 
 one till four, and if you do not come then I 
 shall suppose the secret is not ready. Will 
 that do 'I Grood-night, Lollie dear." 
 
 He stooped to kiss her forehead ; but she 
 took his face in her hands, and kissed his 
 lips almost passionately. 
 
 " Always believe," she s^id, " even if you 
 are not pleased, that I love you, and am so 
 grateful to you that nothing can tell it. 
 Always believe I love you, and hope to 
 please you." 
 
 And so slipped away, and was gone. 
 Did Hartley have no suspicion ? — None 
 — none — none. He was not, you see, a 
 man " about town." He did not think or 
 suspect evil. Least of all could he suspect 
 evil in the case of his little girl. And that 
 she should take his words so literally as to 
 marry a man in order to please him would 
 have struck him as beyond all belief. 
 
 And yet it was exactly what she was go- 
 ing to do. 
 
78 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 It is tlie morning of Lollie's wedding-day. 
 As the girl dresses in Iier little room, she is 
 crying silently ; for a great fear has fallen 
 upon her, — the fear that what she is going to 
 do will not meet with that approval and 
 praise which she at first anticipated. It 
 had been growing in her brain ; and wlien, 
 only yesterday, she first gave it expression, 
 it assumed a clear and definite form. She 
 dressed quickly, trying to soothe her own 
 excitement, drank a cup of tea, and slipped 
 out at ten o'clock to meet her lover. No 
 thought, you will remark, of her grand- 
 mother. On the whole, I hardly see how 
 any could be expected. ' The girl did not 
 belong to the old woman. She owed noth- 
 ing to her, she had not a thought in common 
 with her, she hardly ever spoke to her ; and, 
 save that they slept under one roof, they 
 had nothing to do with each other. Cer- 
 tainly, the idea that the old woman might 
 be made unhappy by conduct of hers never 
 occurred to her. It was a lovely morning 
 in June, one of those days when London 
 puts on its brightest aspect, and looks — as 
 it always would, were Heaven pleased to 
 improve our climate — the empress of 
 cities. Through the crowded streets, down 
 Oxford Street and Regent Street, without 
 stopping to look at the gratuitous exhibi- 
 tions in the shop-windows, LoUie tripped 
 along, with heightened color and quick- 
 beating pulse. 
 
 Going to be married, — going to marry a 
 gentleman 1 What would be Mr Venn's sur- 
 ^ prise and delight when she went to him in 
 the evening I 
 
 For once, Pliilip was first at their tryst- 
 ing-place in the park. 
 
 Going to be married, going to plight 
 her troth, — for better for worse too. A 
 girl, who, in the absolute innocence of her 
 heart, gives herself to him for no love that 
 she bears him, but only to please, as she 
 thinks, another man. Going to be a bride- 
 groom V He does .not look it, as he paces 
 up and down the gravel, driving dowi; his 
 lieels, with a pale face aAd a troubled look. 
 Surely a bridegroom should look in better 
 spirits ; and when he sees the girl approach- 
 ing, his own betrothed, soon to be his bride, 
 why do his knees tremble beneath him, so 
 that he must fain sit down on a bi^noh ? 
 
 Then she holds out her hand, and he 
 takes it undauntedly. 
 
 " Remember what I said, Philip," she be- 
 gan directly. " Unless you marry me to- 
 day I shall not marry you at all ; and I shall 
 tell Mr. Venn every thing." 
 
 " Is that the only love- vow you have to 
 give me V " asked the bridegroom. 
 
 "0 Philip! do not talk like that. 
 Always of love, and love-vows ! I tell you 
 again, I do not understand it. What should 
 I say, if not the truth ? " 
 
 Philip sighed. There was yet time to 
 save himself. The girl did not love him ; 
 but, then, he loved Uie girl. He had that 
 passionate longing for this sweet, fair- 
 haired maiden, — so bright, so clever, so 
 new, — which, I think, can never come to a 
 man more than once in his life. God has 
 made us so that not more than one woman 
 can be an angel to us. Her excepted, — 
 we know the sex. We grovel to her ; we 
 stand upright before the rest, conscious of 
 the head and a half difference between 
 the man and the woman. LoUie was 
 Philip's angel. And — alas I the pity of it 
 — there are so many men who cannot hold 
 their one woman an angel for longer than 
 the honeymoon ; and must needs cry shame 
 and folly to themselves for the sweet infat- 
 uation which alone makes life tolerable to 
 us. 
 
 " Come, Laura," said Philip, " I have the 
 license in my pocket, — a special license. 
 See here." He pulled out the document. 
 " The Archbishop of Canterbury has given 
 his consent, you see ; so that is'all right. 
 I thought you would best like a private 
 marriage." 
 " Oh, yes I " cried Lollie, — " much best." 
 " And as we shall have no wedding- 
 breakfast, no carriage, and nothing but our 
 own two selves, I have arranged with a 
 very excellent clergyman -^ a Scotch cler- 
 gyman — to perform the ceremony for us 
 which will make you my wife. Will that 
 do for you ? " 
 
 He had fallen, then, into the pit digged 
 for him. 
 
 " Surely, Philip," she said, " it shall all be 
 as you think best for us ; and then I shall 
 tell Mr. Venn." 
 
 He had been out of the park into the 
 Strand, and took a Hansom cab to Keppel 
 Street. 
 
 Mr. Maolntyre was himself standing at 
 the window in the ground-floor front, and 
 came to open the door. Then he led them 
 in, and shut the door carefully. That'done, 
 he stared hard at the bride. 
 
 " Come into the other room a moment," 
 said Philip in a hoarse voice. " I want to 
 say a word." 
 
 The other room was Mr. Maclntyre'a 
 bedroom, opening from the first by folding- 
 doors. Lollie, left alone, looked out of the 
 window and waited. As she looked, a fu- 
 neral procession came from an opposite 
 house, and the dismal cortege passed down 
 the street. Then, too, the sky was clouded 
 over, and big drops of rain were falling. 
 Her heart sank within her. Truly, an 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 79 
 
 omen of the worst. She turned from the 
 window, and looked round the room. A 
 curious fragrance, unknown to her, was 
 lingering about the corners. It was due 
 to toddy. A small fire was burning in the 
 grate, though the morning was warm ; and 
 a kettle was singing on the hob. Two or 
 three pipes lay on the mantle-shelf; and a 
 few books, chiefly of the Latin grammar 
 class, bought when Mr. Maclntyre medi- 
 tated taking pupils, stood upon the shelves. 
 The furniture was hard and uncomfortable. 
 And her spirits fell lower and lower. 
 
 In the other room she heard voices. If 
 she had heard what was said, she might 
 even then have escaped ; but she only heard 
 the murmur. 
 
 Philip, when the door was shut, turned 
 upon his companion, with lips and cheeks 
 perfectly white, and, seizing Mr. Macln- 
 tyre by the shoulders, shook the little man 
 backwards and forwards as if he had been 
 a reed. 
 
 " Villain ! " hegroaned, — " black-heart- 
 ed, calculating scoundrel." 
 
 " When you've done shaking your best 
 friend," returned his tutor, " and calling 
 bad names, perhaps you will listen for a 
 few moments to the voice of reason." 
 
 " Go on, then." 
 
 Philip sat down on the edge of the bed. 
 " I can't do it, Maclntyre, I can't do 
 it," he murmured. "It is the bladkest 
 villany. Poor Laura 1 poor darling I Oh 
 what scoundrels we are I And I, who was 
 once an honorable man I " 
 
 " Hoots, toots," said the philosopher. 
 
 But Philip was lying with his face in his 
 hands, shaking with emotion. 
 
 Maclntyre contemplated his old pupil 
 for a few moments with a puzzled expres- 
 sion ; then — for he felt unequal to the or- 
 deal without support — he went to the 
 cupboard, and very silently poured out 
 just-half a glass of raw spirit, which he 
 swallowed hastily. Then he addressed 
 himself to business, and tried, but with 
 small effect, to assume a sympathetic air. 
 
 " Ma puir laddie," he said " You surely 
 never thought that I, Alexander Macln- 
 tyre, the releegious guide of your infancy, 
 was going to counsel you to take a dishon- 
 orable step. Phil, ye'll be as legally tied 
 up as if the archbishop did it. Believe 
 me, a regularly ordained minister of the 
 established kirk o' Scotland. If a prince 
 was going to be married, this would be the 
 right shop to come to. And you, with a 
 license, special and most expensive, and 
 all." 
 
 Philip sat up again. 
 
 "Is it true, Maclntyre? Is it really 
 true, what you say V " 
 
 " True, my Phil, every word true. Shall 
 
 I swear to it ? Now brush your hair, and 
 look bright, and let us go back to the las- 
 sie. Heeh ! man — there's a thunder-clap. 
 Come along, or she will bo frightened." 
 
 He pushed him back, and, silting down 
 at the table, laid open a Bible, borrowed 
 for the occasion from the unsuspecting 
 landlady. 
 
 " Sit down, both of you,'' he began im- 
 periously. 
 
 They sat down opposite him. 
 " Have ye got a license, Mr. Durn- 
 ford ? " he asked. " Good. A , special 
 license, granting you permission to be mar- 
 ried in any parish ? ' Good. At any time ? 
 Good. In any place of worship V Vera 
 good. And by any clergyman ? Vera 
 good indeed. Young leddy, your name, 
 if you please. You may write it here." 
 
 He had prepared two slips of paper to 
 imitate a marriage certificate. And Philip 
 noticed now, for the first time, that he was 
 " dressed " for the character, in complete 
 black, with a white neckcloth that would 
 not have disgraced a banjo man, and 
 which, with his red nose, gave him quite 
 the appearance qf a superior mute. And, 
 the signatures obtained, when he turned 
 over the leaves of the Bible a cheerful 
 piety became diffused over his face, quite 
 new to his friends, and very remarkable to 
 witness. Lollie looked at the clergyman 
 who was marrying her with an instinctive 
 feeling of aversion. The ill-fitting black 
 clothes, the voluminous necktie, the red 
 nose and pale cheeks, the shaking hand, 
 all told her, as plain as words could speak, . 
 that the man was one of the great Stiggins's 
 tribe of whom Hartley Venn had told her. 
 Nevertheless, she was in Philip's hands ; 
 and, like the birds on the solitary's island, 
 she had not yet learned to distrust man- 
 kind, because she only knew one man. 
 
 It does not befit this page to describe 
 with greater detail the mockery of mar- 
 riage which Mr. Maclntyre solemnly went 
 through. Suffice it to say, that, after read- 
 ing a chapter of the Bible, he prayed. 
 And, after his prayer, jnaking the two 
 stand up, he joined their hands, pro- 
 nounced them man and wife, and conclud- 
 ed by an exhortation mainly made up of 
 what he still recollected of the Shorter 
 Catechism. What it wanted in unction it 
 gained in doctrine ; and, though there jvas 
 little in the discourse calculated to assist 
 the bride in her duties of married life, 
 there was plenty which might have been 
 used as a rod and staff by the Calvin- 
 istic Christian. Lollie stood frightened 
 and bewildered ; for all through the " ser- 
 vice," the thunder had been rolling and 
 crashing, and the lightning seemed to 
 play over the very house where this great 
 
80 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 wickedness was being committed. Even 
 Mr. Maclntyre was moved by it. It was 
 one of those great thunderstorms which 
 sometimes break over London, striking 
 terror to all hearts, such as those which fell 
 upon us last year — I mean the year of 
 grace 1872, — a fierce, roaring, angry, 
 thunderstorm. A°d as the' lightning 
 flashed across his eyes, and the thunder 
 pealed in his ears, the minister fairly 
 stopped in his discourse, and murmuring, 
 '' Hech ! sirs, this is awfu' ! " waited for the 
 anger of the elements to subside. 
 
 But he ended at last, and, congratulating 
 the bride, offered Philip one of the slips of 
 paper, keeping the other for himself. Then 
 he rubbed his hands and laughed, — a joy- 
 less cackle. And then he produced a black 
 bottle and a small cake, and poured out 
 three glasses of wine. He drank off his 
 own at a gulp, refilled it, and sat down rub- 
 bing his hands again. 
 
 This was Lollie's wedding-breakfast. 
 
 Outside, the hail pattered against the 
 windows, the thunder rolled, and the warm 
 sprijag air seemed chilled again to winter. 
 \ Philip said nothing. A look was in his 
 face such as neither Maclntyre norLolIie 
 had ever seen before, — a sort of wild, ter- 
 ■rified look ; such a look as might be ima- 
 gined in the face of a man who, after long 
 planning, has at last committed a great and 
 terrible crime ; such a look as one would 
 have if he heard the voice of God accusing 
 him, — the voice Philip heard in the storm. 
 Men are so. That unlucky Jew whom 
 the thunder-storm rebuked for eating pork 
 was not the, first, nor will he be the last, to 
 connect natural phenomena with his own 
 misdoings. In the storm outside, Philip, 
 with the superstition of a Creole, heard the 
 anger of Heaven. It only echoed the re- 
 morse in his own heart. A second time he 
 seized Maclntyre by the arm, and led him 
 to the bedroom. 
 
 " Once again," he said, " I must speak to 
 you. Tell me whether it is true — is it 
 true — are we married ? Speak the truth, 
 or I will kill you 1 " 
 
 "You are married, Phil," returned the 
 other. "No question can ever arise on the 
 legality of the marriage until — until " — 
 
 " Until when ? " 
 
 " Until you come into your property. 
 And now, listen. There is, perhaps, — I 
 only say perhaps, — a little irregularity. 
 If you want to remove that, remember to 
 take your wife into Scotland, whenever you 
 please, and live with her as your wife 
 openly. Then you need fear nothing. I 
 say this to make you quite certain ; but I 
 do not believe there can be any legal 
 doubt." 
 
 Philip looked at him with a surprised 
 
 air. Then, with great relief, he walked 
 into the other room, where Lollie was stand- 
 ing, waiting and puzzled. 
 
 " Laura, my darling," he cried, kissing 
 her passionately. " My wife, , my bride ! 
 we are married at last. If ever I desert 
 you, may God desert me ! " 
 
 She drew herself from his arms, not 
 blushing, not coy, not ashamed ; but only 
 cold. 
 
 " We are reaxly married ? " she cried, 
 clapping her hands. " I wasn't certain. 
 AnA now we will go straight to Mr. Venn, 
 and tell him." 
 
 The two' men looked at each other. 
 
 " My child," said Philip, changing color, 
 " we must be married like everybody else, 
 must we not ? " 
 
 " But we are, Philip, are we not ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but married people always 
 go away for a journey together. You and 
 1 are going to France for a month. When 
 we come back, we shall call at Mr. Venn's 
 chambers," 
 
 She stamped her foot. 
 
 " I shall go to-day. You said I was to 
 tell him to-day. I will tell him. Philip, if 
 you do not go with me, I will go by myself." 
 
 "Make her write," whispered the man 
 of experience. 
 
 " You certainly cannot go, Laura," said 
 her husband. " That is impossible ; but I 
 tell you what you shall do. You shall 
 write him a letter, telling him all. Mr. 
 Maclntyre shall take it, and tell him the 
 particulars. We have but a quarter of an 
 hour to spare, for our train starts at once. 
 Now, dear" — taking pen and paper — 
 " sit down and write. It is best so — if is 
 indeed." 
 
 She burst into tears. She declared that 
 she had been deceived. She insisted on 
 going at once to Gray's Inn. If Philip had 
 not held her, she would have gone. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre said nothing ; only, when 
 he caught Philip's eye, he pointed to the 
 pens and paper. Meantime, it was a crit- 
 ical moment ; and his nose, which he con- 
 stantly rubbed, seemed bigger and redder 
 than ever. 
 
 " Laura, you must not go to Mr. Vetin' 
 to-day. It is absurd," pleaded Philip. 
 " Sit down now. Write : no one shall 
 read what you say. And it shall be sent 
 at once ; but you cannot go to Gray's Inn." 
 
 Lollie sat down, and tried to write ; but 
 she burst into fresh tears, and was fain to 
 bury her face in her hands. 
 
 " Women are so," whispered the Scotch- 
 man. " Obsairve. In ten minutes she 
 will be laughing again." 
 
 In less than ten minutes she recovered, 
 and tried to, write. Philip waited pa- 
 tiently, watching her. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 81 
 
 She began three or four sheets of note- 
 paper, and tore them up. At last she wrote 
 hurriedly, — 
 
 "Dearest Mr. Venn, — My secret 
 may now be told. I have done what you 
 wished me so much to do. I have married 
 a gentleman. I have married Mr. Philip 
 Durnford ; and I am always, and ever and 
 ever, your own most grateful and most lov- 
 ing little girl — 
 
 LOLIIE." 
 
 She folded it up, addressed it, and gave 
 it to her husband. 
 
 " Maolntyre," said Philip, " take the note 
 round, will you, this very day ? Tell Mr. 
 Venn that my wife and I are gone to 
 France — probably to Normandy — for a 
 month ; that we shall call upon him directly 
 we return ; that my greatest wish is to gain 
 his friendship. Will that do for you, 
 Laura 1 " 
 
 " Philip," she said, taking his hand, — 
 " now you are really kind." 
 
 " That is my own Laura ; but now we 
 must make haste. I have got your boxes 
 at the station." 
 
 " My boxes ? " 
 
 " Yes. You did not think you were go- 
 ing to France with nothing but what you 
 have on, did you ? " 
 
 " I never thought about going to France 
 at all." 
 
 " The tickets are taken. There will be 
 nothing to do but to make ourselves happy. 
 Now, Maclntyre, get me a cab, will you ? " 
 
 It seeaied strange that so reverend a 
 gentleman should be ordered in this per- 
 emptory way to fetch a cab ; but Lollie was 
 too much surprised with every thing to feel 
 perplexed at this. The cab came. 
 
 " Now, my darling ! Maclntyre, good- 
 by. Jump in, Laura." 
 
 " Don't forget my letter, Mr. Macln- 
 tyre," cried the girl. " Mind you take it 
 to-day." 
 
 And so they drove off. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre returned to his room. 
 
 " About this letter, now," he said. " Let 
 me read it." 
 
 By the help of the kettle he steamed the 
 envelope, opened, and read the poor little 
 epistle. 
 
 He put it down and meditated. 
 
 " Suppose I take it round," he said. 
 " Why should I ? Poor bonny little lassie ! 
 Loves him more than her husband — that 
 is clear. If I take it, difficulties, dangers, 
 all sorts of things, may happen. If I do 
 not take it, this Mr. Venn will never for- 
 give the girl. ' Well, which is it, — my hap- 
 piness, or hers ? A man, or a woman ? 
 Myself, or another ? " 
 6 
 
 He meditated a long time. Cruelly self- 
 ish and wicked as the man was, he had 
 been touched by the girl's beauty and in- 
 nocence, and would willingly have spared 
 himself this additional wickedness ; but 
 then there rose up before him the vision of 
 a Qourt of justice. He saw himself tried by 
 a jury for mock marriage. He knew that 
 the law had been broken. What he did 
 not know was, how far the offence was 
 criminal, or if it was criminal at all. Then 
 a cold perspiration broke out upon him. 
 
 " Let us hide it," he said, — " let us hide 
 it. Perhaps we can devise some means of 
 preventmg this man Venn from knowing it 
 — at all events, just yet." 
 
 And so Saying, he pushed the letter into 
 the fireplace, and watched it burning into 
 
 " And as for Master Phil," he raurmured; 
 " why, I'll give him just two months to 
 cure him of this fancy, and bring him to the 
 end of his money. Then, we shall see — 
 we shall see. The great card has to be 
 played." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIH. 
 
 " I AM ill at ease to-night," said Hartley, 
 on the Wednesday evening when Jones and 
 Lynn found him at the " Rainbow." "■ I am 
 low-spirited.' Forebodings, like the scretech- 
 owl's mew, oppress me. Laura was to 
 have told me some grand piece of news to- 
 day, and has not come. Then there was 
 the thunder. I am afraid of thunder. En- 
 gineers ought to turn their attention to it.. 
 Bring me some bitter beer, George — unless- 
 the thunder has turned it sour." 
 
 "*I like this place," he went on. " It is 
 quiet. The mutton is good, the beer is 
 good, and there is an ecclesiastical air about 
 it. The head-waiter resembles an elderly, 
 verger without his gown. The manager 
 might pass for a canon ; and as for the caiy 
 ver, I have never known any one beneath 
 the dignity of a prebendary grow bald! in 
 that singular manner." 
 
 " Life, Jones," he continued, in the course 
 of his dinner, " may be compared to a ban- 
 quet. You have, perhaps, often anticipated 
 this comparison." 
 
 " Not I," said Jones — " not I, myself; 
 but Longfellow has. 
 
 ' Life is but an endless banquet. 
 
 Where wo still expectant sit : . 
 Be not thou a cold, wet blanket, 
 Damping all thy neighbor's wit. 
 
 Chops for one: and for another, " 
 Turkey stuffed with trufSes gay: 
 
 Only bread for me. My brother, 
 Turn the carver's eye this way. 
 
82 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Let us all be up and eating, 
 
 With a heart for any slice : 
 Beef grows cold, and life is fleettng; 
 
 Pass the champagne and the ice.*" 
 
 Venn repeated his first words, and re- 
 sumed the topic. 
 
 " When it comes to my turn to be served, 
 the noble host, addressing me with a coun- 
 tenance full of benevolence and friendship, 
 says, ' Hartley, my dear boy, take another 
 disappointment.' It would be bad manners, 
 you know, to refuse. Besides, I am not 
 quite certain how a refusal would be re- 
 ceived. So I bow and smile : ' Thank you, 
 my Lord. One more, if you please. A 
 very little one, with gravy.' " 
 
 " Gravy ! Is gravy the alleviator V " 
 
 " Gravy, Jones, is the compensator. So 
 I get helped again, and. sigh when the plate 
 comes back to me. In the distribution of 
 good things, no one is consulted ; but, by 
 tacit agreement, we show our good breed- 
 ing by pretending to have chosen. So, too,' 
 I believe, when convicts at Portland con- 
 verse, it is considered manners to take no 
 notice of each other's chains. I might pre- 
 fer, perhaps, pudding and port, such'as my 
 neighbor gets ; but I am resigned." 
 
 He sighed heavily, and went on eating 
 his dinner with a tremendous appetite. 
 
 " Let us have," he said, when they had 
 finished, " a Chorus night, Arthur Durn- 
 ford is coming. Not a regular Chorus, but 
 a Chorus of emergency. I hope it will not 
 thunder any more." 
 
 " I have been making observations late- 
 ly," he began, " on a class of women hith- 
 erto little studied. Speak up, Jones." 
 
 " Nay," said the dramatist, " I was but 
 thinking of the old lines — 1 forget the au- 
 thor — about women, — • 
 
 'Virtue and \'ice the same halt have : 
 
 On cither's hook the same enticements are. 
 Woman lures both the base and brave, 
 
 And beauty draws us with a single hair.' " 
 
 " There is method in his madness," said 
 Venn. "It is to be regretted only that 
 Virtue does not always clioose the bait with 
 the same discrimination as Vice. This, 
 however, is a wide subject. I was about to 
 call the attention of the Chorus to the 
 woman who sniffs. About a week ago, 
 having nothing to do, I got into a favorite 
 omnibus for an hour or two of quiet thought. 
 The rattle of the omnibus glasses, when the 
 wind is westerly, I find conducive to medi- 
 tation ; and as the Favorite line runs from 
 Victoria to the extreme verge of civiliza- 
 tion at Highgate, there is ample time. 
 Several women got in, and I noticed — 
 perhaps it was partly due to the time of 
 year — several sniffs as each sat down and 
 
 spread her petticoats. Your regular female 
 omnibus passenger always takes up as much 
 room as she can, and begins by staring de- 
 fiantly round. I was at the far end, whither 
 I had retired to avoid an accusation of 
 assault ; for they kick your shins across the 
 narrow passage, and then give you in charge, 
 these ladies. So delicate, my friends, is 
 the virtue of the class to which I allude, 
 that even the suspicion of an attack is re- 
 sented with this celestial wrath. Presently, 
 however, I being the only male, there came 
 in a young person, quiet, modest, and retir- 
 ing. She made her way to the far end, and 
 sat down next to me. Instantly there was 
 fired a volley — a hostile salute — from 
 seven noses : a simultaneous sniff of pro- 
 found meaning. Versed in this weapon of 
 feminine warfare, and therefore under- 
 standing the nature of the attack, the new- 
 comer blushed deeply, and dropped her 
 veil. It was like the lowering of a flag. I 
 took the earliest opportunity of tendering 
 her respectfully the compliments of the 
 season ; and, in spite of a second and even a 
 fiercer attack, we held our own, and con- 
 versed all the way to Hi;;hgate. Coming 
 back by the same omnibus, I insensibly 
 glided into a vision." 
 
 '• Good," said Jones, " let us have the 
 vision." 
 < " Methought I stood on an enimence, and 
 looked down, myself unsfeen, upon an island 
 where men and women wandered about, of 
 uncouth form and strange proportions. 
 Some with venomous tongues, which lolled 
 out in perpetual motion, yet saying noth- 
 ing ; some with trumpet-Uke noses ; some 
 with curiously deformed fingers; some with 
 large and goggle eyes; and some with 
 heads of enormous dimensions. This, my 
 guide — I had an angel with me, of course 
 — told me, was one of the lesser islands of 
 Purgatory. It appears that Dante was 
 quite wrong in his account of that place, 
 which consists really of a group of contig- 
 uous islands, like the Bermudas. I dare say 
 I shall see some more of ihem before I die. 
 The one I was standing over was appropriat- 
 ed to sinners in small things, — backbiters, 
 envious, malicious, mean, grasping, selfish 
 (these last had enormous stomachs, like 
 barrels of port wine), and attributors of ' 
 unworthy and base motives (who were gifted 
 with a corresponding prominence behind). 
 I requested permission to inspect the com- 
 pany more closely, and was taken down 
 into their very midst. I was astonished to 
 find that a very large majority of them were 
 women : their dress and behavior showed 
 them to belong to our own middle class. 
 They wer^ all EntjUsh ; because, by reason 
 of the great babble of convcirsation that 
 goes on among this sort of criminals, it is 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 83 
 
 found advisable to separate the nationali- 
 ties. 
 
 " Looking more closely, I observed that 
 the men chiefly carried the protuberances, 
 fore and aft, of which I have spoken ; while 
 the women; nearly one and all, had the 
 trumpet-shaped nose. The peculiarity of 
 its shape was that the mouth of the trum- 
 pet was outward. Its musical effect could 
 therefore only be produced by drawing the 
 air towards the head, much in the same 
 ■way as by a sniff. This struck me as a 
 very singular arrangement. I was also in- 
 formed that most of them, on their first ar- 
 rival, had but very small trumpet noses ; 
 but tliat these, by dint of practice, increased 
 daily and gradually, until they arrived at 
 the gigantic proportions which I saw 
 around me. They began by being proud 
 of this growth ; but by degrees grew 
 alarmed, and were seriously inconveni- 
 enced by its great size. They then began 
 to reduce its dimensions, by allowing it to 
 remain, so to speak, unexercised ; and if, 
 as sometimes happened, they arrived at a 
 perception of its manifiest ugliness, they 
 discontinued its use altogether, when it 
 totally vanished. Others had the great 
 tongues of which I have spoken. They 
 were too big to use for speech ; but, as 
 their owners were always wanting to com- 
 municate some fresh? piece of malicious gos- 
 sip, they were perpetually wagging and 
 bobbing, though no articulate sound came 
 forth. The possessors of the tongues were 
 more melancholy of aspect than the trum- 
 pet-nosed sisters, because they were de- 
 barred from the use of their instruments 
 altogether. The tongue followed the same 
 laws as the nose, and there were even 
 women provided with both tongue and 
 nose. While I was contemplating these 
 unhappy victims of vice, my attention was 
 ^directed by my guide to a young lady of 
 about twenty-five, whose nose had at its 
 extremity -the merest rudimentary mouth- 
 piece, — so small as to be almost a beauty 
 ppot, — suggestive only of where a trumpet 
 had formerly been. My guide accosted 
 her, and requested her to give a history of 
 herself. She smiled and cbmplied. 
 
 " ' I was the daughter of a professional 
 man, living in the neighborhood of Russell 
 Square. We were not rich, but we were 
 well off. I was sent to a boarding-school 
 at Brighton, where the principal things we 
 were taught were to dress well, to aspire 
 to a wealthy husband, to despise people of 
 lower rank, to aim at getting as much 
 amusement out of life as possible, to con- 
 sider the admiration of men as the glory 
 of a woman's life, and to regard the Tabor 
 of men as performed only with one aim, — 
 to provide dress and a good establishment 
 
 for their wives. This was the kind of edu- 
 cation in our fashionable boarding-school ; 
 and when my sister and I came back to 
 Russell Square, we were fully provided 
 with all the weapons fbrthat warfare which 
 constitutes the life of most women. I found, 
 wherever I went, nearly all girls the same 
 as ourselves. We were good, inasmuch as 
 we all went to church regularly, and would 
 have done nothing wrong. But ^,we filled 
 up our time with frivolity and gossiping. 
 We were petty in our vices, and, therefore, 
 you see, our punishment is petty.' She 
 pointed to her nose, whereon the least tip 
 of a kin'd of button marked the place where 
 the mouth-piece had been only five minutes 
 before. ' The evil we did was not very 
 great, and so our punishment is light. 
 Even this is generally removed, if we re- 
 pent.' 
 
 " ' Do you repent? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' Oh, yes I ' she said ; ' the lives of wo- 
 men, which might be so smooth, so happy, 
 and full of love, are eaten into and poisoned 
 by these habits of malice and envy. You 
 men think us angels ; and when you marry 
 us, and find out that we are full of faults, 
 you ^begin to decry the whole sex. When 
 will some one teach us that largeness of 
 heart and nobleness that so many men 
 have ? ' " 
 
 " A most sensible young woman," Jones 
 interrupted. 
 
 " At this moment the button at the end 
 of her nose entirely disappeared, and she 
 vanished. 
 
 " ' Where is she gone ? ' I asked my 
 guide 
 
 "There was that in his face which be- 
 tokened temper. I fancy he must have 
 been' paid a percentage on the inhabitants 
 of his island, or taken them on board by 
 contract, according to number ; for he re- 
 fused to answer me, and was on the point 
 of ordering me to move on, when I awoke." 
 
 " The young woman, you say, is in the 
 Bermudas," said Jopes. "I would she 
 were in the arms of one who would rightly 
 appreciate her. 
 
 • Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
 A trumpet-nosed maid I espied; 
 And, as I loojsed her through and through. 
 Her imperfections thus she blew, — 
 " In Purgatory still I sniff, 
 And I will gladly furnish, if 
 You wfsh it, such a dismal tale, 
 As Well may frighten maidens all." , 
 
 I leave out a goo<l many lines, which I 
 have forgotten, — 
 
 ' So.sang she with the trumpet nose ; 
 My own with sorrow at her woes,' 
 I loudly blew ; and a-^ she spoke. 
 The neighboring sniffs the echoes woke.* 
 
 I believe the lines were originally Andrew 
 Marvell's." 
 
84 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 It was Jones's hard fate in the Chorus, 
 that whatever he quoted nobody seemed to 
 take any notice. Venn's face betrayed no 
 signs of having heard what he said ; while 
 Lynn, as usual, sn|ioked in his chair, saying 
 nothing at all. For Lynn was one of those 
 men who seldom speak at all ; and when 
 they do, speak with more earnestness and 
 energy than is generally .heard. 
 
 Arthur, however, laughed ; and the spec- 
 tacles of Jones beamed gratefully on him. 
 
 "My Cousin Philip," said Arthur, 
 " started an infamous theory some little time 
 ago, that women prefer warmth to any 
 thing else in the world." 
 
 " Well," said Venn, " there may be some- 
 thing to be said for it. I believe that he is 
 partly right. Women live in the house. 
 Their ideas of life are those of the domestic 
 circle. To have every thing pleasant, com- 
 fortable, and elegant round them is quite a 
 natural thing to desire. It is perhaps a 
 brutal way of putting it, to say that they 
 like to be warm. Iii the Chorus, we prefer 
 a more indirect way of approaching a 
 subject." 
 
 " Poor Phil takes direct views," said 
 Arthur. 
 
 " Bring him here, and we will cure him," 
 said Jones. ■ " On the subject of women, 
 there is nothing so elevated as the views of 
 the Chorus, — the Sophoclean Chorus. We 
 are, if we are nothing else, Sophoclean in 
 our views of love. 
 
 * Love, 'the unconquered, thou whose throne 
 Is on youth's fair and rounded cheek, 
 Whom neither strong nor brave nor weak 
 Can e'er escape, — thee, thee we pw n. 
 
 Thou hy thy master magic's aid 
 Cheatest keen eyes that else see well; 
 
 And o'er the loudest-sniffing maid 
 Pourest the glamor of thy spell. 
 
 The nymph whose deepest, fondest prayer 
 
 Is for a sheltered nook and warm, 
 Glows with a thousand fancies rare. 
 
 Lit 'vrtth thy pyrotechnic charm.' " 
 
 "I suppose you will say that Sophocles 
 wrote that ? " growled Lynn. 
 
 " A free imitation 'only. It may, per- 
 haps, in some points excel the original. J 
 say nothing." 
 
 " They talk a great deal," said Lynn 
 breaking his usual silence, "of educating 
 women, and making them less frivolous. 
 Of course, the immediate result is to send 
 them to tb.6 opposite extreme. Now, of all 
 the odious women you can meet, give me 
 the strong-minded." 
 
 " Do not give her to me,'' said Jones. 
 
 " But it's all nonsense. They have made 
 a college for them, and have Cambridge 
 men there to teach them. In other words, 
 they are going to make them second-rate 
 scholars and third-rate mathematicians. 
 What on earth is the use of that ? " 
 
 "Is it," asked Venn, "the function of 
 the Chorus to discuss female education ? " 
 
 "Why not?" returned -Lynn. "By 
 Jove I I've a good mind to have a vision 
 too." 
 
 " Do," said Jones. " Two visions in the 
 same evening are at least more than we 
 could have expected." 
 
 Lynn smoked meditatively for a few mo- 
 ments. 
 
 "I dreamed a dream," he began. "I 
 thought that I stood in the world of the 
 future, — the future of a hundred years. 
 Woman was emancipated, as they said. 
 Every woman did, like all men do now, 
 what was right in her own eyes. They 
 could preach, teach, heal, practise law, live 
 alone, and be as free as any man can be 
 now." 
 
 " Well ? " asked Jones, for Lynn 
 stopped. 
 
 " Well, I can't be as graphic as Venn 
 was, because I have not the ,art of telling a 
 story. I walked about the streets of Lon- 
 don. I went into the houses, into the 
 clubs, into the theatres, — everywhere. 
 The first thing that struck me was the en- 
 tire mixture of the sexes. Women were 
 everywhere. They drove cabs, they were 
 markers at billiard-tables, they kept shops, 
 they plied trades, they were in the public 
 offices — for every thing was open to public 
 competition. I talked to some of them. I 
 found they were very much changed from 
 what I remembered thead. Not only were 
 they coarse in appearance and. manners, 
 but they seemed to have lost the delicacy 
 of woman's nature. The bloom was off the 
 youngest of them. Men, too, had lost all 
 their old deference and respect. There 
 were none of the courtesies of life left ; for 
 the women had long since revolted against 
 being considered the weaker sex. A new 
 proverb had arisen, — ' The six-shooter 
 makes all equal.' Every woman carried 
 one ostentatiously ;. not, 1 fancied, so much 
 for self-protection as for purposes of attack. 
 Their talk seemed loud and coarse, their 
 jokes were club-jokes, their stories were 
 like those we hear on circuit and in mess- 
 rooms. Their dress was altered too. The 
 old robes were discarded ; and short kilts, 
 with a tight-fitting jacket,, seemed to be all 
 the fashion. I asked my guide, — did I say 
 I had a guide ? " 
 
 " You did not," said Jones. " Was he 
 an angel ? " 
 
 " Of course I had an angel. I asked 
 him — or her — if they were all married 
 women V Marriage, she told me, had been 
 abolished by a large majority of women, as 
 contrary to the true spirit of liberty. This 
 was directly against the wish of the men, 
 who, it seemed, desired to retain the cus- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 85 
 
 torn. As, however, the ceremony is one 
 which requires the consent of two, it was 
 abolished. Then the men turned sulky, 
 and formed a kind of union or guild for the 
 protection of the marriage-laws. For a 
 time it appeared as if the world would be 
 depopulated : the statistics of the Registrar 
 showed a falling-off in the number of births, 
 which excited the gravest apprehensions. 
 This league, however,' fell to the ground 
 from want of strength in tlie weaker breth- 
 ren. After that, all went well. The laws 
 of property were altered, and an old law, 
 belonging to an obscure Indian tribe in the 
 Neilgherry Hills, was introduced. By vir- 
 . tue of this, property descended only through 
 the mother. The interests of freedom were 
 served, it is true ; but it seemed to me as 
 if there were some losses on the other hand, 
 for all the men seemed dejected and lonely. 
 There were no longer any high aims ; no 
 one looked for any thing more than worldly 
 advantage ; no one dreamed of an impossi- 
 ble future, as we do now ; there were no 
 enthusiasts, no reformers, no religious 
 thinkers, no great men. All was a dead 
 level. I asked my guide if there were any 
 exceptions, if what I saw really repre- 
 sented the actual world. She confessed it 
 did ; but she boasted, with pride, that the 
 world was now reduced to a uniform medi- 
 ocrity. No one looked for any thing better, 
 therefore no one tried for any thing better ; 
 no one praised any thing good, tlierefore no 
 one tried to do any thing good ; there were 
 no prizes for excellence, therefore no one 
 was excellent;. But it all seemed dreary, 
 stupid, and immoral as a modarn music 
 hall ; and I awoke, glad to find that it was, 
 after all, only a dream. I forgot to tell you 
 that there were no homes, -^ there were no 
 families. Children were sent out to be 
 nursed, and the necessity of labor on the 
 part of the women necessitated the aboli- 
 tion of the maternal instinct." 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Jones. 
 
 "It is," said Lynn; "and, before you 
 make a rhyme about it, — I can see you 
 are meditating one , — I just wish to state 
 my moral. Women are only what their 
 circle of men make them. If they are 
 frivolous, it is because the men are frivo- 
 lous ; if they are vain, it is because .the 
 men teach them vanity. But men have al- 
 ways to' fall back upon their one great 
 quality, — their purity. Deference to a 
 quality which they so seldom possess seems 
 to me the truest safeguard for women, and 
 the thing most likely to be a restraint 
 upon men. Education, emancipation, suf- 
 frage, — it is all infernal humbug. We 
 confuse words We call that education 
 which is only instruction; we call emanci- 
 pation what is a departure from the natural 
 
 order; we take woman from her own 
 sphere, and put her into ours, and then 
 deplore the old subjection of the sex. 
 Good God 1 sir, — man is the nobler as 
 well as the stronger. His function is to 
 work, — to do; to drag the world along, 
 to fight against and keep down the great 
 surging sea of sin and misery that grows 
 with our civilization and keeps pace with 
 our progress. But woman's function is to . 
 stand by and help ; to train the children, 
 to comfort the defeated, and succor the 
 wounded. Why, in the name of all the — 
 all the saints, should she want to leave her 
 own work and take ours ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 On that Wednesday night, when Hart- 
 ley Venn went to bed, it was late, even for 
 him ; and when, at six in the morning, a 
 fierce knocking came to his bedroom-door, 
 it was some fifteen minutes or so before he 
 could quite make up his mind that he was 
 not dreaming. At last, however, he rous- 
 ed himself sufficiently to be certain that 
 somebody was actually knocking. Mrs. 
 Peek was, in fact, the disturber of his rest. 
 She was beating on the panel with a ham- 
 mer, in despair of being able to awaken 
 him in any other way. He half opened the 
 door cautiously, and peered through to 
 discover the cause of this phenonenon. 
 
 " Mrs. Peck," he said, " we have known 
 each other now for a great many years, 
 and I never before remember you doing so 
 ridiculous a thing as to call me at six, the 
 very hour when civilized life is on the point 
 of recovering its strength. Pray, Mrs. 
 Peck, do you take me for the early 
 worm V " 
 
 The old woman pushed the door open, 
 and came into his bedroom, looking curi- 
 ously round. She was not, taking her at 
 the best, a pleasant specimen of woman- 
 hood to look upon ; but this morning she 
 looked even less attractive than usual. 
 For he^' false front was slipping off side- 
 ways ; her black stuff dress was covered 
 with mud ; her wrinkled old face was be- 
 grimed with dirt, and puckered up with 
 trouble ; and Venn, rubbing his eyes, 
 gradually awbke to the consciousness that 
 she was staring at him with frightened 
 eyes, and that something had happened. 
 
 Realizing t]jis, he stepped back and got 
 into bed, disposing the pillows so that he 
 could give audience with an air of pre- 
 paredness. Nothing, he used to say, 
 speaking after the manner of Charles the 
 Second's period, makes a man look more 
 ridiculous in the eyes of his mistress than 
 
86 
 
 MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 an appearance of haste; and, whatever 
 happens, it may as well be ri^jeived with 
 dignity, which only costs a little time for 
 reflection- Now, there was no possibility, 
 short of genuis for dignity, of preserving a 
 dignified appearance while shivering on a 
 mat with but one garment on, and that 
 of the thinnest and lightest kind. There- 
 fore he retreated to the bed, and, propped 
 up by the pillows, prepared to receive Mrs. 
 Peck with self-respect. Not one thought 
 of danger to himself: not one gleam of 
 suspicion about the girl. 
 
 The old woman came in, confused and 
 trembling. She looked about in a dazed 
 sort of way, awl then sank into a chair, 
 crying, — 
 
 " O Mr. Venn ! what have you done 
 with her? Wliat have you done with 
 her V " 
 
 All Venn's dignity vanished. He fell 
 halfback on the pillow ibr a moment,, and 
 then started up, and caught the old woman 
 by the arm. 
 
 "Done with her? Done with her? 
 Done with her ? Speak, Mrs. Peck. Tell 
 me what you mean." 
 
 " You know, sir," she said. " You 
 know who 1 mean. What have you done 
 with her, I say? What have you done 
 with the girl as you pel ted and made so 
 much of, till she wasn't fit company for 
 her grandmother? Oh, I ain't afraid to 
 speak I 'Where is she, I say ? Where 
 have you gone and hid her away? But I'll 
 find her, — if I search all London through, 
 I'll find her. Oh, my fine grand-daughter', 
 that was why he wanted you up here every 
 day, and nothing too good for you ; and 
 lessons every- day, and grand clothes. 
 And what am I to say now to the people 
 that cried out how good she was ? And 
 where, oh ! where is my 'iowance for 
 her?" 
 
 Venn stared at her, speechless, 
 
 " Give her back to me, Mr. Venn., No- 
 body knows nothing. It shall all be as it 
 used to be. Only let her come back, and 
 we can make up a story and stop their 
 mouths. Nobody knows." 
 
 '" Woman ! " cried the man, not knowing 
 what he said, " woman ! you are mad, — 
 where is LoUie ? " , . 
 
 " And you, too, that I thought the best 
 of men. You made her a little lady, so 
 that all the people envied her. And one 
 pounil ten a week gone ! You made her 
 so good that not a creature could find a 
 word to say against her. B9t you are all 
 wicked alike. And now it's you. And 
 after all these years. And I'm to lose my 
 'Iowance, and go into the workus." 
 
 Her voice changed into a sort of wail, 
 for her feelings were divided between the 
 
 loss of her grand-daughter and the proba- 
 ble loss of her allowance. 
 
 " Give her back to me, Mr. Venn. It 
 isn't only the loss of the one pound ten a 
 week, paid regular, though the Lord kpows 
 it's the parish I must come on. Give her 
 back to me, and I'll go on my bended knees 
 to you. Say she's good, and I'll pray for 
 you all the days of my life ; and go to 
 St. Alban's, though I can't abide their 
 ways, a purpose. Oh, give her back to 
 me I 'Tell me where you've put her." 
 • She sat down exhausted, in the chair by 
 the bedside. 
 
 "It isn't the 'Iowance I mind so much; 
 nor it isn't the girl, because we never had 
 much to say to each other, her and me ; 
 but it is the people. And they will talk. 
 And one pound ten a week's an awM sum 
 to lose. And see, Mr. Venn, — I know 
 that gentlemen will be gentlemen ; and 
 though the pore men curse, the pretty ones 
 always goes to the gentlemen. That's 
 right, I suppose! though why it's right, 
 God only knows. But give her back to 
 me ; for I am an old woman, and respected, 
 by reason of my grand-daughter. Give her 
 back to me, Mr. Venn. I mind an old story 
 about a man and a ewe lamb, and let me 
 look the folk in the face again, for the love 
 of God ! " 
 
 He was standing before her in his night 
 shirt all the time, not knowing what to say, 
 feeling dizzy and confused. 
 
 Now he took her by the arm, and led her 
 to the door. 
 
 " One moment, Mrs. Peck. Sit down and 
 wait while I dress. I shall not be long. 
 Don't say another word till I come." 
 
 He dressed with feverish haste, though 
 his fingers were trembling, and he could 
 not find the buttons.. Then, after ten 
 minutes or so, he came 'into the sitting- 
 room, and, pouring out a glass of spirits, 
 made the poor old creature drink it down. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Peck, let us try and get all 
 our courage. I liave not seen her — be- 
 lieve me, my poor woman — since Tues- 
 day evening." 
 
 " She came home on Tuesday evening at 
 ten o'clock." 
 
 " Yes ; she was to have come and told me 
 something yesterday." 
 
 " She went out at half-past nine yester- 
 day morning, and she never came J)ack. I 
 waited for her till ten last night ; and, think- 
 ing she was with you, I went sound asleep, 
 and didn't wake iill this morning at si.'i. 
 And then I looked in her room, for the door 
 was open, and she wasn't there. And the 
 workus is all I've got to look to." 
 
 Venn's hands were trembling now, and 
 his face white. 
 
 " Stie cried when she left me on Tuesday. 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 87 
 
 She had her secret then. Mrs. Peck, re- 
 member, my little girl is good. She has done 
 no harm, — she can do nothing wrong. Fool 
 that I was when she wanted to tell me her 
 secret, and I would not hear it. Where is 
 she ? But she is a good girl. Only wait — 
 wait — wait — we shall see." 
 
 He spoke hopefully, but his heart fell. 
 Nothing wron!T V Whence, then, those 
 tears ? Why had she been so sad for two 
 or three weeks ? Why had she harped 
 upon her secret ? And yet, what could 
 she do ? Always with him, — whose ac- 
 quaintance could she make ? 
 
 " You're telling me gospel truth, sir ? " 
 cried his laundress. " Swear it — swear it 
 on the Bible." 
 
 " I don't know where my Bible is, — the 
 Lord forgive me ! " he answered. " Do not 
 let us be miserable," he went on, with an 
 attempt at cheerfulness. " I expect she is 
 stopping out with some friends." 
 
 " She has no friends. Never a soul has 
 she ever spoken to, for twelve years, but 
 you and me, and Miss Venn." 
 
 " Perhaps she is up there. I will go and 
 see." 
 
 He tried to cheer up the old' woman ; 
 invented a thousand different ways in 
 which the girl might have been obliged to 
 pass the night away from home ; and then, 
 because his own heart was racked and tor- 
 tured, he hurried off to his sister's. 
 
 Sukey he met on her way to early ser- 
 vice, — that at half-past seven. It was one 
 of the peculiarities of that young lady to 
 find a considerable amount of enjoyment in 
 these extra-parochial, so to speak, aild ex- 
 traordinary forms of religion. 
 
 " Hartley I — you, of all men in the -world, 
 at half-past seven 1 " 
 
 " Sukey, have you got Lbllie with you ? " 
 " Laura V I haven't seen her for six 
 weeks, — not since she had tea with me. 
 But, H.irtley, what is the matter?" 
 
 He caught hold of the railing which ran 
 round the garden of the square, and almost 
 fell, for it was his one hope ; and his head 
 swam. 
 
 " God help us all I " he murmured, — 
 " my little girl is lost." 
 What could she say ? 
 " She left me on Tuesday evening. She 
 told me that yesterday I should learn a 
 secret which would please me more than 
 any thing, — she even offered to tell it me. 
 She was excited and nervous when she said 
 good-night to me; and yesterday evening 
 she never went home at all. Sukey, don't 
 speak to me — don't say any thing, because 
 I cannot bear it. Come and ask in a day or 
 two. Sukey, you believe in prayer. Go into 
 church, and pray as you never prayed 
 before. Throw all your heart into your 
 
 prayers for the child. Pray for her purity, 
 — pray for her restoration, — pray fbr my 
 forgiveness ; or — no — why do men always 
 want to push themselves to the front V — 
 pray, Sukey, that my ill-training may bear 
 no ill-fruit. And yet, God knows, I meant 
 it all for the best." 
 
 He turned away and left her. She, poor 
 woman, with the tears in her eyes, went 
 back to her own room ; and there, not in 
 the artificial church, with the cold and per- 
 functory service, but by her own bedside, 
 knelt and prayed for her brother and his 
 darling, while sobs choked her utterance, 
 and the tears coursed do^n her cheeks. 
 
 Hartley returned to his chamber, ajjd 
 found Mrs. Peck still there. The effect of 
 the excitement upon her was that she was 
 actually cleaning things. He tried to cheer 
 her up, and then went to the police-station, 
 where they heard what he had to say, made 
 notes, looked wise, and promised great 
 things, alter he had given an exact descrip- 
 tion of her dress and appearance. % 
 What next ? 
 
 "Had she any friends ?" 
 " None," Mrs. Peck had replied. \ 
 He knew of an acquaintance, at least ; 
 though Mrs. Peck had never heard of her. 
 There was a certain Miss Blanche Elmsley, 
 third-rate actress, figurante, any thing at- 
 tached to the fortunes of Drury Lane 
 Theatre. Her papa, who rejoiced in the 
 name of Crump, was (Jie proprietor of a 
 second-hand furniture shop in Gray's Inn 
 Road. He had not ifiuch furniture, but he 
 sold any thing, bought any thing ; and was 
 not too proud to do odd jobs at the rate of 
 a shilling an hour. Moreover, Mr. George 
 Augustus Frederick Crump, christened after 
 one of the late lamented royal princes, was 
 a most respectable man, and highly esteemed 
 in his quartier. He was the worshipful mas- 
 tar of a lodge of Ancient Druids, and ac- 
 customed to take the vice-chair at a weekly ' 
 harmonic meeting. His daughter Mary 
 was a child to whom Venn, who knew 
 everybody, had been accustomed to make 
 little presents, years before. She was about 
 five or six years older than Laura. When 
 she grew up to woman's estate she obtained 
 — chiefly through Venn's interest — a post 
 as assistant in the refreshment department 
 of one of the leading railway stations. Then 
 he lost sight of her altogether till a twelve- 
 month or so later, when Lollie came to him 
 one night with a piteous tale : how that poor 
 Mary, for some reason unknown to her, had 
 been turned from her father's door, and was 
 penniless and houseless. Then Hartley 
 Venn — a Samaritan by legitimate descent, 
 as much as the , present Sheikh, Yakoob 
 Shellaby — went to the rescue ; the end 
 being that he saw the poor girl through a 
 
88 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 good deal of trouble, and, by dint of wonder- 
 ful self-sacrifice, living on herbs and cold 
 water for a quarter or so, managed to put 
 things straight for her. 
 
 The Samaritan, you know very well, not 
 only bound up the wounds which the 
 wicked robbers had make, but poured in 
 oil. Not content with that, he lifted the 
 poor man, all bleeding as he was, upon his 
 own beast, doubtless covered with a new 
 and highly respectable saddle-cloth, trudge 
 ing alongside, — and those roads of Pales- 
 tine, unless it was the Roman road, were 
 none of the best, mind you, — until he came 
 to the nearest Khan, where he bargained 
 with the landlord for a small sum. The 
 priest and the Levite, I make no doubt, 
 would have done exactly the same, but for 
 the look of the thing. It would seem too 
 disreputable for persons of their respecta- 
 bility to be seen tramping along the road 
 with a bleeding man upon their private 
 ass, bedabbling their saddle-cloth. Yet 
 Biake no doubt that their hearts were 
 deeply touched ; and I think I can fancy the 
 priest making a very fine point of it,.in his 
 way, next sabbath day's discourse. It would 
 turn on the duty of being prepared. 
 
 Mary's father was the priest. So, with a 
 pang at his heart and an oath on his lips, 
 he told the girl to go, and never again to 
 darken his doors. 
 
 She went. His respectability was saved. 
 Close by, she met little LoUie on her way 
 home. She knew her by sight, and told 
 her some of the story. The rest we know. 
 
 Venn was her Samaritan. 
 
 Mary was sitting in her second-floor 
 back, making a dress for the baby, and 
 
 Polly understood in a moment. 
 
 " I^on't say that, Mr. Venn. Don't 
 tell me that Lollie, of all girls in %he 
 world" — 
 
 " Hush I Perhaps — perhaps — Mary, 
 you know nothing of it? " 
 
 " God forgive me 1 " sobbed Mary. " Mr. 
 Venn, I'd rather my little boy died in my 
 arms ; and then. Heaven knows, I'd lie 
 down, and die myself. Lollie ! Oh, it 
 was she who brought me to you in all my 
 trouble. What should I have b6en with- 
 out her ? Where should I be now ? " 
 
 " I must go," said Venn, rising abruptly. 
 " Think of lier, my girl. If you can devise 
 any plan for looking after her, tell me. If 
 you can think of anybody or any thing, — 
 remember that every penny I have in the 
 world I will spend to bring her back. 
 Where can I look for her — where ? " 
 
 He spread out his hand; in his distress, 
 and walked backwards and forwards in the 
 little room. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, Mr. Venn, at 
 what I'm going to say. She must have 
 gone off with some one. No doubt he 
 promised to marry her : they all do. And if 
 he does it, you will have her back in a day 
 or two, with her husband, asking for your 
 forgiveness; and if he doesn't, why, then, — 
 why then, Mr. Venn, don't let us think of 
 it. But if' she comei back, all wretched 
 and tearful, will yoii forgive lier, Mr. Venn ? 
 will you forgive her ? " 
 
 " Forgive her ? Is there any thing my 
 child could do that I would not forgive ? 
 You don't understand, Mary. She is my 
 life. 1 have no thought but for her. In 
 all these years, while slie has been growing 
 
 crooning a tune in as simple freshness of , up beside me, every hour in my day seemed 
 heart as if she had never sinned at all. I to belong to the child. What could I not 
 The blessed prerogative of matainity is to j do for her ? Let her come back, and all 
 v.— I -i. !__-.. ^^— >!-. J.: — .11 j_ ' jIj^u jjg g^g j{ ^jjg before; but, no! that, 
 
 at least, cannot be. The fruit of the tree , 
 of knowledge, of good and evil, prevents 
 that. Eden is shut out from us. But let 
 her come back; and we may be but as 
 another Adam and Eve, making aprons to 
 hide the memories of our souls." 
 
 " Perhaps they were happy," said Mary 
 the mother, " because they had children." 
 
 " I don't know," said Venn. " History 
 says very little about it. Perhaps they ' 
 were. Let us hope so. Good-by, girl." 
 
 She took his hand, and, out of her grati- 
 tude and sympathy, raised it to her lips. 
 The action had all the grace of a duchess, 
 though it was but in a poorly furnished 
 lodging, — bedroom, sitting-room, a,nd all 
 in one, — and the performer was only a 
 ballet-girl. 
 
 From her, Venn went to Lynn's rooms. 
 These were at the top of an endless stair- 
 case in the 'ifemple. 
 
 heal, at least for the time, all wounds, 
 Besides, we can't be always crying over 
 past sins. When the sun shines, the birds 
 will sing. In her child, Mary had forgot- 
 ten her troubles. Man leaves father and 
 mother, and cleaves to his wife. Woman 
 leaves father and mother, husband and 
 lover, and forgets them all, and cleaves to 
 her little ones. 
 
 Venn came in, hurried and excited. 
 
 " Where is Lollie ? " he asked. •' Have 
 you seen Lollie ? " 
 
 " Your little girl, Mr. Venn ? Oh, what 
 has come to her ? " 
 
 Hartley's last slender reed of hope was 
 broken. He sat down, and dropped his 
 face in his hands. Then he looked round, 
 blankly. 
 
 " If I could find him I " he groaned — 
 "if I could find him I By G— dl if I 
 should but for once come across hiqi some- 
 where ! " 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 89 
 
 " You, Venn ! " said Lynn, opening the 
 door. " I thougjit it was the long-expected 
 case. What has brought you here at this 
 time of day ? " 
 
 Venn sat down, and answered nothing. 
 After a minute or so, which his thouglits 
 turned into half an hour, he got up again. 
 
 " I must go," he said. " I've staid here 
 too long." 
 
 He put on his hat, and made for the door, 
 with stagirering step. Then Lynn caught 
 him by the arm, and forced him into an 
 armcliair. i 
 
 " For God's sake, Venn, what is the mat- 
 ter ? " 
 
 Hartley looked at him in a dazed way. 
 Then he fairly fainted, falling forwards. 
 It was two o'clock, and he had eaten noth- 
 ing all day. Lynn lifted him, and laid him 
 on the sofa, pouring water on his fore- 
 head, which was burning. Presently he 
 recovered a little, and sat up. 
 
 " Do you remember our idle talk last 
 pight, Lynn ? " 
 
 " Perfectly. What about it ? " 
 
 '' Do you remember what we said about 
 women ? " 
 
 " What about it ? " 
 
 Venn was silent again. Then he went 
 on, with a deep, harsh voice, — 
 ^ " I found a little child. In my loneliness, 
 and the despair that followed all my ruined 
 hopes, I made her the one joy and comfort 
 of my life." 
 
 "Laura?" 
 
 " I brought her up myself, and taught 
 her all that I thought the child should 
 know. I forgot one thing." 
 
 " Venn, what has happened V " 
 
 " I forgot religion. AH the rules of right 
 and wrong do not come by observation. 
 The babit of fearing God comes by teach- 
 ing. But I loved her, Lynn — j- 1 loved her. 
 She looked to me as a kind of elder broth- 
 er ; but I — I loved her not as a little 
 sister. I looked for a time wlien she 
 should be old enough to hear the love story 
 of a man nearly twenty years, her senior. 
 I thought to win her heart, and not her 
 gratitude. So I was content to wait. Her 
 only joy in life was to come to mo. But I 
 forgot that there are wolves abroad. If 
 ever I meet the man. But it is idle 
 threatening. Old friend of twenty years, 
 if I thought you had done this thing, I 
 would strangle you as you stand there." 
 
 " But, Venn — Venn, what is it ? " 
 
 " I was reading a story in a novel the 
 other day, — a French novel. There was 
 a Laura in it, and a man : a foolish sort of 
 story. She left him one evening, hanging 
 upon his neck, vowing a thousand loves, 
 showering kisses upon him. She said she 
 was going to the seaside — to Dieppe — 
 
 somewhere for a fortnight. She wrote to 
 him a fortnight later, when he expected 
 her back, — told him in three lines that she 
 had left him forever, that she could never 
 see him again, that she was to be married 
 to some one else. Not a word, you see, of 
 regret. Nothing left, no memory at all of 
 the days they had spent together. A fool- 
 ish story. I laughed when 1 read it. 
 
 '• He who was only a poor sort of loving 
 fool, and believed that women could be true 
 sat down in his lonely room, and cried. 
 Then he wrote to a post-office where she 
 might possibly go and ask for letters, and 
 told her to be happy ; that he forgave her ; 
 that if any thing happened to her — any 
 poverty, any distress — he was still her 
 friend. I thought what an ^ss he was. 
 Her name was Laura too. That must 
 have been why I read the story. Laura — 
 Laura — a lover's name." 
 
 " In Heaven's name ! Venn, what has 
 happened ? " 
 
 " Women, you see," Venn went on, in a 
 hard, unnatural voice, "require positive 
 teaching. You must say to them, do this, 
 do that, and avoid something else. I for- 
 got this. I treated the girl as if she had 
 been a boy. 
 
 " Life, you will observe, is a series of 
 unexpected retributions. For every mis- 
 take you make, down comes the avenger. 
 No quarter is given, and no warning. It 
 seems hard when you first begin to under- 
 stand it, doesn't it ? 
 
 " We have been accustomed to look at 
 the disappointments of life as so much 
 capital, — the occasion for saying clever 
 things. Why, Jones makes fifty rhymes 
 every time he fails, and I say fifty remark- 
 able things. And you utter fifty oaths. 
 Here is only another disappointment. We 
 will have another brilliant Chorus next 
 week. Life's disappointments are so many 
 of a small kind, that when a big one comes 
 — . the biggest/ that can come — we really 
 ought to be prepared. 
 
 " I loved her, Lynn, I loved her-" 
 
 All the time he had been sitting on the 
 sofa, talking in this incoherent way, with 
 his eyes strained and his lips cracked. 
 Tlien Lynn took him by the arm. 
 
 " Come back to Gray's Inn," he said. 
 " We will take a cab." 
 
 He led him down the stairs, and took him 
 back to his own chambers. When they 
 got there, the old woman, still waiting for 
 them, rushed forward. 
 
 "Have you found her, sir? Have you 
 found her?" 
 
 And then Venn sat down in his old easy 
 chair, and cried like a child. 
 
 " I think," he said, presently, recovering 
 a little, " that I will' go to bed. The kings 
 
90 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 of Israel, wlienever they experienced any 
 little disappointment, used to do it, and 
 tnrned their faces to the wall. Ahab, you 
 remember, in that affair of his about thfe 
 vineyard. I shall turn ray face to the wall. 
 When 1 was ill as a child I used, directly I 
 got into bed, to fancy myself in a coach 
 and four; and the relief was wonderful. 
 Good-by, Lynn, it's very kind of you ; but 
 — but — well, you can go away now." 
 
 " I shall stay," said Lynn, not liking the 
 ■way in which he talked. '• I shall stay all 
 night, and sleep on the sofa.'' 
 
 Venn went to bed ; and his friend, get- 
 ting a steak sent up at six, sat quietly 
 waiting and watching. At midnight he 
 . stole into the bedroom. "Venn was sleep- 
 ing soundly, with his fair, smooth cheeks 
 high up on the pillow. As Lynn bent over 
 him, the lips of the sleeper parted ; and, 
 with that sweet, sad smile which was his 
 greatest charm, he murmured, softly and 
 tenderly 
 
 " My little girl — kiss me again.'' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Do you know the coast of Normandy ?■ 
 It is a country that everybody thinks he 
 knows well. We have all been to Dieppe, 
 some even to Havre. Dear friends, that 
 is really not enough. What you do not 
 know is the existence of a dozen little wa- 
 tering-places between Havre and Boulogne, 
 all charming, all quiet, all entirely French. 
 These secluded retreats are like the trian- 
 gles in the sixth book of Euclid's immortal 
 work, — they are all similar and similarly 
 situated. Where the sea runs in and 
 makes a bay, where a river runs down and 
 mingles the fresh with the salt, where the 
 cliffs on either side stoop to the earth and 
 disajipear in space, there lies the little fish- 
 ing-town. What it must be like in wip- 
 ter, imagination vainly endeavors to real- 
 ize ; but in summer, between June and 
 October, there, are no pleasanter places for 
 quiet folk to stay in. Right and left, the 
 cliffs rise to a height of some hun- 
 dreds of feet. You climb them in the 
 morning after your coffee and brioche, and 
 stride away in the fresh upland air, with 
 the grass under your feet and the woods 
 behind. As you go along, you see the 
 girls milking the sleepy-eyed Norman cows, 
 you salute the women going to market with 
 their baskets, you listen to the lark, you 
 watch the blue sea far away beyond, with 
 perhaps a little fleet of fishing-boats. Pres- 
 sently you turn back, for the sun is getting 
 hot. Then you go down to the shore and 
 bathe. Augustine, the fat, the bunchy, 
 
 the smiling, the rosy-fingered, brin<;s you a 
 maillot. Clad in thip cornibrtable garb, 
 and throwing a sheet about you, yoir trip 
 down the boards which lead to the sea, and 
 enjoy a feeling of superiority when you feel 
 all eyes turned to behold you swimming 
 out to sea. Family groups are bathing 
 together beside you, — father of family and 
 circle of children, bobbing, with shrieks, 
 up and down ; next to them some ancient 
 dame, of high Norman lineage and won- 
 drous aspect, gravely bobbing, held by 
 both hands by the Amphibious One, who 
 spends his days in the water, and never 
 ciitohes rheumatism. Everybody bobbing. 
 Then you go back to breakfast. The 
 table d'hote . might be better, but^ it is 
 wholesome. Here you become acquainted 
 with strange fish, — conger eel, for instance ; 
 and you learn the taste of mussels. The 
 claret might be a more generous wine, but 
 it is light and sound. After your walk, 
 you may drink a bottle for breakfast. 
 
 Presently you stroll into the town, and 
 look around. Here is a fisherman's church. 
 In the little chapel, as you go in, are the 
 ex voto pictures, — they mean countless 
 tears and anxiety. Here is the ship tossed 
 by the storm ; here the ship entering the 
 port ; here are the rags of a flag, the bits of 
 an oar, — all the little memorials of an es- 
 cape from danger, aided by Our Lady of 
 the Sea, influenced by the prayers of the 
 faithful. Are we in the nineteenth cen- 
 tury? So, too, the Roman sailor offered 
 his ex voto to Venus Marina ; while yonder 
 priest, in stole, alb, and dalmatic, may 
 stand for his predecessor of Brindisium two 
 thousand years ago, who chanted the ser- 
 vice to his goddess in the self-same dress, 
 and very likely in the self-same Gregorian. 
 Verily, my readers, we take a long time to 
 change. 
 
 There is a quay. Lazy sailors lie about 
 and talk. There is a smell of soup in the' 
 air, curiously blending with the tar. Over- 
 the cobbled roads thunder the country carts 
 with their bells. The diligence is prepar- 
 ing, with a tremendous clatter and bustle, 
 to get under Vay ; and where, in an English 
 country town, would be dismal silence and 
 sluggishness, are life, animation, activity. 
 
 At six you may dine ; in fact, you must, 
 if you want to dine at all. The dinner is 
 the same as the breakfast. And after that 
 you may go to the casino. Ah, the casino I 
 It is the home of all dazzling pleasures. 
 There is the theatre, with a stage the size 
 of a dining-room table ; then the ball-room, 
 with a piarto and violin for music, — no 
 better music can be found ; and there are 
 the young bloods of the place, panting for 
 the fray, with waxed mustache, and pat- 
 ent leather boots, the Don Juans of a thou- 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 91 
 
 sand harmless amourettes ; for here, mark 
 you, we have not the morals of Paris. And 
 the young ladies. They are not pretty, the 
 Norman girls, after our notions Of beauty. 
 Some of them are too big in the nose, some 
 of them are flat-face3, some of them are in- 
 clined to be " hatchety ; " but they are gra- 
 cieuses. Sayany thing you will of the 
 Frenchwomen, but tell me not that they are 
 clumsy. Always gracefiil, always at ease, 
 always artistic. I believe, speaking as a 
 bachelor, and therefore as a fool, that a 
 Frenchwoman is, above all, the woman one 
 would emphatically never get tired of. 
 Pretty faces pall, pretty little accomplish- 
 ments are soon known by heart. A loving 
 heart may be no preventioa against that 
 satiety which cometh at the end of sweet 
 things. In love, as in' cookery, one wants 
 a little 7— eh ? a very little — sauce pi- 
 quante. Now, the Frenchwoman can give 
 it you. 
 
 And at eleven o'clock you may go to bed ; 
 because, if you sit up, you will be the only 
 soul awake in all the town. They are all 
 alike, as I said before. I have seen them 
 all. The prettiest of them is Etretat, the 
 sweetest \of watering-places, with its little 
 chalets perched on the hillsides, its perfo- 
 rated rocks, its sharp cliffs, and its gardens ; 
 but it is also the dearest. Reader of the 
 middle class, sensible reader, who, like me, 
 does not pretend to be a milord, go not to 
 Etretat to stay. Go rather to little Yport, 
 close by, where the eldblisse.m,ent is no 
 bigger than a family pew, and where in a 
 day you will be the friend of all the good 
 people — chiefly connected with the cot- 
 ton, or perhaps the cider, interests — who 
 are staying there for the benefit of the sea- 
 breezes. 
 
 It was to Vieuxcamp that Philip took his 
 bride. They arrived there the day after 
 their marriage. Laura was too confused 
 with the novelty of every thing to be able 
 to think. She was wild with excitement. 
 This, then, was the world. How big it 
 was 1 These were the people who spdke 
 French. Why, the little children talked it 
 better than she did, after all her lessons ! 
 Then, tlie Norman caps, and the cookery, 
 and the strangeness ot it all. I don't be- 
 lieve there is any thing in the world — not 
 even love's young dream, or love's first kiss, 
 or the first taste of canvas-back, or the first 
 oyster of the season, or the tbrbidden port, 
 or a glass of real draught bitter after years 
 abroad ; or the sight of those you love, 
 when you come home again ; or the news 
 that your play is accepted, or the first 
 proof-sheet, or a legacy when you are sick 
 with disappointment, or praise when you 
 are dying with fatigue, or a laudatory re- 
 view : there is not one of these delights — 
 
 I forgot to mention twins, but not even tliat 
 — which comes up to the first joy of seeuig 
 a foreign land, apd that land France. 
 
 Lollie saw some English children at 
 Dieppe the mortiing after they came. 
 
 " Philip I " she cried, " what a shame 
 to bring'those children here I Think of the 
 happiness they will miss when they grow 
 up." 
 
 That, as the Yankees say, is so. 
 
 He brought her by diligence from Dieppe 
 to Vieuxcamp, and they began the usual 
 life of the place. He had taken the best 
 rooms in the hotel, where they could sit 
 and look at the sea. Laura had not seen 
 it since she went with Sukey to Deal, eight 
 years ago. In the morning they bathed 
 together in the pleasant French fashion. 
 In the hot daytime they staid indoors, 
 and read novels. In the evening, they 
 went to the Casino. 
 
 At the table cCTiote, Philip's wife was 
 quite silent for three days. Then, to his 
 utter amazement, she turned to her neigh- 
 bor, a lively little Frenchwoman, who had 
 addressed some remark to her, and an- 
 swered her quite fluently, and in perfect 
 French. 
 
 " Where did you learn it, my darling ? " 
 ' " I learned it at home. Mr. Venn and I 
 used to talk ; but, somehow, I could not say 
 a word at first. Now I begin." 
 
 And then the French ladies all made 
 much of her, admiring the sweet innocence 
 of her beauty, and that fair wealth of hair, 
 which she wore loose and dishevelled at 
 breakfast, and neatly bound up for dinner. 
 
 On the very first morning after their ar- 
 rival, Philip found her, on coming in from 
 a walk, writing a letter to Venn. 
 
 "That is right," he said. "Tell Mr. 
 Venn where we are. He will want to 
 know more than your little note told him. 
 Write all you can, darling; but tell him 
 you are happy. Are you happy, my own ? "' 
 
 She smiled contentedly, and went on 
 writing. It was a long letter, and took a 
 good 'half-hour to write, though her facile 
 pen seemed to run glibly enough over the 
 paper. When it was finished, she folded 
 and placed it in an envelope. 
 
 " Now, let us go and post it," she cried, 
 looking for her hat. 
 
 Phil looked at his watch. It was a quar- 
 ter to eleven. 
 
 " Better let me go, dear," he said : " it 
 only wants a quarter of an hour to break- 
 fast. I shall be ten minutes, and you will 
 be ready to go down then." 
 
 She gave him the letter, and he went 
 out. ' 
 
 On the way, the landlady of tha hotel 
 gave him a letter from England, which he 
 opened and read. It was from Maclntyre. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " I thought it best not to take that note 
 BLr. V. It has been burnt instead. If 
 vere you, all things oonsidei-ed, I would 
 t let her write to him. Questions will 
 asked. Things perfectly legal in Scot- 
 id may not be so in England. From 
 lat I have learned of Arthur, who is his 
 end, Mr. V. is a man capable of making 
 mseif very disagreeable. Don't let her, 
 ite. 
 
 Philip read it with a sinking heart. This 
 m seemed to stand between himself and 
 ery effort at well-doing. He had firmly 
 jeled himself to letting Venn know what 
 ; had done, and taking any consequences 
 at might befall him. The last orders he 
 id given were that the note was to be ta- 
 in to Gray's Inn ; and now the letter was 
 irned, and the poor girl's guardian would 
 ilieve that she had run away from him. 
 t the first shock, Philip felt sick with dis- 
 ay and remorse. Then he began to think 
 himself Should the new letter be sent, 
 e strolled along the esplanade by the sea- 
 ore, sat down, and looked at it. The 
 Lvelope was not yet dry. He opened it and 
 ok out the letter. Then he committed 
 e first crime — unless the marriage was 
 le — in his life. I mean the first thing 
 bich destroyed his own self-respect, and 
 ive him a stronger shove downhill — see 
 e philosophical remarks in a previous 
 lapter — than any thing he had yet expe- 
 enced. For he read the letter. 
 
 " My DB.4.E Mr. Venn, — I do not know 
 iw to begin my letter. You have heard 
 y secret now, because Philip sent on my 
 tter. I was so sorry not to be able to 
 ime with it myself. When I saw you on 
 uesday, I came determined to tell you all, 
 spile of Philip's prohibition; but you 
 Duld not hear it. And now I wish you 
 id, because then you would have come 
 )urseltj and been present at my marriage.- 
 es, I am really and truly married. I can- 
 )t u nderstand it at all. I keep turning my 
 edding-ring round and round my finger, 
 id saying that I have done the very thing 
 )U wanted me to do. And then I feel that 
 was wrong in not telling you of it. Direct- 
 after the marriage we came over here, — 
 liilip and I, — and are going to stay for 
 lother fortnight. I will tell you all about 
 le place and the people when I see you ; 
 it it is all so strange to me, that I feel giddy 
 linking about it. And you will like Philip, 
 know you will ; if only because he is so 
 nd to me and loves me. It is all through 
 )ur kindness. I can never say or write 
 hat I feel towards you for it all. You will 
 ways be first in my thoughts. We are 
 )t very rich, I believe ; but we have 
 lOugh to live upon, and we are going to be 
 
 happy. The old life has passed away, and 
 all our pleasant days ; but the new ones 
 will be better, only you will have to come and 
 see me now. I think I shall be very happy 
 as soon as I hear that you are satisfied and 
 pleased with what I have done. Write at 
 once, and tell me that you are, dear Mr. 
 Venn ; and then I shall dance and sing. 
 Let me always be your little girl. 1 had to 
 keep the secret for Philip's sake; but he 
 always promised that as soon as we were 
 married you should know every thing. 
 
 " He is too good for me, too handsome, 
 and too clever. Of course he is not so 
 clever as you are : nobody is ; and I do 
 not think he has ever written any thing, — 
 at least, he has never told me of any thing. 
 
 '' Write to me at once, dear Mr. Venn, 
 by the very next post that comes back. 
 To-day is Saturday : I shall get your letter 
 on Tuesday. Give my love to my grand- 
 mother : she will not miss me. And always 
 believe me, dear Mr. Venn, your own 
 affectionate and grateful little girl, — 
 
 "LOLLIE DnKNFOBD." 
 
 Philip's handsome face grew ugly as he 
 read the letter, — ugly with the cloud of his 
 negro blood. What business had his wife 
 to write a letter so affectionate to another 
 man ? Jealousy sprang up, a full-blown 
 weed, in his brain. What right had she 
 to love another man ? His nostrils dilated, 
 his forehead contracted, his lips projected. 
 
 These were symptoms that accompanied 
 the awakening of his lower nature. 
 
 Two men passed him as he sat on the 
 beach. Quoth one to another, as they both 
 looked in his face, — 
 
 " C'est probableraent un Anglais ? " 
 
 And the other made reply, — 
 
 " Je crois que c'est un mulfttre. Peut- 
 6tre de Martinique." 
 
 He heard them, and his blood boiled 
 within him. The lower nature was in com- 
 mand now. He tore the letter into a thou- 
 sand fragments, and threw them into the 
 air. 
 
 Then he resolved to go back, and tell a 
 lie. ■ At any cost — at the cost of honor, of 
 self-respect — he would break ofi' alh con- 
 nection with this man. His wife should not 
 know him any longer, should not write to 
 him a second time. 
 
 He strolled back, angry and ashamed, 
 but resolved. 
 
 LoUie was waiting for him, dressed for 
 breakfast. He kissed her cheek, and tried 
 to persuade himself that he was acting for 
 the best. 
 
 " And what did you say to Mr. Venn, 
 darling? " 
 
 " I said that I was married, and happy, 
 
MY LITTLE OIBL. 
 
 93 
 
 and eager to get his letter to tell me he is 
 pleased." 
 
 " Why did you not write to your grand- 
 mother, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " she replied lightly, " she will he^r 
 from Mr. Venn; and, besides, as she can- 
 not read, whM does it matter ? You know, 
 she never liked me at all ; and only kept 
 me with her, I believe, on account of Mr. 
 Venn. I musD have been a great trouble 
 to her." 
 
 Caresses and kisses ; and Philip, with the 
 ease of his facile nature, putbehindhimhis 
 deceit and treachery to b& thought of anoth- 
 er day. 
 
 After all, letters do miscarry some- 
 times. 
 
 The honeymoon, married men of some 
 standing declare, is wont to be a dreary sea- 
 son, involving so much of self-sacrifice and 
 concession that it is hardly wOrth the 
 trouble of going through it. It has some 
 compensations. Among these, to Philip, 
 was the real pleasure of reading all the 
 thoughts of a pure and simple-minded girl. 
 When he was under the influence of this 
 maidenly mind, his mind — Augean stable 
 though it was — seemed cleansed and puri- 
 fied. The prompting of evil ceased. The 
 innocence of his youth renewed itself, and 
 seemed to take once more, with a brighter 
 plumage, a heavenward flight, — only while 
 he was in her presence ; and, as we have 
 seen, a few words from his evil genius had 
 power enough to make him worse than he 
 was before. For the stream of LoUie's in- 
 fluence was a shallow one : it had depth 
 enough to hide the accumulations of mud, 
 but not enough to clear them away. Like 
 the transformation scene in a theatre, for a 
 brief five minutes all is bright, roseate, and 
 brilliant : before and after, the yellow 
 splendor of the gaslight. With a lie hot 
 upon his lips, with a new sin fresh upon his 
 conscience, Philip yet felt happy with his 
 wife. It is not impossible. The poor habit- 
 ual criminals of the thieves' kitchen are 
 happy in their way, boozing and smoking, 
 though the policemen are gathering in pur- 
 suit, and they know their days of freedom 
 are numbered. 
 
 " Tell me," said Philip, " did Mr. Venn 
 never make love ? " 
 
 " What a question ! " she replied, laugh- 
 ing. " Mr. Venn, indeed ! Why, he is as 
 old — as old — No one ever made love to 
 me except yourself. But take me down to 
 breakfast. Philip, when we go back to Lon- 
 don, will your own relations be ashamed of 
 me ? " 
 
 " I have no relations, dear, except a 
 cousin. If he is ashamed of you, I shall 
 wring his neck. But he will be proud of 
 you, as I am proud of my pretty wife. But 
 
 for the present you must be content with 
 your stupid husband. Can you ? " 
 
 " Don't, Philip," said his wife. « And 
 the bell has gone ten minutes." 
 
 And on the Sunday — next day — Lollie 
 got a new experience of life. 
 
 It was after breakfast. Tliey were 
 strolling through the town. The bells were 
 ringing in the great old church, so vast 
 and splendid that it might have been a 
 cathedral. And in one of the little streets, 
 where there w£ts a convent school, there 
 was assembling a procession — all of girls, 
 dressed in white, and of all ages and sizes, 
 from the little toddler who had to be led, 
 to the girl of twenty, gorgeous in her 
 white muslins and her lace veil. As they 
 stopped to look, the procession formed. 
 At its head marched the toddler, supported 
 by two a little taller than herself; and 
 then, wedge fashion, the rest followed, the 
 nuns with their submissive, passionless 
 faces, like the sheep of sacrifice, following 
 after. And as they defiled into the street, 
 they began to sing some simple French 
 ditty, — not more out of tune than could be 
 expected from a choir of French country 
 girls,- — and went on to the church. Philip 
 and Laura followed. The girls passed into 
 the church. As the darkness of the long 
 nave seemed to swallow them up, a strange 
 yearning came over the girl. 
 
 " Philip, I should like to go into the 
 church." 
 
 " Do, my dear, if you like. I shall go 
 and stroll along the beach. You can go 
 in and see the ceremony, whatever it is, 
 and then come back to the hotel." 
 
 She walked hesitatingly into the church. 
 A man with a cocked hat and a pike in 
 his hand beckoned her, and gave her a 
 seat. She sat down, and looked on. A tall 
 altar, garnished with flowers and lights,^ 
 men with colored robes, boys with incense, 
 and an organ pealing. In all her life of 
 eighteen years, she had never been inside 
 a church : in all her education, there had 
 been no word of religion. Now, like an- 
 other sense, the religious principle awak- 
 ened in her ; and she knew that she was, 
 for the first time, worshipping God. 
 
 When the people knelt, she knelt, won- 
 dering. Always, the organ pealed and 
 rolled among the rafters in the roof, and 
 the voices of the singers echoed in her ears, 
 and the deep bass of the priest sounded 
 like some mysterious incantation. * It was 
 so grand, so sweet, this gathering of the 
 folk with one common object. Her heart 
 went up with the prayers of the Church, 
 though she knew nothing of what they 
 meant. Lines from poetry crossed her 
 brain : words from some authors she had 
 read. The Madonna and the Child looked 
 
94 
 
 MY LITTL^ GIRL. 
 
 on lier smiling : the effigy of our Saviour 
 seemed to have its eyes, full of tenderness 
 and pity, fixed upon her. AVhen next she 
 knelt, the tears poured through her fingers. 
 
 The service ended. All went away ex- 
 cfept Laura. She alone sat silent and 
 thinking. 
 
 " Madame would like to see the church ? " 
 asked the beadle. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Let me sit a little longer," she said, 
 putting a franc into that too sensitive 
 palm. 
 
 " Madame is right. It is cool in here." 
 And left her. 
 
 She was trying to work it all out. She 
 had discovered it at last, the secret which 
 Venn's carelessness had kept from her. 
 She knew the grave defect of her educa- 
 tion : she had found the religious sense. 
 
 She rose at last, refreshed as one who, 
 suflFering from, some unknown disease, sud- 
 denly feels the vigor of his manhood return. 
 And when she rejoined her husband, there 
 shone upon her face a radiance as of one 
 who has had a great and splendid vision. 
 
 For the child had wandered by accident 
 ' into the fold. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 An answer was to be expected from 
 Venn' in three or four days. Laura passed 
 these in suspense and anxiety. Every 
 morning she went to the church and heard 
 the service, daily gaining from her artistic 
 instincts a deeper insight into the mystery 
 of religion. After tlie service, she woulil go 
 back to her husband, and pour into his won- 
 dering ears the new thoughts that filled her 
 heart. He, for his part, sat like a Solomon, 
 and shook his head, only half understand- 
 ing what she meant. Nor did she quite 
 know herself. The instinct of adoration, 
 of submission ; the sense of a protecting 
 power; the sweetness of church music; 
 ,the gorgeous ceremonial to whii;h it was 
 wedded, — all these things coming freshly 
 on the girl's brain confused and saddened 
 her, even while they made her happier. 
 For in these early days, when every thing 
 was new and bright, she was happy, — save 
 for that gnawing anxiety about Venn. 
 
 Tuesday came, and Wednesday, but no 
 letter ; and her heart fell. 
 
 "I shall write again, Philip. He must 
 he ill. He would never else have left my 
 letter unanswered." 
 
 Philip changed' color ; for in the early 
 days of dishonor men can still fee! ashamed. 
 
 " If you like," he said, with an effort. 
 
 " Yes, write again, dear. We will try one 
 more letter before we go back to London. 
 Sit down, and write it now." 
 
 The second letter was harder to write 
 than the fiirst ; but she got over the begin- 
 ning at last, and went on. • After repeat- 
 ing all she had said in the first, she began 
 to talk of the church : — 
 
 " I have been to church. O Mr. Venn 1 
 why did we not go together ? There is 
 no place where I am so happy. It seems 
 as if I were prtitected — I don't know from 
 what — when I am within the walls, and 
 listening to the grand organ. When we 
 go back to England, you will have to come 
 with me. ^Do not, dear Mr. Venn, keep 
 me any longer in suspense. Write to me, 
 and'tell me you forgive me. I seem to see, 
 now, more clearly than I did. I see how 
 wrong I was, how ungrateful, how unkind 
 to you ; but onfy^ell me you forgive me, 
 and ease my heart." 
 
 This time, with less compunction, her 
 husband quietly took the letter to a secluded 
 spot under the clitt's, and tore it up. For, 
 having begun, he was obliged to go on. 
 Laura, he was' determined, should have 
 nothing whatever more to do with Mr. 
 Venn. She should be his, his own, his 
 only. Some men make angels of their 
 wives. These are the highest naturfes : 
 perhaps on that account the greatest fools 
 in the eyes of the world. Philip did not 
 commit this noble fault. He knew his wife 
 was a woman, and not an angel at all. 
 Even in those moments when she tried to 
 pour out all her thoughts to him, — whem 
 like Eve, she bared her soul before his 
 eyes, and was not ashamed, — he only saw 
 the passing fancies of an inexperienced 
 girl ; played with them, the toys of a mo- 
 ment, and piit thein by. Of the depths of 
 her nature he knew nothing, and expected 
 nothing : only he was more and more pas- 
 sionately fond of her. For it seemed as 
 if the change had made her more lovely. 
 Bright and beautiful as she was before, she 
 was more beautiful now. Some of Philip's 
 five hundred wen tto siccomplish this chano-e ; 
 for she was now well-dressed, as well as 
 tastefully dressed, — a thing she had never 
 known before, — and was woman enough 
 to appreciate, accordingly. She was ani- 
 mated, bright, and happy, except for the 
 anxiety about the letter; for no answer 
 came to the second. 
 
 " We will not try again," said Philip. 
 " Promise me faithfully, my dear, that you 
 will not write again without my knowl- 
 edgiS." 
 
 "I promise, Philip. Of course I will 
 not." 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 95 
 
 " When we go back to England, perhaps, 
 we may think proper to make another at- 
 tempt; but we have our own dignity to 
 keep up," said her husband grandly. 
 
 Laura only sighed. If Mr. Venn would 
 but write I 
 
 Sunday came round, and there was still 
 no letter. Laura grew very sad. Could 
 it be possible that Mr. Venn was angry 
 with her ? Was it possible that he would 
 not forgive her? She sat in the church 
 with a sinking heart. For one thing she 
 had already found out, — a bitter thing for 
 a yoijng wife, though yet it was but an un- 
 easy thought, — a sort of pin-pricking, 
 whose importance she' did not yet know, 
 that her husband would never be to her 
 what Hartley Venn had been. 
 
 Presently .the- service was finished. She 
 sat on, while the people all went out of 
 the church. As she sat, she watched the 
 women, one after thfi other, going to the 
 confessional. They had, then, some one 
 in whojn they could confide, some one to 
 advise, some one who would listen patiently 
 to their little tales- of sorrow and anxiety.. 
 
 She felt desolate ; because, now there 
 was no longer Mr. Venn, there was no- 
 body. Had Philip touched her heart but 
 a little, had she been able to love him, she 
 would not have had the thought ; but she 
 did not love him. There was between the 
 pair the barrier which only love can de- 
 stroy between two human beings. 
 
 Tlie women went away. It was getting 
 late. The confessor — an old priest with 
 white hair — cam,e out, stretching himself, 
 and suppressing a little yawn. The confi- 
 dence of the wives and mothers had been 
 more than usually wearisome to the good 
 man. As he came out, Laura stood before 
 him. 
 
 " Hear n:e too," she whispered in 
 French. 
 
 He lookeii at her in astonishment. 
 
 " Madame is English — and Catholic? " 
 
 " I am Enfflish. I am not a Cathblic. 
 Hear my confession too, and advise me. 
 Do not send me away." 
 
 "Let us sit here — not in the confes- 
 sional, my child. That is only for the 
 faithful. Tell me — you have doubts ; you 
 would retur,n to the ancient faitli ?" 
 
 " I want advice. You have given it to 
 all those women. Give some to me." 
 
 " Tell me how T can help you." 
 
 She told him all her little story. 
 
 " I did not know that by marrying him 
 I should separate myself from Mr. Venn. 
 I thought to please him — I did, indeed. 
 Oh ! what shall I do — what shall I do? " 
 
 " My poor child, ypu talk to an^ old 
 priest. 1 know nothing of love." 
 
 " Love I it is always love. What is love ? 
 
 I love Mr. Venn because I am his ward, hia 
 daughter — because he is my life," she 
 said simply. 
 
 The priest was puzzled. 
 
 " I think you must go to see him directly 
 you get back to England. Consult your 
 husband, and obey him. Your — your 
 guardian never took you to church, then ? " 
 
 " No, I never came to church till I en- 
 tered this one. It has made me happier." 
 
 " It always does, — it always does. Come 
 to see me again. Come to-morrow. When 
 you go to England, my dear young lady, 
 search for some good and faithful priest 
 who will teach you the doctrines of the 
 Faith. But obey your husband in all 
 things ; that Is the firSt rule." 
 
 She rose and left him, a little comforted. 
 
 This Sunday was a great day for Vieux- 
 camp, the day of the annual races. These 
 were not, as might be expected, conducted 
 on the turf as is our English practice — 
 perhaps because there was no turf, except 
 on the mountain side. The Vieuxcamp 
 races are held on the'road behind the long 
 promenade, which stretches from the two 
 piers to the Casino, about a quarter of a 
 mile. The course is hard, as may be im- 
 agined ; but, as the horses are used to it, I 
 suppose it. matters little. 
 
 Philip was as excited as a boy over the 
 prospect of a little sport, and was engaged 
 all the mornin.; in discussing events at the 
 Casino. The preparations were on a mag- 
 nificent scale. Flags were placed at inter- 
 vals. Gardes champetres, if that is their 
 name, were stationed to keep the course.. 
 There were stewards, who began to ride 
 about in great splendor, very early in the 
 morning ; the ladies drove in from the 
 country, dressed in their very best ; the 
 fisherwomen had on their cleanest caps ; 
 and the day was clear and bright. 
 
 " Come out, Laura," said her husband, 
 bounding into the room. " I've got a splen- 
 did place for you to see the fun." 
 
 " I don't want to, Philip. I think I 
 would rather sit here, and read." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense 1 " he urged ; " it will do 
 you good. Come." 
 
 But she refused ; and he went by himself, 
 leaving her to solitude and her reflections. 
 The races began at two. First came a 
 velocipedists' jace, which was fairly run 
 and gallantly won, though not by the 
 ladies' favorite, — a tall, good-looking 
 young fellow, with a splendid velocipede 
 and an elaborate get-up. A ragged little 
 urcliin from the town, on a ramshackle old 
 two-wheel, beat him by a couple of yards. 
 Then there came a running race, — four 
 times up and down the cour.se, which made 
 a mile. The competitors were chiefly the 
 fisher-boys of the place. The poor lads, 
 
96 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 good enough in their boats, are weak in 
 such unaccustomed sports as running.' 
 Philip looked at them for a little while, and 
 then turned to his neighbor, and offered to 
 bet twenty francs on the boy who was last, 
 though they all kept pretty close together. 
 The bet was taken. Philip's favorite was 
 a man, older than the others, who were 
 mere boys. He was a little fat fellow, close 
 upon forty, with a funny look on his face, 
 as if ^very step was taking out the last bit 
 left. But he kept up; and, just at the 
 middle of the last course, he opened his 
 mouth quite wide, gave a sort of suppressed 
 groan, and put on the most comical, quaint, 
 and unwieldy spurt ever seen; but it 
 landed him first, and Philip pocketed his 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Then they had a walking race, with 
 some of the school lads and others. It 
 was severe upon the sailors. From time 
 to time one would burst into a run, and be 
 turned out of the race by a steward who 
 rode behind. And just at the finish — 
 there being only three boys left, and all 
 close together — the middle one slipped 
 and fell. With the greatest presence of 
 mind he kicked out hard, and brought the 
 other two down upon him. Then they all 
 laid hold of each other, trying to be up 
 first, and, forgetting the terms of the con- 
 test, ran in together, amid inextinguishable 
 lau!;hter. That prize was not adjudged. 
 
 Then pony races ; and then the grand 
 trotting-match, of which the Normans are 
 so fond. It was not like the American 
 ' institutions, inasmuch as the horses were 
 simply harnessed to the heavy carriages of 
 every-day life, and the pace was a good 
 deal under a mile in two minutes. Still, 
 the interest and delight of the people were 
 immense. Philip made his selection out 
 of the animals, and offered iiis neighbor to 
 take the odds against him. It was his neigh- 
 bor's own horse. He was delighted. 
 
 " Come," he said, dragging Phihp away 
 by the arm, — " come, we will get the 
 odds." 
 
 And so Philip found himself in the cen- 
 tre of a gesticulating crowd, making a little 
 book on the trottin^-raatch. 
 
 Philip had his faults, as we have seen ; 
 but an ignorance of horseflesh was not one 
 of them. That day he went to his wife 
 with a flushed face, having come out of the 
 mS,de thirty Napoleons the richer. He 
 might as well have tried to communicate 
 his enthusiasm to a Carmelite nun, be- 
 cause the girl liad no more power of under- 
 standing the excitement of betting.' There 
 was, therefore, one point, at least, in which 
 there would be no community of interests. 
 After dinner Philip went to the Casino, 
 and played billiards with his new friends, 
 
 while his wife sat at home, and read and 
 meditated. It was the first evening she 
 had been left by herself; but she'was not 
 lonely. She had some pretty French novel 
 of a religious tone, — there are not too 
 many of them ; and she was happily pass- 
 ing over the bridge that leads from ignor- 
 ance and indifference to faith. In what " 
 creed ? She knew not : it mattered not. 
 Faith i? above dogma. So while she read, 
 pondered, and prayed, her husband smoked, 
 drank, and gambled^ 
 
 He had not come back at ten, so she put 
 on her hat, and went to look at the sea. 
 N6 one was on the beach. The waves 
 came swelling gently in with their soft, sad 
 murmur, as the Sysyphean stones rolled 
 up the beach and back again. The hoarse 
 voices of the sailors on the quay, a quarter 
 of a mile away, sounded even musical in 
 the distance. The air was warm and 
 sweet. The moonless sky was set with 
 stars, like diamonds, seeming to fall back 
 into illimitable depths. Sitting there, the 
 girl gave herself up to the thoughts newly 
 born within her, — thoughts that could pro- 
 duce no echo in the heart of her hus- 
 band, — thoughts without words, too deep, 
 too precious, too sweet, for words. 
 
 When the clock struck eleven she was 
 roused by the carillon from her medita- 
 tions, and went slowly back to the hotel. 
 As she passed through the hall to the stair- 
 case she heard hei' husband's. voice, loudly 
 talking in the little room on the right, 
 where lay the papers and journals. There 
 was the cliquetis of glasses and the pop- 
 ping of soda. 
 
 A cold feeling stole over her, she knew 
 not why ; and she went up to bed alone, 
 saddened and melancholy. It was the first 
 real glimpse of the great gulf between 
 herself and the man with whom her fate 
 was linked. 
 
 A week after this, no letter having come 
 fi'om Mr. Venn, they went back to London ; 
 for Phil's five hundred had walked away, 
 
 — thanks to the e'carte'of the last few days, 
 
 — and he had barely enough left to pay 
 his hotel-bill. 
 
 There was still another five hundred 
 which he might draw from his agent, and 
 he had his commission. 
 
 And after that ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Philip took his wife to a little cottage 
 near Notting Hill. She was pleased with 
 the place and the fijrniture, and the little 
 garden, but more pleased still with the 
 prospect of seeing Mr. Venn again. She 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 97 
 
 talked about it all the evening ; wondered 
 ■what she should say ; and made her hus- 
 band silently furious with jealousy and 
 foolish rage. But he said nothing. Only 
 in the morning, when, after breakfast, she 
 came down to him dressed, and announced 
 her intention of going to Gray's Inn at 
 once, he took a line, and sternly forbade 
 her to go at all. 
 
 " But yoLi promised, Philip." 
 
 " I did," he answered. ' " But your 
 letters, Laura: where ishisanswer to them? 
 Listen to iiie, — one word will be enough. 
 Yoa shall not go and see this man until he 
 answers your letters^ or till I give you 
 leave." 
 
 She sat down, and burst into tears. 
 Philip, not unkindly, took oflf her hat, and 
 laid it on the table. 
 
 " It is hard, Laura," he said, — "I know 
 it is hard for you ; but it is best. He has 
 given you up." 
 
 " He has not given me up," said the girl. 
 " He would never give me up — never 
 — never. He loved me better than you 
 can ever dream of loving me. I am his — 
 altogether his. You made me promise not 
 to tell him, — you made me leave him." 
 
 " Why does he not answer your letters V " 
 
 " Something has happened. O Philip ' 
 let me go." 
 
 " I will not let you go," returned her 
 husband. " You, in this new religious 
 light that you have got, know at least, 
 that you are to obey your husband. Obey 
 ine now." 
 
 She sat still and silent. It was what the 
 priest had told her. Yes, she must obey him. 
 
 " For how long ? " she said. " O Philip I 
 for how long ? " 
 
 "For, two or three months, my dear. 
 Forgive me : I am harsh, — I am unkind ; 
 but it is best. Besides, other things have 
 happened. You must not go. Promise 
 me-again." 
 
 She promised. 
 
 He took his hat. His hands were trem- 
 bling, and his cheeks red. 
 
 " 1 am going to my club on business," he 
 said. " I shall not be back till late this 
 evening. Kiss me, Laura." 
 
 She kissed him mechanically, — obedient 
 in every thing ; and he went away. 
 
 A bad omen for their wedded life. It is 
 the first day at home ; and her husband, 
 unable to endure the torture of his con- 
 science about the letters, and the sorrow of 
 his wife, flies to the clut — his club of 
 gamblers and sharpers — for relief. 
 
 It is late when he returns, — a heavy 
 loser at play, — his cheek flushed with wine, 
 not with shame. 
 . O Philip ! 
 
 " Tu tibi Bupplidum, tiW tu rota, tu tiM tortor." 
 7 
 
 Among the earliest callers on Mrs. Durn- 
 ford : — in fact, her only visitor — was Mr. 
 Alexander Maclntyre. He came dressed in 
 a sober suit of pepper and salt; and, sit- 
 ting with his hat on the floor and his hand 
 supporting one knee, he began to discourse 
 to Laura — for her husband was not at home 
 — on the topics of the day. 
 
 " Did you take my note to Mr. Venn ? " 
 asked the girl, interrupting him. 
 
 " That note ? Oh, yes, 1 remember ! 
 Yes : I had not the pleasure of seeing the 
 gentleman, because he was out, I dropped 
 it into the letter-box." 
 
 Laura sighed. There was, then, no 
 doubt. He had received all her letters, 
 and would write to her no more. 
 
 " Has there been no answer, Mrs. Durn- 
 ford?" 
 
 " None," she replied. " And I have 
 written to him twice since then ; but he 
 will not take any notice of my letters." 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " I have promised Philip not to write 
 again without his consent. He says we 
 have done as much as we can., I don't 
 know, — I wish I could go round myself and 
 see Mr. Venn." 
 
 " Oh I you must not think of doing that,'' 
 inteiTiosed Mr. Maclntyre hastily. 
 
 " So Philip says ; but I shall think 
 about it." 
 
 Presently she began to ask hira questions 
 about himself It was a new thing for the 
 philosopher to have anybody taking an in- 
 terest in his movements ; and he perhaps 
 " expanded " more than was absolutely 
 prudent. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " he said. " I am 
 getting old : my hair is gray. People want 
 to know all sorts of things that it is not 
 always easy to tell." 
 
 " But the simple truth can always be told, 
 and that ought to satisfy them." 
 
 " There," said the man of experience, 
 with a curious look, " is exactly the point. 
 It is just the simple truth that will not sat- 
 isfy these sharks. I might write a book, 
 but what about ? People only buy books 
 written on the side of morality ; and the 
 moral ranks are so crowded that there 
 seems little chance of getting in with new 
 lights." 
 
 " But you would not write on any other 
 side, surely ? " 
 
 " Obsairve, my dear young leddy ; if 
 there ever were such a thing as a clever 
 scoundrel, who had the moral strength to 
 take his stand as such, and write an auto- 
 biography without the usual sacrifice to 
 supposed popular opinion, he might make 
 a fortune. A general case — a heepotheti- 
 cal case only ; but one which occurred to 
 me. I mean, of course, aa unscrupulous 
 
98 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 man, without religion of any kind, — such a 
 man as, to secure his own safety, would 
 ruin any one else who stood in his way, 
 and do it without a pang." 
 
 " I should hope no such persons exist. 
 Why are we talking about such creatures ! " 
 " They do exist. I liave met them, — in 
 the colonies. Mrs. Durnford, if ever you 
 should come across such a man, remember 
 my words. They would rather do a good 
 turn than a bad one ; but if the bad turn 
 has to be done for their own good, why — 
 then it must." 
 
 " But go on about yourself 
 
 " About myself; then. I have a small 
 sum of money, the fruits of many years of 
 careful living and economy." 
 
 O Mr. Maclntyre I was not this a super- 
 fluous evasion of truth ? 
 
 " This small amount is rapidly decreas- 
 ing ; what I shall do when it is gone I do 
 not know. It is my rule through life, Mrs. 
 Durnford, and I recommend it to your care- 
 ful consideration, never to decline the 
 proffers of fate. Very often, behind the 
 drudgery of a position which fortune puts 
 into your hands, may be found, by one who 
 knows how to take an opportunity, the 
 road to wealth, if not to fame ; now I think 
 nothing of it. What does it matter ? You 
 do great things; at least, popular things. 
 You get money, — you are asked to make 
 speeches at dinners. When you die, your 
 friends write your life and distort your 
 character. Bah I The only thing worth 
 living for is money. Get money — get 
 •money. Be comfortable ; eat, drink, enjoy 
 all the senses of nature, and care for noth- 
 ing else. That is what the city people do, 
 in spite of their snug respectability." 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre, is this the faith that 
 Scotch clergymen teach ? " 
 
 He began to think that perhaps Laura 
 was not sufficiently advanced to accept all 
 his views. 
 
 "Is your religion nothing? " she asked. 
 " Is it nothing to lead a life of sacrifice and 
 self-denial like the nuns I have seen in 
 France ? Is there no sacred duty of life 
 but to make money ? Surely, Mr. Macln- 
 tyre, — surely these are not the things you 
 preach in your church ? " 
 
 " You are right," he replied : " they are 
 not the things Ipreaeh in my church. For- 
 give my inconsiderate speech. I say some- 
 times more than I mean." 
 
 But the conversation left a bad impres- 
 sion on Laura, and she began to regard the 
 man with something like suspicion. 
 
 As the weeks went on, she found herself, 
 too, left a good deal alone. Philip was 
 growing tired of her. Her sadness, her 
 coldness, were silent reproaches to him ; 
 and he neglected her more and more. 
 
 One night he entertained a party of 
 friends. On that occasion he insisted on 
 her keeping up stairs all the evening, with- 
 out explaining why, They staid till 
 three. She could not sleep till they went 
 away, being kept awake by their noisy 
 laughter and talk. Philip came up when 
 the last was gone. 
 
 " I'm an unlucky Devil," he murmured, 
 pacing to and fro. 
 
 " What is it, Philip ? " asked his wife. 
 
 " Nothing you understand, my dear ; un- 
 less you can understand what dropping 
 three ponies means." 
 
 " No, Philip, not in the least." 
 
 He put out the light, and was asleep in 
 five minutes. 
 
 The clouds grew thick in Laura's sky. 
 She could not understand horse-racing and 
 betting. She took not the smallest i nterest 
 in events and favorites. On the other hand, 
 Philip took, no interest in what she did : 
 never asked her how she spent the day, 
 never took her out with him, never gave 
 her his confidence. At least, however, he 
 was kind ; never . spoke harshly to her, 
 never ill-treated her, only neglected her. 
 This was not what the girl pined and sick- 
 ened for. Philip occupied her thoughts very 
 little. She longed for the old life. She 
 Jonged for the freedom of her talks with the 
 only man she could talk to. She was soli- 
 tary in spirit. She was beginning to feel 
 the misery of mating with low aims. She 
 stood on a higher level than her husband, 
 and she did not have that perfect love for 
 him which sometimes enables a woman to 
 stoop and raise him with her. 
 
 The new and congenial society of gentle- 
 men more or less interested in the noble and 
 exciting sports of our country, to which 
 Philip's friends had introduced him when 
 he retired from his old club, was banded 
 together under the title of the Burleigh 
 Club. To the name of Burleigh the most 
 captious can take no exception. To such 
 members as the name suggested any thing, 
 its associations were stately and dignified. 
 To the majority, for whom it meant nothing 
 beyond being the patronymic of a noblS 
 house and the name of their club, it did as 
 well as any other. It looked well, embossed 
 in colors on the club-note paper. By any 
 other name, the Burleigh could not have 
 smelt more sweet. And another name, by 
 which it was not uncommonly called, had 
 been bestowed on it by a body of gentle- 
 men who, though not members themselves, 
 had heavy claims upon many who were. 
 The ring men dubbed it, before it had 
 existed a twelve month. The Welshers' 
 Retreat. The members, recognizing the 
 happiness of the sobriquet, jocularly took 
 the new title into favor ; and Philip's club 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 99 
 
 had thus two names, — interchangeable at 
 pleasure, — always understood, and the 
 latter for choice. 
 
 This was Philip's club. A tall, narrow- 
 fronted house in the centre of club-land ; 
 what an auctioneer would describe as 
 " most eligibly situate." Outside, the 
 quietest and most respectable club in 
 London, — Quakerlike in the Sober sadness 
 of its looks. Inside, a gambler's paradise. 
 Day at the Burleigh begins at three o'clock 
 in the afternoon. The blinking waiters 
 would prophecy the speedjf ruin of any- 
 body ,who required' their services before 
 that hour. It is the custom of the club for 
 members to leave it at any time, but never 
 to enter it till two or three liours after 
 noon. 
 
 Breakfasts are served till five, p.m., sup- 
 pers till six, A.M. Between these hours a 
 smart Hansom can always be had opposite 
 the door. Business begins in the pool- 
 room at half-past three ; the chat is ani- 
 mated at five, and very lively between six 
 and seven. Then the men go away to 
 dinner, to return any time after ten to 
 whist, loo,, hazard, blind-hookey, — any 
 thing that can be gambled at. Rules ? 
 The code is short. It is summed up in 
 this one regulation, — betting debts must 
 be paid on the usual settling days; card 
 debts not later than the next day after 
 they have been incurred. " Complaints 
 of the infraction of this rule, on being re- 
 ferred to the committee, will render the de- 
 i'aulting member liable to expulsion " And 
 they do expel. Oh, honorable men, how 
 admirable, how necessary, is yoiir rule ! 
 In this way the honor of the Burleigh is 
 kept sweet. For the rest, you may do as 
 you like : every member is a law untohim- 
 sell'; their club is Liberty Hall. What 
 manner of men, it may be asked, is it that 
 people this little paradise ? , 
 
 Ihe members of the Burleigh are young 
 and old. Postobit has just heard of his 
 election at twenty. Leatherflapper, one 
 of the fathers of the society, is seventy- 
 three. They are rich and poor. Four-in- 
 hand, with the string of forty thoroughbreds 
 in training at Newmarket, and the rents of 
 twenty thousand acres to keep them and 
 himself upon ; and Philip Durnford, with 
 five hundred pounds at his agents, and his 
 shovel in his hand to dig it out with, both 
 belong. They number in their ranks the 
 richest and the poorest, the kindest and 
 crudest, the most unimpeachably respect- 
 able and the most undeniably shady gentle- 
 men, in these kingdoms. In some clubs the 
 elders are unsofiiable, crusty old hunkers. 
 Not so here. They are so communicative, 
 so ready to teach all they have learnt, and 
 to tell all they know, that it is quite beauti- 
 
 ful to see. Every man disposed to turn 
 misanthrope should witness it. It always 
 goes straight to my heart to see old Leather- 
 flapper taking young Postobit in hand, 
 and puttinsr him up to every wrinkle on the 
 board. True, there is a price to be paid — 
 unflerstood, never expressed : a fee for ex- 
 perience. But what that is worth having 
 on earth is to be had for nothing? You 
 would like to be introduced to this com- 
 pany of wise and benevolent men ? You 
 know their faces well. They are to be 
 studied at every race-meeting, seen in the 
 Park on sunny days, at German spas, at 
 Hurlingham, — everywhere where excite- 
 ment can be bought. And the bond that 
 makes them such friends and such enemies, 
 — you guess it : Gambling. The universal 
 passion. The passion of all times of life, 
 from earliest youth to latest age ; of all 
 places, from Christian London to Buddhist 
 Yeddo ; of all periods, from the first re- 
 corded tradition of savage life tjU the 
 Archangel shall sound the last trump; 
 of men and women, from the tramp card- 
 seller, who bets his sister two pennies to 
 one against a favorite for a race, to the 
 nobleman who stakes a fortune on a cast 
 of the dice ; the miser, the spendthrift, the 
 stock-jobber, the prince, — gambling has 
 joys for all. 
 
 So the Burleigh was founded for play 
 that might run to any height, for gaines 
 prohibited at other places ; as a, rendez- 
 vous for every gentleman who wanted a 
 little excitement, a place where there , 
 should always be " something doing." 
 You must know the members by certain 
 characteristic habits and ways they have. 
 They breakfast late ; they are ibnd of a 
 devil early in the day ; they take " pick- 
 me-ups." In the daytime they are busy 
 with their books. Notes addressed in 
 female hands lie waiting for their arrival 
 in the morning, the writing being general- 
 ly of such a kind as to suggest a late ac- 
 quisition of the art of penmanship. They 
 have a keen, cold look about the eyes, where 
 the crow's-feet gather early. For the most 
 part they dress very carefully ; though 
 sometimes, just a day in advance of the 
 fashion, they afiect drab or brown gaiters 
 and cloth-topped boots ; carry, in this 
 year of grace, their walking-canes by the 
 ferule ; and smoke eternally. From 
 these- gentlemen Philip's companions were 
 chosen. 
 
 • This was his club ; this the place where, 
 he spent his days and nights, a short month 
 after his marriage, while his wife staid at 
 home, or, if she went out at all, was afraid 
 to go far for fear of meeting Mr. Venn. In 
 this company, starting in July with his five 
 hundred pounds and the proceeds of his com- 
 
100 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 mission, — for he sold out, — he was trying 
 to make| hay while the aun did not shine, 
 and melting it all away. 
 
 He kept no accounts ; but kept on digging 
 at the little heap, ignorant and careless of 
 how much was left. His great hope lay in 
 his pluck and skill in playing cards, and 
 betting on horse-races. He was often ad- 
 vised by Mr. Maclntyre, who had the use- 
 ful talent of clear-headedness, and used to 
 come to Notting Hill about Philip's break- 
 fast-time ; and then the two would sit and 
 go through the " Calendar " and " Rufi's 
 Guide," while the neglected girl looked on, 
 and wondered what it was they talked about. 
 It was one of her great sorrows at this time 
 that she had no books to read, — none of her 
 old books ; none of those old poets, which 
 she and Mr. Venn used to pore over in the 
 summer evenings, while the shadows fell 
 upon the dingy oldcourt of the Inn. Philip, 
 who seemed to have given up his old read- 
 ing tastes, had only a few novels. She had 
 never read any novels at all until she went 
 to France. Phil's did not please her. They 
 were barrack novels, stories of camp-life, 
 sporting stories, — books to her without 
 interest. She could not read them, and 
 put them down one after another, — fallii 
 back upon the piano, fbr which she " 
 music, and could only play the thini 
 knew. 
 
 Maclntyre saw what was coming, 
 was plunging ; and his method, infallib' 
 paper, as the experience of twenty seasi 
 proved, did not work quite perfectly 
 practice. - 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre had seen this from the 
 first. In the multitude of his experiences^ 
 he had tried the martingale, new to Phj ^ 
 even before that young gentleman was '6orn 
 Like his pupil, he had been fascinated by 
 it. The lever that was -to raise him to 
 wealth and power, so beautifully simple, 
 so utterly impracticaible. 
 
 He remonstrated with Philip, pointing 
 out the rocks ahead. But he spoke to a 
 deaf man. 
 
 '■ I know better. It's my cursed luck. 
 
 I'm sure to warm the ring at ." Philip 
 
 urguil. Then, with a shrug of the shoul- 
 ders, he added, '• And if my luck sticks to 
 me, why — at the worst I shall pay up ; 
 and then Laura and I will go away some- 
 where, borrow money of Arthur, and be- 
 coiiie farmers in New Zealand, or keep a 
 shop in Ballarat, or mock the hairy-faced 
 baboon somewhere. We shall do. The 
 world is wide." 
 
 , " It is, Phil. I have found it so. The 
 , world is wide — and hungry." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre took the book again, and 
 totted up the amount that Philip had lost 
 at his last meeting. Then he made a little 
 
 note of it on a slip of paper, and put it 
 into his pocket. 
 
 " Phil,"' he said, with an insinuating air, 
 " I hope you have not lost much since you 
 came home." 
 
 He changed color. 
 
 " I've dropped, more than four hundred 
 at the club, and.'a hundred and fifty one 
 night here, when I had those fellows to play 
 loo ; besides that pill at the last meeting." 
 
 Mr., Maclntyre shook his head. When 
 he went home, he made a little sum in 
 arithmetic. 
 
 " When I consider," he said to himself, 
 " that in a — b, b is greater than a, I'm afraid 
 that Phil is likely to be up a tree, and my 
 great card may very likely be played to 
 advantage." 
 
 He went up to dine a few nights after 
 thisitalk. Laura was charming, in a fresh, 
 bright dress . and in better spirits than 
 usual. Philip, in one thing, had been dis- 
 appointed in his wife. He had promised 
 himself the trouble of teaching her the 
 little courtesies of life, — the ordinary ac- 
 complishments, perhaps her mother tongue. 
 JHe never made a greater mistake. She 
 came to hira a lady ready to his hand : in 
 "* points an accomplished, refined, well- 
 rducated lady, how far superior to the 
 irdinary run of young ladyhood he hardly 
 new. ^^-^ 
 
 ittle dinner went oflf pleasantly ; 
 
 'd, when Laura left them in the little 
 _ room, both men were pleased. She 
 
 i^own in the drawing-room, and played 
 
 ■' they talked over their wine. She 
 on till the clock struck ten ; then 
 |e. waited till eleven ; then she opened 
 this, door timidly,' and looked in. Philip, 
 flushed in the face, was making calcula- 
 tions on paper. Mr. Maclntyre, with face 
 very much more flushed, had a long clay 
 pipe in his mouth, not lighted, at which he 
 was solemnly sucking. 
 
 " By Jove I " said Phil. « I thought I was 
 a bachelor again. Come in, Laura, come 
 in." 
 
 Maclntyre rose solemnly, holding by the 
 table-cover. ^ -, 
 
 " The shoshiety of leddies is — what'sh 
 wante.d — eeevileeze the world. Ye will 
 obsai«ve — at the 'yershety of which I am 
 — member — Master of Arts, — they al- 
 ways obsairved that the shoshiety of led- 
 dies — Phil, ye drunken deevil, whaur's 
 my tumbler ? " 
 
 Laura looked at him with amazement. 
 Tbe reverend gentleman was hopelessly 
 drunk, — as drunk as any stonemason in 
 Puddock's Kow. Port, followed by whiskey 
 toddy, had produced this lamentable effect. 
 
 "All right," said Phil. He was not 
 druak himself; but, as policemen say, he 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 101 
 
 had been drinking. " All right, darling. 
 Here, old bag of evil devices, put on- your 
 hat, and try to tie your legs in as many 
 knots as you can on your way home." 
 
 " Shir," said the Maclntyre, putting the 
 bowl of the pipe into his mouth, " apolo- 
 geeze. This is — this is — eh ? — persh-' 
 nal." 
 
 "To-morrow," said Phil. "Don't be 
 frightened, Laura." 
 
 For his reverence made a sudden lurch 
 in her direction, inspired neither by ani- 
 mosity, nor yet by friendship, nor by any 
 amorous inclination, but solely by the toddy. 
 
 " I was shtudying " — 
 
 " Yes — yes — we know. Don't trouble 
 yourself to say good-night." 
 
 Philip pushed him down-stairs, and out 
 of the door, and returned. 
 
 " O Phil 1 how could you ? " 
 
 " Well, -dear, he did it himself. I always 
 let the Maclntyre have the full run of the 
 bottle : so did my father." 
 
 "But he is a clergyman." 
 
 "My dear wife," her husband exclaimed, 
 " they all do it in private life." 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 About the same time that Philip Dor- 
 mer, Lord Chesterfield, was bringing the 
 powers of his great mind to the alteration 
 of Old Style into New Style by making 
 our English year begin on the first of Jan- 
 uary instead of the twenty-fifth of March, 
 and cheating the common people of eleven 
 good days of the year of grace 1752, his 
 right trusty and well-beloved friend, my 
 Lord Bath, after spending ten days at New- 
 market, delivered himself of a sentiment. 
 His lordship was pleased to remark of his 
 favorite sport, that " it is delightful to see 
 two, or sometimes more of the most beau- 
 tiful animals of creation str^uggling for 
 superiority, stretching every muscle and 
 sinew to obtain the prize and reach the 
 goal ; to observe the skill and address of 
 the riders, who are all distinguished by 
 different colors of white, blue, green, red, 
 or yellow, sometimes spurring or whipping, 
 sometimes checking or pulling to give fresh 
 breath and courage. And it is often 
 observed that the race is won as much by 
 the dexterity of the rider as the vigor and 
 fleetness of the animal." The flourishing 
 era, of the English turf dates from the time 
 of this memorable saying of Lord Bath's ; 
 and it is doubtful if the change in the 
 calendar introduced by Lord Chesterfield 
 has had one tithe of the effect upon man- 
 ners and society that this new fashion set 
 by Lord Bath of patronizing horseraces 
 
 all over the country has been the means 
 of bringing about. 
 
 It is still as delightful as it was in the days 
 of the second Charles or the second George 
 to stand on that magnificent expanse, 
 Newmarket Heath, and watch, from the 
 rising ground at the top of the town, or 
 from the A.F. winning post, the struggles 
 " of two or sometimes more of the most . 
 beautiful animals of creation," though the 
 " skill and address of the riders " are not 
 always turned to the account of making 
 the " beautiful animals," they bestride 
 stretch " every muscle and sinew to obtain 
 the prize," as seems to have been the custom 
 in the innocent days Lord Bath knew. 
 Probably, in his lordship's time, roping, 
 as an art based on scientific deductions, 
 had not been invented, though his descrip- 
 tion mentions " checking and pulling," but 
 it is for the now obsolete custom of giving 
 ." fresh breath and courage." What the 
 noble author would say if he saw a field of 
 thirty horses facing the starter for a fifty 
 pound Maiden Plate, T. Y. C. (A. F.), and 
 his distinguishing colors "of white, blue, 
 green, red, or yellow" complicated and 
 modernized into " French gray, scarlet 
 hoops and chevrons," or "black, white 
 sleeves, death's head, and crossbones," we 
 do not care to speculate upon. In his time, 
 honest races were run over four and six 
 mile courses ; a match was tjhe favorite 
 description of race ; betting was not a pro- 
 fession ; and the scum did not invade the 
 sacred precincts of the Duke of Rutland's 
 heath. A noble sport was in the hands of 
 noble men. 
 
 Now — 
 
 Well, this is hardly my business. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, speak- 
 ing to his pupil, Philip Durnford, above a 
 hundred years later, " the fascination of this 
 noble sport. You never knew a man in 
 your life who had once tasted the delights 
 of the turf who did not return to them again 
 as soon as he had the means. There is 
 something about it that no man can tesist, 
 break him as often as you like. If he has 
 got the money to go racing, and bet, he 
 goes racing, and bets, I knew a man who 
 had three several fortunes, and lost them 
 all gambling on the turf," Mr. Maclntyre 
 proceeded to say ; " and Phil, ye'il ob- 
 sairve that when he came into a fourth, he 
 went and did likewise with that one 
 also." 
 
 Like every idle young man with the 
 command of cash, and the slightest possi- 
 ble amount of egging on, Philip Durnford 
 was inclined to fiddle a bit at long odds. 
 He had, on some score or so of occasions, 
 takon a long shot, backed a tip or a fancy, 
 before he had become the instrument in 
 
102 
 
 MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 the hands of Providence of rescuing Mr. 
 Maclntyre from his advertising agency. 
 But he was not sweet upon the practice, 
 for he had hardly ever won. It is notori- 
 ous that, at all other sorts of gambling, a 
 man invariably wins at first. This is not 
 so in wagering upon hors'es ; and Philip, with 
 the common inclination to bet, and his full 
 share of love for the sport, felt a little sour- 
 ed by his experience. Now, part of the 
 universal scholarship of Mr. Maclntyre 
 was an interest in horse-flesh, a knowledge 
 of betting, and an experience of races. 
 Added to this, he was an infatuated be- 
 liever in the well-known doubling martin- 
 gale. Practising on the credulity and igno- 
 rance of Philip, he unfolded the secrets 
 of this wonderful system of winning fabu- 
 lous sums, as his — the Maclntyre's — 
 whole and sole discovery and property. 
 And be represented to that willing ear 
 that, if he only had the means of working 
 it out, the Fuggers in the past, and the 
 Kothschilds in the present, might be re- 
 girded as poor men compared with the 
 cidevant pedagogue. 
 
 " Eh," my dear young friend, it's just the 
 mighty lever that can make us meellion- 
 aires, an ye'Il only believe it." 
 
 . And there was evidence forthcoming to 
 support the assertion. Racing calendars 
 for twenty years were referred to ; piles 
 of paper scribbled over, and two or three 
 ]ead-pencij.s consumed over these calcula- 
 tions. The system stood the test af all 
 these years ; generations of horses passed 
 away as Phil and his mentor tested the 
 lever's strength, and no run of luck was 
 ill enough to break it. Philip believed in 
 it, — as, after such an array of evidence,' 
 who would not V — but he doubted Macln- 
 tyre. 
 
 " And do you mean to say you found 
 this out yourself?- " he often asked. 
 
 And without either blush or smile, the 
 old vagabond declared that he was the 
 great discoverer, and accordingly rolled a 
 Kewtonian and Copernican eye on Philip, 
 and gave himself the airs of the Spaniard 
 holding in his hand the key of the Incas' 
 gold, or of Raleigh with El Dorado in full 
 view. 
 
 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 612. 
 
 These figures were Maclntyre's ladder 
 of fortune ; and he offered boundless wealth 
 to needy Philip Durnford, on the modest 
 conditionof" standing in." He had con- 
 fided his great secret to him, and he trust- 
 ed to his honor. 
 
 His pupil was convinced and fascinated. 
 .Could the favorite lose ten times in suc- 
 cession ? Maclntyre said no. Could a 
 tipster be out ten times running? Macln- 
 tyre said no. Could Philip's own selection 
 
 be wrong ten times ? Maclntyre said no. 
 Could any mortal thing happen ten times ? 
 Mr. Maclntyre's calculations were there to 
 give it the lie. 
 
 So they worked away at the books, 
 going carefully through the results of 
 thousands of races. They applied their 
 lever to betting on billiards, boats, guns, 
 cards, dice, — any thing that a wager can 
 be made about ; and nothing could happen 
 in the ordinary course of things to beat 
 them. 
 
 Philip rejoiced ; for he held power and 
 houses and wealth in his hand. He was 
 the lucky possessor of the certain method 
 of making a colossal fortune. He could 
 break the ring, the banks, the world of 
 gamblers. He did not envy his richer 
 brother now, nor any man. He only pined 
 at the little delay that kept him from be- 
 ginning. His brother was the slowest fel- 
 low in the world. 
 
 " The mighty lever that can make us 
 millionnaires " — he ,held it in his hand; 
 and the fulcrum was the Newmarket July 
 Meeting, two weeks hence. He began to 
 spend his great wealth. He dreamed long 
 day dreams. He was rich, famous, gener- 
 ous, too, to poor Arthur, with only three or 
 four thousands to spend in good years. 
 He made up the deficit in bad ones. Ar- 
 thur was a brother, after all, and could 
 draw on him for what he liked. Laura, 
 his wife, — no princess of Russia had su:h 
 jewels. His four-in-hand was the admira- 
 tion of the park. His horses were always 
 first. If they cost their weight in gold, 
 what did it matter ? He could pay it. 
 He won the Derby. The most splendid 
 prince in Europe came into his box to 
 drink cliampagne-cup'.with him, and con- 
 gratulate him' on his success. He bought 
 vast estates, — the envy of the envied, — 
 Mr. Durnford the millionnaire ! He had his 
 troubles too. He distressed himself when 
 he had bought all the land in the market, 
 — in parcels large enough to be' worth 
 having. He had no devise schemes for 
 keeping his secret from the ring, or betting 
 would be over, He could not get on all 
 the money he wanted. His friends quar- 
 relled about his wealth. People watched 
 him in the ring, — followed his lead, — 
 mobbed him. 
 
 Chateaux in Spain, and castles in the 
 air beyond all power of description, he 
 built on Maclntyre's ingenious multiplica- 
 tion-table. 
 
 But in all his unbounded belief in the 
 doubling martingale there lurked a doubt. 
 He never could credit Mr. Maclntyre's 
 statement that he was the inventor, though 
 'that canny gentleman stuck to his lie with 
 characteristic hardihood. If he had been 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 103 
 
 disposed to tell the truth, he might have 
 mentioned that he got it from a groom at 
 Melbourne, who in turn had 'got it from a 
 little shilling " Guide to the Winning Post," 
 which had been read no doubt by hundreds 
 of people who had a shilling to lay out. 
 The author of the pamphlet, again, was 
 indebted to somebody before him ; and so 
 on', ad infinitum. But the curious part of 
 it was that all these persons claimed the in- 
 vention of the system of doubling, and im- 
 parted their information as something of 
 a very secret and confidential nature. 
 In this way Philip Durnford received it 
 from Mr. Maclntyre.' He gave a solemn 
 promise not to tell it to anybody, but to go 
 to work as speedily as possible to make his 
 own and his mentor's fortune. 
 
 Maclntyre had received the precious 
 talisman as a secret. He believed that 
 few people knew of it; that those who did 
 must grow rich by working this most pro- 
 ductive vein. He honestly believed in his 
 system, and gave it to Philip as a chart to 
 guide him over the shoals and quicksands 
 in the sea of turf enterprise to the land of 
 gold on the other side. He had carefully 
 worked out — always on paper, though — 
 every known method of winning money by 
 gambling, he had seen generations of back- 
 ers and betters go, from a late noble mar- 
 quis with a capital of a quarter of a million 
 to " Ready-money Riley " and his lucky 
 five-pound note. Before Mr. Maclntyre's 
 eyes, all had gone the same way. It was 
 only a question of time.' Their ruin the 
 philosopher attributed to want of system ; 
 and, among all the systems, his own was 
 the best. He had waded through all the 
 "Racing Calendars" from 1773 to date, 
 had applied his system to every race for a 
 period of ninety odd years, and on paper 
 he had never broken down, and was the 
 winner of many millions. He showed 
 his figures to Philip, and completely satis- 
 fied him. But Philip, being a genius, went 
 to work to improve it ; and he tried, on 
 paper, all sorts of little modifications of 
 his secret method of breaking the ring. 
 Not to go into petty details, he broke the 
 ring in half a dozen different ways, and 
 became Croesus six times over. The leaves 
 of his pocket-books were scribbled over 
 with a thousand repetitions and combina- 
 tions of the same series of figures ; and he 
 argued with himself that he was not going 
 to gamble, — it was merely speculation. 
 
 " The mathemateecian, Dr. Morgan," 
 said Mr. Maclntyre, " remarks that a gam- 
 bler ceases to be such when he makes his 
 stakes bear a proportion to his capital, and 
 takes no hazards that are unduly against 
 him." 
 
 And Philip Durnford's capital left him a 
 
 large reserve, over and above his working 
 money, for contingencies that might arise. 
 So he started with a light heart on his 
 course of speculation. For a few days all 
 went well. A fortnight brought a change, 
 and showed him that paper and practice 
 are two mightily different things, and that 
 his system could not be worked out, if he 
 had had the pluck to do it. Half his mon- 
 ey was gone in following his system. The 
 other half was punted away in indiscrimi- 
 nate wagering on any tip that might turn 
 up trumps. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Chacun k son secret. Philip had his, 
 and he kept it well. Every young fool who 
 airs his inexperience on the turf — and, 
 for that matter, every old one — has his 
 own way of breaking the ring. How many 
 of these ingenious devices are the same, 
 fate knows, and bookmakers may guess 
 perhaps. The infatuated themselves guard 
 their secrets more closely than their honor ; 
 and the system, method, modus, martin- 
 gale, — call the thing by what name you 
 will, — is never spoken of by the lucky pos- 
 sessors. They are careful over each oper- 
 ation, for fear some inkling of their royal 
 road to fortune should be discovered ; jeal- 
 ous, lest, on turning over the leaves of their 
 books, some eye, looking over their shoulder, 
 should see their game. Once out, they 
 think, the mischief is done. Everybody 
 will do as they do ; winning will be a cer- 
 tainty ; and in a trice there will be no ring 
 for them to break. The motive is selfish, 
 but easily understood : for is not the world 
 we live in selfish, and the least disinter- 
 ested corner of it a betting-ring ? Granted 
 a system that makes winning certain, and 
 that it is generally known, and there is the 
 end of betting ; and with it your own par- 
 ticular chance of becoming richer than the 
 Rothschilds. No wonder, then, that when 
 you have the magic talisman in your pocket, 
 you keep it there, jealously buttoned up. 
 That thousands of men have carried such 
 a talisman for turning all they touched to 
 gold, that thousands of men have reduced 
 winning on the turf to a certainty, — on 
 paper, — are matters of common knowl- 
 edge. That theory is one thing, and prac- 
 tice another, — in a word, that the systems 
 do not work to the satisfaction of the 
 owners, it is sufficient to call attention to 
 the fact that there are as few Rothschilds 
 among us as of old ; or to the pockets of 
 the greasy ring-men, still stuflfed as lull as 
 ever with Bank of England notes. The 
 common fate of methods based on paper 
 
104 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 jalculations had befallen the martingale 
 which Mr. Philip Durnford had hugged to 
 tis heart for half a season. Owing its 
 Bxistence, as Philip believed, to the original 
 intellect of Mr. Maclntyre, modified and 
 perfected by his own hand, he felt as cer- 
 tain of the great results to be obtained from 
 working it out as he did that the bank 
 would cllange its notes for gold on demand. 
 With, his hat jauntily set on his head, a 
 flower in his coat, and the blue satin note- 
 case Laura had quilted for him with her 
 fair fingers, in his pocket, crammed with 
 bank-notes, he had paid his guinea, and 
 pluiiged proudly and defiantly into the 
 babel of the ring at the Newmarket July. 
 
 Here he was, at the beginning of No- 
 vember, driving down to Kingdon races in 
 a Hansom : alone with his thoughts, which 
 were far from pleasant, with his betting- 
 book to remind him of past mistakes and 
 misfortunes, and all the money he had in 
 the world in the inside pocket of his waist- 
 coat, — • that pocket which was to be found 
 in all his waistcoats, secret and secure, in 
 which he had meant to carry away the 
 spoils he wrested from the ring. 
 
 Down on his luck, and as nearly desper- 
 ate as a gambler can be who has one throw 
 left, there was this chance for him still, — 
 the two hundi:ed pounds he had about 
 him — one month of racing. In that month, 
 with luck, he might turn the two hundred 
 into thousands. Without luck, — _well, it 
 hardly mattered. 
 
 The method had long since been cast 
 aside. He made his beta now without ref- 
 erence to it. He had followed the phan- 
 tom chance through seven losing weeks. 
 They had ruined him. There is nothing 
 demoralizes the gambler like a long tide 
 of ill-luck. His judgment leaves him. He 
 can no lonMr thread the mazes of public 
 form, or make clever guesses at the efi'ect 
 of weight in handicaps. He makes this 
 wager and that, for no reason but that a 
 feather turns the scale. In his mind, the 
 strongest reason why a horse should lose is 
 that it carries his money. He never backs 
 the right tip ; and the only consolation he 
 has is to quarrel with luck, and call it hard 
 names. These had been Philip Durnford's 
 experiences of the " glorious uncertainty 
 of the turf" for seven miserable weeks of 
 the worst season for backers the oldest 
 turfite could remember. Undreamt-of 
 outsiders were always coming in first, 
 till the very ring-men avowed that they 
 were tired of winning. The slaughter 
 had been great, and complaints of (de- 
 fault were loud and deep Donoaster had 
 punished some, the first and second weeks 
 at Newmarket had settled others. This 
 noble lord's and that honorable gentleman's 
 
 accounts were absent from Tattersall's on 
 settling-day. Backers could not stand 
 against such' luck, it was said in excuse. 
 There was a pretty general stampede for 
 the Levant among the shaky division. 
 But Philip's little account had always been 
 forthcoming till after the Newmarket 
 Houghton. He had taken his shovel, and 
 dug away manfully at his little heap of 
 sovereigns, and paid his debts every week 
 to time ; but that last week in Cambridge- 
 shire was a facer. It had settled him. 
 When he added up his book after the first 
 day of the meeting, he knew he had 
 wagered and lost more than he could pay 
 if he sold the coat off his back. Then he 
 smiled the bitter smile of defeat, and, in 
 the language of the sport, " went for the 
 gloves " — that is, he had five days' good 
 hard gambling, well knowing that if the 
 result of the week's work was against him 
 he could not settle. So, being desperate, 
 he was foolish, and betted in amounts three 
 times heavier than he was in the habit of 
 doing. 
 
 " Ma boy, take ma word, the captaiu'sh 
 going for the glovesh;" said a discreet He- 
 brew, placing his dii-ty jewelled paw on 
 the shoulder of another of his tribe. " I 
 don't bet no more with him. I'm full agen 
 any think at all." 
 
 " Vy, Nathan, vy ? Misther Vilkins 
 settled for him all right last veek." 
 
 " I'll tell you vy, Jacob, ma boy. Ven I 
 see a youn^ feller as alvays used to be sat- 
 isfied vith bavin' a pony or fifty on the 
 favorite for a sellin' race a bettin' in hun- 
 derds all of a sudding, I know vat it 
 means. Look, there's Nosey Smith a layin' 
 him two centuries agen Bella. Not for me, 
 that's all. Mark me, now, he'll go. And 
 nobody knows nothink about him. I've 
 looked in the peerage : there isn't no Durn- 
 ford in it as I can find. They'll book any 
 think to anybody now, bless me if they 
 von't I Hallo, hallo, hallo I Who'll back 
 any think ? Any pricesh agen some o' 
 these runners I Full, Capt. Durnford, sir, 
 agen all the fav'rits." 
 
 For Philip had not done with Bella yet, 
 arid asked her price of Mr. Nathan Morris, 
 diamond merchant, of Bis'hopsgate-street 
 Without, money-lender and leg in any part 
 of the world he might happen to be in. 
 
 And Mr. Morris was righ't. Philip was 
 betting all to nothing, for if he lost he would 
 not pay ; and he laughed as he pencilled 
 down the name of Bella till two openings 
 of his book were filled with it. Then there 
 was the fun of watching the race, and see- 
 ing Bella struggle past the post. 
 
 "Of course," thought Philip; "beaten 
 by'a head just on the post, by what I always 
 thought was the worst animal in training." 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 105 
 
 Then he rode off to while away a few 
 minutes with luncheon, — partridge pie, 
 washed down with champagne — coming 
 into the ring again with a smile on his face, 
 and filling more pages of his book with the 
 name of another loser. 
 
 He had no money, but he had credit ; 
 and credit is a very wonderful thing. It is 
 the only substitute for wealth. To borrow 
 a quotation from Defoe, " Credit makes 
 the soldier fight without pay, the armies 
 march without provisions, and it makes the 
 tradesman keep open shop without stock. 
 The force of credit is not to be' described 
 by words. It is an impregnable fortifica- 
 tion, either for a nation or for a single man 
 in business, and he that has credit is invul- 
 nerable, whether he has money or no." 
 And there is nowhere in the world where 
 credit will do more, or wherq there is more 
 of it to be had, than in the betting-ring. 
 It enabled Philip to " keep open shop with- 
 out goods " till the next settling-day. 
 
 That day came, and Mr. Durnford's ac- 
 count was absent from the clubs. His name 
 was mentioned pretty often in the course of 
 that Monday afternoon. He was wanted 
 very badly. Then people began to wonder 
 who he was, what he was, why they had 
 booked bets to him. Well they might won- 
 der. This tendency to trust every man who 
 has paid ready money with his bets for one 
 month at most is one of the most remark- 
 able things about the professional layer. 
 Very often he does not know the address 
 of his debtor, or even that the name he bets 
 in is th© one he commonly makes use of. 
 The layer must pay every week, or his liv- 
 ing is gone. The profession is propped up 
 by this solitary kind of honesty. The book- 
 maker always pays ; but the backer may 
 retire at any moment, as Philip did after 
 going for his gloves without getting them. 
 
 The ring-men used some very bad lan- 
 guage when the next Mon<lay after his de- 
 fault came, and there was no news of him. 
 Nobody had seen him " about " that week 
 either. One little man had drawn a fiver 
 of him in the street, having met him casu- 
 ally in Cha,ncery Lane. This speculator 
 took a hopeful view of tilings, and thought 
 all would be right. You see, he was out 
 of the mire. The others swore, and said 
 they should be careful in future whom they 
 trusted, &e. 5 but they had often said so be- 
 fore, and it only wanted a young adventu- 
 rer to pay up regularly for three or four 
 weeks, to be able to do with them exactly 
 what Philip Durnford had done. 
 
 When the iatal week was over, and he 
 came to reckon up the cost of his reckless- 
 ness, he wished he had never done it ; but 
 it was too late. He was neither more nor 
 less than a welsher. So men would say, he I 
 
 knew. And he had still left some of the 
 feelings of a man of honor. So, for a day 
 or two, he shut himself up at home, — 
 moody, very irritable, and very wretched, 
 but safe. He blessed his stars that only one 
 of the. pack of ravening wolves knew his 
 private address. If he had had the means 
 he would have paid that man, under promise 
 that he would not tell his whereabouts to 
 the rest. 
 
 When, after a day or two had passed, he 
 ventured out, he expected every moment to 
 be stopped, or to meet some emissary from 
 the ring, — to be insulted, jeered, hooted at, 
 as a thief and a welsher. But he was safe 
 enough : the ring-men were plying their 
 busy trade a hundred miles from where he 
 stood. So he got over his fear, and showed 
 his face pretty.much as of old. Then came 
 the chance of retrieving all. Kingdon 
 clashed with a popular Midland meeting. 
 Not three of the bigger men who watited 
 him would be there. He would go, but 
 keep out of the ring, and bet in ready mon- 
 ey. They could not stop him from doing 
 that ; and he had been very lucky at King- 
 don in the summer. 
 
 His hansom' drove along the muddy road 
 at a good speed, for he had covenanted to 
 pay the 'driver " racing-price " for the day's 
 job. They passed the last straggling rows 
 of suburban houses, and got into the open 
 country of the " way down Harrow-way," 
 baiting at all the recognized hosteliies on 
 the road. " Half-way houses," the driver 
 called them, where he could just rinse the 
 horse's mouth, and — ^^what was equally ne- 
 cessary — his own. Philip drew his Dutch 
 courage from a private fountain of inspira- 
 tion in his breast pocket. An unpleasant 
 fear of recognition kept him in his seat ; but 
 the honest cabman spent his fare's small 
 silver for the good of the house at every port 
 they put in at. And it is almost superfluous 
 to, add they touched at all they passed, or 
 that to the sturdy sons of Britain this is 
 more than half the pleasure of a day in the 
 country. As Philip furtively peeped out 
 through the oval side windows of his cab, 
 he saw nothing toalarmhim. He was rec- 
 ognized, too, by a few friends, and by some 
 of the small fry of the professionals. These 
 people, it was plain, had nOt heard of his 
 little mishap. It gave him courage to go 
 into the ring when he got to the course. 
 He paid his six shillings at the gate, not 
 with the . air of the expatriated wretch he 
 Was, but more like his former self, — the 
 loving patron of a noble sport. He was 
 early in the field. The ring was thin. He 
 mounted the wooden steps of the Grand 
 Stand, and hid himself safely away in the 
 farthest corner of the top shelf. From this 
 eminence he watched and waited, drank 
 
106 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 in the undulating landscape with his gaze, 
 or scanned the faces of the rin" below 
 th^'ough his glass. The clearing-bell sound- 
 ed ; the numbers of the runners were hoist- 
 ed on the board, — he ticked them oiF on his 
 card ; the riders' names were added to 
 the numbers ; the saddling-bell rang; the 
 horses streamed out of the enclosure^ the 
 roar of the odds began in the ring down be- 
 low. He pricked his ears, as the war-horse 
 at the smell of powder, or the veteran hunt- 
 er at the tongue of hounds, and forgot his 
 luck as he strained his ear to catch, in the 
 roar of the Babel, a notion of what it was 
 they were making favorite, and how the 
 market was going. 
 
 " How do they bet ? " he asked, as one 
 after another pushed up the steps to where 
 he stood. 
 
 He was satisfied the worst favorite could 
 win at the weights, if it was only trying. 
 To assure himself of this, he edged and 
 dodged his way through the ring out to the 
 lists. Not a hungry creditor to be seen : 
 only the small scoi^ndrels who infest the 
 metropolitan gatherings were assisting at 
 Kingdon. The big rascals were away, a 
 , hundred and twenty miles off, in the Mid- 
 lands. 
 
 He had begun to feel safe, and confident 
 in his judgment, when lie saw some well- 
 known sharps putting down the money in 
 small suras at the lists on his own selection. 
 
 " She'll win," he said, with an excited 
 chuckle, as he pressed forward in the crovyd 
 with as springy a step as the mud round 
 the boxes permitted. 
 
 " Good goods — the old mare is," he 
 heard an ex-champion of England whisper 
 in the ear of a sporting publican. 
 
 " Going straight ? " inquired the confi- 
 dant, putting his dirty hand before his 
 greasy mouth. " Party got the pieces on ? " 
 
 ■' Hold yer jaw. 'JSr 'ead's loose — 
 that's enough for you ; be quick and back 
 her, before it's blown on." 
 
 Philip profited by what he had overheard, 
 rushed to the nearest list, wrenched a 
 crumpled fiver from his inside pocket, and 
 reached up to the man in the box. 
 
 " Corinthian Sal 1 " 
 
 The fist of the burly ruffian seized his 
 note, squeezed it up and shoved it into his 
 bag, calling to his clerk behind — 
 
 " Fifty to five— Corinthian Sal." 
 
 " Right ! " 
 
 " Here's your ticket." 
 
 Philip took it, and in trying to get away 
 from the list-man's stand he was met by a 
 hurrying crowd. There was a rush from 
 the ring to back the good thing, outside ; 
 but the men who wanted to do it were well 
 known. In an instant the pencil was run 
 through the " 10 " before the name of Cor- 
 
 inthian Sal on all the lists in the gambling 
 thoroughfare. 
 
 In vain the excited regiment from the 
 ring plunged through the mud and mire, 
 proffering their money to the list-keepers. 
 They were answered everywhere, " Done 
 with." The secret was out. The little 
 Selling Plate was squared for the seven- 
 year-old daughter of Corinthian Tom. 
 
 " Another ramp I And I've just laid 
 fifty to five agen her," groaned the man 
 Philip had bet with. 
 
 " Ain't they hot on these selling-races ? " 
 
 " He's a hot member as I've laid it to. 
 These swells don't come outside unless they 
 know something.'' 
 
 When Philip managed to get back to his 
 old stand, he met with a friend or two who 
 wanted to hear " what he had done," and 
 whether he " knew any thing ; " and he had 
 the pleasure of telling them he was '• in the 
 know," appearing to be much wiser than 
 he really was, and letting them think he 
 had backed the mare for a good stake. 
 
 When he saw her canter past the post, 
 hands down, an easy winner, he inwardly 
 cursed his luck at having won when, com- 
 paratively, speaking, he had " nothing on." 
 
 " Just my luck," he said, as he pocketed 
 the fifty-five pounds he had drawn ; '" but 
 let us hope it has taken a turn." 
 
 He patronized the refreshment booth, 
 drinking some champagne with his friends ; 
 and then turned his attention to the next 
 event, reduced to a match, as only two of 
 the seven horses entered came to the post. 
 The talent were some time in making a fa- 
 vorite. It was even betting between the- 
 two weedy screws that cantered down to 
 the starting-post. Philip, thinking it prur 
 dent to keep for the present out of the ring, 
 for fear of any little contretemps that might 
 arise from meeting somebody who wanted 
 him, went out to the lists, and at last bet- 
 ted the fifty pounds he had won, in several 
 small bets, posting the money. He backed 
 the favorite, laying fifty to forty oh it, — 
 and lost. 
 
 Is it necessary that I should ask my 
 reader to follow the fortunes of Philip 
 through the two days' racing at Kingdon ? 
 To him who is initiated in the mysteries of 
 the turf my narrative will be intelligible, 
 but probably uninteresting, for it is a tale 
 he knows by heart. To the uninitiated this 
 chapter must be to a great extent unintelli- 
 gible, therefore uninteresting ; but the exi- 
 gencies of my history — as will be seen 
 from what is to follow — seem to demand 
 that I should give a brief outline of Philip 
 Durnford's doings on this last appearance 
 of his in the charmed circle devoted to the 
 interests of dishonesty and dirt. Apolo- 
 gizing, let me comply with the necessity, 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 107 
 
 offering only, as some sort of excuse, the 
 plea tliat I draw from the life. 
 
 After losing the fifty pounds he had won, 
 Philip had still his little capital in his 
 pocket intact. Three succeeding races re- 
 lieved him of three-fourths of it. 
 
 " What forsaken luck ! ■" he laughed bit- 
 terly, being desperate. " Fifty left 1 One 
 more flutter, I suppose, and then " — 
 
 " Halloo, old Durnford ! " a friendly voice 
 sounded in his ear. " Well, how are they 
 using you, old man, — ehi? I have just 
 landed again." 
 
 " I should say 1 had the Devil's own 
 luck," replied Philip, " except for the cu- 
 rious fact that fellows say that indiscrimi- 
 nately of the best luck and the worst." 
 
 " Well, we'll say you have the Devil's 
 worst luck, then." 
 
 They chatted till the numbers of the 
 next race were run up. 
 
 " The good thing of the day,'' cried Phil- 
 ip's friend. " 1 know three or four of the 
 clever division that have come down on 
 purpose to back this. It was backed down 
 to level money this morning in town." 
 
 "We shall get no price about it," said 
 Philip. 
 
 " I'll see what they offer. Shall I do 
 any thing for you ? " 
 
 Philip hesitated — onlv for a moment. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I'm going to put the money down upon 
 it, I can tell you." 
 
 " Put on a century for me." 
 
 Then he stole out to the lists, and emptied 
 his pockets. The odds he took against 
 Triumpher were six to four. With the 
 hundred his friend had put on by this time, 
 he stood to win nearly two hundred pounds. 
 With a beating heart he made for his place 
 of vantage on tlie top of the wooden steps. 
 As he ran in at the ring-gate he was stopped 
 by a man who had often seen him bet, but 
 ■with whom he had had no dealings before. 
 , " What do you want to do, Capt. Durn- 
 ford? Let me have a bet with you this 
 time — come." 
 
 " Triumpher ? " said Philip, raising his 
 eyebrows in a careless way, and chewing 
 the end of his pencil. 
 
 " Fifty to forty, sir." 
 
 " No." And he made a move to go on, 
 feeling sure the odds would be extended. 
 
 " Sixty to forty, sir ? " 
 
 " Not good enough." 
 
 " Here, I won't be be't , by you," cried 
 another ring-man. " I'll lay the gentle- 
 man eighty-five to seventy." 
 
 " All right," said Philip. 
 
 " Twice, sir ? " 
 
 " Twice." 
 
 As he asked the man's name and wrote 
 it down in his book, there' was a general 
 
 hoarse laugh among the book-makers^ for 
 they saw intuitively what he had failed to 
 see — namely, that he had refused six to 
 four and taken a fraction over four to three 
 and a half ; but the laugh, when Philip had 
 left them, was turned in quite the opposite 
 direction, when an acquaintance called out 
 to the man who had done the clever 
 trick : — 
 
 " So help me, you've gone and done it, 
 you have 1 " 
 
 " Ha, ha I " laughed the lawyer. 
 
 " The cap'n ain't paid for a fortni't. 
 Now ! " The " Ha, ha ! " now became " Oh- 
 h, oh-h!" 
 
 " I'll off the bet. Where is he ? " 
 
 Jiat Philip had altered his mind, and was 
 gone right away across the running track to 
 the other side, opposite the stand. He was 
 sitting out, dangling his legs over the 
 white railing, and looking at liis muddy 
 boots. Oh, the exquisite pleasuru'of seeing 
 the flag drop, the runners go down into 
 the dip, come sweepinj; up the hill I 
 
 Ruined or made 1 His heart sank. 
 
 Curse the boy 1 why does he not bring the 
 horse out of the ruck ? He's shut in." 
 
 Hope at zero. Ruined. 
 
 " No, by Jove, he's got him out ( ' He's 
 done it ! Hur-ray-y-y 1 " 
 
 Up went his hat, high in the air. 
 
 " Triumpher ! " 
 
 Yes, the judge sends up "No. 21," and 
 Phil drove home nearly happy, with a mind 
 full of resolutions to win on the morrow. 
 
 Wednesday morning broke in happy un- 
 certainty as to whether to be wet or fine ; 
 but by twelve o'clock in tlie day the rain 
 iell fast. But nothing short oi the crack 
 of doom — hard frost excepted — will stop 
 a race-meeting. All the difference the 
 weather apparently made to Philip was that, 
 instead of spending two sovereigns in going 
 down by road, he spenttwo shillings ingoing 
 to Kingdon by rail. Wrapped in his mack- 
 intosh from head to foot, he felt in better 
 heart than on the day before ; and all went 
 on well till he was recognized on the road, 
 and insulted, by one of his forty-seven cred- 
 itors for debts of honor. 
 
 " Well, what will you do ? " asked Philip 
 angrily. 
 
 " You show your face in the ring, and 
 you'll see what I'll do. Call yourself a 
 gentleman ? I call you a welsher." 
 
 He shouted the last word ; and, as there 
 were a lot of people about, Philip rushed for 
 a fly, and swore at the man for not driving 
 on in a moment. He did not pay for ad- 
 mission to the ring. He knew the man 
 would keep his word, so he played the un- 
 dignified part of an outsider, and was, be- 
 sides, in constant dread of being hooted by 
 his enemy. There is no charge easier to 
 
108 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 bring, or more difficult to rebut, than the 
 eharffe of ■' welshing," on a race-course ; and 
 the mob has a nasty habit of hunting the 
 victim, half-naked, into the nearest pond, 
 and bearing the evidence some other day. 
 This unpleasant practice made the young 
 man careful whom he met. Altogether 
 things were unpleasant. There were seven 
 races on th^ wet card. They were run in 
 a pouring rain. There was no trusting to 
 form, for the horses could not act in the 
 wet, and all calculations were upset. Of 
 the first four races on the card, Philip won 
 two and lost two. Then he sat out and 
 looked on once without a bet, — sad, weary, 
 and dripping. 
 
 On his fancy for the last two races he 
 staked all the money he had in the world — 
 and lost it. 
 
 " Well, old fellow," said an acquaintance 
 whom he met on the platform at King's 
 Cross, seizing him by the shoulders, and giv- 
 ing him a friendly shake, " if you've been' 
 backing horses in red mud you've come off 
 a winner, and no mistake : you've got 
 plenty of it sticking about you. What a 
 day it has been 1 " 
 
 Philip muttered, " Damnable," in an un- 
 dertone, and, getting a cab, directed the man 
 to drive him home. As they left the sta- 
 tion-yard, he put his hands into his pocket, 
 and pulled out the only coins he had left : 
 they were just enough to pay his fare. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Some of ray readers — I am writing for 
 both worlds — have very likely been 
 hanged. They will remember, that, on the 
 morning of the day for which this unpleas- 
 ant operation — surrounded by every 
 thing most likely to increase the unavoid- 
 able discomfort — was fixed, they slept 
 sweetly and soundly, awaking early in the 
 morning with dreams of childhood's inno- 
 cence. This was the case with Philip on 
 the morning after all-this disaster had fall- 
 en upon hira. He woke at twelve from a 
 dream of perfect peace and happiness — 
 awoke smiling and at rest. Suddenly the 
 thought of all his misery fell upon him, and 
 he started up, wide awake, and wretched. 
 He could not lie any longer but got up, 
 dressing hurriedly and nervously. All, 
 every thing, gone : more than all. Dishon- 
 or before him, and ruin already upon him. 
 In this evil plight, what to do ? He thought 
 of Arthur ; but he could not bear to go and 
 tell him, his younger brother,, the story of 
 his ruin. And then he looked back, and 
 saw with what fatal folly he had gone 
 
 deeper and deeper, hoping against hope, 
 living in the fool's paradise of a gambler. 
 
 , He went down staijs, and found Laura, 
 fresh and bright, reading quietly in the 
 window. She looked up, rang the bell, and 
 sat down again. No word of welcome for 
 him,.,none of reproach; for, as her husband 
 grew colder, the young wife retreated more 
 and more within herself. Laura's face has 
 changed in the last three months. The old 
 look has passed away, and another has ta- 
 ken its place. It is a sad expression, an ex- 
 pression of thought and reflection, that sits 
 upon her face. She has found out her 
 great and terrible fault. Between herself 
 and Philip there is nothing in common ; and 
 she trembles, thinking of the futikre that lies 
 before, and a life spent as these last three 
 months have been. For she has no friends, 
 no visitors, no acquaintance. No one but 
 Philip and Mr. Maclntyre ever speaks to 
 her. She is alone in the world ; and yet 
 she knows, in her heart, that there is one 
 friend to whom she may go, with whom she 
 will find forgiveness. Of that she is cer- 
 tain. Philip's breakfast was brought up. 
 He sat down, exasperated with himself, with 
 his wife because she^ took no notice of him, 
 with every thing. He poured out a cup of 
 tea, and looked at it. Then he broke into 
 a fit of irrepressible wrath. 
 
 " Damn it all I " he said, " the tea is cold." 
 
 His wife looked at him in surprise. It 
 was the first time he had ever lost his tem- 
 per before her. 
 
 " Philip 1 Why, it is just made." 
 
 To prove his words, he tasted it, and 
 scalded his lips. Then he pushed the tray 
 back, swearing again. Laura watched him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " I will have no tea and trash. Give me 
 some brandy." 
 
 " Not in the morning. Philip, you are 
 very strange. Are you, ill '/ " 
 
 tie went to the cellaret, and helped him- 
 self, saying nothing. 
 
 Just then the maid came, bearing a small 
 blue paper, — a missive from the butcher. 
 
 " Philip, give me four pounds, please. 
 The man wants his money." 
 
 " I have no money." 
 
 " Mary, tell the butcher to call again to- 
 morrow," Laura said, flushing with shame., 
 " What is the meaning of this, Philip ? " 
 
 " Nothing. If there were, you would not 
 care, you would not understand. Do you 
 care any thing at all for what concerns me ? 
 Have you ever cared ? " 
 
 " At least, I may know if it is any thing 
 in which I can help." 
 
 " You cannot help. You can only make 
 things worse. If you loved me, you miffht ; 
 but, there, what is the use of talking ? " 
 
 She was looking quite coldly in his face. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 109 
 
 Love ? — of course she had never loved 
 him ; but why — why did not conscience, 
 who so often slumbers when she ought to 
 be awake and at work — why did not con- 
 science remind him then, even then, of all 
 the girl had given to him, and all of which 
 he had robbed her,? He might have remem- 
 bered her sweet and innocent trust; the 
 confidence which Came from perfect purity 
 of soul ; the nights when he had awak- 
 ened, her head upon his breast, his arms 
 round her neck, to listen to her sweet 
 breath rise and fall, to catch the murmur 
 of her dreams ; and, for very shame's sake, 
 he might have thought of the friend from 
 whom he had torn her, — the disgraceful 
 lies and deceits with which he had sur- 
 rounded her. But he thought of none of 
 these things ; he thought only, that, at all 
 risks and hazards, this, at least, must be 
 put arv end to. 
 
 ' "What is it, Philip? " she asked, with 
 frightened eyes. 
 
 " I have been thinking," he said, looking 
 on the carpet, and lighting a cigar with 
 trembling fingers, " for some time, that we 
 should come to an understanding." 
 
 " What about ? " 
 
 " About every thing, — our marriage 
 especially.'' 
 
 I believe, that, when he got up that morn- 
 ing, nothing was farther from his thoughts 
 than this villany : but a drowning man 
 catches at a straw ; and the ruined man 
 saw, that, by getting i-id of Laura, he should 
 at least be free toact. The power of impe- 
 cuniosity to make men do vile and abom- 
 inable things has never been properly 
 stated by poet or novelist. In the Lord's 
 Prayer, after the petitions for bread and 
 forgiveness,comes the equally important one 
 that we may not be led into temptation — 
 amongst other things, by an empty purse. 
 
 Laura suspected nothing, understood 
 nothing. 
 
 " I told you two months ago, Laura, that 
 perhaps you might, some time or other, 
 make another attempt to recover Mr. 
 Venn's friendship. I think the time has 
 come." 
 
 "I may write to him, Philip? You 
 mean it ? — you really mean it ? " 
 
 " I think I would not write to him, if I 
 'were you, because yoii might mislead him 
 on one or two important points. I think 
 you had better go, and see him." 
 
 "Mislead him? How am I to mislead 
 him ? " 
 
 He looked up, and met the clear, deep 
 eyes of his wife; and his own fell. His 
 voice grew husky. 
 
 " When you met me — that is, when I 
 took you to the lodgings of the man in 
 Keppel Street " — 
 
 " Where we were married ? " 
 
 " Where, Laura, — there is no use in hid- 
 ing things any longer, — where the man 
 pretended to marry us." 
 
 She looked full at him, unable to take 
 in, all at once, the whole force of his 
 words. 
 
 Philip, the fatal shot once fired, felt em- 
 boldened to proceed ; but he was very 
 pale. 
 
 " Maclntyre was not a properly qualified 
 clergyman. He had no power to marry us. 
 He says he is a clergyman of the Scotch 
 Church. If that -is any consolation to you, 
 believe it. The man is an accomplished 
 liar; but he may sometimes speak the 
 truth. We are no more married, Laura, 
 than if we had never met." 
 
 " You knew this all along, Mr. Durn- 
 ford ? " 
 
 " All along. I should have married you 
 regularly, because I was so infatuated with 
 your beauty ; but you insisted on being 
 married on that particular Wednesday or 
 no other. It was not altogether my fault. 
 I thought perhaps " — 
 
 " Yes," said Laura, sitting down. 
 
 Neither spoke for a space. The cigar 
 went out. between Philip's lips, and these 
 trembled and shook. His face was white, 
 with a look of terror ; a man might have 
 it when he suddenly realizes that all the 
 nobleness has gone out of him. 
 
 Presently he moved forward a step. 
 She started back, crying, — 
 
 " Don't touch me — don't come near me I " 
 
 " Laura, in spite of your coldness, — 
 though you have never loved me as I once 
 loved you, — I should have kept this secret 
 but for one thing. I am utterly ruin6d. I 
 not only have no money, but I owe hun- 
 dreds of pounds more than I can pay ; and 
 I shall be a dishonored man. I must leave 
 the country, if I cannot raise the money. 
 We must part.'" 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, " we must part, 
 Why did we ever meet ? By what cruel 
 mockery of fate did you ever cross my 
 path ? Part ! Man, if you were to touch 
 me, if -I were to feel your breath upon me, 
 I should die. You, who for five months 
 have lived with this shameful lie upon your 
 conscience — you who call yourself gentle- 
 man — you who mocked at the poor man's 
 sins and sufierings — you ! Is every gen- 
 tleman like this ? " 
 
 He did not answer, looking down upon 
 the hearth-rug. There were, then, some 
 remains of shame upon him. 
 
 Laura poui-ed out a glass of water, and 
 drank it. Then she took ofi" her wedding- 
 ring, kissed it, and laid it gently on the 
 table. 
 
 "Holy symbol," she said, "I must not 
 
110 
 
 MY LITTLE G-IEL. 
 
 ■wear you any longer. Why did you find 
 me out to ruin me, Mr. Philip Durnford ? 
 Are there not enough poor women crying 
 in the world, but you must bring sorrow 
 and shame to another ? And — and — O 
 God ! is heaven so full that there is no room 
 in it for me ? " 
 
 Then she turned upon him like a tigress, 
 so that he shrank back, and cowered. 
 
 " You, for whom I prayed night and 
 morning ! you, that I thought all noble- 
 ness and honor; so that I laid bare all 
 the secrets -of my soul to you, and told 
 every thing that was in my heart ! I am 
 ashamed when I think that I have so talked 
 with you. I am more ashamed of tliis 
 than of any thing. And, oh ! what will 
 Mr. Venn say when I go back to him, and 
 tell him all the shameful story ? How 
 shall I tell it him — • how sliall I tell it him ? 
 Philip Darnlbrd, keep out of his way ; and 
 tell that other man, your accomplice, to 
 keep out of his way, and hide himself, or 
 it maybe worse for him. I don't want any 
 punishment to fall on you — except, I sup- 
 pose, God does sometimes make wicked 
 people feel their wickedness ; but nothing 
 can make their victims again as they have 
 been. When your turn comes, Philip, when 
 you go from bad to worse — when you 
 find yourself at last upon your death-bed, 
 with this behind you, you will think of me, 
 — you will think of me." 
 
 Philip was a little recovered by this time. 
 
 " Of course,"he said lightly, " I expected 
 a little unpleasantness at first. You will 
 see, when we get older, that I could not act 
 otherwise." 
 
 " As a gentleman — no." 
 
 " I will not be irritated," he went on, 
 being now as calm as if he were doing a 
 virtuous action, — " I will not be irritated. 
 The sale of this furniture " — 
 
 " Thank you — you are thoughtful." 
 
 Then she left him, and went to her own 
 room, where she locked the door, and threw 
 herself upon the bed. 
 
 Philip, left alone, wiped his forehead, 
 and breathed more freely. One source of 
 expense was gone, at any rate. There 
 was comfort in that thought, — a ray of 
 sunshine in the tempest of his mind. As 
 for what might be said or thought of him, 
 he was profoundly indifferent. Only it 
 occurred to him that the news might have 
 been broken in a different manner, less ab- 
 ruptly, through a third person, by letter. 
 However, it was done, and nothing could 
 undo it. Misfortune to some men is a kind 
 of Ithuriel's spear : it reveals the real na- 
 ture of a man — 
 
 " No falsehood can endure 
 Touch of celestial temper, hut returns 
 Of force to his won likeness." 
 
 Tlien the brave man becomes a coward, 
 the large-hearted man mean, the godly 
 man ungodly, the virtuous man vicious, 
 the noble a lache. The women of the 
 family generally have the best opportuni- 
 ties of finding out the truth ; but they 
 cover it up, hide it, and go about flaunting 
 their colors of loyalty to the great and 
 aood man whom all the world admires ; 
 and, after the first agony of shame, fall 
 into that cynicism which sits so ill on wo- 
 man's nature. As for the men, I think 
 their thoughts may arrange themselves in 
 the form of a collect, a prayer for every 
 morning of the year, as thus : " Lord, the 
 helper of sinners as well as of saints, let 
 not the smugness of our reputation ever de- 
 crease ; but replenish us, above all things, 
 with the bulwarks of wealth and honor, so 
 that the virtues with which we are credited 
 may never be called into exercise." And 
 there are some — Philip Durnford was one 
 — who deliberately believe themselves to 
 be chivalrous, delicately honorable, brave, 
 manly, and great ; though all the time 
 every thought and every action might go 
 to prove the contrary. The mirror in 
 which men See -themselves — what we call 
 conscience — is distorted ; and while the 
 real man performs duties and absurdities 
 in folly and sin, the mirror 'shows another 
 Sir Galahad, marching with lofty crest, ' 
 along the narrow path of honor, while in 
 the sunshine glow the battlements which 
 guard the Holy Grail. 
 
 Such was Philip in his mirror. All of a 
 sudden, when Laura left him, there was an 
 instant flash of lightning in his soul which 
 showed him a thing he was never to forget, 
 the real creature he was, — no Sir Galahad, 
 but a mopping and mowing antic, crawling 
 ignobly down the slope of Avernus. He 
 started to his feet, and stood for a moment 
 staring into space. Then he seized the 
 brandy bottle, and drank a wine-glassful ; 
 and behold, Sir Galahad again! — only 
 with a sort of blurr and haze around. his 
 noble form, evermore to grow more blurred 
 as the memory of this guilt eats into his 
 soul. Perhaps this illusory image will 
 some day be wholly gone, and his real self 
 be seen with clearer eyes. Then may he 
 cry aloud to be delivered from the body of 
 this death, and God's punishment be upon 
 him — the punishment of forgiveness. Is 
 there no punishment in repentance and 
 self-abasement ? Cannot revenge itself be 
 satisfied when the sinner is prostrate, cry- 
 ing, from shame and remorse, " Lord, I 
 have sinned — I have sinned " V 
 
 Laura, in her bedroom, sat silent for a 
 while, trying to think. Then she fell upon 
 her knees, and tried to pray ; but no words 
 came. Ohly as she knelt a thought came 
 
MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 across her soul, which was, perhaps, the 
 answer to her prayer. For she arose swift- 
 ly, and began to undress herselfl Every 
 thing she had on she tore oi^ and threw 
 from her, as if it had been a shirt of Nes- 
 sus. Her earrings, her jewels, the cross 
 around her neck, she laid on the table, 
 and put with them her watch and chain, all 
 her little trinkets, — all but , a single little 
 cross with a black ribbon, which she laid 
 aside, for Mr. Venn had given it to her.' 
 And then she opened all her drawers, 
 took out the contents, — the trousseau that 
 Philip had given to her, — piled them all 
 in a heap, and trampled on them with her 
 bare little feet. And then, out of the low- 
 est , division, she took the dress she had ■ 
 worn when she was married : all that she 
 had on that day was lying folded together, 
 even to the stockings and the little boots. 
 She put them on hurriedly : the dress of 
 blue merino stuff; the little hat with an 
 ostrich feather, Mr. Venn's last gift ; the 
 ivory cross and the locket he had given 
 her ; the brown cloth jacket, the belt with 
 the great steel buckle, and the new pair of 
 gloves, — the last she had received from 
 him. In the pocket of her dress was her 
 purse, and in it two pounds,-; — Mr. Venn's 
 two pounds. 
 
 Then she took her jewel-case, placed in 
 it all the things that Philip had given her, 
 and descended the stairs. He was sitting 
 there, just as she had left him half an hour 
 before, — her handsome husband, her knight, 
 and lord, and king ! He for whom she had 
 left the noblest of friends, to cleave to him. 
 All the nobleness was gone out of his face. 
 As she looked on him, she wondered where 
 it had been; and she pitied him — yes, slie 
 pitied him — for his baseness. 
 
 He looked up, and made a motion with 
 his lips as if he would speak ; but no words 
 came. She placed the jewel-case on the 
 table gently. 
 
 " You will find my dresses up stairs, Mr. 
 Diirnford. You can sell them for some- 
 thing, I dare say. I am come to return you 
 your other presents. There is the watch 
 you gave me at Vieuxcamp, with a pretty 
 speech about its lasting as long as your 
 love : you remember it, I dare say. Here 
 is the chain. You said that love's fetters 
 were all golden. It was a very pretty 
 thing to say, was it not ? Here are the 
 b):acelets, and all the rest. They will do 
 for your next victim. 
 
 "'After the next mock marriage, try to 
 undeceive the victim a little less suddenly 
 and harshly. Let her know it in some 
 way a little different to this. 
 
 " I wish you had died first, Philip. I 
 wish you were lying dead at my feet, and 
 that I were crying over your dead body, 
 
 believing you to be good and true. Now 
 there is nothing to lament ; but how much 
 worse for both of us 1 The last memory I 
 shall carry away with me is of a coward 
 and a liar. A gentleman 1 Look in the 
 glass, at your own face." 
 
 It was now, though she did not inow 
 this, the face of a negro, with protruding 
 lips, lowering eyebrows, and black cheeks. 
 
 " Have you more to say ? " asked Philip 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " I go as I came," she said. " Whatever 
 I brought with me I take away, but noth- 
 ing more. Stay, this is my own pen- 
 knife." 
 
 She took a little white-handled thing from 
 the inkstand, and put it into her pocket. 
 It was the slightest action in the world, but 
 it wrung Philip's heart as nothing yet had 
 wrun^ it. 
 
 "Now there is nothing left to remind 
 you of me," she said. " Mr. Venn will 
 help me. 1 go back to him." 
 
 He did not speak. 
 
 " Farewell, Philip." 
 
 She turned to go. As she touched the 
 handle of the door, her husband fell for- 
 ward on his knees before her, and caught 
 her by the hand, with tears and sobs. 
 
 " Laura, Laura, " he cried, " forgive me. 1 
 All shall be as it was. We will be married 
 again. Forgive me, Laura. I am mad 
 this morning. Otily stay " — 
 
 But she slippedjfrom him, and was gone. 
 
 After all, the memory of her husband 
 was not altogether that of the hardened 
 wretch she might have thought him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 About two o'clock, Mr. Maclptyre 
 called upon his patron, and found him in a 
 state of mental irritation which indicated 
 the necessity of prudence and tact. He 
 was sitting where Laura had left him, 
 glowering over the fire, — her bracelets and 
 trinkets on the table ; and the black cloud 
 upon his face, with this disorder, was quite 
 sufficient to teach the student of human 
 nature that sojnething had happened. A 
 curious phrase, this, if We may be allowed - 
 a digression. It surely indicates a strong 
 belief in the malignity of fate, when the 
 phrase, " something has happened " means 
 misfortune ; as if nothing was ever given 
 unexpectedly except kicks and buffets. So 
 far as my own experience goes, the voice 
 of *he people is right. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre assumed an expression, 
 designed to illustrate the profound sympa- 
 thy working in his breast, took off his hat, 
 and sat down in silence. 
 
112 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " What is the matter, Phil ? " After a 
 pause. 
 
 Philip made an impatient gesture. 
 
 "Mrs. Durnford" — 
 
 " Damnation ! " cried Philip, starting to 
 his feet, and walking backwards and for- 
 wards. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre was silent. Presently', 
 preserving the same sympathetic look, he 
 rose, and, moving softly, — after the man- 
 ner of one who respects trouble, — he pro- 
 ceeded to the well-known cellaret, whence 
 he drew a decanter of sherry. Helping 
 himself to a glass, he drank it ofif with a 
 deep sigh. Then he shook his head sol- 
 emnly, and offered the decanter to Philip. 
 
 " Drink ! " he cried. " It is all you 
 think of. Is there a misfortune in the 
 world that you would not try to cure with 
 drink?" 
 
 " None," said Maclntyre : " I think there 
 is none. Drink makes a man forget 
 every thing. But what is it, Philip ? 
 What has happened ? " 
 
 " Why have you not been near me for a 
 week ? " 
 
 "Because I have been busy about my 
 own affairs. What has happened, then ? " 
 
 " I have been losing about as fast as 
 a man could lose, for seven or eight 
 weeks " — 
 
 " Eh, man ! luck will " — 
 
 " I have no luck but the Devil's, I sup- 
 pose. Listen : you blew the sp>ark into a 
 flame, — you and your wonderful secret 
 were at the beginning of it. ' The mighty 
 lever ■ that can make us meellionnaires.' 
 You recollect ? " 
 
 " I can't but say I do." 
 
 " Well, the lever's broke into little bits, 
 that's all. I owe more hundreds than I can 
 tell you over what I can pay. I have not 
 bothered to add up the sum total of the 
 book over the Houghton meeting, I can 
 tell you this, though : before Kingdon, I 
 had forty-seven creditors ; now, I suppose, 
 I've got three or four more. They'd like 
 to meet me, I have not the least doubt. 
 They won't. I'm scratched for all my en- 
 gagements. Broken down badly. It is 
 not one leg in my case, it's all four." 
 
 He laughed. Hi? mind was easier since 
 the anxiety of how he should fiiid the 
 money to pay with had been removed. 
 He had decided not to pay ; been desper- 
 ate, and gambled without much hope of 
 paying ; come off second-best at the game, 
 and had not paid. His desperation had 
 brought some sort of relief with it. Only 
 the reckless man can laugh as he did. Mr. 
 Maclntyre, now many degrees removed 
 from the feeling of recklessness, saw no 
 cause for making merry, and opened his 
 eyes as wide as it was possible to do, put- 
 
 ting on his most sympathizing mask, at the 
 same time that he ejaculated a pious, 
 " Hear that, now ! " as his young friend's 
 narrative proceeded. 
 
 " See there," Philip continued, tossing 
 his betting-book across the table to Mr. 
 Maclntyre, " turn over the pages, and sat- 
 isfy yourself. There is a line scored through 
 the wins. You won't find many. I backed 
 fifteen horses in the last two days at New- 
 market without scoring one win." 
 
 " I doubt," said Mr. Maclntyre, shaking 
 his head, and handing back the book, "1 
 doubt you did not keep to the seestem. 
 Ah, now " — 
 
 " I did not. Nobody ever did keep to 
 a system. They mean to at the start ; but 
 they forget they even meant till tliey 
 come to add up a losi&g account. I thought 
 when you saw what a succession of facers 
 backers haye had, you would have guessed 
 what was the matter." 
 
 Here he picked up a newspaper a week 
 oldj and read, " The complaints of ab- 
 ,sent accounts were loud and deep, and no 
 wonder. Even bookmakers don't like to 
 ,be shot at ; and two noble lords-, besides a 
 baker's dozen of ' untitled noblemen,' have 
 gone in the last few weeks." 
 
 " ' Untitled noblemen,' Maclntyre. that's 
 for me. After that awfiil Monday came, I 
 was frightened at my own shadow for a 
 few days, and hardly dared to look into the 
 paper of a morning. 1 expected to find 
 my name at the head of the sporting intel- 
 ligence, or in the agony, column with the 
 people wanted. They don't do that, I 
 find ; but one fellow has written, after call- 
 ing about twenty times at the club, to 
 say he shall post me at Tattersall's. Much 
 I care if he does. It will be a poste restanie, 
 but I am not likely to be called for." 
 
 " Ye don't know that," said Maclntyre, 
 wisely wagging his head. 
 
 " I do," said Philip, with his bitter, 
 scornful, hollow laugh. " All is lost, — 
 honor, money, all. If I raked together 
 every thing I have in tlie world, I don't 
 suppose I should be able to pay a shilling 
 in the pound. But this is not all. I've 
 had another loss," he went on. " I told 
 that girl the whole truth, and she has left 
 me." 
 
 " Is she gone ? I am sorry,'' said Mac- 
 lntyre. "I've always been vera sorry for 
 the poor little bonnie thing." 
 
 " She is gone, and will never come back 
 to me. So that is finished. Let us talk 
 about other things. I suppose, Maslntyre, 
 that the marriage was all a farce ? " 
 
 The reverend gentleman took two bits 
 of paper — the famous marriage certificates 
 — from his pocket-book, and handed them 
 to Philip. 
 
MY LITTLE GIBL. 
 
 113 
 
 " The mock certificates," he said. " Yes, 
 Philip, you can do what you like with them. 
 Best tear them up." 
 
 Philip threw them into the fire. 
 
 "But you told me" — 
 
 " Eh, now ? Don't let us have a bleth- 
 erin' about what I told you. You were in 
 one of your moral moods that day, you see ; 
 and I always suit ray conversation to cir- 
 cumstances. I just thought it best to make 
 the most of what we did. Perhaps I was 
 never an ordained clergyman at all. Per- 
 haps I pretended. I have preached though, 
 on probation. It was at Glasgie. They 
 said I wanted unction. Eh, sirs, what a 
 man I might have been, with unction ! " 
 
 Philip took him by the shoulders, and 
 held him at arm's length. 
 
 " Maclntyre, you are a precious scoun- 
 drel 1 I am bad enough, God knows ; but 
 not so bad as you. I have the strongest 
 desire at this moment to take you by the 
 throat, and throttle the life out of you." 
 
 The philosopher looked up for one 
 moment in alarm, but speedily smiled 
 again. 
 
 " You will not, Phil. First, because it 
 would be murder, and you would not like 
 to be hanged. Second, because you would 
 not be such a fool as to hurt the only man 
 who has it in his power to help you." 
 
 " You 1 " 
 
 " And third, because your wrath i^ like 
 a fire of chips. It burns out as soon as it 
 is lighted." 
 
 Philip let him go. 
 
 " If you are the only man to help me, 
 why the devil don't you, instead of drink- 
 ing sherry, and telling me what a liar you 
 are?" 
 
 " I'm going to," said the little man, sit- 
 ting down with an air of great dignity, and 
 beginning to tremble, because he was at 
 last going to play his great card. " I'm 
 going to. Sit down, Phil, and listen. Let 
 us first face the position. What is it ? " 
 
 " Ruin and disgrace." 
 , " For want of a few hundreds, which I 
 will put into your hands at once, with 
 plenty more to the back of them." 
 
 " Go on, man. Are there any more lies 
 at the bottom of all this ? " 
 
 "Do not pain me unnecessarily, Philip. 
 You will be sorry afterwards. This is a 
 very grave and serious matter. Do you 
 remember a conversation I had with. you 
 after your father's death ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I hinted then at the possession of cer- 
 tain documents which might or might not 
 be found useful in proving you the heir to 
 certain property." " 
 
 " Go on, Maclntyre. Do get on faster." 
 
 "I afterwards obtained those proofs. 
 
 During all the years of my wandering, I 
 have kept them releegiously in my pocket- 
 book, in the hope that they might one day 
 be of use in restoring you, my favorite pu- 
 pil, to your own." 
 
 He dropped his voice from nervousness. 
 Suppose, after all, the plan should fail ? 
 It seemed to Philip that his accents trem- 
 bled with emotion. 
 
 " The papers prove you beyond a (^oubt 
 — I mean, mind, beyond a legal doubt — 
 to be the sole heir of your father's proper- 
 ty, the estate of Fontainebleau, in the 
 Island of Palmiste." 
 
 "Arthur's estate? I will not believe 
 it." 
 
 '-" Do not, if you prefer to believe to the 
 contrary. It brings in at present about 
 £4,000 per annum, clear profit, in good 
 years. There is not a mortgage on it, and 
 it is managed by the most honest man in 
 all the island. Philip, I offer you this, 
 not in an illegal way, not in a way of 
 which you will hereafter be ashamed, but 
 as a right, your right. I offer you for- 
 tune, escape from all your troubles ; and, 
 Philip, — not the least — I offer you legiti- 
 macy." 
 
 " The proofs, Maclntyro — the proofs." 
 
 " Wait, wait. First read and sign . this 
 document. It is a secret agreement. It 
 is not possible to receive the sum named 
 by any legal procedure, — I trust entirely 
 to your honor ; and, if you do not obtain 
 the estate, the agreement is not worth the 
 paper it is written on." 
 
 Philip read it. It was a paper in which 
 he pledged himself to hand over to Mac- 
 lntyre, as soon as he got the Fontainebleau 
 estate, the sum of £5,000. 
 
 " It will be a cruel thing to turn out Ar- 
 thur," he said. 
 
 " You can settle with all your creditors," 
 said Maclntyre significantly. 
 
 " At the worst, I can but starve," said 
 Philip. 
 
 " Hoots toots 1 " said the philosopher. 
 " I've tried it : you would not like it. Of 
 course you will not starve. Sign the paper, 
 and we will proceed." 
 
 Philip took a pen, signed it, and tossed 
 it back. 
 
 Maclntyre folded the document, and 
 carefully replaced it in his pocket-book. 
 Then he took out three or four papers, 
 wrapped in a waterproof cover. They 
 were clean enough, though frayed at the 
 edges, and the ink was yellow with age. < 
 He handed them solemnly to Philip. 
 Three of them were letters written by 
 George Durnford, beginning " My dearest 
 wife," and ending with " Your most affec- 
 tionate husband, George Durnford." 
 
 « Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre. « The 
 
114 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 dates of all are hefore that pf his marriage 
 with Mdlle. Adrienne de Rosnay. The let- 
 ters themselves are not sufficient. Look 
 at this." 
 
 It was a certificate of marriage between 
 
 George Durnford and Marie , no other 
 
 name. 
 
 « And this." 
 
 The last paper purported to be a copy 
 of a marriage register from the Roman 
 CathoUc chaplain of St. Joseph. To it 
 was appended a statement to the eifect that 
 the marriage had been privately solem- 
 nized in Mr. Durnford's house, but that the 
 register was duly entered in the church- 
 book. 
 
 Philip's eyes flashed. 
 
 " If you had told me that you were your- 
 self the Roman Catholic priest, I should 
 not have believed you. Maclntyre, if those 
 papers are what they pretend to be, I am a 
 legitimate son." 
 
 " Of course you are. I've known it all 
 along ; but I waited my opportunity." 
 
 " Who are the witnesses to the mar- 
 riage ? " said Philip. 
 
 " See those signatures. I am one. I 
 was present on the occasion. The other is 
 Adolphe, brother to Marie, the bride. The 
 clergyman is dead, and I suppose the other 
 witness by this time. But you can inquire 
 in Palmiste if you like. The ways of what 
 we call Providence are obscure.- They 
 may appear to be winding. They are, in 
 reality, straight." 
 
 Philip made an impatient gesture, and 
 he stopped. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre had played his last card, 
 his King of Trumps, and it looked like 
 winning. He breathed more easily. 
 
 " I believe, Maclntyre," said Philip 
 coolly, " that there is not a single thing in 
 the world that you would not do for 
 money." 
 
 " There is not," replied the tutor with 
 readiness, " There is nothing. And why 
 not ? I look round, and see all men en- 
 gaged in the pursuit of Wealth. They 
 have but one thought, — to make money. 
 I, too, have been possessed all my life with 
 an ardent desire to be rich ; but fortune 
 has persecuted me. Ill-luck has dogged 
 me in all that I have tried. I am past 
 fifty now, and have but a few years to live. 
 To have a large fortune would bring with 
 it no enjoyment that J any longer greatly 
 care for ; but to have a small one would 
 mean ease, respectability, comfort for my 
 declining years, nurses to smooth my pil- 
 low, considerate friends. This is what I 
 want. This is what you will give me. I 
 have looked for it all these years, and bided 
 my time. With my five thousand pounds, 
 which is two hundred and fifty pounds a 
 
 year, I shall go to some quiet country 
 place, and live in comfort. My antece- 
 dents will be unknown. I shall be respect- 
 able at last." 
 
 The prospect was too much for him, philos- 
 opher that he was. He went on, in an agi- 
 tated voice, walking up and down the 
 room, — 
 
 " Money ! Is there any thing in the 
 world that money will not procure ? Is it 
 friends ? You can get them by the bribe 
 of a dinner. Is it love ? You can buy 
 the semblance, and win the substance. Is 
 it honor? You can buy that too, if you 
 have got enough money. Is it power? 
 Money is synonymous with power. Is it 
 comfort ? Only money will buy it. Is it 
 health ? You may win it back by money. 
 Is it independence ? You cannot have it 
 without money, ' Money is the provider of 
 all," 
 
 " It won't help you to get to heaven." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Without it I am, — 
 I am damned if you will get to heaven." 
 
 " A curiously involved expression," said 
 Philip, looking at the man with astonish- 
 m'ent. 
 
 " Answer me this, Phil. Did you ever 
 hear of a poor man repenting, unless it was 
 when he was going to be hanged ? " 
 
 " I really have not given the subject any 
 consideration." 
 
 " You never did. It is only the rich who 
 have leisure to repent. What is a poor man 
 to think about but the chance of to-morrow's 
 dinner ? Great heavens ! Phil, when I think 
 of how wretchedly, miserably, detestably 
 poor my life has been, my wonder iSj not 
 that my life has been so bad, but that it 
 has not been worse. Do you know what 
 grinding poverty is ? Do you know what 
 it is to be a poor student at a 'Scotch Uni- 
 vairsity ? Do you know what it means to 
 take up a sacred profession which you are 
 not fit for, — to disgrace yourself, and lose- 
 self-respect, before you are five and twenty, 
 
 — to be put to a thousand shifts, — to invent 
 a hundred dodges, — to lose your dignity as 
 a man, — to be a parasite, and fail in that, 
 
 — to take to drink because the years of 
 your manhood arc slipping by, and a miser- 
 able old age is before you ? Tell me, can 
 you guess what all these things mean? 
 Youth ! I had no youth. It was wasted 
 in study and poverty. I dreamed of love 
 and the graces of life. None "came to nie. 
 No woman has ever loved me. Not one, 
 I have always been too poor even to dream 
 of love. Philip, I like you for one reason. 
 You have kicked me like a dog. You have 
 called me names: you despise me; but 
 you and I are alike in this, that we owe the 
 world a grudge. I rejoiced when I saw you 
 ruining yourself. I stood by at the last, and 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 115 
 
 let it go on, because I knew that every hun- 
 dred pounds you threw away brought me 
 nearer to ray eiid ; and that is the fivB 
 thousand pounds that you will give me." 
 
 Philip said nothing. He saw in part 
 ■what this man was whom he had believed 
 to be a simple, common rogue ; saw him as 
 he was, — pertinacious, designing, cynically 
 unscrupulous. He recoiled before a nature 
 stronger than his own, and felt abashed. 
 
 " The money," Maclntyre went on, " will 
 not come a bit too soon. I am nearly at the 
 end of the hundred pounds I had. Arthur 
 told me I should have another fifty, and 
 then no more. What should I do when 
 that was gone ? You remember what I 
 was when you met me in the street ? — a 
 p6or, famished creature, on one and three 
 pence a day. A few more weeks would 
 have finished me. Even novv the effects 
 of that bitter winter are on me ; and 1 
 wake at night with the terror upon me 
 that those days are coming back, — that I 
 shall have to return to the twopenny 
 breakfast, and the fourpenny dinner, and 
 the miserable lodging where 1 sat at night, 
 gloomy and drinkless. Money ! He agks 
 me if I would do any thing for money 1 I, 
 with my memories! Philip, I swear there 
 is no act of dishonesty I would not commit 
 to save myself from this awful dread of 
 ilestitution that hangs over me day and 
 night. After my miserable life, compensa- 
 tion is due to me. I say, sir, it is due." 
 
 His face grew black and lowering. 
 
 " If I am not paid what is owing to me, 
 I shall take what I can get. For the forced 
 hypocrisies.of my youth, for my servile man- 
 hood, for my ill-fortune, my wretclied condi- 
 tion of last year, T swear that compensation 
 is due to me. Honesty! The wise man 
 guides himself by circumstances. Well, 
 I've prayed — yes, you may laugh, but 1 
 have iprayed till my knees were stiff — for 
 some measure, even the smallest, of success 
 in the world, for just a little of that material 
 comfort which makes Ufe tolerable. As well 
 pray for the years to roll back as for fate to 
 be changed. Whatever I do henceforth, I 
 claim as my right. It is my compensation 
 for the sufferings of the past." 
 
 He sat down. Philip noticed how shaky 
 he was, how his legs tottered, and the per- 
 spiration stood in great beads upon his 
 nose, — the feature where emotion general- 
 ly first showed itself with this philosopher ; 
 but he answered him not a word. ' 
 
 " Go now," Jhe said, " and show these 
 papers to Arthur. He ought to see them." 
 
 Maclntyre put on his hat. 
 
 "Don't come back here," said Philip. 
 " Find me at the club. I shall choke if I 
 slept a night in this house." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 When Arthur heard Maclntyre's story, 
 he was amazed. 
 
 '' Why did you not tell me all this be- 
 fore ? " he asked at last. 
 
 " You have known it all these years, — 
 why did you not tell it when my father 
 died ? Let me look at the letters again. 
 They are in my father's writing. Is there 
 some villany in this ? " 
 
 " The extract from the register, ye'll ob- 
 sairve," said the philosopher, passing over 
 the injurious nature of the last words, " is 
 certificated by a firm of respectable solici- 
 tors, and enclosed to me by their agents in 
 London." 
 
 " Why not tell the story before ? " 
 
 '' Loard, loard I it is a suspicious world. 
 You will remember, Mr. Arthur, that I was 
 once violently assaulted by your brother ? " 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " It was because I hinted at this secret ; 
 for no other reason. Therefore, as I was 
 not personally interested in either of ypu 
 getting the money, — though I certainly 
 always received great consideration from 
 Philip, — I held my tongue. The time 
 has now come, when poor Phil is ruined." 
 
 "Ruined! How?" 
 
 " He has lost his money on the turf He 
 has now nothing. This being thp case, I 
 found it time to interfere. Here are my 
 papers, — here my proofs. It's vera hard 
 for you, Mr. Arthur, after so many years o 
 the pillow o' luxury, and ye will commence 
 to remember soine of thamaxums" — 
 
 " What does Philip say ? " 
 
 " He told me to bring you the things, 
 and tell you the story." 
 
 " It seems incredible, — impossible. And 
 yet the letters and the certificate." 
 
 " You can fight it, Mr. Arthur, if you 
 please. You will have to put me in the 
 box ; and I shall, most reluctantly, have to 
 represent to the world the secrets of your 
 father's life." 
 
 Arthur recoiled in dismay. 
 
 " It is not a question of fighting. It is a 
 question of doing what is right. If only 
 your story is true. Pray, Mr. Maclntyre, 
 what is the price you have put upon it ? " 
 
 He smote his chest. 
 
 " Go on, Arthur, go on. You into whose 
 young mind I poured treasures of philoso- 
 phy. Insult your aged and poverty-stricken 
 tutor, — and a Master of Arts of an ancient 
 and " — 
 
 " You sold me an address." 
 
 " Pardon me. I borrowed forty pounds 
 of you, and, with a kindness which I re- 
 gret not to see rated at its real worth, I 
 gave you Miss Madeleine's address. I hope 
 you have made good use of it." 
 
116 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " What does it matter to you, sir, what 
 use I have made of it ? " 
 
 " Not at a', not at a' : let us come back 
 to our business. The story is not mine 
 alone, Arthur. It rests on the evidence of 
 the Church. Man tells lies : church re- 
 gisters are infallible. I suppose that Marie 
 died in England before the second mar- 
 riage " — 
 
 "Mr. Maclntyre, do you want me to 
 wring off your neck ? " 
 
 " The facs of the case, — the facs of the 
 case only. Your elder brother, sir, re- 
 ceived my communication without any of 
 the manifestations of temper which you 
 have shown. Naturally, there is a differ- 
 ence between you." 
 
 " You should have told us ten years ago. 
 You should have told us even three month's 
 ago. Why did you not ? " 
 
 " To begin with, I saw no reason for 
 speE^iing at all, till my friend, as well as 
 old pupil, lost his money. This was yester- 
 day." 
 
 " And why next ? " 
 
 " Because I did not choose." 
 
 This was the only outward mark of re- 
 sentment at Arthur's suspicions which the 
 sage allowed himself. 
 
 He gave a long snifif of satisfaction, and 
 went on, — 
 
 " There may be a weakness in the evi- 
 dence. The law might be evaded by a 
 crafty counsel. You can fight the ques- 
 tion, if you like. But the rigU of the case 
 will remain unaltered. Arthur Durnford, 
 you are only the second son of your- 
 father." 
 
 Arthur was silent for a while, leaning his 
 hSad on his hand. 
 
 " Come into the city with me. Do you 
 object to bring your papers to my law- 
 yer's ? " 
 
 " Not at a', not at a'. Let us go at once," 
 answered Maclntyre, apparently in great 
 good humor. " And don't be overmuch 
 cast down, Arthur, at this temporary re- 
 vairse of circumstances. Philip will give 
 you enough to live upon. If not, there are 
 several lines of life open to you. You may 
 be a private tutor, like me. Then, indeed, 
 ray example will not have been wholly in 
 vain." 
 
 He pursued this theme as they drove 
 into the city in a cab, illustrating biis posi- 
 tion by reference to passages in his own 
 life, wherein he had imitated the magna- 
 nimity of Themistocles, the clemency of 
 Alexander, the continence of Scipio, and 
 the generosity of Cjesar. 
 
 " Poor I may be," he said, " and* cer- 
 tainly am : but at least I can reflect — the 
 reflection alone is worth a bottle of Isla 
 whiskey — on temptations avoided and 
 
 good effected. I forgive you, Arthur, for 
 your hard words ; and remain, as I always 
 have been, your best friend." 
 
 Arthur answered little, and that in mono- 
 syllables. He was so much pre-occupied, 
 that the man's prattle dropped unheeded on 
 his ears. 
 
 What was the right thing to do. 
 ' The lawyer heard what Arthur had to 
 say, read the documents carefully, — from 
 time to time casting a furtive glance on 
 Maclntyre, who sat with an air of great 
 dignity, and even virtue, in his counte- 
 nance, and occasionally rubbed his nose. 
 
 " You are the only surviving witness, Mr. 
 Maclntyre ? " 
 
 " I am," returned our Alexander. " That 
 is, the only one, I believe, surviving. ' Flesh 
 is grass.' The priest was younger than 
 myself; but, you see, he is gone first. 
 Adolphe might be found, perhaps, though 
 I think he is dead too." 
 
 " It is now twenty-seven years since this 
 marriage, according to your certificate, was 
 contracted. Would you kindly tell us more 
 about it?." 
 
 " With pleasure. It took place in Mr. 
 Durnford's own house at Fontainebleau, in 
 the dining-room. You remember our les- 
 sons, — ' those delightful lessons, — which 
 used to take place in the dining-room, Ar- 
 thur ? It's vera sweet to recall old days. 
 It was in the evening. Marie left her 
 mistress's house in the afternoon. No one 
 knew where she had gone except myself. 
 I helped her to escape." 
 
 " Oh 1 " said the lawyer, " you acted as 
 — as the uncle of Cressida. It was a 
 creditable position for you to occupy." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Maclntyre, with all 
 that was left of his power of blushing 
 mantling to his nose, — " perhaps. The 
 necessities of the stomach have on several 
 occasions obliged me to take part in ac- 
 tions of which my conscience disapproved. 
 The needy man has no choice. I approve 
 the better cause, even when fate, armed 
 with the weapon of hunger, has obliged me 
 to follow the worse. In the words of the 
 Latin poet, — I hope, sir, you have not en- 
 tirely neglected the humanities, — ' Dum 
 meliora probo ' " — 
 
 " My dear sir," interrupted the lawyer, 
 " pray get on with your story." 
 
 " Marie required a good deal of persuad- 
 ing," he went on, gaining courage as he 
 began to unfold his web of fiction. " Mr. 
 Durnford, a young man at the time, had 
 conceived a violent passion for her. She 
 was as white as a European, and had no 
 marks at all of her descent, except her full 
 black hair. Her mother, indeed, was a 
 mulatto ; and perhaps her father was a 
 white man, — I don't know. On the even- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 117 
 
 ing when I drove her over to Fontaine- 
 bleau, I had got Father O'Callinan to ride 
 up in the afternoon. He knew what he 
 was to do. It was promised to Marie ; and 
 there in the sitting-room, with myself alid 
 Adolphe, a half-blood brother of Marie, 
 who was sworn .to secrecy, the marriage 
 was performed, and these papers signed. 
 A year and a half later, after her boy was 
 born, Marie went away to Europe, and Mr. 
 Durnford married Mademoiselle Adrienne 
 de Rosnay." 
 
 " And pray how did the papers come 
 into your hands ? " 
 
 Maolntyre for a moment hesitated, and 
 a violent effusion of red mounted to his 
 nose. 
 
 " After the death of Mr. Durhford, I went 
 through his papers." 
 
 " As a legally appointed agent ? " 
 
 "No. As a confidential friend of the 
 family, in which I had been a tutor for 
 many years," said Maclntyre. 
 
 " In other words, you ransacked my 
 father's desk ? " asked Arthur. 
 
 " Do not put an injurious construction 
 on the proceeding," said Maclntyre. " I 
 searched the drawers for some papers of 
 my own, and found not only my own pri- 
 vate documents, but also these letters." 
 
 " Oh 1 " said the lawyer. " Dear me ! 
 Would you be good enough to step outside ? 
 Stay, though, what has become of — of — 
 Marie ? " 
 
 " She went to Europe, and was lost sight 
 of. I suppose she died." 
 
 " Thank you," said the lawyer, opening 
 the door. " You will find the papers in 
 the next room. Mr. Thompson, pray give 
 this gentleman ' The Times.' Now, TMr. 
 Durnford, this is an ugly case. Tell me 
 what you know of this man." 
 
 Arthur told him every thing. 
 
 " He is evidently a rogue. And I be- 
 lieve that the whole thing is a forgery. 
 Do you know your father's hand-writ- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Yes : the letters are his." 
 
 " Well, well, it may be. Still, observe 
 that in the only place where the word 
 Marie occurs, the writing looks to me un- 
 certain, and the word laps over beyond the 
 line. It may possibly have been put in 
 afterwards. Are you siu?e that the dates 
 are in the same writing as the letters ? " 
 
 ." They look so. Besides, there is the 
 church register." 
 
 " Registers liave been tampered with, es- 
 pecially in novels. But what does the man 
 mean by it all : the secrecy for ten years, 
 — the suddenness of the revelation ? What 
 does he get for Uf" 
 
 " Philip, I am sure, would not pay for 
 his secret. 
 
 " Humph ! I don't know. The church 
 register is the only thing to fear. Fight it, 
 Mr. Durnford." 
 
 " It is not the winning or losing," Arthur 
 replied. "That seems the least part of 
 it." 
 
 The lawyer stared at him. 
 
 " To Philip it means legitimacy. He 
 must fight." 
 
 " My dear sir, it may also mean legiti- 
 macy to you." 
 
 " 1 think not. I am quite sure that my 
 father would not have married a second 
 time, except with the clearest proof of his 
 first wife's- death. That is to me a convic- 
 tion. I have nothing to fear on that ground. 
 But there is another thing. How can I 
 drag my father's life and character into 
 open court ? " 
 
 " Would you sacrifice every thing for the 
 mere sake of hiding scandals five and 
 twenty years old ? " 
 
 " If they are my father s — yes." 
 
 " Well, well — let us see." 
 
 He went into the outer office, and re- 
 quested permission to see the papers again, 
 holding them up to the light to see the 
 water-mark. Mr. Maclntyre watched him 
 steadily, with a twinkle in his eye distinctly 
 resembling a wink. The lawyer returned 
 the papers, and went back. 
 
 " He's a crafty rascal, at least. The 
 water-marks are all right. Mr. Durnford, 
 there is villany in it. Do nothing rashly." 
 
 " Philip will press on the case. I only 
 begin now to understand what it may mean 
 to him — what the past has been for him. 
 I shall not fight with my brother." 
 
 " You will acknowledge every thing? " 
 
 "No," said Arthur, straightening him 
 self; as one who is doing a strong thing, " I 
 shall hide every thing. I may be a coward; 
 but I wilt not have my father's name hawked 
 about in public, and the story of his youth 
 
 — and — and — perhaps his sins, told to 
 the whole world. Let Philip have all the 
 money. I retire. Let Philip have all the 
 money. I shall not starve, I dare say." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense. As your lawyer, 
 I protest against it. My dear sir, the time 
 for Qciixotism has passed away. People 
 will ask questions too. What will you 
 say ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Let them ask what they 
 please. The secret is mine — and Philip's 
 
 — and this man's. Not one of us will speak 
 of it." 
 
 " As for Mr. Maclntyre, certainly not — 
 provided his silence is bought. Will your 
 brother buy it?" 
 
 " I shall not ask. I should excuse him 
 if he did." 
 
 " Take advice, Mr. Durnford, take ad- 
 vice." 
 
118 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " I will take advice. I will put the whole 
 facts into the hands of a third person, and 
 be guided by the counsel I get from her." 
 
 " If it is a lady," the lawyer returned, 
 laughing, " I give you up. But come and 
 see me to-morrow." 
 
 Arthur went out by the private door, 
 forgetting all about Mr. Maclntyre, who 
 still sat behind " The Times," waiting. The 
 time passed on — an hour or two — before 
 the lawyer came again into the outer office. 
 Perhaps he kept his man waiting on pur- 
 pose, after the sweet and gentle practice 
 of a Bismarck, " letting him cook in his own 
 juice." 
 
 " What 1 — you there still, Mr. Macln- 
 tyre ? I thought you gone long ago, with 
 Mr. Durnford. Come in again, — come and 
 have a glass of sherry. Now, then, sit 
 down, — sit down. We are men of business 
 here, and shall soon understand each other. 
 You -^ill find that, Mr. Maclntyre, if you 
 are a judge of sherry ; and I have no doubt 
 you are a v.ery excellent judge" — 
 
 " Pretty well — pretty well. I am bet- 
 ter at whiskey." 
 
 " Aha I very good — very good, indeed. 
 Reminds me of a thing I once heard said. 
 But never mind now ; let me give you an- 
 other glass. Dry, you observe, but gener- 
 ous. A fat wine. A wine with bone and 
 muscle. I knew you'd like it." He sat 
 down opposite his visitor, clapped him on 
 the knee, and laughed. " And now let tis 
 talk about this affair which you have been 
 the means of bringing to light." 
 
 " Under Providence." 
 
 " Quite so. Under Providence, as you 
 say. You know, I feel for Arthur Durn- 
 fbrd's position in this case." 
 
 " I am but an instrument," said Macln- 
 tyre, with a solemn face and another pull 
 at the sherry — " a vera humble instrument. 
 But life is so. The moral philosopher has 
 often called attention to the curious way in 
 which our sins become pitfalls for our chil- 
 dren. I could give you some striking pas- 
 sages indirectly bearing upon the point 
 from Stewart and Eeid. But perhaps, 
 Mr. — I forget your name — you are not a 
 parent ? " 
 
 " He crossed his legs, and brought the 
 tips of his fingers together. 
 ^ " Another time, my dear sir, another 
 time. By the way, is it not rather unusual 
 for an Englishman to marry a mulatto V " 
 
 " Most unusual. Nothing ever surprised 
 me so much. I have often obsairved, in 
 my progress through life, that " — 
 
 "Yes. The circumstance will tell in 
 court." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre visibly started. 
 
 " You will go into court ? " 
 
 •' Doubtless," returned the lawyer, watch- 
 
 ing his man, in whom, however, he saw 
 no other sign of emotion. "Doubtless — 
 your own evidence will be the main chain, 
 so to speak. I hope you don't mind cross- 
 examination." 
 
 " When a medicine, however disagree- 
 able, has to be taken, it (must be taken." 
 
 " Quite so. They will probably inquire 
 into all your antecedents — eh ? — ask you 
 all sorts of impudent questions — ha I ha ! 
 Whether you ever got into trouble ? We, 
 the lawyers for our side, will make it our 
 business to hunt up every thing about you." 
 
 " What trouble ? " 
 
 " Into the hands of the law, you know 
 
 — eh ? Oh, most absurd, I assure you I I 
 remember a similar case to this, when the 
 principal witness was obliged to confess 
 that he had solfl his information. The 
 case was lost, sir — lost by that simple fact. 
 Now, you see, what an ass that man was ! 
 Had he gone to the lawyers on the other 
 side, a respectable firm like ours, — h^^d he 
 come to me, for instance, in a friendly way, 
 and said ' My dear sir, I have certain pa- 
 pers — I am a needy man. There they 
 are. We are men of the world.' Had he, 
 in fact, behaved as a man of sense, he would 
 have been, sir — for in losing the case he 
 lost his reward — he would have been" 
 
 — here the speaker looked sharply in the 
 face of Mr. Maclntyre — "a thousand 
 pounds in pocket." 
 
 He remained stolid — only helping him- 
 self to another glass of wine. 
 
 " Very good thing, Mr. — really, I have 
 not caught your name." 
 
 "Never mind, sir — never mind my 
 name. It is on the door-plate, if you wish 
 to read it. But your opinion now as td 
 my man's stupidity ? " 
 
 " Well, you see — it may be, after all, a 
 question of degree. I am myself induced 
 to' think, that, if you had offered him ten 
 thousand, he might have accepted. Money 
 down, of course." 
 
 The cool audacity of this indirect pro- 
 posal staggered the lawyer. He put ' the 
 stopper in the decanter of sherry,, and rose. 
 
 " I should like to see you again, Mr. 
 Maclntyre." 
 
 " Mx. Arthur has gone to see Philip. 
 Do you know Arthur Durnford, sir ? " 
 
 " I believe I do." 
 
 "Not so well as I do. I will tell you 
 something about him. He is ready to do 
 any thing that he thinks honorable, even 
 to strip himself to the last shilling ; and he. 
 is jealous that no word should be breathed 
 against his father. He is now gone to 
 consult Miss Madeleine. I know what 
 her advice will be." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " And do you know Philip ? No — not 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 119 
 
 so well as I do. I left; him a ruined man. 
 That you know, perhaps. He will do any 
 thing for money when it is wanted to save 
 his honor. He wants it now for that pur- 
 pose. And he would do any thing in the 
 whole world to remove the stain of illegit- 
 imacy and black blood. The latter is im- 
 possible The former can now be arranged. 
 Ten thousand pounds, sir? Good heavens ! 
 If an estate is worth more than four thou- 
 sand a year, and if you have got three 
 times ten thousand accumulated — Do you 
 know the story of the Sibyl, Mr. — really, 
 I forget your name. Never mind. You 
 remember the story, sir ? Probably you 
 had some humanities when you were a boy. 
 She came back, sir, again and again ; and 
 the third time her price was three times 
 that of her first." 
 
 " la point of fact, Mr. Maclntyre, you 
 want to sell ypur information for ten thou- 
 sand pounds. It is a disgraceful " — 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre started, and opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 " The absence of the reasoning faculty 
 in England is vera wonderful. Man! I 
 was talking of general principles. I was 
 giving you my opeenion on the creature 
 that would not sell his information. I 
 would have you to know, sir,' that I am 
 not in the habit of selling any thing. I am 
 a Master of Arts, sir, of an ancient and 
 honorable Univairsity — the Dnivairsity 
 of Aberdeen. And I wish ye good-morn- 
 ing, sir." 
 
 He put on his hat, and stalked away 
 with dignitv. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Arthur went to Madeleine for advice, 
 being one of those- who, when they have 
 made up their minds to a line of action, 
 are not satisfied without being fortified in 
 their design by their friends. 
 
 He called after dinner, and found the 
 two ladies alone, — Mrs. Longworthy asleep, 
 and Madeleine reading. 
 
 " Coming in here," he said, in a low 
 voice, " is like coming into a haven of re- 
 pose. You are always peaceful." 
 
 " Yes, — a woman's conflicts are below 
 the surface mostly. And my own troubles 
 lie two miles away, as you know. When 
 are you really going to make up your mind 
 to come and help us ? " 
 
 " Wliat am 1 to do ? Teach science 
 again ? " 
 
 " No ; lecture, start clubs, give concerts 
 — you play very well — write tracts, do all 
 sorts of things that will help the people to 
 raise themselves." , 
 
 " I am afraid I should not do for it, Mar 
 deleine. But I will try to join you. Only 
 first give me your advice on a very serious 
 matter." 
 
 He told his story. 
 
 " Your father married to a mulatto girl ? 
 Arthur, it is impossible." 
 
 " So I should have said ; but it seems 
 true. There are the certificates of mar- 
 riage, duly signed and attested. And not 
 by the man Maclntyre himself — or we 
 might suspect them — but by a legal firm 
 of Palmiste. You know them. There can 
 be no douht whatever. And Philip is my 
 brother." 
 
 " I always knew it," murmured Mrs. 
 Longworthy, waking up to enjoy her lazy 
 triumph. "I told you, Arthur, that your 
 father had no brothers." 
 
 " I suppose," Arthur continued, " that by 
 some accident this mulatto girl, my father's 
 first wife, died early, and that on hearing 
 of her death my father married again. 
 But Maclntyre knows nothing of this : he 
 only knows that Marie — we will go on 
 calling her Marie — went away to Eng- 
 land. ' 
 
 " And the result of the whole V " 
 " Would be, if the claim were substanti- 
 ated, that I have nothing : I am a beggar. 
 All the estate, and all the accumulations, 
 go to Philip." 
 
 " Have you seen Philip ? " 
 " Not yet. 1 shall go and see him in the 
 morning. I have not seen him for more 
 than four months. You know, we were 
 thr^e months in Italy ; but I have heard 
 one or two stories about him. I am afraid 
 he has lost money betting." 
 " What are you going to do ? " 
 " The lawyer says fight. What ought I 
 to do, Madeleine ? " 
 
 " Fighting means further exposure of old 
 scandals, and raking up private histories 
 which may as well be left buried. Is there 
 no middle way ? " 
 
 " None. Either he is the rightful heir, or 
 I am. To Phil it means not only fortune, 
 but also legitimacy. I know now — I have 
 known for sonae little time — what it is 
 that has made Phil what he is. It is not 
 the love of that fast life to which he be- 
 longs, so much as his constant sense of his 
 birth, and the tinge of the black blood. 
 Can you not understand it, Madeleine ? " 
 
 " But if the certificates are correct, and 
 not forgeries, there can be no doubt what- 
 ever of the thing." 
 
 " There can be none, — Philip is the 
 heir." 
 
 They were silent for a while, Mrs. Long- 
 worthy only giving to- the group that feel- 
 ing of repose which is caused by the long 
 breathing of one who slumbers. 
 
20 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " If it will make you work, Arthur, whis- 
 ired Madeleine, " it will be a good thing 
 r you. Let it go, my friend ; let your 
 ■other take it, and raise no further ques- 
 3ns about your father's private history. 
 
 may be all a forgery, put together by 
 lat creature, your Scotch tutor ; only be 
 iry sure that Philip knows nothing about it. 
 o out into the world, and work with other 
 en. It will be better for you. Or come 
 id work with me." 
 
 " That is impossible, Madeleine," he 
 hispered, — " except on one condition." 
 
 She flushed scarlet for a moment, and 
 len she answered directly, and to the 
 Dint. 
 
 " I know what your condition is. We 
 ive known each other so long, Arthur, 
 lat I am afraid." 
 
 " What are you afraid of? " 
 
 " I am afraid that our old brother and 
 ster feeling may be all that you can have 
 ir me." 
 
 " Listen a moment, Madeleine. When I 
 iw you first, — I mean six months ago, — I 
 as afraid of you. You were so queenly, 
 ) beautiful, so unlike the child I loved so 
 lany years ago. When I came here day 
 Fter day, and found you always the same, 
 - always kind, thoughtful, sisterly, — the 
 A feelin_^ arose again, and I felt once more 
 lat, as of old, we were brother and sister ; 
 ut when I was with you abroad, when we 
 ere together every day and all day, that 
 jeling died away again, and another has 
 wung up in its place. Madeleine, I can- 
 ot work with you as you wished, because 
 love you. If you were another girl, if I 
 id not know you so well, I should make 
 ne speeches about coming to you as a beg- 
 ar, now that I have lost all my money ; 
 ut you do not want these. Let me go, or 
 id me stay ; but, Madeleine, whatever you 
 0, do not let me lose your friendship." 
 
 " You are sure you love me, Arthur," she 
 mrmered between lier lips, — her eyes 
 jftened, her cheeks glowing. 
 
 " Am I sure ? Do you know that I have 
 prung into new being since I found I loved 
 ou? My blood 'flows faster, my life 
 as quickened. I can feel, I can liope. 
 ladeleine, I can work. Before, what was 
 ly very existence ? It was life without 
 fe, light without sunshine, work without a 
 urpose, days that brought neither hope 
 or regret. Do I love you, Madeleine ? " 
 
 " Then, Arthur," she whispered, leaning 
 jrward so that her lips met his, " 1 have 
 Iways loved you. Take me, I am alto- 
 ;ether yours." 
 
 It was then that Mrs. Longworthy showed 
 lie real goodness of her heart. She had 
 leen awake for some moments, and was 
 aking in the situation with all her eyes. 
 
 Now she rose, and, gathering her skirts 
 round her, she swept slowly out of the 
 room, remarking as she went, — 
 
 " You will find ' me in the dining-room, 
 my dears, as soon as you have done talk- 
 ing." 
 
 They sat and talked together, hand in 
 hand, of the life that they would lead, of 
 the perfect confidence there should be be- 
 tween them, of all high and sweet things 
 that a man can only tell to a woman. . 
 Young fellows whisper to each other some- 
 thing of their inner life, — it can only be 
 done between eighteen and twenty-two, — 
 and ever after there is a bond of union be- 
 tween them that is always felt, if not ac- 
 knowledged. Sometimes, too, at night, on 
 the deck of a ship, when the moonlight is 
 broken into ten thousand fragments in the 
 white track, and the stars are gazing sol- 
 emnly at us with their wide and pitying 
 eyes, men may lay bare the secrets of their 
 soul. One of the many whom I have 
 known — he is ten thousand miles from 
 here — in my wanderings abroad — I spent 
 six months beneath the same roof with him 
 — was wont to rise at dead of night, and 
 pace the veranda for an hour or two. If 
 you heard him, and got up to join him, he 
 would talk to you. The memory of his talk 
 is with me still. I remembered it in the 
 morning, but he did not. Which was the 
 real man, which was the false, I never 
 knew. One lived by day, and one by 
 night. I think the man of the night — he 
 who showed me his thoughts — was the 
 true man. He is the one whom I love to 
 recall. 
 
 While they talked, Mrs. Longworthy 
 slumbered by the table in the dining-room. 
 
 Outside, Laura was wandering in the 
 cold and pitiless streets. 
 
 At the house at Notting Hill, Philip and 
 Maclntyre were drinking together, — Philip 
 to drown his excitement, which had abso- 
 lutely driven Laura, for the time, out of his 
 head ; Mr. Maclntyre, to drown his anxi- 
 ety. Ifhe lost this stake 1 But it looked 
 like winning. 
 
 Between the two were a couple of cham- 
 pagne hottles, empty. At stroke of ten, 
 Maclntyre rang the bell for tumblers. At 
 twelve, Philip went to bed too drunk to 
 speak. At one, Mr. Maclntyre fell prone 
 upon the hearth-rug, and slumbered there. 
 In the morning, at seven, he awoke, and, 
 findinw where he was, got up, rubbed hjs 
 nose thoughtfully, and went home to Kep- 
 pel Street. 
 
 " It's wonderfu'," he remarked when he 
 got back to his lodgings, and sat down to 
 breakfast, " what a restorer is the morn- 
 ing air. When I go down to Scotland I 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 121 
 
 shall always get up early, to shake oflf" the 
 whiskey of tie night. Elizabeth, my las- 
 sie, I think you may bring me another 
 rasher of bacon." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I GOT this address of yours from Mao- 
 Intyre," said Arthur, calling on Philip at 
 midday. " Why have you been hiding 
 away so long ? " ' 
 
 " There has been no hiding," said Philip, 
 half sullenly. 
 
 Then both men paused, thinking of 
 the words that were to be spoken between 
 them. 
 
 Arthur was the first to speak. 
 
 " Of course you know what Maclntyre 
 came to tell me," 
 
 " Of course I know it." 
 
 " Whatever happens, Philip, let us be 
 friends still. If it is clear that niy father 
 married — was married — before he mar- 
 ried my mother, there is nothing more to 
 be said." 
 
 Both flushed scarlet. 
 
 " You see, Arthur, I have known since I 
 was fifteen years old, — no matter how, — 
 that I am your half-brother. This ques- 
 tion is more to me than property. It is 
 legitimacy." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " But , go by what your lawyer advises. 
 Let us make a legal question of it all." 
 
 " My lawyer says fight." 
 
 « Then fight." 
 
 " Fighting means bringing the private 
 life of our father into public, making known 
 things that ought not to be revealed. I 
 think I cannot fight, Phil." 
 
 " But I munt, Arthur." 
 
 " Yes, and I must give way. After all, 
 Phil, it matters very little to me, so far as 
 the money goes. I shall have to work ; 
 but T am a man of very simple habits. 
 You will make a better planter than I. 
 You will go out, and do great things for 
 Palmiste." 
 
 " Not I. I fight for my legitimacy. I 
 shall doi no great things, either here or in 
 Palmiste." 
 
 " Let me tell you about the property, 
 Phil. No, — it is best that you should 
 know. It is a very good property. In 
 ordinary years, when there is no hurri- 
 cane, it is worth more than four thousand 
 pounds a year. I do not spend one-fourth 
 of that amount. There are consequently 
 large accumulations. I should think I am 
 worth thirty thousand pounds, — that is 
 you are worth." 
 
 " It is not the value of the oroperty " — 
 
 " I know. Still you ought to learn all 
 that is at stake. This is yours. I surren- 
 der it all, rather than go to law over our 
 father's grave." 
 
 " I must prove my legitimate birth, if I 
 can, Arthur. Think of it. Think what it 
 is to me, who have all along been weighted 
 with my birth, to be made free, — free and 
 equal to all other men." 
 
 " I do think of it. I think a great deal 
 of it If I were ini your place, nothing 
 should persuade me to forego the chance 
 of setting this right. Still,! believe you 
 have always exaggerated the importance 
 of the point." 
 " It may be so. I do not think so." 
 " And now, Phil, let us talk it over com- 
 pletely. I am in your hands. The whole 
 estate will be yours as soon as the trans- 
 fer can be made ; but you will not let me 
 go quite empty-handed 1 " 
 
 " Good heavens, — no I " cried Philip. 
 " I believe you are the most chivalrous 
 man in the world. Empty-handed ! no : 
 take what you will." 
 
 " Give me what yoU have yourself, and 
 I shall be content." 
 
 " You mean what I had, I suppose. 
 Make it double, Arthur, and I shall be con- 
 tent, — content in a way. How is any 
 man to be contented who has the slave 
 blood in his veins Y Look here." He 
 pulled his short, curly black hair. " This 
 comes from the negro wool. And look 
 here." He held out his hand. "Do you 
 see the blue below the nails ? That comes 
 from the negro blood. And look at my 
 eyes. Do you see the black streak be- 
 neath them ? Negro blood, I tell you. 
 And generation after generation may pass, 
 but these marks never pass away. My 
 face, at least, is like my father's. I am 
 more like him than you are, Arthur." 
 
 " You are too sensitive, Phil. Do you 
 really seriously think the old prejudices 
 are founded in reason ? Do you imagine 
 that you are the least worse for having 
 this little admixture of race in your 
 blood ? " 
 
 " I do," said his brother. " I know that 
 I am worse. I feel it. When white men 
 are calm, I am excited. When they are 
 careless about their superiority, I am anx- 
 ious to assert mine. When they are self- 
 possessed, I am self-conscious. When they 
 are at ease, I am vain. I know my faults. 
 I can do things as well as any man, but I 
 can do nothing as well as some men. That 
 is the curse of the mulatto, the octoroon, 
 or whatever you call him. Unstable as 
 water, we never excel. So far we are like 
 Judah, the son of Jacob, founder, you know, 
 of the celebrated tribe of that name." 
 They were silent for a whUe. 
 
122 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Even now I have made myself a great- 
 er fool, a greater ass, than you would con- 
 ceive possible. If ever you hear stories 
 about me, Arthur, — by Jove, you are sure 
 to hear them ! " — he suddenly remem- 
 bered Venn, and his friendship with Ar- 
 thur, — " think that I am more than sorry ; 
 not repentant, because I do not see any 
 good in repentance. Milk that is spilt, 
 eggs that are broken, money that is spent, 
 sins that are committed, are so many faits 
 accomplis.^ Well, never mind. Let us re- 
 turn to' business. You will take the accu- 
 mulated funds." 
 
 " No : I will lake ten thousand pounds, 
 and I shall be rich." 
 
 " Have what you like. And now take 
 me to your lawyer's, and let us tell him 
 what we are going to do ; and if at any 
 moment, Arthur, either now or hereafter, 
 you wish to rescind your transfer, you shall 
 do it, and we will fight. By gad, the prod- 
 igal son always gets the best of it I The 
 good man toils and moils, and gets noth- 
 ing. Then,' you see, the scapegrace comes 
 home. Quick, the iiitted ealt; — kill, cook, 
 light the fire, 'inake the stuffing, roast the 
 veal, broach the cask, and spread the 
 feast." 
 
 So he passed, in his light way, from re- 
 pentance to cynicism, happy at heart in 
 one thing, — that now he could face his 
 creditors and meet his engagements. 
 
 It was a week after this that Maelntyre, 
 who had been calling every day at the 
 Burleigh Club, and at Netting Hill, — 
 being a prey to the most gnawing anxie- 
 ties he had ever known, — at last ibiind 
 Philip at home. 
 
 He was greeted with a shout of laughter, 
 — not, -it istrue, of that kind which we are 
 accustomed to associate with the mirth of 
 innocence. Perhaps Philip's joyousness 
 had something in it of the Sardinian char- 
 acter. 
 
 " Come, Prince of Evil Devices, and re- 
 ceive your due." 
 
 " You are pleased to be facetious," ob- 
 served Maelntyre. 
 
 " Haven't I a right to be facetious? Do 
 not I owe it to you that I have got rid of a 
 wife, and come into a fortune ? Sit down, 
 man, and let us have a reckoning. My en- 
 gagements are met. It is all settled. Ar- 
 thur retires, and the heir-at-law steps in. 
 Rid of a wife, — with dishonor saved, and 
 honor gained, — what do I owe you? 
 Five thousand is too^paltry a sum to speak 
 of." 
 
 Maelntyre turned perfectly white, and 
 shivered from head to foot. 
 
 "The papers are signed, — the transfer 
 is completed. 1 am in possession of the es- 
 tate of Fontainebleau and fifteen thousand 
 
 pounds in stocks. It is your doing, Mae- 
 lntyre. You shall have the money bar- 
 gained for. Give me up the agreement." 
 
 He took it from his pocket, and- handed 
 it over, with trembling hands. He was 
 unable to speak, for very astonishment. 
 He grew faint, and staggered against the 
 table. 
 
 Phil caught him by the arm. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, man ? Will 
 you have some brandy ? " 
 
 " Not now, Phil, — not now. Let me 
 sit down a moment, and recover myself" 
 Presently he started up again.- 
 
 " Now," he cried, — " at once ; let me 
 have no delay. The money, Phil, — the 
 money . Let me liandle- it. Ah I At last, 
 
 — at last I I have been anxious, Phil. 
 I was afraid that there was some link miss- 
 ing, — some possible doubt ; but it is all 
 rio-ht. I have won the prize I worked 
 for." 
 
 " You have won the compensation you 
 were talking about the other night." 
 
 "Yes," said the philosopher, — "the 
 compensation, — ah, yes, the compensa- 
 tion I It has come." 
 
 " And without any of the little hankey- 
 pankey that the world has agreed to oon- 
 •demn, — isn't that so ? " > 
 
 " Surely, — surely I " 
 
 He looked at Philip with steady eyes, 
 but shaky lips. 
 
 " A righteous man, you know, never 
 begs his bread." 
 
 " I've begged mine, like the unrighteous 
 
 — or next door to it. The next door to 
 it, may be, was not included in the text." 
 
 " Obviously, the inference is that you 
 are a righteous man. But, come, — one 
 word of .explanation first. You know 
 when I met you in the street ? " 
 
 " As if I shall ever forget the time." 
 
 " You had those papers in your pocket 
 then?"' 
 
 " They have never left me since I took 
 them away from Palmiste." 
 
 " Why did you not produce them at 
 once ? " 
 
 " Because the risk was too great. I want- 
 ed to sell them. I wanted to see how you 
 would take the chance. It was one I could 
 not afford to risk. When I saw you going 
 down hill, I knew that I had only to wait 
 for the end. Every thing helped, me. You 
 became more and more involved. I be- 
 came more and more certain ; but it was 
 not till the very end that I dared bring 
 them but." 
 
 " And then you thought you could win ? " 
 
 " I did. I knew that under the cloud of 
 misfortunes any of the old misplaced gener- 
 osity to your milksop of a brother would be 
 finally put away and done with, and that 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 123 
 
 the lure — legitimacy and a fortune — 
 ■would be too much for you to withstand. 
 1 rejoiced, Philip — I rejoiced." 
 
 Philip was silent. By all the rules he 
 should have kicked this man then and there. 
 But he was accustomed to the calculating 
 and unscrupulous ways of the creature. 
 Besides, he half liked him. The very 
 openness of his wickedness was a kind of 
 charm. It was only one more confession, — 
 a confession already more than half made. 
 
 " You have won, then. Let that be 
 your consolation. And now tell me, Mao- 
 Intyre. Swear by all that you hold sacred, 
 — Stay, is there any thing you hold 
 sacred ? " 
 
 " Money — I will swear by money. Or 
 drink — I will swear by drink." 
 
 " Sw^ar, then, anyhow, that you will tell 
 me the truth. Did my father write those 
 letters ? " 
 
 " He did, Philip — I swear it. lie did, 
 indeed." 
 
 Only the smallest suppressio veri, — only 
 the dates that were added long afterwards 
 by himself. 
 
 " And the marriage. Is that register 
 really in the church book ? " 
 
 " I swear it is there. Did you not see the 
 attestation of the Palmiste lawyers V It i's 
 really there ! " 
 
 So it was. He might have added, to 
 complete the truth of the attestation, that 
 he had himself placed it there. 
 
 " Then I am the lawful heir. I have not 
 defrauded Arthur." 
 
 " You have not. What does Arthur get 
 out of it ? " 
 
 " Ten thousand." 
 
 ■' And vera handsome too. Double of 
 my share. Arthur has done well. Now 
 give me my money, Phil." 
 
 Philip gave him a bank pass-book. 
 
 " I have paid into your account at this' 
 bank the sum of five thousand pounds, — 
 you can see the note of the amount. Here 
 is your check-book. Go, now, man, and 
 be happy in your own way." 
 
 " Yes, I will go. You are a rich man. I 
 am as rich as I wish to be. My old max- 
 ums will no longer be of any use either to 
 you or me. It pains me only to think that 
 I must not, with my experience, dissemble 
 my convictions and go over to the other 
 side, preaching in future that honesty is the 
 best policy. I may vera likely give lec- 
 tures to show how merit is rewarded, and 
 steady effort always commands success. 
 Steady effort has been, as you know, of 
 great use to me. Industry is the best thing 
 going. We always get what we deserve. 
 Every thing is for the best. Whatever is, is 
 right. The prosperous man goes back to 
 the copy-books for his philosophy, and all 
 
 his reading is thrown away. Now, my ex- 
 perience is the contrary. It is only the 
 clumsy sinners who get punished. The 
 innocent man very often receives the flog- 
 ging. Therein the moral world differs from 
 the natural. For if you run your head 
 against a post, you infallibly get a heai!- 
 ache. He who would be rich must 
 also be cautious. If he can escape 
 detection, he will acquire money, and 
 therefore happiness. My dear pupil, a word 
 of parting advice." 
 
 " No," replied Philip. " Go. I hardly 
 know whether to thank you or to curse ydu. 
 I think I must curse you. You have 
 poisoned the atmosphere of life for me. I 
 have got riches without enjoyment. I can 
 never be happy again, with the memory of 
 the past — your doing." 
 
 "Poor little leddy," sighed Maclntyre. 
 " I'm vera sorry, indeed, for her hard fate. 
 I wish it had never been done. Eh, Phil, 
 — it was an awfu' piece of wickedness " — 
 
 " It was. God forgive us both 1 But it 
 can never be forgiven." 
 
 " I'm vera sorry, Phil. It was a clumsy 
 thing ; but there — we won't talk about 
 it. What was 'it I was telling you some 
 time ago, Phil ? The poor man never re- 
 pents, — it is only the rich. See, now — 
 I am rich, and I begin to repent at once. 
 Eh, man, it is a terrible time I have before 
 me ! There's just an awfu' heap to repent 
 for; and pocket handkerchiefs, too, very 
 expensive. As soon as I get settled, I shall 
 begin. But where ? Phil, I think I shall 
 work backwards. It will come easier so. 
 Obsairve. He who tackles his worst foe at 
 once has little to fear from the rest. The 
 drink, and the troubles at Sydney, — all 
 these things are venial. But the lassie, 
 Phil, the lassie, — I must begin my repent- 
 ance with the lassie!" 
 
 " You will never begin your repentance 
 at all. You will go on getting drunk till 
 you die." 
 
 "Philip Durnford," returned Mr. Mac- 
 lntyre magisterially, " You pain me. After 
 an acquaintance of nearly twenty years — 
 after all the maxums 1 have taught you, 
 and the corpus of oreeginal and borrowed 
 philosophy that I have compiled and di- 
 gested for you — to think that you could 
 say a thing like that. Know, sir, once for all, 
 that the man at ease with fortune never 
 drinks, save in moderation. The philos- , 
 opher gets drunk when his cares become 
 too much for him. He changes his world 
 when the present is intolerable. Some 
 poor creatures commit suicide. The true 
 philosopher drinks. He alone is unhappy 
 who has not the means of gettinw drunk. 
 When I was between the boards, I am not 
 ashamed to confess, I used to save two- 
 
124 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 pence a day. That made a shilling a weet. 
 With that I was able to get drunk on 
 Sunday, by taking two pennyworths of gin 
 and porter in alternate swigs. And that is 
 all over. Philip, my pupil, I shall go away. 
 I shall go back to Scotland, among my own 
 people, as an elder of the kirk, which I in- 
 tend to be. I shall set an example of 
 rigid doctrine, Sabbatarian strictness, and 
 stern morality. After a', it is good for the 
 vulgus — the common herd — to be kept to 
 strict rules. But drink — no sir. Intox- 
 ication and Alexander Maclntyre have 
 parted company. I'm far from saying that 
 I shall not take my glass whiles — the twal' 
 hoor, especially, — that is but natural ; but 
 intemperance ! sir, the thought degrades 
 me." 
 
 He buttoned up his coat, and put on his 
 hat. 
 
 " Farewell, Philip ! you will never see 
 me again. As for that poor young thing '' — 
 
 " Do not provoke me too much," said 
 Philip, growing pale. 
 
 " I was only going to say, that, if you can 
 take her back, it is ypur duty. I'm vera 
 sorry. She was bonnie, she was kind, she 
 was douce, she was faithful. Ah 1 Phil, 
 Phil ! it is a terrible thing to think of — 
 the wickedness of the world ! I must go 
 away at once, and begin my repentance." 
 
 He shook his head from side to side, 
 seized Philip by the hand, and disappeared. 
 
 And this was the last that Philip Durn- 
 ford ever saw of his old tutor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " Leaving the house, poor little Lollie 
 walked quickly away into the dark Novem- 
 ber mist, and down the road. She had no 
 purpose ; for as yet she had but one 
 thought to get away, — to see the last of a 
 house which had witnessed her shame and 
 suffering ; to take herself somewhere — it 
 mattered not where — till the dull, dead 
 pain in her brow would go away, and she 
 should feel again able to see things clearly, 
 — able to go to Mr. Venn, and tell him all. 
 As she went along the streets, and passed 
 the lighted shops, it seemed that every 
 woman shunned her, or looked at her in 
 contempt, and every man stared. In all 
 the passers-by she detected the glance of 
 scorn. The very beggars did not ask her 
 for alms ; the crossing-sweepers allowed her 
 to pass unnoticed. 
 
 It was only two o'clock, and she had 
 more than two hours of daylight before 
 her. She pulled down her veil, and walked 
 on, her fingers interlaced, like a suppliant's, 
 
 feeling for the lost wedding-ring. She 
 passed down the long Edgware Road, 
 which seemed to have no end, and where 
 the noise of the cabs nearly drove her 
 mad. At last she came to the Park, where 
 the comparative quiet soothed her nerves ; 
 but she walked on, and presently found 
 herself in Piccadilly. She hurried across 
 the road here, and got into the Green 
 Park, which was even quieter and more 
 deserted than the other. And so at last 
 into St. James's, the best of the three, 
 beyond which arose the intolerable noise 
 and tumult of the streets. She sat down 
 on one of the benches. It was the very 
 same bench where she had once sat with 
 Philip, talking over the meaning of love 
 and marriage. Alas I she knew by this 
 time what one might mean, but not the 
 other. For as she sat alone, and the early 
 evening closed round her, she felt how, 
 through all, her marriage was but a mock- 
 ery of every thing, — of love,' because she 
 never loved him ; of a real ceremony, be- 
 cause the man was no clergyman. How 
 there was no religion in what she had 
 done, no duty, no prudence, — nothing 
 but a vain and ignorant desire to please 
 her guardian. And, after all, he had 
 turned her off. 
 
 But as yet she could think of nothing 
 clearly. , 
 
 Two hours since she left him, — only two 
 hours ! — and it seemed an age, aiid the last 
 three months a dream of long ago. And as 
 she tri^ to think, the stream of her thoughts 
 would rush backwards in her head, as if 
 stopped and turned by some sudden dam. 
 
 Big Ben struck four. Presently there 
 came to her a policeman, with hirsute 
 countenance and kindly eyes. 
 
 " The Park gates shut at half-past four, 
 miss. Don't you think you had better not 
 sit any longer under this dripping tree ? " 
 
 She got up at once — submissive. Poor 
 little Lollie, always obedient, always douce. 
 
 " I will go if you like." 
 
 " Hadn't you better go home, miss ? " 
 
 She made no answer, but looked at him 
 sadly for a moment, and then, drawing her 
 veil tighter over her face, went slowly 
 through the gates, and passed through the 
 Horse Guards. In the Strand, the shops 
 were all lit up, and things looked brighter. 
 She went down the street slowly, looking 
 into every window as she passed, trying to 
 think what it was she wanted to buy. 
 Here were chains, gold watches, and silver 
 cups ; and here — what is it makes her 
 heart leap up within her, and her pale 
 cheek glow? — a tray of wedding-rings. 
 She hurried in, she held out her finger to 
 be measured without saying a word, and 
 pointed to the tray. The ring cost her a 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 125 
 
 guinea, and so she had nineteen shillings 
 left. But she came out relieved of a little 
 of the pain that oppressed her, and went 
 on happier, as if something had been re- 
 stored to her. 
 
 It was nearly six when she came to Chan- 
 cery Lane ; and as she saw the old familiar, 
 ugly street once more, a great yearning came 
 over her heart, for was it not the street that 
 leads to Gray's Inn ? • 
 
 " I wijl arise and go unto my father," said 
 the poor prodigal, — say all of us, when sor- 
 row and punishment fall upon us. " I will 
 go to Mr. Venn," thought LoUie. 
 
 She quickened her step, and came to the 
 familiar portals. No one saw her go in. She 
 mounted the stairs — ah, how often had she 
 run up before ! — thinking what she should 
 say. Alas ! when she got there, the outer 
 door was shut, and Mr. Venn was not at 
 home. 
 
 Then her heart fell ; and she burst into 
 low wailings and tears, leaning her cheek 
 against the door, as if that could sympathize 
 with her trouble. It was the hour when 
 every man in Gray's Inn was gone to din- 
 ner, and no one was on the staircase to hear 
 her. 
 
 She might have known, had she reflected. 
 But she could not think. Time had no more 
 any meaning for her. She thbught that Mr. 
 Venn was gone away altogether, and that 
 she had no longer a single friend left in the 
 whole world. So, when the paroxysm of 
 tears, the first she had shed, had passed, 
 she crept down stairs again, and turned 
 aVay to go out at the north gate, by Ray- 
 mond's Buildings. Alas, alas I liad she 
 taken the other turning she would have 
 met Venn himselfj almost as sad as she 
 was, returning home to his desolate cham- 
 bers. 
 
 Seven o'clock, — eight, — nine. The 
 shops are being shut now, and the streets 
 not so crowded. There are not so many 
 carts about, which is good for her nerves ; 
 but the rain is pouring upon her. She is 
 somewhere about Regent's Park — walking, 
 walking still. Tlie rain falls heavily. Her 
 dress is wet through, and clings to her 
 limbs ; but she staggers on mechanically. 
 
 Hartley Venn is in his chambers, sitting 
 over the fire, brooding. 
 
 Philip is drinking, and playing cards. 
 
 Men pass by and speak to her. She does 
 not hear, and takes no notice. 
 
 Twelve o'clock, — one o'clock. The pas- 
 sengers in the street are very few now. 
 
 A rush of many people and of galloping 
 horses. There is a fire, and the cavalcade 
 of rescue runs headlong down the street, 
 followed by a little mob of boys and men. 
 They are always awake, these boys and 
 men, vesMy for plunder. 
 
 Then silence arain. 
 
 Two o'clock. The street is quite empty 
 now. Then from a side street there are 
 loud screams and cries, and a woman 
 rushes into the road with a wild shriek. 
 She passes close to Lollie. Her face is 
 bleeding, her clothes are torn. She waves 
 her arms like some wild Cassandra, as one 
 who prophesies the woe that shall fall upon 
 the city. But it is nothing. Only the wail 
 of despair and misery ; for she is starving, 
 and her husband in a drunken rage has 
 struck her down, and trampled on her. 
 Oh ! brothers and sisters, how we suffer, 
 how we suffer for our sins ! 
 
 Three o'clock. She is in Oxford Street, 
 the stony-hearted. It is quite empty. Not 
 even a policeman in sight. Her eyes are 
 heavy and dim ; her head is burning ; an 
 unnatural strength possesses her limbs ; 
 her shoulders have fallen forward. Is this 
 Hartley Venn's little girl ? This with the 
 bowed head, the draggled dress, the weary 
 gait? O Hartley, could you have seen 
 her then, it would have been bad for Philip 
 and his tutor 1 But Hartley is sound asleep, 
 and so is Philip ; so, too, is Mr. Maclntyre. 
 They are all asleep and comfortable in their 
 beds, and only the tender and delicate girl 
 is wandering about in the night under the 
 rain. 
 
 The city is sleeping. A strange hush has 
 fallen over London. Not the sound of a 
 single wheel, not a footstep. The silence 
 strikes her ; for it seems to have come sud- 
 denly. She lifts her head, and looks round, 
 with a moan of weariness and agony. 
 
 Ailer her there creeps silently, on bare 
 feet, a creature in the semblance of a man. 
 
 He is tall, nearly six feet high, lean and 
 emaciated. His scanty clothes are rags; 
 his trousers are so tight that the sharp 
 bones seem projecting through them. His 
 arms are too long for the ragged sleeves of 
 his tattered coat. Pie has no hat. Ilis face 
 is black with dirt, and wisps of a fortnight's 
 beard are sticking in patches over it. His 
 hair is long and matted. His eyes are 
 sharp. It is the wolf of London, — the 
 wehr-wolf of civilization. In what lair 
 does he crouch all day ? Where does he 
 hide while honest folk are up and doing. 
 
 She does not hear him as his naked feet 
 press close upon her. As he gets nearer, 
 he looks round quickly and furtively, like 
 a beast of prey before he makes his spring. 
 No poUceman is in sight. His long fingers 
 clutch her shoulder, and she feels his quick 
 breath upon her cheek. She starts, and 
 turns with a shriek of terror. 
 
 " Have you got any money 1 " he hisses. 
 " Give it to me, — give it to me quick, or 
 1 will murder you." 
 
 She stared for a moment, and then, un- 
 
126 
 
 MY LITTLE- GIRL. 
 
 derstanding so much, put her hand in her 
 pocket, and drew out her purse. He 
 looked up and down the street, and then, 
 snatching it from her hand, swiftly fled 
 down a court and was lost. 
 
 Then the great, bare streets filled her 
 •with terror, and she turns out of it. Per- 
 haps there are no wolves in the small 
 streets. 
 
 So, presently, she finds herself in Co- 
 vent-garden Market. Light, activity, noise. 
 The early market carts are arriving. She 
 goes under the piazza, and, sitting on a 
 basket, falls fast asleep in the midst of it 
 all. 
 
 She sleeps for nearly two hours. Then 
 she is awakened by a rough but not un- 
 kindly touch of her arm. 
 
 "Come, young woman, I want my 
 basket." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, trying to remem- 
 ber where she was. Two or three people 
 were staring at her. A great red-faced 
 woman among the rest, — a coarse, rough, 
 rude, hard-drinking creature. 
 
 They were speaking to her, but she 
 could not understand. It seemed a dream. 
 
 " Leave her to me," said the woman. 
 " You go about your tjusiness, all of you. 
 I know a lady when I see her. You leave 
 her, all of you, to me. Come, my dear, 
 don't try to say a word. Don't 'eo speak 
 now, or else yo'll begin to cry. Wait a bit 
 
 — wait a bit." 
 
 She put her arms roupd LoUie's waist, 
 and half led half carried her, to a coffee- 
 stall, of which, indeed, she was the pro- 
 prietor. 
 
 " Now, me darlin', sit ye down on my 
 seat, and taste this." 
 
 Laura had eaten nothing since breakfast 
 the preceding day, say eighteen hours. 
 The coffee restored her to a sense of reality, 
 for she had fallen into a state almost of 
 coma. She drank the cup, and handed it 
 back to her new friend. 
 
 " Now, my dear, another, and a hit of 
 bread and butter. Don't 'ee say a word, 
 now, or ye'U begin to cry." 
 
 She took a little bread and butter ; and 
 then, overcome with wearines^, her head 
 fell upon the' tray where the bread and 
 butter stood, and she was asleep again. 
 
 The good soul covered her with a shawl, 
 
 — not the cleanest in the world, but the 
 only one she had, — and went on with her 
 early coffee trade. At seven she awakened 
 her. 
 
 " I must go now, my dear," she said. 
 " I'm an hour almost behind my time, and 
 the childer want me ; but I wouldn't waken 
 you. Are you better now ? " 
 
 Lollie felt in her pocket for her purse. 
 
 " I remember," she said, " a man robbed 
 
 me last night of all I had. It was nine- 
 teen shillings. " Stay," she added, taking 
 off her locket, — Venn's present — "take 
 this for your kindness." 
 
 " I won't,'" said the woman stoutly. 
 
 " You must. "Please take it. I think I 
 should have died if it hadn't been for you. 
 You are a good woman." 
 
 " Don't 'ee, now, miss," she answered, 
 taking the locket, ■^— " don't 'ee, now, miss, 
 or you'll cry." 
 
 And then she began to cry herself; and 
 Lollie left her, and slipped away. 
 
 On the Embankment, while the day 
 slowly breaks, and as the light returns, the 
 poor child begins to realize the desolateness 
 of her position. She leans upon the low 
 wall, and tries to think what she will do. 
 Only one thing occurs to her. She must 
 go back to Gray's Inn, and find out where 
 Mr. Venn is. She has no money to buy 
 breakfast, she has nowhere even to sit 
 .down; and her limbs are trembling with 
 fatigue. She was almost staggering now 
 as she reached the gate of the Inn. From 
 the othe^ side of the road, she saw the 
 porter and the people who knew her face, 
 standing in the gateway. So she went 
 round by the side entrance in Warwick 
 Court to the door. This time, at least, she 
 would find him in his chambers. Alas I 
 no. The door was still shut, as the gate 
 of Paradise was to the Peri; and' her 
 courage died away within her. Inside lay 
 Hartley, sound asleep ; for it was but nine 
 o'clock. Then she slowly and sadly de- 
 scended the staircase. Should she go and 
 ask the porter where he was ? Not yet, 
 
 — presently. She would wait a little, and 
 make one more trial. And so, down Hol- 
 born and into Long-acre, with a dazed 
 idea of finding /her way to Covent Garden, 
 where there might be another basket to sit 
 upon. ■' 
 
 But as she crawled along, her cheeks 
 blanched, her eyes heavy and dull, neither 
 seeing nor feeling any thing, some one 
 passed her, started, ran back, and caught 
 her by the arm, crying; — 
 
 " Miss Lollie, Miss Lollie 1 " And she 
 fell fainting forwards. 
 
 It was no other than that Mary of whom 
 mention has already been made. Mary 
 the sinful, you know. She was on her 
 way to rehearsal at Drury Lane. For 
 there was the grandest of all grand spec- 
 tacles " on," and she was one of the most 
 prominent of the ladies engaged specially 
 
 — a dignified position nearest to the lights 
 
 — in the joyous dance of village maidens. 
 She also had to appear as one of the 
 queen's personal attendants, in a proces- 
 sion which beat, into fits any procession 
 ever made on the stage or off it. She was 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 127 
 
 going along with a friend, engaged in the 
 same line, talking of her boy. 
 
 " And the notice he takes, — it's wonder- 
 ful. Only two years old, and he under- 
 stands every thing you tell him. And the 
 words he can say ; and good as gold 
 with it all. I'm making him a little pair 
 of — Oh, good gracious, it's LoUie Colling- 
 wood I " 
 
 She lived close by, in the pleasant seclu- 
 sion of a two-pair back King Street, Long- 
 acre, 
 
 The two hfted Laura between them, and 
 • half carried her, half led her, to the door, 
 and dragged her up 'stairs, because now 
 she gave way altogether, and lay lifeless 
 in their arms. They placed her on the 
 bed, and waited to see if she would re- 
 cover. Presently she opened* her eyes, 
 gave a dreamy look at them as they leaned 
 over the bed, and close<l them again. 
 
 " Who is it ? " whispered the friend. 
 
 " Hush ! Don't make any noise I It's 
 Mr. Venn's little girl. Oh, dear ! oh, dear I 
 and she so pretty and good I See, she's 
 got a wedding-ring on. Go down, and get 
 the kettle, my dear ; and go on to rehear- 
 sal without me. I shall be fined ; but I 
 know who will pay the fine. And bring 
 Georgie up. Perhaps the sight of him 
 will do her good, — it always does me ; and 
 come back, my dear, when rehearsal's over, 
 I shall want you.'" 
 
 She took off Lollie's hat and jacket, her 
 boots and wet stockings, covering her poor 
 cold feet with blankets ; and then smoothed 
 and tidied her hair, hanging dank and wet 
 upon her cheek as if she had been drowned. 
 
 But LoUie made no movement, lying 
 stupefied and senseless. 
 
 Presently came up the other woman, 
 bearing tea in one hand, and little Georgie, 
 making a tremendous crowing, in the other. 
 
 " Is she come to V " whispered the girl. 
 
 " No ; but she will presently. Go you; 
 or you'll be late too ; and don't forget to 
 come back as soon as you can. Where's 
 the sugar? Georgie, boy, you've got to 
 be very quiet. Sit down and play with 
 the spoon, and mother will give you su- 
 gared bread and butter." 
 
 The child immediately sat down, and as- 
 sumed the silence of a deer-stalker. 
 
 " Did you ever see such a boy ? " his 
 mother went on. " As good as gold. Now 
 the milk ; and ask Mrs. Smith to trust me 
 another quarter-hundred of coals. I must 
 have a fire for this poor thing. Tell her 
 there's them as will see it pa,id." 
 
 She made up the fire, tidied the room, so 
 that it looked at least clean and neat ; and 
 then, pouring out the tea, brought it to 'the 
 bedside. 
 
 " LoUie, my dear," she whispered, — " Lol- 
 
 lie, my little darling, open your eyes. It's 
 only me, — it's only Mary, that you helped 
 three years ago. Take some tea, dear; 
 and lie down, and go to sleep, and I'll send 
 for Mr. Venn." 
 
 At this name the girl opened her eyes, 
 and half lifted her head, while she drank the 
 tea. Then she lay back, looked round the 
 room, pressed her hand to her head as if 
 in pain, and shut her eyes again. 
 
 She lay like one dead, but for the light 
 breathing to which her good Samaritan lis- 
 tened from time to time. 
 
 At two o'clock the friend came back, and 
 Mary began to hunt about in drawers, in 
 pockets, everywhere. 
 
 " I knew I'd got a piece left somewhere," 
 she said at last, triumphantly producing a 
 piece of note-paper the size of a man's hand, 
 the remnant of a quire, the only purchase 
 of note-paper she ever had occasion to make. 
 
 " I knew I'd got a piece left, but there's 
 no ink. A pencil must do." 
 
 With some pains, for she was not one of 
 those who write a letter every day, she in- 
 dited a letter to Mr. Venn i — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Venn, — Come here as 
 soon as you can. If you are out, come when 
 you get back. Never mind what time it 
 is. If it's midnight you must come. 
 
 " Mart," 
 
 " Take that," she wiiispered, " to Gray's 
 Inn. If he is out, drop it into his letter-box ; 
 if he is in, tell him not to be bringing the 
 old grandmother round. Laura don't want 
 to see her, I fancy, so much as him." 
 
 On the bed the patient lay sleeping 
 through all that daj' ; for Mr. Venn did not 
 come. A sudden s^hock makes one stupid. 
 So long as it cannot be understood, one can 
 go to sleep over it. It is only when the 
 dull, slow pain succeeds the stupefying blow 
 that we begin really to sufi'er. Lollie's sleep 
 was what Mr. Maclntyre might have called 
 a compensation due to her. And in her 
 dreams she went back to her husband, and 
 mixed up, with the little house «t Netting 
 Hill, her former happiness with Mr. Venn. 
 
 The hours sped, and the afternoon came 
 on. Mary had her dinner, and put some- 
 thing on the hob for LoUie if she should 
 wake. Then came tea-time ; but she slept 
 still, and the boy had to be put to bed. 
 Then it was Mary discovered that LoUie 
 was sleeping in clothes wet through and 
 through. 
 
 She half raised her, pulled them off, and 
 laid her back, with her own warm flannel 
 dressing-gown wrapped round her. 
 
 No Mr. Venn. 
 
 Then Mary sat down by the fire, prepar- 
 ed to watch, and keep herjelf awake. 
 
128 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 But where was Venn ? 
 He was enf^aged at a funeral ; no other, 
 indeed, thanthat of Mrs. Peck herself. The 
 old lady was dead, — not in consequence of 
 her grand-daughter's elopement ; because 
 when she found that little difference would 
 be made in the allowance, she was a good 
 deal more comfortable without her than 
 with her. She died of some disease more 
 common-place than a broken heart, — one for 
 whiuh the doctor brought her little phials 
 of physic, and Hartley Venn pint bottles of 
 port. -As for the disappearance of the girl, 
 that affected her chiefly in lowering the po- 
 sition she had hitherto held in the row. 
 The transportation of a son or the disap- 
 pearance of a daughter is held in some cir- 
 cles to be as much a disease as the scarlet 
 fever. It is a thing which happens, some- 
 Low, in many most respectable families, and 
 is not to be accounted for, or fought 
 against. 
 
 The old woman grew worse instead of 
 better, and presently kept her bed. Then 
 Hartley got a nurse for her, and used to look 
 in once a week or so to see how she was 
 getting on. One day the inevitable mes- 
 sage from across the river came to the dame 
 in bed ; and she immediately sent for Hartley, 
 in great trouble lest she should have to be- 
 gin the journey before he arrived ; but he 
 was in time. 
 
 " Is it about Lollie ? " he asked, expect- 
 ing some message of forgiveness or love to 
 the girl. 
 
 '' No — no," she answered. " Drat the 
 girl, with her fine learning and her ways I 
 It's myself this time, Mr. Venn, and time 
 enough too, I ttink. All the things I've 
 seen you give that child, and never a thing 
 for me." 
 
 Hartley almost burst into a fit of laugh- 
 ter, it was so grotesque. 
 
 Here she was seized with a fit of cough- 
 ing that nearly finished her off altogether. 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear I The time's come, Mr. 
 Venn, when you can make amends for your 
 selfishness, and give me something too." 
 
 " My good soul, haven't I given you 
 every thing you want ? Do you want more 
 port wine ? " 
 
 " Better than that," she gasped. " I want 
 a funeral. I haven't complained, have I, 
 sir ? Not when I see the child decked out 
 that fine as the theayter couldn't equal it, 
 I haven't murmured ; because, says I to 
 myself — oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! — Mr. Venn, 
 he's a good man, he is. He means it all 
 for the best ; and the time will come. And 
 now it has come. I want a funeral. If I 
 
 was to die to-night," she went on, " you'd 
 save all the 'lowances, and the port wine. 
 Think of that, now." 
 
 " I don't see what you want. A fune- 
 ral ? " 
 
 " When Peck died we had a trifle saved 
 and put by, — that was fifteen years ago ; 
 and we did it properly. His brother 
 came from Hornsey, and his two cous- 
 ins from Camberwell ; and we all went 
 respectable to Finchley. After the fune- 
 ral — it was a cold day — we went to the 
 ' Crown,' and sat round the fire, and cried, 
 as was but right, and drank gin and water 
 hot. Oh, dear I and we all enjoyed our- 
 selves. Let me have a funeral, too, Mr. 
 Venn." 
 
 He promised ; and she died that very 
 night, chuckling over the great happiness 
 that had come to her. The two cousins from 
 Camberwell, who had not been seen since 
 the demise of the late Mr. Peek, could not 
 be found : but the brother from Hornsey 
 turned up : and Venn, anxious that the old 
 man should really have a good time of it, 
 went to the funeral himself, and gave him 
 after it more gin and water than he could 
 carry. 
 
 This pious act accomplished, he went 
 to the club, and dined, going afterwards 
 to Lynn's, where he sat till twelve, dis- 
 coursing of funeral ceremonies of all na- 
 tions ; so that it was after midnight when 
 he got Mary's missive. He trembled when 
 he read it. The blood rushed to his head, 
 because it could mean but one thing, — his 
 little girl ; and as he hurried down the 
 streets to her lodging, he could find no for- 
 mula for the prayer of his heart, which was 
 for her safety and — for her purity. 
 
 " Everybody had gone to bed ; but Mary 
 heard his step at the door, and let him in 
 herself 
 
 " What is it ? " he whispered, as shp pro- 
 ceeded quickly to bolt the door again and 
 put up the chain ;■ " what is it, girl ? " 
 
 " Hush I " she answered. " Pull off your 
 boots. I'll carry them. She's up there, 
 and asleep." 
 
 He crept up. On the bed there lay, still 
 sleeping, her face upon her hand, her cheek 
 all pale and blanched, her long hair stream- 
 ing back upon the pillow, wrapped warm 
 in all Mary's blankets, his Lollie, — his lit- 
 tle girl. He made a movement towards 
 her, but Mary held him back. ' 
 
 " Not yet — wait. She has been sleep- 
 ing since one o'clock this morning. Let 
 her be. Something dreadful has happened 
 to her. Sit down and wait. 
 
 " Notice, Mr. Venn. She's got the same 
 clothes on as she used to have. "She must 
 have, been goin^ back to you. Poor thing 1 
 poor thing 1 See here — her jacket, and 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 129 
 
 hat, and blue frock, and all — I know them 
 every one. And look here." 
 
 Very softly she laid back the blanket 
 which covered lier left hand. On the third 
 finger was a wedding-ring. 
 
 Hartley bent down, and kissed the ring. 
 His tears fell fast upon the little fingers. 
 
 '• When will she wake ? " he whispered. 
 
 " I don't know, — any thing may wake 
 her." 
 
 ■' I shall stay here," he replied ; and sat 
 down by the bed, in the only chair in the 
 room. 
 
 Mary hesitated a moment, and then lay 
 down on the extreme edge of the other side 
 of the bed. Hartley noticed then that be- 
 tween her and LoUie lay the child. < 
 
 In two moments she, too, was asleep ; 
 and the watch of the night began in ear- 
 nest. Hartley saw how Mary had laid all 
 her blankets and wraps upon his child, and 
 left herself with nothing, not even a shawl. 
 He took off his own great-coat, — he was 
 ever a kind-hearted man, — and laid it over 
 her shoulders, with a corner of a blanket 
 across her feet, and then sat down again, 
 shivering, — the fire was quite out, and the 
 room was getting cold, — and waited. 
 
 Presently the candle went out suddenly, 
 and then there was 'darkness and silence, 
 save for the breath of the sleepers. 
 
 The tumult of his thoughts in this still- 
 ness was almost more than his nerves could 
 bear. It was not till the girl left him that 
 he had at all realized the hold she had 
 upon his affections and her place in his 
 life. He had been very lonely without her. 
 He had longed with all his soul to see her 
 again. There was no moment, now, when 
 he was not ready to forgive every thing, 
 nor when his arms were not open to her. 
 The love he had for the girl was the out- 
 come of so many years. She had so twisted 
 and twined the tendrils of affection round 
 him, that when she went away he was like 
 some old tower from which its ivy, the 
 growth of centuries, had been rudely and 
 roughly dragged away. With the child 
 coming every day, full of fresh thoughts, 
 and eager for knowledge, there was always 
 some compensation for the neglect of the 
 world. Laura was his family : she it was 
 who preserved his life from utter loneliness 
 and disappointment. While he watched 
 the growth of her mind, he forgot that his 
 own was, as he was fond of calling it, a 
 wreck. While he listened to her ideas, he 
 forgot that his own were ruthlessly con- 
 signed to waste-paper baskets; and with 
 her bright face and child-like ways, he had 
 forgotten that he was getting on for forty, 
 — a poor man still, and disappointed. 
 
 All these things crowded into his mind 
 as he sat there, and a great hunger seized 
 
 9 
 
 his heart to have all things back again as 
 they were before. He had been growing 
 weary of late ; the old things ceased to 
 please him ; there was little interest left in 
 life ; he felt himself getting old ; he awoke 
 in the morning without the former feeling 
 that another day would bring its little bas- 
 ket of pleasure ; he lay down at night with 
 the new feeling that here was finished an- 
 other of those gray-colored days which go 
 to make up the total of a sad life. Would 
 that all could be as it had been, — that the 
 step of the child could be heard again upon 
 the stairs, and the lessons renewed where 
 they left off; but the waters run not back 
 to the mountains. Old Mrs. Peck was ly- 
 ing buried in Finchley Cemetery. Laura 
 was a woman ; a wedding-ring was on her 
 finger ; her long eyelashes lay wet with 
 tears upon her cheeks, — those .cheeks that 
 never knew a tear while he was there to 
 kiss them. She moaned in her dreams who 
 had once only smiled ; and> nothing could 
 come back but the old, old, inextinguisha- 
 ble love. 
 
 So, minute by minute, the slow night 
 passed along. Hartley sat through it mo- ^ 
 tionless, in the dark, catching the breath- 
 ing of the sleeper, though he could not see 
 her face. After many hours, there came 
 through the window the first faint streaks 
 of a November dawn, growing stronger and 
 stronger. When it fell on little Georgie's 
 face, it half roused him from his sleep ; and, 
 reachmg out his arms to find his mother, the 
 boy laid his little hand on LoUie's neck, 
 and she awoke. Woke with a start, and a 
 rush of thoughts that made her half sit up 
 and stare at the figure of Hartley, indis- 
 tinct in the morning gloom, with strange, 
 wild eyes. 
 
 " Where am IV — where am I ? " she 
 murmured, sinking back. 
 
 Hartley bent over, and raised her head, 
 kissing her brow in his quiet, old-fashioned 
 way. 
 
 " Open your eyes, my little girl. You 
 are come home again. Thank God ! you 
 are come home again," the tears raining 
 thick upon her face. 
 
 She hardly as yet comprehended ; but at 
 last, sitting up in bed, she looked about the 
 room, trying to remember. The bitter 
 knowledge came at last ; and, throwing her 
 arms about his neck, she laid her face 
 against his, crying pitifully, — 
 
 " O Mr. Venn, Mr, Venn ! " 
 
 This was all her prayer. Hartley could 
 not trust himself to answer. He clasped 
 her in his armsy he held her face to his, and 
 covered it with kisses, he'called her a thou- 
 sand names of love and endearment, — his 
 child, his LoUie, his little daughter. And 
 then Mary showed herself to be a young 
 
130 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 ■woman of really a high order of feeling ; 
 for, awakened by the voices, she got up 
 from the edge of the bed 'on which she had 
 slept all night, and, catching up the still 
 sleeping boy, disappeared to some other 
 part of the house, — I fancy to the back 
 kitchen below, — and left them alone. 
 
 Presently, as the light grew stronger, 
 Lollie recovered herself a little, and, in a 
 quick, nervous way began to t6ll him her 
 tale. Hartley listened with grinding teeth. 
 She told all, extenuating nothing, hiding 
 nothing, save some of the cruelty of her 
 husband's last words. He stopped her 
 then. 
 
 " You wrote to me from the place where 
 you were married, my dear ? " 
 
 " Yes. Mr. Maclntyre was to take the 
 letter." 
 
 " And again from VieuxCamp ? " 
 
 " I wrote twice from Vieuxcamp." 
 
 "I got no letters at all, poor child, — not 
 one. They suppressed them all. Go on. 
 It was the day before yesterday. Where 
 did you go when you left him 'I " 
 
 " I walked — I don't know. I walked 
 all night. You were not in your chambers. 
 It rained. I walked about all night. 
 Somebody took away my purse. What 
 was I to do, Mr. Venn ? Where was I to 
 go ? A women in Covent Garden gave me 
 some coffee " — 
 
 " Tell me her name, Lollie, -^ tell -me her 
 name." 
 
 " I don't know. She had a stall at the 
 corner of Bow Street." 
 
 " She had a, stall at the corner of Bow 
 Street," he repeated. 
 
 " And she went home at seven o'clock." 
 
 " Home at seven ? " he said. " All night, 
 Lollie ? — all the cold, wet, dark night ? 
 O child, child I why did you not come 
 to my rooms, and sit on the stairs till I 
 came home ? " 
 , He held her close to his heart. 
 
 " All night — all night 1 Lollie, Lollie, 
 my heart is breaking for you. One thing 
 you have forgotten. Tell me the name of 
 your husband." 
 
 « Philip Durnford." 
 
 " Arthur's cousin ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 Philip DuKNroRD, — Arthur's cousin, 
 of whdm he was always speaking. It 
 seemed a new complication. Venn sat 
 back in his chair, pondering. 
 
 " Promise me something, Mr. Venn, — 
 promise me something. Do not harm 
 Philip." 
 
 " Harm him I " he answered, with a fierce 
 light in his, eyes. 
 
 " For my sake, do not try to see him. 
 Do not go in his way." 
 
 " My poor child I " 
 
 " But promise." 
 
 " Lollie, you ask too much. But what 
 harm can I do him ? I cannot go round to 
 his tent with a knife, as a child of Israpl 
 would have done, and stab him till he die. 
 I wish I could. I cannot even ask him to 
 fight a duel. I would if I could. My aim 
 should be steady, and my eye straight. 
 Tell me what harm I can possibly do to 
 him. True, I could go to him with a stick, 
 and so relieve myself." 
 
 " No, Mr. Venn, you will not do that." 
 
 " Do not talk about him, child — do not 
 talk about him. Let us talk of other 
 things. And, first, to make, you well. 
 My .child, how hot your head is I I will go 
 and send a doctor to you. Lie down, and 
 sleep again." 
 
 "I should like some tea," she said, sink- 
 ing back exhausted. " I am thirsty. My 
 hands are burning, and my head swims. 
 Send ,me Mary, please." 
 
 He hurried down stairs, and brought up 
 Mary; and then, promising to return in 
 the afternoon, went away to send her a 
 doctor. That done, he returned to his 
 chambers, feeling lighter and happier than 
 he had done for months past. So happy 
 was he, that he set to work and burned no 
 less than three immortal essays, because he 
 suspected that they were deficient in joy 
 and thankfulness, — two qualities which he 
 now regarded as' essential to a well-bal- 
 anced mind. That sacrifice completed, he 
 sat down before the fire, and fell fast asleep, 
 thinking of Bow the good old days were to 
 be restored to him. 
 
 When he awoke it was three o'clock, 
 and he had had no breakfast. This was a, 
 trifling consideration, because coffee can 
 be always made. He broke bread with a 
 sense of happinfess and gratitude that al- 
 most made his modest meal a sacrament, 
 and then went back to his patient. 
 
 But on the stairs he was met by Mary. 
 
 " You can't come in, Mr. Venn. Lollie 
 is very ill, and the doctor is with her. 
 Don't be frightened. She's had too great 
 a shock. You may come to-morrow." 
 
 He turned away, all his joy dashed. 
 As he shut the door behind him, he ground 
 his teeth savagely, and stood still for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "If my child" — shaking his hand at 
 the silent heavens — " if my little girl does 
 not get better, I will kill him — I will kill 
 him ! A life for a life. I will kill l^im I " 
 
 Then he wandered about the streets, fol- 
 lowing as nearly as he could the wander- 
 
MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 131 
 
 ings of LoUie during that night, and trying 
 to imagine Vhere she would stand for shel- 
 ter. The fancy seized him to find out the 
 man who robbed her. It was from a court 
 on the north side of Oxford Street. He 
 went along, turning into every court he 
 could find, arid prowling up, and down with 
 a vague sort of feeling that he might see 
 the inan, and know him by his long legs, 
 his bare feet, and his crouching like a 
 wolf. There were a good many wolf-like 
 creatures about, but none that quite an- 
 swered Lollie's description ; and he desist- 
 ed from the search at last, calling himself 
 a fool, and so went home. 
 
 Then another notion seized him. He 
 ordered the night porter to call him at 
 four o'clock, and so went to bed. 
 
 At four he was awakened, and got up. 
 
 " Most extraordinary," he murmui-ed, 
 shivering, and lighting a candle, " the sen- 
 sation of rising in the night. I quite 
 understand now why the laboring classes, 
 who always do it, never take tubs." 
 
 He dressed hastily, and went out into 
 the court. The very last light had disap- 
 peared in the square. The last roysterer 
 was gone to bed. The last student had 
 knocked oflf work for the night. 
 
 " It gives one," he said to himself, " an 
 Antipodean feeling. I feel as if 1 were on 
 my head. Now I begin to understand why 
 agricultural laborers are never boisterous 
 in their spirits. This is enough to sadden 
 Momus ! " 
 
 Not a soul was in Holborn when he 
 passed through the gate. He buttoned 
 his great-coat tighter across his chest, and 
 strode up the street, his footsteps echoing 
 as he went. 
 
 " I wish it would rain," he said, " then 
 I should understand the misery of it bet- 
 ter." 
 
 He left Holborn, and, passing down the 
 by-streets, made directly for Covent Gar- 
 den. There he found the market in full 
 vigor, — the carts all seeming to come in 
 at the same time. He peered about in the 
 faces of the drivers and workmen. 
 
 " An expression of hope," he said, " or 
 rather of expectatioli. We have had our 
 bed : they seem as if they were always 
 looking for it. Very odd 1 Life pulled for- 
 ward, — breakfast at four, dinner at ten, 
 tea at two. ■ Bed, if you are a Sybarite, 
 about seven ; if you are a reveller, at nine. 
 Where is my cofiee-woman ? " 
 
 He came to a stall, where a fat, red-faced 
 woman was ladling out cups of cofiee to an 
 expectant crowd. He stood on one side, 
 and let the crowd thin, and then humbly 
 advanced. 
 
 " A cup of cofiee, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 She poured it out for him. 
 
 " Drink it, and go home to bed," she said. 
 " You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
 stayin' out all night this fashion." 
 
 " I am only just out of bed," said Venn 
 meekly. " I got out of bed to see you." 
 
 " And pray what might you be wanting 
 to see me for, young man ? I don't owe 
 you nothing." 
 
 " On the contrary, it is I who owe you 
 a great deal," he replied, sitting on the 
 shafts of her coffee cart. " Tell me, my 
 sood soul, you were here the night before 
 last ? " 
 
 " I am here every night." 
 
 " Then you remember the young lady 
 who came here." 
 
 " I should think I do remember her, — 
 the pretty lamb." 
 
 Venn took her great rough hand in his, 
 and held it. 
 
 " She gave you a locket. Have you got 
 it with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's in my pocket. Wait a bit, — 
 wait a bit. Here it is. What do you want 
 with the locket ? " 
 
 " She has sent me to buy the locket 
 back," he replied, " and to find out where 
 you- live. She is with her friends now. 
 You must not ask any thing about her, — 
 why she was out alone ; but she is with 
 her own friends, — those who love her. 
 She is ill too, — God help her ! " 
 
 " Amen," said the woman, " and good 
 she was, I swear." 
 
 " As good as any saint. See, give me 
 the locket, and tell me where you live. She 
 shall come soon to see you herselfl And 
 here is the price of the locket." 
 
 He laid five pounds in her hand. The 
 woman looked at the gold, — it was as 
 much as ever she had had in her posses- 
 sion, all at once, — and then held out her 
 hand again. 
 
 " If she's poor, take it back, I don't want 
 it, — the Lord love her ! If she's rich, I'll 
 keep it for the childer." 
 
 " I am rich," said Venn, " because I have 
 her back. Keep the money. And now 
 tell me where you live." 
 
 She shook her head again, and turned 
 away. 
 
 " I can't BO to bed," he .said. " I've 
 had my breakfast too : what time shall I 
 want lunch, I wonder ? Where am I to go 
 now V " 
 
 It was not quite six o'clock. He strolled 
 along the streets, making mental observa- 
 tions, watching how the traffic began and 
 how it slowly increased. Then he went on 
 the Embankment. • 
 
 " I have never yet seen the rosy-fingered 
 dawn. Let us contemplate one of Nature's 
 grandest phenomena." 
 
 A dense fog came rolling up with the 
 
132 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 break of day, and there was nothing to see 
 at all. 
 
 " I am disappointed," he said to himself. 
 " From the description of that lying tribe, 
 the poets, I had expected a very different 
 thing. Alas 1 one by one the illusions of 
 life die away. Let us go and look after 
 our patient." 
 
 The worst was passed ; and though 
 Laura was hanging between life and death, 
 the balance of youth and strength was in 
 her favor. 
 
 After a day or two, they allowed Venn 
 to enter the sick room and help to nurse. 
 Never had patient a nurse more careful 
 and attentive. In the morning, when 
 Mary went to rehearsal, and in the even- 
 ing, when she went to the theatre, he took 
 her place, and watched the spark of life 
 slowly growing again into a flame. She 
 was light-headed still, and in her uncon- 
 scious prattling revealed all the innocent 
 secrets of her life. What revelations those 
 are of sick men in the ears of mothers 
 and sisters who have thought them spot- 
 less! 
 
 Venn learned all. He heard her plead 
 with her husband for permission to tell 
 himself, to write, to try and see him. He 
 saw how, through it all, he himself lay at 
 her heart ; and, lastly, he heard from her 
 lips the real/ and true story of the last cruel 
 blow that dro've her out into the street. 
 What could he do to this man ? How 
 madden him with remorse ? How drive 
 him and lash him with a scourge of scor- 
 pions ? 
 
 One morning he found her sitting up, 
 half-dressed, weak and feeble, but restored 
 to her right mind. Then Hartley Venn 
 did a thing he had not done for nearly 
 thirty years, — you so easily get out of the 
 habit at Eton, — he knelt down by the 
 bedside, lier hand in his, and thanked God 
 aloud for his great mercy. 
 
 " When I get well again, Mr. Venn," 
 whispered LoUie, "we will go to church 
 together, will we not." 
 
 Then he sat down by her while she told 
 him all the story again, till the tears ran 
 down both thdr cheeks ; for Hartley Venn 
 was but a great, soft-hearted' baby, and 
 showfd his feelings in a manner quite un- 
 known to the higher circles. 
 
 " But what are we to do with you, Lol- 
 lie?"he asked, when he had told all his 
 news, — how Mrs. Peck was gone, and 
 there was no house anywhere for her. 
 " You could not possibly have gone to live 
 with your old grandmother any more. 
 What shall we do for you ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Venn. Do some- 
 thing for Mary. See how gdod she has 
 been." 
 
 " Mary don't want any thing, child. 
 When she does she knows where to go for 
 help." 
 
 Then he told her all about the coffee 
 woman. 
 
 " I will take you to see her," he said, 
 " as soon as you are well. Here is your 
 locket, my dear, back again. We are to 
 go in the day-time, and I am to prepare 
 her for your visit first. But what am I to 
 do with you ? Stay. I will go and ask 
 Sukey 1 She always knows what ought to 
 be done.'' 
 
 It was reftiUy a serious question. What 
 was he to do with her? He might get 
 her lodgings. But then his own visits 
 would have to be few, so as to prevent talk. 
 He might take a house for her, though that 
 hardly seemed the best thing. But as he 
 walked along to Woburn Place, a brilliant 
 thought flashed across him. Sukey should 
 take her. A comfortable house, the care 
 of a lady, surrounding circumstances not 
 only new, but new enough to have a charm, 
 and a lite beyond the reach of any mali- 
 cious tongues. Nothing could be better. 
 But, then, Sukey might object. He 
 smoothed his face into its sweetest lines. 
 He would diplomatize. • 
 
 Sukey was in a state of great nervous 
 excitement, in consequence of having been 
 excommunicated. She was of High Church 
 proclivities, and loved, in moderation, the 
 exercise of those observances appointed by 
 her advisers. Naturally, too, she was fond 
 of the society of her clergyman, a gentle- 
 man who held rigid views as to fasting and 
 feasting, observing the periods of the 
 former courageously, — but with grief and 
 pain, — and the latter with undisguised joy. 
 Both states of feeling he regarded as con- 
 ducive to a sound spiritual state. And so 
 far he was followed by Miss Venn, who 
 hated a vegetable diet as much as she 
 loved u, good dinner. In an evil hour, hav- 
 ing been presented with an Angola c.at, 
 she christened it St. Cyril. Her director, 
 on discovering this piece of levity, treated 
 it as an offence quite beyond the venial 
 sins common among mankind, and not only 
 ordered her to change the name to Tom, 
 but also enjoined as a penance an octave 
 of oabbawe. At this tyranny her whole 
 soul revolted, and she flew into open rebel- 
 lion ; going over to the enemy's camp, a • 
 neighboring Low Church establishment, 
 where as yet no surplice was flaunted in 
 the pulpit, the Psalms were read, and the 
 service finely rendered. 
 
 Thereupon she was excommunicated. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Venn, on the following morning, called 
 upon his sister. 
 
 She burst forth with all her tale of trou- 
 ble as soon as she saw him. Hartley 
 judiciously gave her the reins, only occa- 
 sionally murmuring sympathetically. 
 
 " Why, Sukey," he said, when she had 
 quite finished, " you can do nothing better 
 than persist. It is the most outrageous 
 tyranny. And such a beautiful animal 
 too ! St. Cyril, come here. Sh — tsh I A 
 loveW cat." 
 
 "I thought you hated cats, Hartley." 
 
 " As a rule, I do, but not such a superb 
 creature as this. St. Cyril, — what a 
 beautiful name for a cat! Suggestive of 
 bowlings on the chimney-tops, — I mean, 
 of purrings on the hearth-rug. My dear 
 sister, you have a genius lor giving names. 
 When I was a child — when we were chil- 
 dren together — you used to call me Billa- 
 belub for short, I remember well." 
 
 Sukey began to purr too, falling into the 
 trap baited by flattery, as innocently as 
 any creature of the forest. 
 
 " I think I chose a good name, in spite 
 of Mr. De Vere. Take a glass of wine. 
 Hartley, and a biscuit. Why do you call 
 here so seldom 7 " 
 
 " The sherry, by all means." 
 
 He poured out two glasses. 
 
 '' Hartley, you know I never take wine 
 in the morning." 
 
 " As it is poured out, you may as well 
 drink it : besides, it will do you good." 
 
 She drank it, and appeared to like it. 
 
 " But I came to tell you some good news, 
 Sukey," he went on, seeing that the mo- 
 ment had arrived. " My little girl has 
 come back to me." 
 
 Sukey said nothing, but looked up 
 sharply. 
 
 " Yes. Her husband has ill-treated 
 her." 
 
 "Her husband! She has a husband, 
 then ? " 
 
 " Sukey ! Why, how else should she 
 have left me ? " 
 
 This was a facer. Hartley followed up 
 the advantage. 
 
 " Her husband, it appears " — 
 
 " Who is her husband. Hartley V " 
 
 " Mr. Philip Dui-nford, lieutenant in the 
 — th Regiment, cousin of Arthur Durn- 
 ford, whose father used to be a pupil at 
 the rectory. You remember him thirty 
 years ago ? " 
 
 "My dear brother. As if I could re- 
 member any thing so long ago as that." 
 
 " True, I forgot. Philip Durnford, I am 
 sorry to say, is not a good man. He made 
 
 her conceal the marriage, destroyed the 
 letters she wrote to me, forbade her writ- 
 ing any more, and at last ruined himself, 
 and turned her out of doors. Lollie has 
 had a hard time,' Sukey." 
 
 " Where is she now ? " 
 
 " She had nowhere to go, wandered 
 about trying to find me in my chambers, 
 kept on missing me, and at last was picked 
 up by a girl whom she befriended two or 
 tliiree years ago, who took her in like a 
 Samaritan, and we nursed her through 
 a fortnight of dangerous illness. She is 
 still almost too weak to be moved." 
 
 " You must see her husband at once." 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " Then, where can she go ? Hartley, 
 you must not begin that old business of 
 having her up in your chambers." 
 
 " No, certainly not — that must be put 
 a stop to. I have thought it over. She must 
 go; Sukey " — here he became very impres- 
 sive — " she must go to the house of some 
 lady, a little, but not too much, older than 
 herself, of a kind and affectionate disposi- 
 tion — my child is dreadfiiUy broken and 
 weak, Sukey — where her wounds may be 
 healed, and we can teach her to forget 
 some of her troubles ; where she will have 
 no reproaches, no worries, no hard words." 
 
 " Where will you find her such a guar- 
 dian ? " 
 
 " Where ? Here, Sukey, here," — he 
 took her fat little hands in his, — " here, 
 my dear. I know no other woman so good 
 and kind as yourself, and no house which 
 will so entirely fulfil all the conditions as 
 your own." 
 
 " Mine ? Oh, goodness gracious ! " 
 
 "Yours, Sukey. For there is, I am 
 quite sure, no one in the world whose heart 
 is so soft and whose house is so comfort- 
 able as yours." 
 
 She sat silent. 
 
 " You know Lollie too. It is not as if 
 you were strangers. Remember how you 
 used to kiss her when she was quite a little 
 thing." 
 
 " I do," said Sukey. « The child's lips 
 were always sticky with jam." 
 
 " They were ; and it shows," said Hart- 
 ley, " the kindness of your heart to treasure 
 up this trifling circumstance. Women alone 
 know how to touch the chords of feeling. 
 She was always extravagantly fond of jam. 
 I remember, too, how you used to spread it 
 for her, on bread and butter, careful not to 
 give her too much butter for fear of bilious- 
 ness. The old davs, Sukey, the old 
 days I " 
 
 He was silent, as if overcome. Then 
 he went on, — 
 
 " And it is really kind — more kind than 
 I know how to thank you for — to accede 
 
134 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 at once to ray sumestion. I feel as if it 
 came from you. Believe me, sister, I am 
 very grateful." 
 
 He kissed lier forehead ; and the caress, 
 so exceedingly rare from her brother, 
 brought a glow of conscious benevolence 
 to Sukey's cheeks. She almost felt as if 
 she had really suggested the step. • Then 
 her heart sank again. 
 
 " Well, you know, my dear Hartley, I 
 am the last person in the world to think of 
 my own comfort." 
 
 •'You are, indeed, Sukey,"he murmured 
 with a glance at the sherry, " the very 
 last. . Always self-denying." 
 
 " But what will Anne think ? " 
 
 Hartley rang the bell, and Anne 
 appeared. 
 
 " My sister, Anne, — upon my word, 
 Anue, you are getting younger every day, 
 — wants to take, for a little while, a young 
 lady into the house. Mrs. Durnford, who 
 is unhappily separated from her husband. 
 Tou remember her, — my ward. Miss Col- 
 lingwood, that was ; but she is a little 
 afraid that it will put you out." 
 
 Anne looked troubled. 
 
 " Not a young lady who will give trouble 
 or any extra work, but one who wants a 
 comfoi'table place, and thoughtful people 
 like yourself about her." 
 
 " If Miss "Venn wants it," said Anne. 
 
 " Of course she wants it." 
 
 " Then I'm not the one to make objec- 
 tions ; and I'm sure the house wants a little 
 brightening up. And you never coming 
 in but once in three months, Mr. Hartley." 
 
 " I shall come every day now, Anne ; 
 but haven't you got Mr. De Vere ? " 
 
 This was the clergyman with whom Anne 
 did not hold. 
 
 " Mr. De Vere, indeed I " and Anne re- 
 treated. 
 
 " Then we will lose no time," said Hart- 
 ley. " I don't think you could have her 
 to-morrow ; but the day after, perhaps." 
 
 " The day after 'i O Hartley 1 will she 
 be wanting gayety and fuss, and every 
 thing ? " 
 
 " LoUie ? My dear Sukey, she wants 
 quiet ; but, would it not be a nice thing — 
 a graceful thing — if you would bring her 
 here yourself? " 
 
 " If you prefer it, Hartley. Where is 
 she?" 
 
 " Where she has been for the last three 
 weeks. With Mary." 
 
 "Mary has got a surname, I suppose. 
 Pray, what is the profession of Mary ? " 
 
 " Mary — I mean, Mrs. Smith, whose — 
 aheml whose husband has gone to — 
 to" — 
 
 " Where is he gone to ? " 
 
 " How should I know where he is gone 
 
 to ? " replied Hartley, a little irritably, for 
 he did not like being off the rails of truth. 
 " Gone to Abraham's bosom, I suppose. 
 So Mrs. Smith, you know, dances at the 
 theatre, and supports her child in a credit- 
 able way." 
 
 "Now, Hartley, I will not — the 'grand- 
 daughter of a Bishop, and all — go to the 
 lodgings of a dancing person." 
 
 Hartley repressed an inclination to refer 
 to the ancestral glue manufactory, and only 
 meekly replied that there was no need. 
 
 " Bring Laura to your chambers the day 
 after to-morrow," said Sukey, " and I will 
 come and fetch her." 
 
 '•Do, Sukey, come to breakfast, ^kid- 
 neys, sister. You shall take her away 
 afterwards in a cab. You will be kind to 
 her, Sukey ? " 
 
 " Of course I wilL Oh, dear ! there is 
 nothing but trouble. Now we shall have 
 to make things ready. Well, go away 
 now, Hartley : you will only be in the 
 way. I will come at ten." 
 
 Two days afterwards Hartley brought 
 his ward back again to the old chambers. 
 Mary hugged and kissed her; but when 
 Laura promised to call and see her soon,> 
 she only shook her head, and said it 'was 
 better not, and began to cry ; and then she 
 went back to her room again, and found it 
 cheerless and dreary indeed. 
 
 Hartley helped Laura up stairs, and in- 
 stalled her in" her old place, the old chair 
 by the fire. 
 
 " It looks like what it used to be, Lol- 
 lie," he said ; " but it is not. It never can 
 be again." 
 
 " Ah, no ! It never can be again. My 
 fault, my fault." 
 
 " Never again, never again. The waters 
 are troubled, dear, and we shall be long in 
 getting them clear. But think no more of 
 the past. You are always my little girl, 
 remember ; and if you were dear to me be- 
 fore, LoUie, when you were but a child, you 
 are doubly dear now, when you come back 
 in your sorrow and trouble. There are to 
 be no more lessons and talks and walks. 
 I must, not see you very often, and never 
 here, because people might talk. But never 
 doubt, my child, that I love you." 
 
 He kissed her forehead, and caressed her 
 face in his old calm way, while the tears 
 were standing in his eyes. She dropped 
 her face in her hands, and wept unrestrain- 
 edly. 
 
 Miss Venn appeared at this juncture. 
 She had walked to Gray's Inn, making up 
 her mind to be kind, but yet severe : for 
 elopement should always be visited by 
 coldness of manner, at least. Besides, med- 
 itation of forty-eight hours had revealed to 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 135 
 
 her, tlje cunning manner in -which her 
 brother had' entrapped her into a gener- 
 osity of which she half repented. 
 
 But at sight of her brother's sorrow, and 
 the weak, wasted figure in the chair, her 
 resolution gave way ; and almost before 
 she had gbt the girl well in her fat moth- 
 erly arms, she was crying over her, and 
 kissing her, with a vehemence which did 
 infinite credit to the family. 
 
 Hartley left them, and presently re- 
 turned with the kidneys, cooked in his 
 bedroom. Nobody could do kidneys so 
 well as Hartley, or brew such splendid cof- 
 fee ; and sympathy brings its own reward 
 in the shape of appetite. 
 
 After this she took LoUie away with 
 her, laid her on the sofa, and, with Anne, 
 made much of her. 
 
 I have only to add that the public ap- 
 pearance of Laura, and the way in which 
 she was carried off by Miss Venn, entirely 
 re-established her in the eyes of the Gray's 
 Inn functionaries, and effectually drowned 
 the voices of those who had said evil things 
 about her disappearance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Venn went with a troubled mind to find 
 Arthur Durnford. He knew nothing as 
 yet of his changed fortunes,, and had, in- 
 deed, only heard of Philip as a cousin of 
 whom Arthur spokei little. 
 
 " Arthur," he said, shaking his hand, 
 " something has happened to me." 
 
 " A great deal has happened to me," 
 said Arthur, laughing ; " but I hope your 
 accident is not so serious as mine. It's a 
 long story ; but you shall have it." 
 
 He told all, from the very beginning. 
 
 " I gave up the fortune at once," he said 
 simply, " because it seemed to me clear and 
 beyond any dispute that my father was ac- 
 tually married to this girl, who must have 
 died in Europe before he married again, 
 and when Philip was a year old. He is 
 only two years older than myself I might 
 have fought the case, my lawyer said ; but 
 it would have been at the cost of publish- 
 ing my father's early history, perhaps rak- 
 ing up old scandals, — all sorts of things. 
 This I couldn't do ; and Philip, who is the 
 most generous man alive, insisted on my 
 having double the sum which my father 
 had given him. You see, my father never 
 intended him to be his heir. Of that I am 
 quite certain. On the other hand, by his 
 will, Philip is the heir. And the decision 
 of the case means legitimacy to him." 
 
 " I see," said Venn ; " I see. Neverthe- 
 less, I do not believe. This man who sup- 
 
 plies the proofs — I will tell you something 
 about him directly." 
 
 " You can tell me very little that I do not 
 know already. ^That Maclntyre is a scoun- 
 drel, an unscrupulous man, bound by no 
 laws of honor, religion, or morality, I know 
 already, — partly from his own confession." 
 
 " He sold his proofs, I suppose V " 
 
 " I suppose so. I have not asked Philip 
 what he asked or got for them." 
 
 " Tell me his address, if you know it." 
 
 " I know the street, but not thei number. 
 He is in lodgings in Keppel Street, Rus- 
 sell Square." 
 
 " Keppel Street ? I know it. Yes — 
 Keppel Street." 
 
 Over his face there stole a look of thank- 
 fulness, expressed by the movement of his 
 sensitive lips. His color rose just a little, 
 but he was outwardly calm. 
 
 " You want to see him ? " 
 
 " I think I shall probably call upon him 
 to-day." 
 
 " But what has happened to you, Venn ? 
 I am so full of my own troubles that I am 
 selfish, and forget yours." 
 
 " Mine are not all troubles, Arthur. My 
 little girl has been restored to me." 
 
 Arthur did not dare say a word. He 
 was afraid to ask the question that rose to 
 his lips. 
 
 " Spotless, thank God, and pure. You 
 shall learn presently how. But tell me 
 first about this new-found brother of yours." 
 
 " What about him ? " 
 
 " Is he, for instance, a man of honor ? " 
 
 " I would stake my own upon Phil's 
 honor." 
 
 "And truth?" 
 
 " Surely, my dear Venn, you have noth- 
 ing to say or to suspect against Philip, have 
 you?" 
 
 " And a man, you think, of generous 
 leanings, of chivalrous feeling, of lofty sen- 
 timents, of — Well, Arthur, I am go- 
 ing to give you a greater shock than the 
 loss of your fortune. Listen to me. I used 
 to tell my child, in a thoughtless way, that 
 I should like, above all things, to see her 
 married to a gentleman. She, my inno- 
 cent and ignorant LoUie, brought up with 
 me and me only, knew nothing about love, 
 marriage, any thing else that is common 
 and practical. She and I lived among our 
 books, and fed our minds on the words of 
 old writers. Well " — he paused for a 
 moment. " One night, when she left me, 
 she was insulted in the street. A gentle- 
 man came to her help. Of all this she 
 told me. She did not tell me the rest, be- 
 cause he persuaded her not to, — that he 
 met her again, that he told her he loved 
 her, and begged her to marry him. She 
 thought it would please me. She accepted 
 
136 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 him to please me. She kept silent to please 
 me. You think it is impossible ? You do 
 not know how I had kept the girl from 
 knowing the world and its wickedness. 
 The day before the marriage, she told me 
 she had a secret, and wanted to tell it me. 
 I, though I saw her distress, blinded by my 
 own ignorant conceit, bade her keep her 
 secret, and refused to hear it. The next 
 day she was privately married by a Scotch 
 clergyman — living, Arthur, in Keppel 
 Street." 
 
 " Heavens, Venn I Do you mean Mao- 
 Intyre V It was not Philip — it could not 
 be Philip." 
 
 " Was the man ever a Scotch clergy- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Who caJi know ? He is a mass of lies. 
 He would say so for his own purposes, 
 whether he was or not." 
 
 " And yet you allowed him to take your 
 fortune from you ! " 
 
 "Not on his own evidence, Venn ; but 
 go on." 
 
 " The man who m?rried Lolli6 took her 
 to Normandy with him. Before leaving the 
 house in Keppel Sti;eet, LoUie wrote me a 
 note, telling all. Maclntyre promised to 
 take it himself to Gray's Inn. He never 
 did. When they got to Normandy, she 
 wrote me a long letter, — I can fancy what 
 my little girl would say to me in it. Her 
 husband took the letter to the post. It 
 never came. She waited a week, and then 
 she wrote again. Her husband took the 
 letter to the post. The second letter never 
 came. Then her husband brought her 
 back to England, put her in a small house 
 near London, and forbade her to write to 
 me any more. You understand so much." 
 
 " It cannot be Philip," Arthur said. 
 
 " Wait. There is more. This was in 
 June ; it is now November. For nearly 
 five months, then, she lived there. She 
 was absolutely alone the whole time. Her 
 husband left her in the morning, and usu- 
 ally came home at night. She dined alone, 
 sat alone, had no visitors, no companions. 
 All the time he was, as I gather, betting 
 on horse-racing, gambling, — losing money 
 every day. Once or twice Mr. Maclntyre 
 came to see her. , Once her husband had 
 a large party of men in the house. Then he 
 sent her to her owij room, and there kept 
 her awake all night, singing and laughing. 
 My little LoUie ! When I think of it all, 
 Arthur, I feel half mad I Wait, don't 
 speak yet : there is more. It is now ten 
 days ago. He came home very late ; he 
 rose at mid-day ; he cursed at the break- 
 fast ; and then, without a word of regret, 
 without a word to soften the blow, he 
 turned upon his wife, told her that he was 
 a ruined man, that he had nothing left at 
 
 all, that she mtist leave him, because they 
 never had been married at all. What do 
 you think of that mail, Arthur Durnford ? " 
 
 " Finish your story." 
 
 " She left him, — left him with nothing 
 but what she had when she married him ; 
 and all that night, that bitter, wretched, 
 dismal night, with the wild wind and rain 
 driving in her face, the poor girl wandered, 
 wandered in the streets. Think of it, 
 Arthur, — think of it 1 My little girl 
 walked about the streets all night long, — 
 never stopped, never sat down, never ate 
 or drank. All night long ! do you know 
 what that means ? The rain beating upon 
 her, her wet clothes clinging to her, her 
 brain confused and troubled, stupid with 
 suffering ; while the hours went on, one 
 after the other, creeping for her, flying for 
 us. Good God I and I in my warm bed, 
 asleep, unthinking. My dear, ray little 
 darling I If I only had but known I " 
 
 He was standing over Arthur, as the 
 latter sat looking at him with pained and 
 troubled face. Venn's eyes were heavy 
 with those tears which do not fall, and his 
 voice was shaken as he spoke. , 
 
 " There is more still, Arthur. She wan- 
 dered so, — where, she does not know. In 
 the morning a woman, a humble child of 
 Samaria, gave her a cup of coffee. I have 
 found that giver of the cup of coffee, Arthur. 
 Then she thinks she sat down, somewhere, 
 just befor^ it grew light ; and then she 
 began to wander again. From noon till 
 noon, twenty-four hours of walking in the 
 streets. She was to have been, — she 
 might have been, — Arthur, a mother. 
 Think of it. Then, if you like it put that 
 way, God was good to her, and sent in her 
 path a girl, a poor starving girl, whom I 
 had helped two year^ before at LoUie's 
 own prayer, — her own prayer, mind, not 
 any charitable act, — when she was igno- 
 rant of what the girl had done, what it 
 meant, and why her father had turned her 
 away. Mary found her wandering down 
 the street, and took her home, fainting and 
 weary to death, not knowing what was 
 being done to her. Then she sent to me. 
 Lollie has been ill since : that was to be 
 expected. At death's door : that, too, 
 was to be expected. 
 
 " Now you know, Arthur, what has hap- 
 pened to me. Is my little girl blameless 'I " 
 
 " Surely, yes, Venn." 
 
 " And the man, Arthur, — what is to be 
 done with the man ? I made her tell me 
 his name, on the promise that I would not 
 harm him. To keep that promise, it is 
 necessary that I should not see him ; 
 but what is to be done with the man, I 
 say V How can we make him feel what he 
 has done ? Is there any way — any way ? 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 137 
 
 I see none. A man whose sense of honor 
 is so delicate that you would exchange it 
 for your own ; who is the soul of truth, of 
 honor, of nobility ; who is — alas 1 alas I 
 my friend — your brother Philip." 
 
 Then Venn took up his hat. 
 
 " I must go now," he said. " Shake 
 hands, Arthur. Tell me again you think 
 my little girl is pure and spotless." 
 
 " Before God, I think so," said Arthur. 
 " She is my sister." 
 
 " Thank you, friend. You shall see her. 
 Now I go. I am bound on a pleasanter 
 journey than when I came here. I am 
 going to pay a little visit. Yes, you are 
 
 ?uite right, I am gomg to Keppel Street. 
 am going to see the Scotch clergyman." 
 
 He put ou his hat, a/nd went away. 
 
 He had not been gone half an hour be- 
 fore Philip himself came, radiant, happy, 
 light-hearted. Some sinners are so. Then 
 wise men say they live in Fools' Paradise. 
 Perhaps; but I do not pretend to solve 
 these difficulties. My own idea is that 
 when a man has done such things as ought 
 to take away all his self-respect, there is al- 
 ways some of it left so long as things are 
 not found out. You can hardly expect 
 self-respect in a gentleman who has stood 
 in the dock, for instance, and heard the 
 judge pronouncing sentence upon him. 
 But the jury, liow eminently selt-respect- 
 ful they are 1 One or two even, perhaps, 
 of these might fairly stand side by side with 
 the criminal. So, too, — but I am plagia- 
 rizing from Venn's essay, " On Being 
 Found Out ; '' and, as the world will per- 
 haps get this work some day, I must stop. 
 
 Arthur looked the criminal certainly ; 
 for he flushed scarlet, stammered, and re- 
 fused to notice the hand that Philip held 
 out. 
 
 " I have heard something, Philip." 
 
 " It must be something desperately sol- 
 emn, then," said his brother. " Is it any 
 thinof new about the — the late business of 
 ours ? " 
 
 " Nothing. It is much worse than that. 
 Mr. Hartley Venn has beenliere." 
 
 Philip had, for the moment, utterly for- 
 gotten Venn's existence. He, too, changed 
 color. 
 
 "Well-?" 
 
 " The rest you know, I suppose. Your 
 wife " — 
 
 " Come, come, Arthur, be reasonable." 
 
 " I am reasonable. I say your wife — 
 Good heavens, sir ! what makes a woman a 
 wife ? What are the laws of the country 
 to the laws of honor, honesty, truth ? Did 
 you not pledge your faith to her? Did 
 you not " — 
 
 " Arthur, I will not be questioned." 
 
 " Answer me, then, one question. You 
 
 have done — you, Philip, you — you have 
 done all that Venn has told me. Learn 
 that your wife, my sister-in-law, is lying ill. 
 She has been close to dying. You will, at 
 least, make her your wife in the eyes of the 
 law?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no I " said Philip lightly. " I 
 do not justify myself, my dear fellow. Of 
 course it is extremely wicked and im- 
 proper. I am very sorry to hear about 
 her illness. Tell Mr. Venn that no money 
 arrangement that is at all reasonable will 
 be objected to — that " — 
 
 " Philip, stop — I won't hear it." 
 
 " Won't hear what ? You were not born 
 yesterday, I suppose, Arthur ? You know 
 that such things are done every day. We 
 all do them." 
 
 "We all?" 
 
 " Yes — we all. Bah ! the girl will get 
 over it in a month." 
 
 " And this man is my own brother," said 
 Authur, recoiling — "is my own brother ! " 
 
 Philip's face grew cloudy. There was 
 no longer any thing in him but the animal. 
 
 " Let us have no more of this nonsense," 
 he said. " Tell this man Venn that he 
 may do what he likes, and go to the devil. 
 And as for you, Arthur " — 
 
 " Philip, you are a villain. Leave my 
 room. Never speak to me again. Never 
 come here. Let me never see your face 
 any more. We have been a family of gen- 
 tlemen for generations ; and now you are 
 our representative ! It is shameful — it is 
 dreadful ! " 
 
 Philip left him. As he opened the door, 
 he turned and said, — 
 
 " When you apologize to me for this lan- 
 guage, you may, perhaps, expect to see me 
 again. Till then, never." 
 
 It was a poor way of getting off the 
 stage ; and Philip afterwards reflected that 
 he might have finished with at least more 
 fire and effect if he had gone off swearing ; 
 but the best things always occur to us too 
 late to put them into practice. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 "It is indeed a dreadful story," said 
 Madeleine, when Arthur told her. 
 
 " What is to be done ? Advise me, 
 Madeleine." 
 
 " Who can advise ? Mr. Venn's plan 
 of assuming the marriage to be legal, 
 without asking arty questions, and letting 
 Philip alone altogether, seems the best ; 
 unless, which I very much doubt, we can 
 bring your brother to a better frame of 
 mind. You, of course, have done as much 
 
138 
 
 Mr LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 mischief as was possible. Men are always 
 so violent." 
 
 " I told him he was a villain," said Ar- 
 thur. " It is true. I have never read, 
 never heard, of baser or more cold-blooded 
 treachery." 
 
 " Let me go and see Philip," said Made- 
 leine. 
 
 She went at once to the house at Nott- 
 iuCT llilL' It was now dismantled ; for 
 Philip had sent away every thing but the 
 furniture of the two rooms in which he 
 lived. There was no one in the place but 
 himself and an old woman. He had never 
 been up stairs to the room which had been 
 Laura's since she left him. 
 
 Madeleine found him, unshaven, in a 
 dressing-gown, smoking a pipe, in gloomy 
 disorder. It was in the afternoon. On 
 the table was an empty soda-water bottle, 
 an empty tumbler, and a brandy bottle. 
 
 Philip, surprised to see her, made some 
 sort of apology for the general disorder, 
 and, putting aside his pipe, brushed the 
 hair back from his forehead, and waited to 
 hear what she would say. 
 
 She began by abusing him for living in 
 such a mess. 
 
 "Why do you do itV" she asked. 
 "Brandy and soda in the daytime — not 
 dressed — rooms in the most dreadful lit- 
 ter. Philip, you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself" 
 
 He only groaned impatiently. 
 
 " Is that all you have come to see me for, 
 Madeleine ? Do not worry about the 
 TOoms and me. I've got something else to 
 think of besides the disorder of my rooms. 
 You shall blow up the old woman if you 
 like. She is within hail, — probably sitting 
 with her heels under the grate and her 
 head in the coal-scuttle." 
 
 " I have a great deal more to say, Philip. 
 First of all, do you know that I am going 
 to be your sister 1 I am to marry Arthur." 
 
 " Arthur is a happy man, Madeleine. 
 I envy him ; but he always had all the 
 luck." 
 
 " Don't call it luck, Phil. But we shall 
 see a great deal more of you, shall we not, 
 when we are married ? " 
 
 "No — a great deal less. I have quar- 
 relled with Arthur." 
 
 " I know, I know. But hasty words may 
 be recalled ; and — and hasty actions may 
 be repaired, Phil, may they not ? " 
 
 " If they could be undoije, it would be 
 worth talking about. Do riot beat about 
 the bush, Madeleine. I suppose you know 
 all about that girl, and are come' here to 
 talk to me, and ])itch into me. Well, go 
 on. I cannot help what you say." 
 
 " Indeed, I do not come to pitch into you, 
 as you call it, at all. I cannot bear to 
 
 think that my own brother, my husband's 
 brother, could do this thing in cold blood. 
 Do tell me something." 
 
 Philip was silent for a while. 
 
 " I will tell you the exact truth, Made-> 
 leine. You may call it excuse or defence, 
 or any thing else you like. It shall be the 
 exact truth, mind. I would tell no other 
 living soul. I care nothing for what the 
 world says ; but I care something for what 
 you think. 
 
 " You Cannot understand the nature of 
 a man. You will not comprehend me 
 when I tell you that I was devoured with 
 love for this girl. There was nothing I 
 could not have done — nothing, mind — to 
 g^t possession of her. There tame a time 
 when I had to marry her on a certain day 
 or not at all. I got the special license, 
 but forgot all about speaking to any clergy- 
 man till it was too late. Then Maclntyre 
 pretended that he could marry us; and 
 we were married. A fortnight agOjI/ound 
 myself a ruined man. Worse than ruined, 
 for I had not money to meet nly debts of 
 honor. I was on the point of being dis- 
 graced. I was maddened by my difficul- 
 ties. She understood nothing of them, 
 never entered into my pursuits, cared noth- 
 ing for my life. I was maddened by her 
 calnmess. Then I lost command of myself, 
 and told her — what, mind, I did not know 
 till after — that the marriage was a mock 
 one, and — and — Well, you know the 
 rest. That is all." 
 
 " And your love for her, Philip ? " 
 
 " My love ? Gone — gone a long time 
 ago. It was never more than a passing 
 fancy, and all this business of the last fort- 
 night put her out of my head entirely until 
 Arthur reminded me of her. She is gone 
 to her friend, guardian — ^*hat is it ? — a 
 Mr. Venn, who lives in chambers, and en- 
 acts the part of the universal philanthro- 
 pist. ' I only keep on in this house, where 
 it is torture to me to live, in order that he 
 may not say I ran away from him. Here 
 I am, and here I shall stay to face him — 
 not to excuse" myself, you understand. I 
 stoop to defend my life to you alone." 
 
 " Philip, you are not so bad as he thinks ; 
 but I may tell you at once that he will not 
 come. When Laura told him your name, 
 she made him at the same time promise to 
 do you no harm, — to take no revenge on 
 you." 
 
 " I am not afraid of that, Madeleine." 
 
 " No ; but yoU need stay here no longer. 
 She has gone for the present to live with 
 Miss Venn. I am going to call upon her 
 myself. I am anxious to make the ac- 
 quaintance of Mrs. Durnford." 
 
 " Mrs. Durnford ! " 
 
 " I am told that she is a young lady, 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 139 
 
 very beautiful, very carefully educated, 
 most sweet-tempered and affectionate." 
 
 " She is all that, Madeleine ; but she 
 never loved me. She was always pining 
 after Mr. Venn. That , reminds me — I 
 told you I would give you the exact truth. 
 I destroyed the letters that she wrote to 
 him, without telling her. That was be- 
 cause I was jealous of him. I would have 
 no man in her heart except myself. I am 
 extremely sorry I did that, because it was 
 an error of judgment, as well as a " — 
 
 " A wrong act, Phil, was it not ? " 
 
 " It was, Madeleine, — a dishonorable 
 tiling. Have I abased myself enough be- 
 fore you, or do you want more of the con- 
 fessions of a man about town? I liave 
 lots more relating to other events in a riot- 
 ous career. Would you like to hear them ? 
 By Jove 1 I wonder if the prodigal son 
 ever beguiled the winter evenings, sitting 
 roijnd the fire, with tales of the things he, 
 had done ? The name of the other son is 
 not given in the original narrative, but I 
 believe it was Arthur." 
 
 "No, Philip. I want no more confes- 
 sions. I want an act of reparation. See, 
 Phil," she pleaded, " God oiily allows us to 
 be happy in being good. Be good,, my 
 brother." 
 
 " I can't, Madeleine. I'm much too far 
 gone." 
 
 " Then undo the evil you have done." 
 
 " How ean that be ? " 
 
 " I know you better than all the rest of 
 them, Phil. I know that you are easily in- 
 fluenced, that you act without thinking, 
 that you are easily moved, that your heart 
 is not selfish. I know that you are repent- 
 ant in spite of your light words. But 
 think of the girl, Phil." 
 
 " I do think of her. I think of her day 
 and night. I cannot sleep. I cannot do 
 any thing. She is always before my eyes." 
 
 " Then marry her, and take her back, if 
 she would come." 
 
 " She would not, Madeleine. There 
 was a look in her eyes when she lefb me 
 that told me all was over. No woman can 
 have that expression in her face, and ever 
 come back to love and confidence. She 
 would never come back." 
 
 " Then marry her, Phil. In the eyes of 
 the law, at least, let her be your wife." 
 
 Philip was silent. 
 
 " I love her no longer," he said. " There 
 can be no longer any question of love be- 
 tween us. But see, you shall do with me 
 what you will, Madeleine. Ask me any 
 thing for Laura, and you shall have it. 
 Keep my story, — keep what I have told 
 you to yourself. Do not even tell it to 
 Arthur." 
 
 " Philip, you promise Y " 
 
 '•I promise, Madeleine. Give me your 
 hand. I swear by your hand, because 
 there is nothing I know so sacred, that I 
 will obeyyouin all things as regards Laura." 
 
 He kissed her fingers. Over his mobile 
 countenance there passed the old expres- 
 sion of nobility, as if it had come back to 
 settle there for good. 
 
 " And Arthur ? " Madeleine began. 
 
 The bright look vanished. 
 
 " Arthur has used words to me — I have 
 used words to Arthur j — which can never 
 be forgotten. Tell him so. I desire to 
 meet him no more. Farewell, Madeleine. 
 Write and tell me what I am to do ; and 
 I will do it. And let us part now, never 
 to meet a^ain. I do not know what I shall 
 do with my future. Make ducks and 
 drakes of it, I suppose. But I shall be 
 out of my path. I shall be happy enough. 
 The slopes that lead to Avernus are broad 
 and pleasant. You may hear us singino- 
 as we go down them — you may see us 
 dancing. Oh, it is a pleasant life, the lii'e 
 I am going to lead. Gbod-by, Madeleine." 
 
 She took his hand, his face was clouded 
 ■and moody; and then, grateful for the 
 promise she had got, she left him, and 
 drove back to her own house. 
 
 And the saine day she, with Arthur, 
 made a formal call upon Miss Venn. Sukey, 
 little accustomed to visitors who came in 
 their own carriage, was not above being 
 flattered. 
 
 " We are not come wholly for the pleas- 
 ure of seeing you. Miss Venn," said Made- 
 leine. " I want to make the acquaintance 
 of my future sister-in-law, Mrs. iJurnford." 
 
 " Laura ? " She looked curiously at 
 Madeleine, but it was Arthur who was 
 blushing. " Laura ? She is in her own 
 room. Would you like to go up and see her V " 
 
 " If I might. You are too kind, dear 
 Miss Venn. May I go up by myself, with- 
 out being announced ? " 
 
 Sukey took her to the door, and left hier. 
 
 Madeleine gently opened it. 
 
 On the sofa by the fire, wrapped in a 
 dressing-gown, lay a fair young girl, thin, 
 pale, wasted. Her head was lying among 
 the pillows ; and she was asleep. 
 
 Madeleine bent over her, and kissed her. 
 
 She opened her eyes. She saw a tall 
 and queenly woman in silks and sealskin, 
 and half rose. 
 
 " Don't move, my dear," said Madeleine : 
 " let me kiss you. I am to make your ac- 
 quaintance. Shall I toll you who I am ? 
 I am Madeleine de Villeroy ; and I used 
 to know your husband when he was quite 
 a boy. Now I am going to marry your 
 husband's brother ; and we shall be sisters. 
 My child, you shall be made happy again. 
 We shall all love you." 
 
140 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " My husband ? He. said — he said " — 
 
 " Forget what he said, my darling, — 
 forget all that he said, and, if you can, for- 
 give him. Now, sit up, and let us talk." 
 
 She sat with her for a quarter of an hour, 
 and then went away, promising to call 
 again soon. 
 
 In the drawing-room there was rigid dis- 
 comfort. For Sukey, the moment she got 
 back, had seized the bull by the horns, and 
 attacked Arthur. 
 
 " You are the brother of Mr. Philip 
 Durnford ? " she began. ' " You are the 
 brother of a bad man, — a bad man, Mr. 
 Arthur Durnford. Tell him not to come 
 to this house, for I won't have him. Re- 
 member that " — 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Venn, he will not come 
 tere." 
 
 " If he does, Anne will take the tongs to 
 dim — 1 know she will. She did that much 
 bo a policeman in the kitchen. Tell him 
 not to come." 
 
 " My brother and I, Miss Venn, -are not 
 3n speaking terms at present." 
 
 "Indeed. I'm glad to hear it, — lam 
 rery glad to hear it." 
 
 Then they both relapsed into silence ; 
 md Sukey glared at poor Arthur, by way 
 if conveying a lesson in virtue, till he 
 nearly fell oiF the chair. 
 
 Madeleine relieved them ; and, after ask- 
 ing Sukey's permission to come again, took 
 iway the unfortunate Arthur. 
 
 " Why didn't you ring for the 'sherry, 
 niss ? " asked Anne, presently coming up 
 itairs. 
 
 " I gave it him. Anne — I gave it him 
 iirell." Sukey shook her head virulently. 
 " That was Laura's husband's brother. I 
 told him if his precious brother came here 
 ^ou'd go at him — with the tongs, I said." 
 
 " So I would — so I would," said Anne. 
 
 " Sherry, indeed I They are always 
 (vanting to drink. We don't drink glasses 
 )f sherry all day. I dare say it was sherry 
 irove that abandoned brother of his to bad 
 courses. I hope, for that sweet girl's sake, 
 be isn't like his brother. He doesn't look 
 it, Anne ; but you never can tell. They 
 ire all alike, — waste, drink, eat, and devour. 
 Why isn't the world peopled with nothing 
 t)ut womeii V " 
 
 " 'Deed, then, miss," replied Anne, " the 
 end of the world wouldn't be very far off." 
 
 CHAPTFR XXXII. 
 
 Mr. MacIntyrb is sitting in his easy- 
 chair at home, in those respectable lodg- 
 ings of his in Keppel Street. He is medi- 
 tating on the good fortune that has come 
 
 to him. Perhaps he is too much iftclined 
 to attribute his success to merit rather than 
 fortune ; but in this we may pardon him. 
 It is but two o'clock in the day ; but a glass 
 of steaming whiskey-toddy is on the table, 
 and a pipe in his mouth. In spite of the 
 many virtues which adorned this great man, 
 I fear that the love of material comfort 
 caused him sometimes to anticipate the 
 evening, the legitimate season of comfort. 
 
 Nursing his leg, and watching the 
 wreaths of smoke curling over his head, he 
 meditated ; and, if his thoughts had taken 
 words, they would have been much as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " After all my shipwrecks, behold a haven. 
 I have been in prison. I have been scourged 
 by schoolboys. I have been tried for em- 
 bezzlement. I liave starved in the streets 
 of London. I have been usher, preacher, 
 missionary, tutor, retailer, sandwich man. 
 J have, at last, found the road to fortune ; 
 not by honest means, but by lies and" vil- 
 lanies, by practising on the hdnor of others. 
 I have five thousand pounds in the baiik, 
 eleven pounds ten shillings and threepence 
 in my pocket. Nothing can hurt me 
 now ; nothing pan annoy me but ill-health 
 and the infirmities of age. I have ten 
 years, at least, of life before me yet. I 
 shall go back to my own people. The 
 Baillie will hardly refuse to receive me 
 now that I have money. I shall be re- 
 spected and respectable. ' Honesty is the 
 best policy 1 ' Bah I it is tha maxim of the 
 successful. I know better. Cleverness is 
 the best policy. Scheme, plunder, pur- 
 loin, cheat, and devise. When your for- 
 tune is made, hold out your clean white 
 hands, and say ' Christian brethren, I am 
 a living example that lionesty is the best 
 policy.' I shall join this band ; and, at the 
 kirk on the sawbatli, and among my folk 
 on week days, I shall be a living sermon to 
 the young of the advantages of honesty. 
 Respected and respectable, Alexander 
 Maclntyre, retire upon your modest gains, 
 and be happy." 
 
 Just then a knock was heard at the 
 door. 
 
 The visitor was no other than Hartley 
 Venn. He had strolled leisurely from Ar- 
 thur's lodgings, smoking all the way, with 
 a smile of immeasurable content, and a 
 sweet emotion of anticipation in his heart. 
 Having once ascertained the address of the 
 philosopher, he lost no time in making his 
 way to the street. On the way he stopped 
 at a shop, and bought a gutta-percha whip, 
 choosing one of considerable weight, yet 
 pliant and elastic. 
 
 " This," he said to the shopman, " would 
 curl well round the legs, in tender places, 
 I should think ? " 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 141 
 
 "I should think it would," said the 
 man. 
 
 " Yes ; and raise great weals where there 
 was plenty of flesh, I should say. Thank 
 you. Good-morning. It will' suit me very 
 well." 
 
 He poised the instrument in his hand, 
 and walked along. When he got to Kep- 
 pel Street, he showed his knowledge of 
 human nature by going to the nearest pub- 
 lic-house, and asking for Mr. Maclntyre's 
 number. The potboy knew it. 
 
 Hartley presented himself unanpounced, 
 and, with a bow of great ceremony, — one 
 of those Oriental salutations which were 
 reserved for great occasions : he had liot 
 used it since his last interview with the 
 master of his college. 
 
 " I believe I have the honor of address- 
 in" Mr. Alexander Maclntyre," he began. 
 
 The tutor confessed to owning the name, 
 and began to feel a little uneasy. How- 
 ever, he asked his visitor to take a chair. 
 
 "Thank you — no, Mr. Maclntyre. 
 Shall we say the Keverend Alexander Mac- 
 lntyre?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "We will not. The business I have to 
 transact will not detain me long, and will 
 be better done standing. You are, I be- 
 lieve, acquainted with Philip Durnford ? " 
 
 "lam. May I ask" — 
 
 " Presently, presently. You are like- 
 wise acquainted with Mrs. Philip Durn- 
 ford?" 
 
 It was Maclntyre's chance, but he neg- 
 lected it. 
 
 " The young person calling herself Mrs. 
 Philip Durnford has, I believe, run away 
 from him." 
 
 Venn gave a start, but restrained him- 
 self. 
 
 " One more question. You have, often, 
 I doubt not, reflected on the wisdom of that 
 sentence of Horace, which mi^ht be in- 
 spired were it not the result of a world's 
 experience. In that sense, too, you would 
 perhaps urge, and very justly, that it might 
 be considered as divine, since experience Is 
 a f(jrm of revelation. I offer you a para- 
 phase, perhaps too alliteratiye, — 
 
 ' Lightly the sinner leaps along the way, 
 
 Lamely limps after he who bears the cane; 
 Yet, soon or Icte, there comes the fatal day 
 
 When stick meets back, and joy is drowned by 
 paiQ.' " 
 
 " Go on, sir," said Mr. Maclntyre, seri- 
 ously alarmed, " and let me know your 
 business. Who are you ? What have you 
 to do with, me ? I have never set my eyes 
 on you before." 
 
 " Do not let us precipitate matters. 
 Patience, Mr. Maclntyre, patience. Al- 
 though you have not seen me, you have, 
 
 perhaps, heard of me from Mrs. Philip 
 Durnford. I am her guardian. My name, 
 sir, is Hartley Venn." 
 
 The philosopher, among whose prominent 
 defects was a want of physical courage, fell 
 back in his chair, and began tp perspire at 
 the nose. 
 
 " Having learned from my ward the facts 
 of the case, — that you exercised practices 
 undoubtedly your legal right in Scotland, 
 and married her to Durnford by a special 
 license in this very i room ; also, that you 
 suppressed the letter she sent me ; and, fur- 
 ther, that you have been the prime agent 
 and adviser in the whole of the business, — > 
 it was but natural that I should desire to 
 make your acquaintance. In fact," he 
 added, with a winning smile, " I really must 
 confess, that I had imagined your breed to 
 be now totally extinct, gone out with the 
 Regent, and belonging chiefly to the novels 
 of his period. For this mistake I humbly 
 beg permission to apologize. I obtained 
 your address, partly from Arthur Durnford, 
 an admirer of yours, — I wish I could say 
 follower, — and partly from the potboy who 
 supplies your modest wants. I hope you 
 will remember the claim of gratitude which 
 that potboy will henceforth have upon you. 
 I had a struggle in my own mind — drnvSixa 
 liepiifipi^ov ; for while I ardently desired to 
 converse with you myself, I had yet a feel- 
 ing that the — the penalty should be left to 
 some meaner pei-son ; but I bore in mind 
 the distinction of rank. You are, I believe, 
 a graduate of some university ? " 
 
 " Sir, you are addressing a Master of 
 Arts of the Univairsity of Aberdeen." 
 
 " Aberdeen is honored. I wish we had 
 had you at Cambridge." 
 
 Venn took the riding-whip in both hands, 
 passing his fingers up and down tenderly. 
 Maclntyre saw now what was coming, and 
 looked vainly round the room for a means 
 of escape. Before him stood his tormen- 
 tor. Behind the tormentor was the door. 
 It is cruel, if you are to hang a man, first 
 to stick him on a platform for an hour or 
 so and harangue him ; but perhaps, in the. 
 cases of lighter punishment, the suspense 
 should be considered a part of the suffer- 
 ing. This was in Maclntyre's mind ; but 
 he did not give it utterance, sitting crouched 
 in the chair, looking at the whip with a 
 terrible foreboding. 
 
 Venn went on moralizing in a dreadful 
 way, suggesting the confidence of one who 
 knows that his game is fairly caught. 
 
 " The chastisement I am about to bestow 
 upon you, Mr. Maclntyre, is ludicrously 
 disproportionate to the offence you have 
 committed. You will reflect upon this 
 afterwards, and laugh. On the highest 
 Christian grounds, I ought, perhaps, to for- 
 
142 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 five you ; and I dare say I shall, if I 
 now how, after this interview. On the 
 other hand, I have little doubt that the 
 slight horsewhipping I shall give you will 
 be considered by the powers leniently, per- 
 haps even approvingly. Let me for once 
 consider myself an instrument." 
 
 He raised his whip above his head. 
 Maclntyre crouched down, with his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 " 1 beg your pardon," said Venn, pausing, 
 " I have something else to say. You will 
 remark that I have passed over the question 
 of disgrace. No disgrace, I imagine, could 
 possibly toucli you, unless it were accom- 
 panied by severe personal discomfort. It 
 is this curious fact — by the way, do you 
 think it has received the attention it de- 
 serves? — which loads me to believe in the 
 material punishments of the next world. 
 You will remark, — I do hope I make my- 
 self sufficiently clear, anil am not tedious." 
 
 " Ye are tedious," groaned the philoso- 
 pher, looking up. 
 
 " I mean, there comes upon a man in the 
 development of a long course of crime and 
 sin — say such a n)an as yourself — a time 
 when no disgrace can touch him, no dis- 
 honor can be felt, no humihation niuke him 
 lower than he actually is. He has lost not 
 only all care about the esteem of others, 
 but also all sense of self-respect. He is 
 now all body and mind — no soul. There- 
 fore, Mr. Maclntyre, when a man reaches 
 this stage, on which I imagine that you 
 are yourself scanding now, what is left for 
 him y How, I mean, can you get at him ? 
 1 see no way of attacking his intellect, and 
 there remains then but one way, — this ! " 
 
 Quick as lightning, with a back stroke of 
 his hand, Venn sent the whip full across 
 Maclntyre's face. He leaped to his feet 
 with a yell of pain and fear, and sprang to 
 tjie door. But Venn caught liim, as he 
 passed, by the collar ; and then, first push- 
 ing the table aside, so as to have a clear 
 stage, he held him firmly out by the left 
 hand, — Mr. Maclntyre was but a small 
 man, and perfectly unresisting, — and with 
 the right administered apunishment which, 
 if I were Mr. Kingsley,-! should call grim 
 and great. Being myself, and not Mr. 
 Kingsley, I describe the thrashing which 
 Mr. Venn administered as at once calm, 
 judicial, and severe. A boatswain would 
 not have laid on the cuts with more judg- 
 ment and dexterity, so as at once to find 
 out all the tender places, and to get the 
 most out of the simple instrument em- 
 ployed. 
 
 But it was interrupted ; for, hearing the 
 door open, Venn turned round, and saw a 
 lady standing in the room watching him. 
 He let go his hold, and Maclntyre instant- 
 
 ly dropped upon the floor, and lay there 
 curled in a heap. , 
 
 A lady of middle age, with pale face and 
 abundant black hair, dressed in comely silks. 
 For a moment, Venn thought he knew her 
 face, but dismissed the idea. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre ? " she asked hestitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " He is here, madam," replied Hartley, 
 indicating with the whip the recumbent 
 mass beneath him. 
 
 The lady looked puzzled. 
 
 " I am extremely sorry your visit should 
 be so ill-timed," said Hartley politely. 
 " The fact is, you find our friend in the 
 receipt of punishment. His appearance at 
 this moment is not dignified, — not that 
 with which a gentleman would prefer to 
 see a lady in his rooms. Perhaps, if your 
 business is not urgent, you would not mind 
 postponing your call till to-moiTow, wheiL 
 he may be able to receive you with more 
 of the outward semblance of self-respect. 
 We have not yet quite finished." 
 
 " Don't go," murmured the prostrate sage. 
 
 Venn spoke calmly, but there was a liot 
 flush upon his cheeks which spoke of intense 
 excitement. 
 
 " Pray, madam, leave us for a few moments 
 together,. — I am still in high spirits." 
 
 " I prefer ye in low spirits." 
 
 This was the voice of Maclntyre, lying 
 still crouched with his faee^n his hands. 
 
 " Really, sir," said the visitor, " I think I 
 ought to remain. Whatever Mr. Maclntyre 
 has done, you have surely punished him 
 enough." 
 
 " I think not," said Venn. " As you are 
 apparently a friend, — perhaps a behever in 
 Mr. Maclntyre, — I will tell you what he 
 has done." 
 
 He told her, in a few words. 
 
 The lady looked troubled. 
 
 " The other one, you observe, madam, a 
 young fellow of six and twenty, had still 
 some grains left of morals and principles, 
 — they were sapped by Mr. Maclntyre ; 
 he had still the remains of honor, — they 
 were removed by Mr. Maclntyre ; he still 
 called himself a gentleman, — he can d» so 
 no longer, thanks to Mr. Maclntyre. Do 
 you want to hear more ? " 
 
 " And the girl, — where is she ? " 
 
 " She is with me, madam. She is my 
 ward." 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, Mr. Maclntyre would get 
 up, if he were assured that there was no 
 more personal violence intended." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre shook a leg to show that 
 he concurred in this proposition, and was 
 prepared to listen to these terms. 
 
 " Get up," said Venn sternly. 
 
 He slowly rose, his face and hands a 
 livid mass of bruises and weals, and stag- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 143 
 
 gered to his feet. His coat was torn. His 
 eyes were staring. His face, where the 
 whip had not marked it, was of a cold, 
 white color. He stood for a moment stu- 
 pidly gazing at Venn, and then turned to 
 the lady. For a moment he gazed at 
 her indifferently, then curiously, then he 
 stepped forward and stared her in the 
 face ; and then he threw up his arms over 
 his head, and would have fallen forward, 
 but Venn caught him, as he cried, — 
 
 « Marie 1 " 
 
 They laid him on the floor, and poured 
 col/l water on his forehead. Presently he 
 revived and sat up. Then they gave him 
 a glass of brahdy, which he drank, and 
 staggered to his feet. But he reeled to 
 and fro, like unto one who goes down upon 
 the sea in a great ship. 
 
 " It is Marie," said the lady. " It is more 
 than five and twenty years since we met last. 
 You were bad then, — you are worse now. 
 Tell me what new villany is this that you 
 have committed ? " 
 
 . "Marie I " he began, but stopped again, 
 and turned to Venn. " Sir, you do not un- 
 derstand. Some day you will be sorry for 
 this outrage upon a respectable clergyman, 
 who cannot retaliate, because his cloth for- 
 bids. Let me go and restore myself" 
 
 He slipped into the back room, his bedr 
 room, and they saw him no more. Had they 
 looked out of the window, they might have 
 seen him slip from the door, with a great- 
 coat about liim and a carpet-bag in his hand, 
 his face muffled up and his hat over his eyes. 
 He got round the corner, and, calling a cab, 
 drove straight to his bank. 
 
 " Can I help you in any way, madam ? " 
 
 " I called here to ask for the address of a 
 Mr. Philip Durnford." 
 
 " That at least I can procure for you. For 
 Mr. Philip Durnford is none other than the 
 man of whom I have spoken." 
 
 She sat on a chair, and answered nothing 
 for a while. 
 , He, wondering, looked on silent. 
 
 " Oh, there must be a mistake I Philip 
 would never do it. O Philip, my son, 
 my son ! " 
 
 The words seemed extorted by the agony 
 of sharp pain. 
 
 " Your son ? " cried Hartley. 
 
 " Ay, my son. Let the world know it 
 now. Let' it be published in all the papers, 
 if they will. My son, my son ! " 
 
 Then she seemed to regain her com- 
 posure. 
 
 " Sir, you have the face of a gentleman." 
 
 " That must be the bishop's doing," mur- 
 mured Venn, " not the glue-man." 
 
 But she did not hear him. 
 
 " You may, perhaps, keep a secret, — not 
 altogether mine. I am Madame de Guy- 
 
 on, — yes, the singer. I am a native of 
 Palmiste. Philip Durnford is my son." 
 
 Venn sat down now, feeling as if every 
 thing was going round with him. ' 
 
 And here let me finish off with Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre, from whom I am loth to part. 
 
 His lodgings knew him no more. The 
 things he left behind paid for the rent due. 
 He drove to the city, drew" out all his money 
 in drafts on an Edinburgh bank, and went 
 down to Scotland that very night by the 
 limited mail. As soon as his face was re- 
 stored to its original shape and hue, he 
 went to his native town and took a small 
 house there, after an interview with the 
 Baillie, his cousin, who, finding that he had 
 a large sum to deposit in the bank, received 
 him with cordiality, and even affection. 
 
 He lives there still, respected by the town, 
 as is right for one who left the country, and 
 returned -with money. He is consulted on 
 all matters of finance, speculation, educar 
 tion, doctrine, morals, and church disci- 
 pline. He holds views, perhaps, too rigid, 
 and his visitations on minor offences are 
 sometimes more severe than the frailty of 
 the flock can altogether agree with. He is 
 never seen drunk, though it is notorious that 
 he drinks a good many tumblers of toddy 
 every evening. He spends the mornings 
 in his garden, — a pursuit which has always 
 attracted great men in retirement ; and on 
 wet days in his study, where he is supposed 
 to be elaborating a grand work on meta- 
 physics. In conversation he is apt to deal 
 too exclusively with' principles of an ab- 
 stract nature ; and his friends complain 
 that, considering he has been so great a 
 traveller, he tells so few tales of his own 
 experiences. Palmiste Island he never 
 mentions. As for the story of his life, no 
 one "knows it but himself, and no single 
 episode has ever got down to his native 
 town. In all probability he will go on, 
 as he said himself, respected and respect- 
 able, till the end, — a living example of 
 the truth of the proverb that " Honesty is 
 the best policy." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Makie, when she told George Durnford 
 that she had a great voice, spoke less than 
 the truth. She had a magnificent voice ; a 
 voice that comes but once or twice a cen- 
 tury ; a voice that history remembers, and 
 that niarks an epoch in the annals of music. 
 With the money that Durnford gave her, 
 she devoted herself to its cultivation. She 
 did not hurry. In Italy she studied long 
 and diligently, until, at the age of six and 
 twenty, she was able to make her first ap- 
 
144 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 pearance in Loijdon. She had hoped to 
 please her old lover, and interest liim in 
 her success ; but he answered hardly any 
 of her letters, and only coldly acquiesced 
 in her schemes for tlie future. For George 
 Durnford's love had long disappeared from 
 Lis heart : it vanished when he married 
 j, Adrienne. He looked on poor Marie as a 
 living witness of a time that he repented. 
 He wantfed, having assured her against 
 poverty, neither to hear from her nor to see 
 her again. He was fated not to see her ; 
 and when she wrote to him, telling of the 
 great success of her first appearance, he 
 tore the letter into shreds, and inwardly 
 hoped that she would never come back to 
 Palmiste. ■ It is not exactly cowardice, this 
 sort of feeling ; nor is it wholly shame. • It 
 is, perhaps, the fueling that prompts one to 
 put away all signs and remembrances of 
 sickness and suffering. We do not like to 
 be reminded of it. There are thousands of 
 respectable, godly, pure-minded fathers and 
 husbands, who have a sort of skeleton in 
 the closet, hid away and locked up, as it 
 were, in their brain, not to be lightly dis- 
 turbed. In providing for Marie, and tak- 
 ing charge of her son, Mr. Durnford had 
 done, he thought, enough. There was no 
 longer any possibility of love — let there 
 be no longer any friendship. And so her 
 letters worried and irritated him, and his 
 answers grew colder and shorter. From 
 time to time he read in the papers of her 
 success. Madame de Guyon appeared at 
 the Italian Opera. She was described as 
 of French descent, — some said from Mar- 
 tinique ; none thought of Palmiste- She 
 was said to be a young and strikingly beau- 
 tiful widow. Her reputation was abso- 
 lutely blameless ; her nanie was widely 
 spread about for those graceful deeds of 
 charity which singers can do so well. And 
 when, after a few years of the theatre, she 
 withdrew altogether from the stage, and it 
 was stated that henceforth she would only 
 sing at oratories and at concerts, everybody 
 said that it was just the thing that was to 
 be expected of a singer so good, so charitar 
 ble, and so pious. 
 
 He once wrote to her, advising her to. 
 marry again ; nor did he ever understand 
 the bitter pain his letter caused her. 
 
 For women are not as men. It seems to 
 me that women can only give themselves 
 wholly and entirely to one man. To other 
 men they may be thoughtful, and even ten- 
 der ; but one woman is made for one man, 
 and when she loves she loves once and for 
 all. Marie had told her old lover that she 
 loved him no more, — that what had been 
 - could never come again. It was not true. 
 What had been might,'at any time, have 
 come over again. The old idol of her heart 
 
 was not shattered. It was erect, ajid 
 stronger than ever, — -^strengthened by the 
 thought of her boy ; fostered by the memo- 
 ries which ran like a rivulet through the 
 waste and loneliness of her life, filling it 
 with green things and summer fiowera ; and 
 held in its place by that constancy of wo- 
 man which is proof against time and cir- 
 cumstances and absence and neglect. 
 George Durnford loved her no longer. He 
 did not, it is true, understand her. ■ That 
 magnificent nature, which had been like 
 some wild forest plant, unchecked in its 
 luxuriance, when he knew it best, was de- 
 veloped by training and sorrow to one of 
 the most perfect types of womanhood. 
 What more splendid than the full maturity 
 of her beauty when she swept across the 
 stage ? What more perfect than the full 
 rich tones of a voice that thrilled all listen- 
 ers as she sang ? And what — could he 
 only have known it — more precious than 
 the riches of the thoughts which welled up 
 in her mind with no listener to impart, 
 them to, no husband to share them ? But 
 George Durnford died ; and only when she 
 heard of his death was she conscious of the 
 space he occupied in her mind. She saw 
 it in the papers ; for no one wrote to her, or 
 knew of her existence. Then she got the 
 Palmiste papers, and read first of his fu- 
 neral, and the fine things that were said 
 about him, and then of his will ; and next she 
 saw the names of the two boys as passen- 
 gers to England. And presently she began 
 to live again ; for she hoped to meet her 
 boy, and — after many days — to reveal 
 herself to him, and get back some of the 
 love she lavished upon him in imagination. 
 She did not hurry. She preferred, for 
 many reasons, to bide her time. First, be- 
 cause she thought him ignorant of his birth ; 
 secondly, she thought tiiat it would be bet- 
 ter to wait till he was a man, and could 
 better bear what would certainly be a bit- 
 ter blow, — the stigma of his birth ; and, 
 lastly, she was afraid. Geoi^e Durnford 
 had said but little about him. He was 
 growing tall and handsome ; he was strong 
 and clever ; he was a bold rider and a good 
 shot. All this she learned from his letters, 
 but nothing more. In the last letter he had 
 ever written to her, he mentioned that 
 Philip was going into the army. And after 
 some time she bought an Army List, and 
 read with ecstasy the name of her son in 
 the list of ensigns. She never attempted 
 to see'him, but she saved her money — she 
 had made a good deal of money by this 
 time — and laid it out judiciously for the 
 future benefit of her son. If Philip had 
 only known I 
 
 She lived in her own house, near Regent's 
 Park, where she saw but few frienda, and 
 
MT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 145 
 
 those chiefly of her own profession. Her 
 life was not dull, however. It was bright- 
 ened by the hope that lived in her. Morn- 
 ing and evening she prayed for her son ; all 
 day long slie thought about him ; at night 
 she dreamed of him. She pictured him 
 brave, clever, and handsome ; she made him 
 her knight, — young Qalahad, without stain 
 or blemish of sin ; and she trembled at the 
 thought of meeting him — not for fear he 
 might fall below the standard. she had set 
 up, but for fear of her own un worthiness. 
 She was to go to him, some day, with the 
 bitter confession of his mother's sin. She 
 was to say, " You are separated from other 
 men by a broad line. They may rejoice in 
 their mothers : you must be ashamed of 
 yours." She was to ask him, not for that 
 love and respect which wives can get from 
 their sons, but for love and pity and for- 
 giveness. She was to blight his self-re- 
 spect and abase her own. No wonder that 
 she hesitated, and thought, year after year, 
 that there was time enough.' 
 
 But one day, looking at the familiar page 
 in the Army List, she saw that her son's 
 name was missing ; and, on looking through 
 the " Gazette," she found that he- had sold 
 out. Tiiis agitated her. Something must 
 have happened. He had abandoned his 
 career. He might have married. How 
 could sM face his wife 7 Or he had met 
 with some misfortune. How could she as- 
 certain what ? She did not know what to 
 do or to whom to apply. , The weeks passed 
 on. She was in great anxiety. At last, 
 unable to bear any longer the suspense of 
 doubt, she went to a private inquiry office, 
 and set them to work to find Mr. Durn- 
 ford's address. It was quite easy to ascer- 
 tain where he had lodged before he sold 
 out, but impossible to learn where he was 
 now ; only the lodging-house people gave 
 the address of his Mend, Mr. Maclntyre, 
 and his cousin, Artl;iur Durnford. This 
 was all she wanted. Of the two, she would 
 first try Maclntyre. She knew him of old. 
 He was unscrupulous, she well knew, and 
 still poor, as she suspected. She would 
 bribe him to give her Philip's address, un- 
 less he would do it for nothing. 
 
 All this is by way of explanation of her 
 sudden appearance at a moment so inop- 
 portune, when dignity was utterly out ol 
 the question, and .her old acquaintance 
 showed to such singularly small advantage. 
 
 The shock of Venn's intelligence was for 
 the moment too much for her. 
 
 " I fear I have hurt you," said Hartley. 
 " Pardon me, I was careless of my words. 
 Did I understand him rightly V He said 
 that — that" — 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked Marie. " Bring 
 him here." 
 
 10 
 
 Venn opened the doOr of the bedroom 
 and looked in, but no one was there. 
 
 " He is gone, madame. Pray let me he 
 of assistance to you. I can give you Mr. 
 Durnford's address. It is at Notting Hill 
 that he lives." 
 
 " Stay. First, the young lady you spoke 
 of, sir — your ward. Could I see her ? " 
 
 Venn hesitated. 
 
 " She is ill — she has just lost her hus- 
 band. Would it do any good "if you were 
 to see her ? " 
 
 Marie looked him straight in the face. 
 
 " I have ' not seen Philip Durnford for 
 twenty-five years, and I am his mother." 
 She blushed like a girl. " It is twenty- 
 seven years ago," she murmured. " I am a 
 native of the Palmiste Island." 
 
 " Good God ! " said Venn, thinking of 
 Arthur. 
 
 " I put my story into your hands, though 
 I do not even know your name. You may, 
 if you please, publish to the world the 
 shame and disgrace of a woman that the 
 world has always believed pure and good ; 
 buti think you will not do that." 
 
 " I ? " cried Venn. " Great heavens I 
 why should I ? My name is Venn, Madame 
 de Guyon. My father was Mr. George 
 Durnford's tutor, and I am a friend of Ar- 
 thur Durnford. My ward — the little girl 
 that I brought up and made a lady of — is 
 tlie grand-daughter of my old laundress. 
 Your son made her acquaintance — and — 
 it is best to let you know the whole truth — 
 made her promise to hide the fact from me ; 
 brought her here to these very rooms, one 
 evening, six months ago, when Maclntyre 
 married, pretended to marry them, — I don't 
 know which. Then he took her to France. 
 She will tell you the rest, perhaps, her- 
 self" . 
 
 " Advise me what is best to do," cried 
 Marie, in deep distress. " Oh, sir, if I have 
 but found my son to lose him again ! " 
 
 "At all events, you shall sg5 his wife," 
 said Venn. " You will be vfery kind to 
 her ? Yes, I see you will. But there are 
 other complications." 
 
 Then he told the story of the transferred 
 property, just as he had heard it from Ar- 
 thur an hour before. 
 
 " But I was never married," said Marie 
 simply. ' 
 
 "Then Mr. Maclntyre, who is really a 
 scoundrel of quite the ancient type, and, as 
 one may say, of the deepest dye, has been 
 forging the letters ; and we shall, perhaps^ 
 have the pleasure of seeing him in the fel- 
 on's dock before long." 
 
 " Promise me again," cried Marie, alarm- 
 ed, " that you will keep my secret, whatever 
 happens." 
 I " I have promised already," said Venn. 
 
146 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " Not even Arthur Durnford shall hear a 
 ■word. But it seems a pity to let the Mac- 
 Intyre go." 
 
 " Then take me to your ward," Marie 
 asked him. 
 
 " She is staying at my sister's house. 
 Do not tell my sister,, if you see her, any 
 thing. She is a most excellent woman, 
 Madame de Guyon, and as silent as death 
 on unimportant matters ; but, in the matter 
 of secrets, I believe she is too confiding. 
 She imparts in confidence all that is in- 
 trusted to her in confidence, and considers 
 she has kept a secret when she has not pro- 
 claimed it at church. Just now, however, 
 she is not likely to be inquisitive, because 
 she is greatly excited at being excommuni- 
 cated." 
 
 " Excommunicated ? " 
 
 " Yes : she gave her cat the name of St. 
 Cyril. On her refusal to change it, her 
 clergyman, who holds rigid views, has ex- 
 communicated her. It is the greatest 
 excitement that has ever happened to her, 
 and she attends' all those ordinances of re- 
 ligion from which she is debarred by her 
 own director at an adjacent Low Church, 
 where the clergyman parts his hair at the 
 side, wears long whiskers, and reads the 
 prayers with solemnity and effect. But I 
 beg your pardon, Madame de Guyon, for 
 inflicting these family details upon you. 
 Let me get a cab for you." 
 
 He returned in a few minutes, and they 
 drove to Miss Venn's Iiouse. His sister 
 was out. As he afterwards learned, there 
 had been a prayer-meeting at the evangel- 
 ical clergyman's school ; and, as nothing 
 irritated the Rev. Mr. De Vere so much as 
 a public prayer-meeting, . she went there 
 ostentatiously. By the greatest good luck, 
 he was passing as she went in, and saw her; 
 so that she enjoyed her meeting extremely. 
 
 Laura was lying om the sofa, reading. 
 Her pale cheeks brightened up when Hart- 
 ley came in. 
 
 " What is my ward doing ? " he asked. 
 " Not reading too long, I hope. I have 
 brought you a visitor, LoUie. Madame de 
 Guyon, this is my ward, Mrs. Philip Durn- 
 ford." 
 
 Laura looked appealingly at Hartley ; 
 but was more astonished when Marie went 
 straight to the sofa, and, kneeling down, 
 took her face in her hands, and kissed her, 
 with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " I had better leave you, Madame de 
 Guyon, I think," said Venn. " I shall wait 
 in the dining-room for you." 
 
 Left alone, Marie began to tremble. 
 
 " My dear, I ought not to have kissed 
 you. I ought, first, to tell you who I am. 
 
 " Who are you ? " asked Laura. " I am 
 su^e, at least, you are very kind." 
 
 " My dear child, I hear that you have 
 suffered. I want, if I can, to soothe your 
 sorroiv, and, if it be possible, remove it." 
 
 " Ah, no one can 1 " 
 
 " We shall see. Have you patience to 
 listen to the story of a woman who has also 
 sufiered, but through her own fault ; while 
 you have only suffered through the fault 
 of others ? " 
 
 She told her own story. How poor and 
 ignorant she had been ; Iw^r George Durn- 
 ford had made her proud and happy with 
 a love of which she realized all the passion 
 and happiness and none of the guilt ; how 
 he had ^old her, one day, that it was to be 
 in future as if they had never met ; how he 
 had taken her boy, at her own request, and 
 given her money to come to England ; and 
 how she had studied long and hard, and 
 learned to make the most of a gift which is 
 granted to few ; and then her voice soft- 
 ened as she told how she had made 
 fame and got fortune, and toiled on com- 
 panionless, cheered by the hope that some 
 day she might find her son, and pour into 
 his heart some of the love with which her 
 own was bursting. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " I found not my 
 son, but his evil adviser, — not hisiriend, — 
 Mr. Maclntyre. And my son is your hus- 
 band." 
 
 Laura buried her face in her hands. 
 
 " Yes, I know it all. Mr. Venn has 
 told me. Only, dear, you are not to blame. 
 You are a wife : I never was. Let me 
 find in you what I have lost. If I cannot 
 win njy son, let me win a daughter." 
 
 " O madame 1 " LaUra replied, stroking 
 back the thick brown hair that covered 
 her face, " you are a lady, I am only a 
 poor girl. How Philip could ever love me, 
 — he did love me once, — I do not know. 
 I am only Mr. Venn's little girl ; and you 
 are the only lady, except Miss Venn and 
 Madeleine, who has ever spoken to me at 
 all." 
 
 " My dear, and I was only a singer at 
 the theatre." • 
 
 " But you are a gi-eat singer ; and I — O 
 madame I anjJ what will Philip say V " 
 
 " We will not care what Philip says." 
 
 " And then — oh„ I am so unhappy 1 " 
 
 And she began to cry. 
 
 Marie cried too ; and the two found con- 
 solation in the usual way. 
 
 Then Laura began to whisper. 
 
 " You have had some comfort, — you hawi 
 a child." 
 
 " We will get you back your husband. 
 Philip cannot be very bad, dear. He 
 loved you once, at any rate." 
 
 She brightened up; but the moment 
 after, fell back upon the sofa, and burst 
 into fresh tears. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 147 
 
 "I shall never get hira back. I could 
 never see him again. You do not know 
 ■what he called me, — me, his wife. I am 
 his wife, am I not ? I could never look 
 Mr. Venn in the face again if I were not." 
 
 " Yes, dear, you are his wife, surely you 
 are ; but I will go and see hira." 
 
 " Take Mr. Venn with you : let him 
 speak for me." 
 
 " Would it be wise ? No, — I will go 
 alone. If he will not hear me, he will cer- 
 tainly not hear" Mr. Venn. And now,,! 
 must go ; but, dear, my heart is very 
 heavy. I am oppressed with a sense of 
 coming evil. Tell me, — if Philip, if my 
 son, should not receive me well, if, after 
 all these years of forbearance, he greets 
 me with coldness and distrust — oh, tell 
 me what he is like ! " 
 
 Laura told her as well as she could. 
 
 "But Philip is passionate," she conclud- 
 ed ; " and I think he has lost some money 
 lately, and Mr. Maclntyre makes him do 
 reckless things." 
 
 " I can manage Mr. Maclntyre," said 
 Marie. " Besides, he is not likely to for- 
 , get the lesson Mr. Venn has taught him 
 to-day." 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 Marie told iier of the scene she had wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 Liura, usually the mildest of her sex, 
 set her lips together, and clasped her 
 hands. 
 
 '•■ Oh, I am so glad — I am so glad ! 
 Was he hurt ? Did he cry ? Tell me all 
 ■ over again," she said. 
 
 Marie only smiled. 
 
 " Let me finish, dear. I have only one 
 proposition to make to my son. If he will 
 not agree to that, I have one to make to 
 you." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " Would you like to go back to Philip ? " 
 
 She clasped her hands, and began to 
 think. 
 
 " He was so cruel 1 If I only could. If 
 he would only take me. But I am his wife." 
 
 " And if he will not,' will you come with 
 me, child ? My heart is empty : I long for 
 some one to love. Come with me, and be 
 my loved and cherished daughter." 
 
 Laura threw her fair young arms round 
 her neck, and Marie kissed her passion-, 
 ately. 
 
 " I must go now," she said, after a, few 
 minutes. " I do not think I can go to your 
 husband's — to my son's house to-day. I 
 must wait till to-morrow. Write down his 
 address, dear, on my tablets. And now, 
 good-by. Ask Miss Venn to let me 
 come to see you. Tell her only that I am 
 your husband's old friend ; and remember 
 to keep my secret till I see you again." 
 
 She went away. Presently came back 
 Miss Venn, in a high state of exhilaration 
 at the discomfiture of the Rev. Mr. De 
 Vere, who, seeing her open act of rebel- 
 lion, must have gone home, she concluded, 
 in a furious state of indignation. This, in- 
 deed, the reverend gentleman had actually 
 done. And she called loudly for St. Cyril, 
 — her cat, — and sat down and made her- 
 self comfortable, and gave her brother a 
 comfortable little dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " We have not had a chorus for a long 
 time," said Venn. " All these excitements 
 have been too much for us. Sit down, 
 Arthur. Jones, consider this a regular 
 night." 
 
 " I have been reading," said Jones pres- 
 ently, " with a view to understanding the 
 great secret of success, some of the poetry 
 of the period ; and I beg to submit to the 
 Chorus a ballad done in the most approved 
 fashion of our modern poets. May I read 
 it ? It is called ' The Knightly Tryste,' or, 
 if you will, ' My Ladye's Bidding,' which 
 is more poetical : — 
 
 * Between the saddle and the man, 
 Ah me I red gleomB of sunlight ran ; 
 Ho only, on his Arab steed, , 
 
 Left all the streaming winds behind. 
 Sighed, " \VeU it were, in time of need, 
 A softer place than tiis to iind." 
 
 The twinkling milestones at his side 
 Flushed for a moment as he passed; 
 
 Small thought had he of joy or pride, 
 G-roaned only, " This can never last." 
 
 And more and more the red light ran 
 
 Between the saddle and the man. 
 
 '* Woe worth the day," he gasped by times, 
 
 " My lady fair this ^ancy took; 
 And Devil takei her prattling rhymes ' 
 
 About the willows and the brook; 
 For this I suffer what I can, 
 Between the saddle and the man." 
 
 Still rode the knight : the dewy beads 
 Stood on his brow, but on he spurred; 
 
 Ere compline bell doth. ring it needs 
 He meet the lady by her word ; 
 
 And great discomfort then began 
 
 Between the saddle and the man." 
 
 There came a moment — o*er a gate. 
 Five-barred, close shut, the destrier flew; 
 
 He also — but bis knees, t-oo late. 
 Clutched only mosses wet with dew. * 
 
 Ah, me ! the ever-lengthening span 
 
 Between the saddle and the man.' " 
 
 Jones read and looked round for ap- 
 plause. None followed. 
 
 " It won't do, Jones," said Venn, — " it 
 won't do. You had better stick to the old 
 school. The grotesque and the unreal 
 won't last. Write for posterity, if you 
 must write poetry." 
 
 " I don't care so much for posterity as I 
 
148 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 did," said Jones. " I want things that pay. 
 Now, I really think an able, editor ought to 
 give something for those lines." 
 
 " Low and grovelling aim ! Look at me, 
 — I write for nothing but the praise of my 
 fellow-countrymen, as soon as I can get 
 published." 
 
 " I sometimes think," Jones continued, 
 " of taking up the satirical line. Are you 
 aware that there is not such a thing as a 
 satirist living ? We want a Boileau. The 
 nation asks .for a man of sense. Some- 
 thing must be done soon." 
 
 For once Jones looked melancholy. 
 
 " What is it, Jones ? " asked Venn. 
 " More disappointments. Remember the 
 banquet of lil'e, my boy V " 
 
 " I do," saiil Jones, with an eifort to 
 smile. " In the words of Hannah More, — 
 
 ■ * I'or bread and cheese and little ease 
 Small thanks, but no repining; 
 Still o'er the sky they darKling lie, — 
 Olouda, with no silver lining.' 
 
 Come," he went on, "the Chorus is un- 
 usually dull and silent. I will sing you a 
 song made for the occasion : — 
 
 ' I am an unfortunate man, 
 
 Bad luck at my elbow doth sit; 
 Let me tell how my troubles began, 
 If only my feelings permit. 
 
 The spoon that my young lips adorned 
 
 In infancy's hour was of wood ; 
 No freaks, then, of fortune I mournd, 
 
 And for pap it was equally good. 
 
 To school I was sent, and the first day 
 I was caned with the rest by mistake ; 
 
 But each morning that followed, the worst day 
 Seemed still in my annals to maJie; 
 
 For I laughed when I should have been weeping ; 
 
 I cried when I ought to have smiled; 
 And the painful results still are keeping 
 
 Their memory green In this child. 
 
 The other hoys sinned at their leisure ; 
 
 They could do what they liked and escape; 
 But I, for each illicit pleasure, 
 
 Still found myself in a new scrape. 
 
 Now in London I linger, and sadly 
 Get shoved on my pathway by fate ; 
 
 Hope dances before nie, and madly 
 Shows fruits that are only a bait. 
 
 For I am an unfortunate man ; 
 
 But fate, which has taken the rest, 
 Has given, to console when she can, 
 
 trood spirits still left in my breast.' " 
 
 " That's not very good, Jones," said 
 Lynn. " What has put you into this de- 
 jected and miserable fi>aine, unfit for the 
 society of a decent and jihilosophical 
 Chorus ? First you read a bad poein, and 
 then you sing a comic song." 
 
 '• A letter I got this morning," he an- 
 swered with a groan. " Let me talk, you 
 fellows, and I'll tell you a story. Call it 
 a vision if you like, — a vision of two lives. 
 
 " The two lives were once one. They 
 
 thought the same thoughts, and had the 
 same ambitions. They had the same 
 chances, they won the same successes, 
 dreamed the same dreams. No two fj-iends 
 were ever so close ; for the two minds were 
 one, and dwelt in the same body. I saw 
 in my vision that there came a time — the 
 boy was almost grown to thiij age of man- 
 hood — when the two separated. It was 
 at Oxford that this disunion first took 
 place. And in my vision it seemed to me 
 that the one which remained in the' boy 
 was as myself; and tlie other, that other 
 self which I might have been." 
 
 Jones paused, and pondered for a few 
 moments, with grave face. 
 
 " Yes, I — that is, the one that remained 
 behind — was seized with a kind of mad- 
 ness of vanity. All my noble dreams, all, 
 my thoughts of what might be, gave way 
 to a desire to amuse. I, that is -^ of 
 course " — 
 
 '■ Go on saying I, without apology,'' said 
 Venn. 
 
 " Well, I succeeded in amusing the men 
 of my college. I succeeded as an actor — 
 I think I was a good mimic. I sang, I made 
 verses, I wrote little plays and acted them. 
 I. went every day co wines, suppers, an^l 
 breakfasts. I lyas, of course, tremendously 
 poor ; and, like most poor idiots, did no 
 reading whatever. Meantime, my old friend 
 was very differently occupied. I used to 
 se6 his calm, quiet face — like mine in fea- 
 tures, but different in expression — in hall 
 and chapel. He was a student. He came 
 up to Oxfbrd with ambitions and hopes that 
 I shared ; but he kept them, and worked 
 for them. Mine, with the means of real- 
 izing them, I had thrown away. 1 used to 
 look at him sometimes, and ask myself if 
 this was the friend who had once been the 
 same as myself, like the two branches of an 
 equation in Indeterminate Co-efficients." 
 
 " Jones,"-said Venn, " don't be flowery, 
 pray don't. We are ngt mathematical 
 men." 
 
 " The time came when we were to go 
 into the schools. I, my friends, in my vis- 
 ion, was plucked. , He, in my vision, got a 
 Double First. Curiously, enough, in reality 
 I was plucked in Greats — for divinity. 
 However, after this, we took paths even 
 more divergent. He staid behind to try 
 ■for a Fellowship, which he easily got. I 
 went up to London to try to get my daily 
 bread in any way, however humble. He 
 entered at -the bar, — it had always been 
 our ambition to become Fellows, and to 
 enter at the bar, — I became a drudge to an 
 army cram coach, who paid me just enough 
 to keep me going. 
 
 " He, too, a year or too later, came to 
 London. How long is it ? I think it is ten 
 
MT LITTLE 6IBL. 
 
 149 
 
 years since we took our desrees, and 
 read law. Presently he was called, — I saw 
 his name in -the Law List, — and began to 
 get practice. I, like a stone, neither grew 
 nor moved. , 
 
 " The time goes on ; but the two lives 
 are separated, never again to meet. He is 
 on the road to fortune and fame. He will 
 make his mark on the history of his coun- 
 try. He will, — that is, after all, the cruel- 
 ost part of the vision, — he will marry 
 Mary ; for, while the boy was growing 
 into manhood, there came to live in thu 
 village where his father, the vicar, lived, a 
 retired officer, with a little daughter eight 
 years younger than the boy. The boy, who 
 had no play-fellows- in the village, took' to 
 the child, and became a sort of elder 
 brother to her; and, as they grew up,. the 
 affection between the two strengthened. 
 Mary was serious beyond her years, chiefly 
 from always associating with her seniors. 
 When she was twelve and the boy eigh- 
 teen, slie could share his hopes, and could 
 understand his dreams. She looked on 
 him as a hero. Like all women, with those 
 they love, she could not see his faults ; and 
 when he disappointed all their expecta- 
 tions, and came back from the grand uni- 
 versity that was to make so 'much of him, 
 disgraced instead of honored, loaded with 
 debt instead of armed with a Fellowship, 
 she it was who first forgave him. 
 
 " He could not forgive himself. He 
 handed her over mentally to his old friend, 
 and left her." 
 
 " But he will see her again,'' said Arthur. 
 
 " I think never. He has had his chance, 
 that would have made them both happy ; 
 and he threw it away. My friend, how- 
 ever, who must be making a very large 
 income by this time at the Chancery bar, 
 who writes critical papers in big words 
 in the ' Fortnightly,' whose book on some- 
 thing or other connected with the law is 
 quoted by judges, — he will doubtless marry 
 her, and then they will be happy ; but I 
 — I mean the ego of my vision — shall go 
 on struggling with the world, and rejoicing 
 over small sacrifices, resigned to great dis- 
 appointments, till the end of the chapter. 
 T shall contemplate the visionary happiness 
 of my aller ego — with Mary, whom I shall 
 never see again. He will be Lord Chan- 
 cellor ; and, if I live long enough, when I 
 die I shall think of the great works that 
 he has done, and thank God for his excel- 
 lent gift of a steady purpose and a clear 
 brain." 
 
 Jones was silent for a few minutes. 
 
 " You were talking about women the 
 other night, — three months ago. It makes 
 me angry to hear theories of wpmen. I 
 beg your pardon, Venn, for criticising your 
 
 trumpet-noses ; and yours, Lynn, for get- 
 ting savage over your world of the future. 
 Women are what men make them ; and if 
 my Mary had married the future Lord 
 Chancellor, there would have been no 
 nobler woman in the world, as there is now 
 none more tender-hearted and forgiving. 
 But — oh dear me ! — if women are frivo- 
 lous, it is because they have nothing to do. 
 To make them work is to unsex them ; to 
 put them through a Cambridge course of 
 maiheraatics is so ludicrously absurd in its 
 usuiessness, that we need no vision of an 
 impossible future world to show us its 
 folly." 
 
 " And suppose, Jones," said Arthur, — 
 " only suppose, that Mary marries the ' I ' 
 of your dream." 
 
 " I can't suppose it. He cannot drag 
 her down to his own level." 
 
 " But she may raise him to hers." 
 
 Jones sighed. In his vision of the two 
 lives he had revealed the story of his own, 
 — which Venn already partly knew; and 
 the dignity of sorrow tor a moment sat 
 like a crown on his forehead. But he 
 shook it off, and turning round with a 
 cheerful smile, adjusted his spectacles, and 
 concluded his observations. 
 
 " My own verses again : — 
 
 ' Q-one is the spring with wings too light, 
 ■ The hopeml song of youth is iiute, 
 The soher tints displace the hright. 
 
 The blossoms all are turned to fruit : 
 I, like a tree consumed with hlight, 
 
 Fit only for the pruner's knife, 
 Await the day, not far away, 
 
 Which asks the harvest of a life. 
 
 And, for the past is surely gone, 
 
 The coming evil still unseen, 
 1 think of what 1 might have won, 
 
 And fancy things that should have been; 
 And so in dreams by summer streams, 
 
 While golden suna light every sheaf, 
 I take her hand, and through the land, 
 
 My love makes all the journey brief." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Madame de Guyon sought her son's 
 hduse at noon the next day. She was ill 
 with a long night's anxiety; and her face, 
 usually so calm, looked troubled and hag- 
 gard. 
 
 Philip was at home, and would see her. 
 
 The moment, long looked for, was come 
 at last ; and she. trembled so much that she 
 could hardly mount the steps of the door. 
 He was sitting in the dismantled room of 
 the little cottage at Notting Hill, but rose 
 tq receive his visitor. 
 
 She drew her thick veil more closely 
 over her face, and stood looking at her own 
 son with a thousand emotions in her 
 breast. 
 
150 
 
 MY LITTLE GlEL. 
 
 Her own son — her Philip I A man 
 now, whom she had last seen a child of 
 four years old, when she took him out of 
 his cot at Fontainebleau. A tall and 
 shapely man, with a face like that of 
 George Durnford, only darker, and eyes 
 that she knew for her own, — large, deep, 
 lustrous. She gazed at him for a' few mo- 
 ments without speaking or moving, fpi her 
 heart was too full. 
 
 Philip set a chair for her. 
 
 " Madame de Guyon ? " he asked, look- 
 ing at the card. " May I ask what gives 
 me the honor of a visit from, — I presume 
 you are the lady whose name " — 
 
 " Yes : I am the singer." 
 
 " I come," she went on, with an effort, 
 " from your wife." 
 
 Philip changed color. 
 
 " your wife, Philip Durnford, whom you 
 drove away from you three weeks ago. 
 You will be sorry to learn that she is 
 very ill, — that she has been dangerously 
 
 " Tell me," he stammered, — " she is not 
 — not dead 'I " • 
 
 " No : grief does not kill." 
 
 " Where is she ? " , 
 
 " She is at present under the charge of 
 Miss Venn, the sister of her guardian." 
 
 The old jealousy flamed up again in his 
 heart. 
 
 " Then she may stay there. She al- 
 ways loved him better than me. I hardly 
 understand, however, what my private 
 affairs have to do with Madame de Guy- 
 on." ^ 
 
 " I will tell you presently. First, let me 
 plead for this poor girl." 
 
 " I am, of course, obliged to listen to all 
 that you have to say." 
 
 " I know the whole story, the pitiful, 
 shameful story. I know how, influenced by 
 that bad man, you went through a form of 
 marriage which is illegal ; how you gam- 
 bled away your money; how, when you 
 were ruined at last, you . let her go from 
 your doors, with more than the truth, — 
 more than the cruel truth, — ringing in her 
 ears, disgraced and ashamed." 
 
 " More than the truth ? " 
 
 " Yes, more ; for the man was once an 
 ordained minister of his own church, and 
 the illegality consisted only in the place 
 where he married you. Philip Durnford, 
 she is your wife." 
 
 He answered nothing. 
 
 "I do not ask you to take her back. 
 That cannot be yet. I say only, remove 
 the doubt that may exist ; and, as soon as 
 she is strong enough, make her yours in 
 the eye of the law as well as of God." 
 
 " Why do.^oa come here ? What have 
 you to do with me ? " 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " Philip Durnford, for the love of all that 
 you hold sacred, promise me to do this. Do 
 not tell me that you, — you, of all men in 
 this wide world, purposely deceived the 
 girl, and are not repentant. O Philip — 
 Philip I " 
 
 He started. Why should this woman 
 call him by his Christian name ? Why 
 should she "throw back her veil, and look at 
 him with her full black eyes filled with 
 tears ? 
 
 " You had married her. You meant to 
 marry her. Do not let me believe you to 
 be utterly base and wicked. Do this, if 
 only to undo some of the past. Then let 
 her stay on with her friends, ^— deserted 
 but not disgraced. Think of it, think of 
 it ! The girl was innocent and ignorant. 
 She knew nothing of the world, — nothing 
 but what one man had taught her. She 
 had no circle of friends, no atmosphere of 
 home, to teach her what life means. She 
 fell into your hands. You loved her, I 
 know you loved her " — 
 
 " She never loved me.'' 
 
 " I want to move your heart, , Philip 
 Durnford. Think of those in the world 
 who love you, to whom your honor and 
 good name are dear." 
 
 She sighed and went on, —r 
 
 " There must be a way to touch your 
 heart. Think of the days you had her 
 with you, — men have said that for the 
 sake of those early days, when their wives 
 were to them as angels, they love them for 
 the rest of their lives, long after they have- 
 found them women, full of faults, and lower 
 than themselves, — when you read that 
 poor child's thoughts, haired before you, 
 and you only, — when, out of all her 
 thoughts, there was not one that she was 
 not ready to confess to you, — when you 
 took her out of the solitude of maidenhood, 
 and taught her the sweet mystery of com- 
 panionship. ' Philip Durnford, can the 
 Church devise any form of words, any holy 
 ceremony, any oaths or sacraments, that 
 ought to be more binding than these things ? 
 Can any man have memories of greater 
 tenderness, innocence, and purity than you 
 have of poor Laura ¥ Not a common, un- 
 taught girl, of whom you might have been 
 tired in a week ; but a girl full of all kinds 
 of knowledge, trained and taught. No one 
 knows the story but Mr. Venn and myself, 
 and, — and the other man. The fault may 
 be repaired." 
 
 " Arthur knows it, Madeleine knows it, 
 all the world knows it by this time. We 
 waste time in words. I loved her, — I love 
 her no longer. I am ashamed for ray folly ; 
 ashamed, if you will, of the evil temper 
 which made me tell her all. If no one 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 151 
 
 knows, why not let things go on as they 
 are ? We are both free." - 
 
 " You are neither of you free : you are 
 bound to each other. Siuee her departure, 
 you have obtained possession of Arthur 
 Durnford's estate." < 
 
 " My estate, if you pleaae. I was pre- 
 pared to prove it mine in a court of law." 
 " I think not, because I could have pre- 
 vented it. The estate is not yours by any 
 legal claim." 
 
 " Upon my word, Madame de Guyon," 
 said Philip, " you appear to know a great 
 deal about our family history." 
 " I do know a great deal." 
 " But I prefer not to discuss the details 
 with you. I return to what I said before. 
 Let things past be forgotten." 
 He waved his hand impatiently. 
 " Let us dismiss the subject ; and now, 
 Madame de Guyon, pray gratify my curi- 
 osity by telling me how you became mixed 
 up in the affair at all." 
 
 " Let me say one word more;" 
 " Not one word. I have, I confess, those 
 qualms of regret which some people attrib- 
 ute to conscience. I am extremely sorry 
 that I have made her unha,ppy. I do not 
 j ustify any part of my conduct. Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre did, it is true, endeavor to persuade 
 me that the marriage was legal. I was 
 madly in love, and tried to believe him. 
 Of course, it was not legal. This is not 
 a thing that can be said and unsaid. It is 
 a fact. Facts afe stubborn things, as you 
 know. The history of her life, together 
 "with the overpowering affection she has 
 for the other man, are not calculated to 
 make me desirous of turning into an indis- 
 soluble contract what was really no con- 
 tract at all. If she wants money " — 
 
 " She would die rather than take money 
 from you." 
 
 " In that case, I think there is nothing 
 really nothing — more to be said." 
 
 " O Philip Durnford ! is Heaven's 
 wrath " — 
 
 " Come, Madame de Guyon, let us 
 not go into theology. We met ; I loved 
 her ; I deceived her ; was partly deceived 
 myself. I did not meet with any love 
 from her. I lost my money on the turf 
 I lost ray temper with her. We quarrel. 
 She goes away. 1 sit down and do, — 
 nothing. The religious part of the matter 
 concerns me only. Keligious matters do not 
 trouble my head much. I am a man of the 
 world, and take things as I find them. 
 Things are mostly bad, and men are all 
 bad. Que voulez vous ? " 
 
 Good heavens 1 And this man — this 
 libertine — was her own son, and she was 
 sitting there listening in silence ! 
 But the time was coming to speak. 
 
 " I cannot believe you are speaking what 
 you think. You cannot be so bitter against 
 the world." 
 
 " Perhaps I have cause." 
 "You have not, Philip Durnford. I 
 know your whole history, — yes, from 
 your childhood. There are few alive, — 
 unless it be that man Maclntyre, — who 
 knows the secret of your birth." 
 
 " There, at least, I have no reason to be 
 ashamed. My mother was married to my 
 father." 
 
 She bent her face forward, and was 
 silent for a moment. 
 " Suppose she was not ? " 
 " But she was. I have legal proofs. 
 They are in my desk." • 
 He grew impatient. 
 
 '■ What is this V What does it mean ? 
 You come to me, knowing all about me ; 
 you interfere in my most private relations. 
 Tell me, I ask again, what it means V " 
 
 " I will tell you," she said. " It is a bit- 
 ter thing to tell, — it is a bitter time to 
 have to tell it. I have prayed and hoped 
 for five and twenty years ; and now I find 
 you — ah, me ! — so changed from the 
 Philip of my dreams." 
 
 His face grew white, and his hand shook, 
 for a strange foreboding seized him ; but 
 he said nothing. 
 
 " There was once," she went on, the 
 tears falling fast through her veil, — " there 
 was once a rich man and a poor handmaid- 
 en. He was kind and generous, and she 
 loved, him : they had a son. The time 
 came when the wickedness and folly were 
 to cease. He married, and sent her away, 
 — not cruelly, not with harsh words, as 
 you sent Laura away, but kindly 'and con- 
 siderately. She knew it must come. She 
 was one of the inferior race, wjth the old 
 slave blood in her veins. The English gen- 
 tleman could never marry her, and she 
 knew it all along. She could hope for 
 nothing but his kindness for a tim.e, and 
 look tor nothing but a separation. She 
 was ignorant and untaught. She felt no 
 degradation. That was to come after- 
 wards, — to last through all her life. Her 
 lover practiced no deception, made her no 
 false promises." 
 
 " Go on," he said hoarsely, when she 
 stopped. 
 
 " He married. The mulatto girl went 
 away. With his money she learned to sing. 
 She is living now, rich, and of good name. 
 No one knows her past. Philip Durnford, 
 she never married your father, and you are 
 her son." 
 
 She raised her veil, and looked him 
 straight in the face. He gazed at her, 
 white and scared. 
 "And you ? " 
 
152 
 
 MT LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 She fell at his feet, crying, — . 
 " O Philip, — Philip I I am your guilty 
 mother. Forgive me, — forgive me I " 
 
 And she waited for his words of love 
 and forgiveness. 
 
 Alas 1 none came. After a while he 
 raised lier, and placed her in a chair. 
 
 His lips moved, but he could hot speak. 
 When he did his voice was hard and 
 harsh. 
 
 " You say you are my mother. I must 
 believe you. That I am still illegitimate ? 
 That, too, I must believe. The letters and 
 church register " — 
 
 " They are forgdries." 
 
 " They are forgeries, — I believe that 
 too. Arthur and I have been tricked and 
 cheated. And so, what next ? " 
 , She did not answer. 
 
 " See, now, I am an unnatural son, per- 
 haps ; but I am going to take a, common- 
 sense view of the matter. Let every thing 
 be as it was before. For all those years 
 I have had no mother, I cannot now — 
 not yet, at least — - feel to you as I should. 
 Go to Arthur, — I, too, will write to him, 
 — tell him what you please. If I were 
 you, I should tell him nothing. And let 
 us part. I am ruined in fortune and un- 
 happy in every relation of life ; but we 
 should neither of us be happier if I were 
 to go home with you, and fall into false 
 captures of filial love. I am unkind, per- 
 aaps ; but I am trying not to deceive you 
 n any respect. My mother, we have met 
 jnce. We are not acting a play, and I 
 ;annot fall into your arms, and love you 
 ill at once. I am what my life has made 
 ne. I belong to another world, — diifer- 
 ?nt to yours. I have my habits, my preju- 
 Jices, my opinions, — all bad, no doubt ; 
 Dut I have them. Let me go on my road. 
 Believe me, with such a son you would be 
 niserable. Let us go on keeping our secret 
 torn the world. No one shall know that 
 Madame de Guyon has a son at all, tiir less 
 iuch a son as myself" 
 
 For all answer she threw her arms round 
 lis neck, and kissed him again and again. 
 
 The tears came into his eyea ; and, for 
 I moment, his heart softened, and he kiss- 
 ■d her cheek. Then the frost of seltish- 
 less fell upon him again, aind he grew 
 lard and cruel. 
 
 •' Let us part," he said. 
 
 " Philip," she moaned, " God punishe.« 
 ne very hard ; but it canfaot be that you 
 ihould suffer for my faults. Goil only grant 
 :hat you never feel the agony and suttering 
 ;hat you have caused two women who love 
 foa." 
 
 The agony and sulfering," he answered 
 ightly, " may be put at the door of our 
 aodern civiUzation. I am sure you will 
 
 both feel, after a while, that I have acted 
 for the best. Let us part, and be friends. 
 Sometimes I will come and see you." 
 
 " I am your mQther -still. You can say 
 and do nothing that I would not forgive. 
 When your heart is softened, 'yoa will 
 comeback to me. Stay" — she bent for- 
 ward with fixed eyes, as of one who looks 
 into the future, — "I feel it. The time is 
 not far ofl' when you will lie in my arms, 
 and cry for shame and sorrow. I cannot 
 make it all out. It is my dream that comes 
 again and again. I see the place, — it 
 looks like George's room. And now, — 
 now, all is dark." She closed her eyes, 
 and then looked up with her former ex- 
 pression. " And now, farewell, — Laura, 
 is ray daughter." 
 
 He held out his hand. She drew her 
 face to him, and kissed him on the brow. 
 Then she let down her veil, and went away. 
 
 Hour after hour passed ; but Philip still 
 sat in the desolate room whence he had 
 driven away the angels of his life. 
 
 CH.'^PTER XXXVL 
 
 A MONTH passed by, and no message or 
 letter was sent to Philip. He, now quite 
 gone back to the old life, spent his days 
 chiefly at the Burleigh Club, in the custom- 
 ary unprofitable pursuits of a man about 
 town. This is not an imj^roving course ; 
 and every day found him more ready to 
 keep what he had got, whatever might be 
 the truth. His mother ? And if she were 
 his mother, what duty did he owe to her ? 
 When the new year came round, he was 
 curious to learn if the usual two hundred 
 pounds would he paid into his account. It 
 was not. Then he was quite certain about 
 the sender. It was Madame de Guyon. 
 Another thing bothered him. Nothing 
 could be ascertained as to Mr. Maclntyre's 
 whereabouts. No notice given at ' the 
 lodgings. He had quietly disappeared. 
 One thing was ascertainable, however : he 
 had drawn out the whole of his money in 
 bank-notes and gold. 
 
 " Come with me," said Venn, after tell- 
 ing Arthur what he had learned, — " come 
 and see Madame de Guyon. She would 
 like it." 
 
 Arthur went. Madame de Guyon re- 
 ceived him with a curious air of interest. 
 
 " You are like your father," she said ; 
 " but more like poor Adrienne, your 
 mother. May I call you Arthur V You 
 know the whole sad story, Arthur. At this 
 length of time, thinking what I waS", iu 
 what school brought up, how utterly igno- 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 153 
 
 rant, I have brought myself to look upon 
 the past as few women with such a memory- 
 could. I can now, as you see, even talk 
 about it. Have you seen Philip lately ? " 
 
 " I never see Philip at all." 
 
 " I am sorry. Mr. Venn has told me all the 
 story. I am permitted to see my son's wife. 
 I even hope that she may come to live 
 with me. But this estate must be given back. 
 It is not Philip's. Cruel as the blow would 
 be, I would even consent to po into a court, 
 and relate my own history, if necessary, 
 rather than let this wrong be done you." 
 
 " Philip has offered to restore the estate," 
 said Arthur ; " but he may keep it. Be at 
 ease, madame : there will be no steps 
 taken, and Philip may enjoy what the for- 
 .geries.of Maclntyre have given him." 
 
 " I am glad. Put yourself only in my 
 place, Arthur. After twenty-five years of 
 effort, I am rich, I am looked up to, I have 
 a good name." 
 
 "Indeed you have," said Arthur. 
 
 " What if all were to be lost at a blow ? " 
 , " It shall not, madame, — it shall not be 
 lost at all. Keep what you have, the repu- 
 tation that is your own. Rest assured that 
 none of us will ever harm it." 
 
 What Marie said about her reputation 
 was less than the truth. Of all great sing- 
 ers none hstd become so' widely known for 
 her thousand acts of charity and grace ; 
 none had a better name ; ■'none lived a life 
 more open and observed of all; but she 
 was not satisfied with this. She wanted to 
 have, if she could, the friendship of Made- 
 leine and the love of Laura. 
 
 She wrote to Madeleine : — 
 
 " You know all my life, -^ its beginning 
 and its progress. You, a girl of Palmiste, 
 can understand what I was thirty years ago, 
 when I was sixteen years old. I was born 
 a slave, white as I was in complexion. My 
 mother was a slave, and therefore I was one. 
 My people were forbidden to marry by law, 
 — God's laws set aside for man's purposes. 
 They could not hojd property ; they were 
 not allowed to wear shoes ; they were pub- 
 . licly flogged in the Place ; they were not 
 allowed to read and write. When I was 
 eight years old, the emancipation came ; 
 but, though we were free, the old habits of 
 slave-life rested with us. - Think of these, 
 if you can ; for you are too young to know 
 much about wliat we were . Think of what 
 you do know, and then ask what punish- 
 ment I deserve for two years of sin. Be- 
 lieve me, every year that has elapsed since 
 has been a year of punishment, never so 
 heavy as now, when my son has cast me off. 
 You know what a position I have conquered 
 for myself; you know, too, — I write it with 
 a pride that you will appreciate, — that no 
 
 breath of calumny or ill report has been 
 oast upon me during all this time. No one 
 knows who I am, what I was. I wish that 
 no one should' know. Why do I write to 
 you ? It is because you have been kind to 
 my daughter, my little Laura, and because 
 you are engaged to Arthur Durnford. 
 Years ago, — the last time I saw his father, 
 — I took the two children, my Philip and 
 Arthur, out of their beds, "one after the other. 
 Philip turned from me and cried ; Arthur 
 laid his arms round my neck, and went to 
 sleep. It was an omen. Part of it has 
 been fulfilled. Let the rest be fulfilled. I 
 ask for Arthur's friendship. 1 — yes, I — 
 ask you for your friendship. It is because I 
 hear you are unlike other girls — indepen- 
 dent, able to think for yourself — that I 
 dare to ask it ; and I ask it for the sake of 
 Laura, as well as myself I want to take 
 her to my own heart. I am a lonely woman, 
 and hunger for somebody to love me. I 
 cannot do this unless her friends — you 
 and Arthur, and all — will come to ray 
 bouse. Tell me you can, after these years 
 of repentance, give me your h'and. Cannot 
 a woman ever be forgiven by other 
 women ? " * 
 
 Madeleine read the letter with burning • 
 cheeks. Why should she not go to see this 
 poor woman, shut out from the world by a 
 thirty years' old sin, that was itself but igno- 
 rance ? 
 
 But she must keep her secret. 
 
 She gave the letter to Arthur to read. 
 
 " What will you do, Madeleine.? " 
 
 " I will do what you wish, Arthur." 
 
 " What would you like to do ? Is it to 
 go and see her? My dear, if you only 
 knew, she is the best of good women." 
 
 So Madeleine went. 
 
 All this time Lollie was slowly recovering 
 her strength, under the motherly care of 
 Sukey. 
 
 When sh^ grew strong enough to go out, 
 Hartley thought Philip's promise should be 
 fulfilled. He approached the subject very 
 delicately one day. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Lollie," he said, 
 " that in case of any legal difBculties about 
 your marriage " — 
 
 " What legal difficulties, Mr. Venn ? " 
 
 " You see, my child, a Ceremony perfect- 
 ly binding in all other respects may very 
 possibly not be in accordance with the law 
 as regards succession to property, and so 
 forth." 
 
 " But what have I to do with succession 
 to property ? " 
 
 " A good deal, Lollie ; and I, as your 
 guardian, niust protect your interests. The 
 best way will be for us to have the marriage 
 done over again." 
 
154 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " Over again I But then Philip would 
 have to be there." 
 
 " Philip will be there. He has expressed 
 bis readiness to be there. You need not be 
 alarmed, Lollie ; " for she began to shiver 
 from head to foot. " He will just come for 
 the ceremony, and go away immediately 
 afterwards. You will not, perhaps, even 
 speak to him, nor him to you. All that is 
 arranged. I know, Lollie, child, how pain- 
 ful all this is to you ; but it must be done. 
 Believe me, it is for your own sake." 
 
 She acquiesced. If Hartley Venn had 
 told her to go straight to the guillotine, she 
 would have done it for his sake. 
 
 The necessary arrangements were made. 
 An old college friend ,of Venn's undertook 
 to marry them, being just told that the cir- 
 cumstances were peculiar, and that he was 
 to ask no questions. 
 
 And then Madeleine wrote to Philip : — 
 
 -" My deak Philip, — You will be pre- 
 pared to go through the marriage ceremony 
 of the Church of England the day after to- 
 morrow, at eleven o'clock, at ' 
 
 Church, Square. It has been ex- 
 plained to Laura, to save her self-respect, 
 that this will be done in the view of pos- 
 sible legal difficulties. She is growing 
 stronger and better, and will, as soon as 
 she is able to be moved, go to reside with 
 Madame de Guyon. For everybody's 
 sake — for hers as well as ours — old histo- 
 ries will be left alone, and no steps will be 
 taken to convict the forger who deceived us 
 all. 15!ecp the estate of Fontainebleau, 
 dear Philip, and be happy. You have 
 promised to do every thing I asked you for 
 Laura. You will first marry her legally ; 
 you will then take her into the vestry alone, 
 and ask her forgiveness. You cannot re- 
 fuse so much. I hope that as the years 
 move on, you may love each other again, 
 and forget the wrongs and woes of the past. 
 1 love your wife more every day I see 
 her. 
 
 " There is one other point I should like 
 to ask you, if I may. It is of Madame de 
 Guyon. You know what I would ask you, 
 and I will not name it. O Philip I if it is 
 a good thing, as people write, for man to be 
 rich in woman's love, how rich ought you 
 to be ! Think of all this, and do what your 
 heart prompts you. , 
 
 " You will see me at the church. Your 
 affectionate sister, 
 
 " Madeleine." 
 
 But the letter reached Philip at a wrong 
 moment, when he was in one of his bitter 
 moods ; and he only tore it up, and swore. 
 Nevertheless, he wrote to say he would 
 keep his promise. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold morning in Janua- 
 ry, with snow upon the ground, and icicles 
 hanging from every projection. Sukey was 
 to know nothing of the business on hand, 
 and was mightily astonished when Made- 
 leine called at ten o'clock, and took out 
 Laura in her carriage, wrapped up as 
 warmly as could be managed. Hartley 
 Venn and Madame de Guyon joined them 
 at the corner of the street, and the conspir- 
 ators drove to tjie church. 
 
 It was the most difficult thing of any 
 that Laura had yet been called upon to do. 
 She had made up her mind never to see 
 her husband again. Now it had to be all 
 gone over just as before. She remembered 
 that last scene, when, after words sharper 
 than any steel, Philip fell crying at her. 
 feet as she left the room, praying her to 
 come back, and let all be as it was. But 
 this could never be.. She knew it could 
 never be. All the little ties that grow up 
 between lovers — the tendrils that bind soul 
 to soul, growing out of daily thought and 
 daily caresses — were snapped a,nd severed 
 at a stroke. The ideal had been destroyed 
 at one blow ; even its ruins seemed van- 
 ished and lost. Philip had more of her 
 pity now than.of her love. No more her 
 gallant and noble lover, the crown and type 
 of all loyalty and honor, but degraded and 
 fallen j his spurs struck off, his scutcheon 
 smirched, — a recreant knight. She had 
 forgiven him. Perhaps, too, love might 
 have been born out of forgiveness : a rose- 
 bush beaten to the ground will put up one 
 or two branches, and blossom again. And 
 woman's love, like God's, continues through 
 sin and shame and disgrace. And then, 
 another thing. She had lived a different 
 life. The three women who were now her 
 companions and friends, — Madeleine, Ma- 
 rie, and Sukey, — each in her own way, had 
 taught her what Hartley Venn could never 
 do : how women look on things ; how great 
 had been her own sin in keeping her secret 
 from Hartley. With all these influences 
 upon her, as she greW'Stronger, her very 
 face seemed to change : she passed from a 
 girl to a woman, and her beauty grew, so to 
 speak, stronger and more real. 
 
 Hartley led her up l^he aisle. There 
 were no bridal veils, no bridesmaids, no 
 pealing organ. She kept her eyes on the 
 ground ; but she knew Philip was standing, 
 pale and agitated, by the altar. 
 
 The clergyman came out. 
 
 A strange wedding. The clerk and the 
 pew-opener stared with open eyes at each 
 other ; for the bride stood before the altar, 
 like a culprit, — pale, thin, tearful, shiver- 
 ing. Beside her, Venn, his smoo.h cheek 
 flushed with suppressed fury, as he stood 
 face to face with the destroyer of his hap- 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 153 
 
 piness. All his philosophy, his acceptance 
 of the inevitable, his resignation to fate, 
 seemed useless now to stay the angry beat- 
 ing of his heart. But for the presence of 
 the women, he might have broken out then 
 and there. Behind Laura, another, more 
 deeply moved than ariy of the rest — the 
 mother of the bridegroom. With her, 
 Madeleine, anxious that there 'should be, 
 above all, no scene, — the only one present 
 to whom the whole ceremony did not ap- 
 pear a kind of strange, wild dream. 
 
 As for Philip, he stood, at first defiantly, 
 looking straight at the clergyman ; and, but 
 for the hot flush upon his face, you might 
 have thought him careless; Madeleine 
 looked at him, and knew otherwise. Pres- 
 ently he had to kneel. Then, open as 
 natures such as his are to every kind of in- 
 fluence, the words of the prayer fell upon 
 his dry heart like rain upon a thirsty soil ; 
 and lie was touched, almost to tears, by 
 pity and sorrow for the gentle girl at his 
 sidfe, but not by love. 
 
 They stood up, face to face. For the 
 second time their hands were joined with 
 solemn words ; and Laura started when 
 she heard the voice of Philip — low and 
 sad as it seemed — sayiug, after the clergy- 
 man, the words prescribed by the Church. 
 
 They were pronounced man and wife. 
 
 Philip took her by the hand, and led 
 her into the vestry, shutting the do6r. 
 
 He placed a chair for her, and stood in 
 front. The church service had softened 
 hita, and the better nature was again 
 uppermost. 
 
 "Laura," he said, "I promised Made- 
 leine to remove any doubts that might 
 exist in any mind by going through tliis 
 ceremony. That is done. We are now 
 married so that no one, if they could say 
 any thing before, can say a word now 
 against the legality of our union ; but one 
 thing remains. I have done you cruel 
 wrong. Will you forgive me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Philip, I have forgiven." 
 
 " Freely and fully ? " 
 
 " Long since, Philip, — long since." 
 
 " We ought never to have met, child. 
 Tell me again, that I may take the words 
 away with me, that you forgive me." 
 
 " Philip, in the sight of God, I forgive 
 all and every thing." 
 
 " We must part, Laura, now, — at all 
 events, for the present. It is best so, is it 
 not? I shall travel. We will not even 
 write to each other. I have not forgiven 
 myself. Kiss me once, my wife." 
 
 She stood up, and kissed him on the lips, 
 her tears raining on his chefeks. Then 
 Philip opened the door and stepped into 
 the church, where the clerk was standing 
 open-mouthed at this extraordinary conduct. 
 
 " There are some papers to sign, I be- 
 lieve," he said. ^ 
 
 They all went into the vestry. Pliilip 
 signed. 
 
 " I have done what I promised, Made- 
 leine." 
 
 Madeleine made a gesture in the direc- 
 tion of Madame de Guyon, who was bend- 
 ing over Laura. 
 
 " You have no word for her," she 
 whispered. 
 
 He turned to his mother, hesitated a 
 moment, then raised her hand and kissed 
 it. She threw her arms about his neck, 
 and kissed him passionately, whispering, — 
 
 " Philip, my son, come back to us soon " 
 
 He freed himself gently, placed her in a 
 chair, and took his hat. Then he saw 
 Hartley. 
 
 " You are Mr. Venn ? " he asked. " I 
 cannot ask your forgiveness, that would 
 be too preposterous. I leave my wife and 
 — -and my mother in your care." 
 
 He left the vestry, and strode down the 
 aisle. They heard his footsteps out of the 
 church door, and down the street outside. 
 Then, they, too, left the church, and drove 
 away in Madeleine's carriage to Madame 
 de Guyon's house. 
 
 " He asked me to forgive him, mamma," 
 said Laura, sobbing in her arms. " He 
 told me he was sorry. Let us pray for 
 him together." 
 
 " This," said the clerk to the old woman 
 who assisted — " this here is the most 
 extraordinary and rummest wedding I ever 
 see. First, the young man he comes half 
 an hour early. I told him to look at the 
 clock. ' Damn the> clock,' he said, begging 
 your pardon, Mrs. Trigg. Such was his 
 blasphemous words, and in a church ! 
 He didn't give you much, I suppose, Mrs. 
 Trigg ? You ain't a great deal richer tor 
 this precious morning's work ? " 
 
 " Not a brass farthing ! " 
 
 " Ah ! they call themselves gentlefolks, I 
 suppose. It's a queer way to begin mar- 
 ried life by giving the church people noth- 
 ing, let alone quarrelling before ever they 
 come near the place ! Howevsr, I dessay 
 there's nothing absolutely illegal in not giv- 
 ing the clerk and pew-openertheir just and 
 lawful dues; but it looks bad. It looks 
 very bad. Mark my words, Mrs. Trigg : 
 there will be no blessin' on this wedding;." 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXVIL 
 
 So Philip went his way, and they heard 
 no more of him for a time. But a chancre 
 was coming over the unhappy young man ; 
 a change for the worse. He was, as has 
 
156 
 
 MY LITTLE 6IEL, 
 
 bean seen, of that light and unstable char- 
 acter whose good and evil never seem to 
 end their contest, whose owner is able at 
 one moment to resolve the highest and no- 
 blest things, and at the next to fall into the 
 lowest and basest actions. Does this come 
 from the fatal African blood ? Gfod forbid 
 that we should say so ; but surely it may 
 be helped for the worse by the presence 
 of a constant suspicion of inferiority. It is 
 self-respect that makes then walk erect, 
 and in a straight line. We who sin are 
 men who esteem ourselves but lightly. 
 Sinners there are who think no small beer 
 of themselves — rather the finest and old- 
 est Trinity Audit ; but they are those who 
 have iramed themselves a special code of 
 honor &nd moirality ; and, if we called 
 things by their right names, we should not 
 use the idle metaphors of the common jar- 
 gon, saying of a man that he wants ballast, 
 bottom, backbone, staying power, energy, 
 but we should say that he wants self- 
 respect. This is the quality that makes a 
 man Senior Wrangler, Victoria Cross, 
 K.C.B., Mayor of his town. Deputy Grand 
 of the Ancient Order of Druids, or any 
 other distinction we long for. This is what 
 inspires industry, pluck, perseverance, con- 
 fidence, — every tiling. Dear friends, and 
 fathers of families, make your sons con- 
 ceited, vain, proud, self-believers, encour- 
 age confidence. Never let them be snubbed 
 or bullied. See that they walk head erect 
 and fist ready. Inspire them with such a 
 measure of self-esteem as will make them 
 ready to undertake any thing. If they fail, 
 as is quite likely, .no matt^. They would 
 have fai led in any case, you see ; and they 
 have always their conceit to fall back 
 upon. Lord John Russell is a case in 
 . point.' Ready to command the Channel 
 Fleet, — you know the rest of it. I know 
 a man — the stupidest, piggest-headed, 
 most ignorant, most conceited, and most 
 inflated bloater of a man you ever saw. 
 This creature, by sheer dint of conceit and 
 vanity, which made him step calmly to the 
 front, and stand there just an if hi were 
 in his right place, has a great house at South 
 Kensington, and is director of a lot of com- 
 panies. He is also, save the mark I a Fel- 
 low of the Royal Society. He got this, I 
 know, by asking for it ; and they were so 
 astonished by the request that they gave 
 him the distinction by mistake. He sent 
 in his name with all the letters of the alpha- 
 bet after it ^— those degrees which you can 
 get for two guineas a year or thereabouts 
 — F.A.S., F.B.S., F.C.S. F.D.S., &c. ; 
 and then F.R.A.S: F.R.B.S., F.R.C.S., &c., 
 and after the names there came the words, 
 in great capitals, AUTHOR OF THE 
 WORK ENTITLED " ON THE TRIT- 
 
 URATION OF IGNEOUS PARTI- 
 CLES." You see, he once rubbed a 
 couple of sticks together to try and make 
 a fire, after the manner of the barbarians, 
 and failed to do more than bark his own 
 knuckles. Then he wrote a pamphlet, in 
 six pages, on the subject. This \wa8 his 
 work, to which he refers whenever a scien- 
 tific point is mooted. 
 
 Pardon me, reader, whenever I think 
 of that man and this subject, I am carried 
 away with an irrepressible enthusiasm and 
 admiration. 
 
 Graviora canamus. It is an easy thing 
 to write of a man's downward course — 
 but a sad. thing. Poor Philip, seeing some- 
 times the things he had done in their true 
 and real characters, was afflicted with a 
 sense of shame and disgrace that became 
 so strong as to drive him back upon him- 
 self. He left ofi" going to the club. That 
 is to say, he left off going among his fellow- 
 men at all. H© had no friends, except 
 club-friends. Occasionally he might be 
 met, - but not in the daytime, . wandering 
 carelessly along the streets. For he could 
 not sleep at night, and used to tire himself 
 by long, lonely walks, and then get home 
 to his rooms at three in the morning, and 
 go to bed exhausted. Presently two devils 
 entered into him, and possessed him. , The 
 first was the demon of drink. He began 
 to drink in the morning ; he went on drink- 
 ing all day. At night he was sodden, and 
 could sleep. 
 
 All this was not done in a day. A man 
 who'begins to live by himself in this great 
 London, where it is so easy, soon drops into 
 the habit of ceasing to care for any society. 
 The streets are' society, — the long and 
 multitudinous streets, with the roar of the 
 carriages and the faces of the people. 
 The streets inspired Dickens, who would 
 come up from the country to London, and 
 find in the streets the refreshment that he 
 needed. The streets possessed the soul of 
 De Quincy. To me there is no exhibition 
 in the world comparable to Regent Street 
 at four, or to the strand all day long. I 
 know a man who dropped some years since 
 into this lonely life. He goes nowhere 
 now; he cares to go nowhere. He dines 
 every day at the self-same seat and the , 
 self-same place, on the self-same dinner. ' 
 Then he goes back to his chambers, smolces 
 a cigar, and presently to bed. In the day- 
 time he goes up and down the streets. 
 
 Philip, in his bitter moods, began by go- 
 ing less often to the club, so that he gradu- 
 ally dropped out of the set. He was no 
 longer to be depended on for a rubber. 
 His face was missed at the nightly pool. 
 No more bets were to be got out of him. 
 And then he ceased to go there at all. 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 157 
 
 It was at this period, during February 
 and March, that another fancy took him. 
 He found out from the " Directory " where 
 Madame de Guyon lived. It was in one 
 of those houses that lie so thickly round 
 the north of Regent's Park. One night he 
 walked up there after dinner. It was a' 
 house with a little garden-ground under the 
 windows. One room, the drawing-room, 
 was lighted up. The blinds were not down, 
 and the curtains not drawn. Philip stood 
 on the pavement, and looked in through 
 the railings. The party inside consisted 
 of two ladies, —7 his mother and his wife, — 
 and a man. Hartley Venn. Venn was ly- 
 ing lazily in an easy-chair ; Madame Guy- 
 on was sitting opposite to him, knitting ; 
 Lollie sat in the middle, reading aloud. 
 Philip heard her voice. She had one of 
 those sweet, rich voices — not strong — 
 which curl around a man's heart like the 
 tendrils of a vine. I hate a woman with 
 a loud voice, and I hate a woman who 
 whispers. He could not hear what she 
 read ; ■ but he listened to the voice, 'and 
 tried to remember the past. All that 
 blind, mad passion was dead. , There was 
 left in his heart the power, like a seed 
 waiting for the spring, of .waking to a 
 higher and purer love ; and now he 
 seemed to know her better, and acknowl- 
 edged within himself that she was every 
 way worthy of the best love a man can 
 bring. 
 
 He stood without, in the rain and cold, 
 looking on the quiet happiness within. 
 Presently, Madame de Guyon went to the 
 piano, and began to sing. Her glorious 
 voice filled the little room to overflow- 
 ing, and welled forth in great waves of 
 sound. Philip clutched the railings, and 
 pressed his cheek against the iron. This 
 was his mother, — this glorious queen among 
 women, this empress of song. There was 
 the peaceful retreat waiting for him. He 
 knew he had but to knock at the door. It 
 was like Bunyan's way to heaven ; to knock 
 at the door was enough. 
 
 Then the younger lady took the elder's 
 place, and began to play, — some of the old 
 things he knew, that she had so often play- 
 ed to him. She played on, with her head 
 thrown back, in that attitude of careless 
 grace which he' had never seen in any 
 other woman, with lips Waif parted, eyes 
 half closed, while the music rose and fell 
 beneath her fingers, and flovved, like the 
 rising tide among the caves, within hM- 
 soul. Then she, to6, stopped ; and Venn 
 got up and shook hands with both. He 
 passe^ out, and crossed to the other side 
 of the street ; but did not notice the man 
 leaning against the railings, with straining 
 eyes, staring within. 
 
 Then the blind was drawn down. A 
 bell rang. Soilte one — his wife — played 
 an evening hymn. They sang. Then a 
 monotonous voice for a few minutes, and 
 presently the lights were extinguished. 
 They had. prayed, and were gone to bed ; 
 but they had prayed for him. And, as he 
 stood there, after the lights were extin- 
 guished, there were two women, in two 
 rooms, each on her knees by the bedside, 
 praying for him again, — his mother and 
 his wife. Then he came to himself, and 
 walked back as fast as he could, trying to 
 pull himself together. 
 
 Two or three nights afterwards, he went 
 up again. This time there were no lij^hts. 
 All was dark. He waited till past eleven, 
 walking backwards and forwards in the 
 road. Then a carriage drew up, and he 
 saw them descend and enter the house. 
 They had been to the theatre, and were 
 laughing and talking gayly. That night he 
 went home in a rage. What right had 
 they to be happy without him ? , 
 
 ' But he went up again. Sometimes the 
 blinds were left up, and he saw. the group. 
 Oftcner blinds and curtains were drawn; 
 and lie could only hear the voices, and the 
 sound of the piano. He knew, too, well 
 enough, which of the two was playing ; and" 
 also got to know — which filled his soul 
 with inexpressible pangs of I'age and jea- 
 lousy — that Venn was there about four 
 nights in the week. 
 
 All this time he was drinking hard, and 
 living entirely alone. One night he went to 
 bed earlier than usual, — about one o'clock, 
 — and, contrary to his usual practice, went 
 to sleep at once. At three o'clock he awoke 
 with a shudder and a start. Opening his 
 eyes wide, he saw, sitting by the side of the 
 bed, — in fact on his own pile of clothes, — 
 a skeleton. Not a skeleton of the comic 
 order, with a pipe in his mouth, such iis we 
 aro fond of drawing, but of the entirely 
 tragic and melancholy kind: with his 
 mouth open wide, from ear to ear, as if it 
 was a throat cut an inch and a half too high 
 up ; a long, bony hand that pointed straight 
 at him, and shook its fingef in anger ; eyes 
 that glared with a horrid earnestness ; 
 bones, all the way down, that seemed trans- 
 parent. Solitude makes men nervou's ; 
 drink makes them see skeletons. Philip 
 sat up, and glared. Then he gave a half 
 cry, andjburied his head under the clothes. 
 
 Presently he looked out again. The 
 skeleton was gone. He turned round with 
 a sigh of relief. The skeleton was on the 
 other side. Then he covered his head 
 again, and waited till daybreak, — till past 
 six o'clock. By that time the spectre was 
 gone. 
 
 The next night he did not dare to gc^to 
 
158 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 bed again. And then it was that the second 
 devil, of whom I have spoken above, took 
 possession of him. This time it was the 
 demon of play. Philip, who knew every 
 thing about London, was not ignorant of 
 the existence of one or two places — where, 
 indeed, he had more than once been seen, 
 ■ — where you may find a green table, dice, 
 ' and other accessories to the gambling-table. 
 To one of these he went that night at one 
 o'clock. There were two or three of his 
 club acquaintances there, who greeted him 
 as one newly returned from- some long for- 
 eign travel. 
 
 He got through the night so. And saw 
 no spectre when he awoke at mid-day. 
 
 Then he began to frequent the place 
 regularly. It seemed to him the only 
 place where pleasure could be found. At 
 the age of six and twenty this young man 
 found the fruits of the world turned in his 
 moutli to dust and ashes. He had no 
 longer any ambition or any hope. The 
 long night speat over the chances of the 
 game gave him light, companionship, ex- 
 citement. To keep his head clear, he gave 
 up the brandy and water of the day. So 
 far this was a gain. But then he took to 
 champagne at night, and drank too much 
 of it. As for the play, whether he lost or 
 won made no difFerence, because he never 
 lost heavily ; and fortune favored him by 
 giving him neither great coups, nor great 
 reverses. 
 
 This kind of thing went on for a couple 
 of months or so. He grew thin, pale, ex- 
 citable. He had not the moral courage 
 even to go among men at all, never went 
 anywhere except to the gaming-table, — 
 except when he walked up to Regent's 
 Park to catch a glimpse of the home he 
 had abandoned. The sight of it, the oc- 
 casional sight of its inhabitants, was like a 
 lash of scorpions. If he saw them happy, 
 his blood boiled with jealousy and rage. If 
 he thought they looked depressed, he ground 
 his teeth together, and cursed himself for 
 the cause. 
 
 At first he used to have mighty yearnings 
 of spirit, and was moved to knock at the 
 doOr and ask admittance. These emotions 
 being suppressed, day after day, grew grad- 
 ually of less strength. Then he ceased to 
 think of any change at all ; and went on 
 moodily — without any of that singing and 
 dancing of which he spoke to Madeleine — 
 down the slope of Avernus, the bottom of 
 which was not far off. 
 
 He had laid his skeleton by the process 
 of changing his hours altogether; but it 
 was only laid for a time. Youth will stand 
 a good deal; but there is a point beyond 
 which you may not go. Then a disordered 
 life, a,n unhealthy brain, a nervous excite- 
 
 ment, produce discomforts of a very rude 
 and practical kind. There came a time, 
 early in April, when his sleep was so tor- 
 mented with terrible dreams, and his 
 ^vaking hours with terrible thoughts, — 
 tlioughts that he knew could belong to no 
 sound brain, anS sights that he knew to be 
 unreal or supernatural, — that he went to a 
 doctor, and humbly asked assistance. 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Smoking, drinking, living 
 alone, gambling. Every thing that is 
 bad." 
 
 " Leave it all off. Go into society." 
 
 " The only society I can go into is (he 
 society of men who do these things." 
 
 " You have money ? Good. Then go 
 away. That is the only thing I can do 
 for you. Live temperately, and go away." 
 
 " Where am I to go to ? " 
 
 " Go ? Go anywhere. As far as you 
 can. Take a long sea-voyage. Come 
 back after it, — say in two years' time, 
 and we will see how you are. If you stay 
 here and go on drinking, you will probably 
 be dead in six months." 
 
 " What does it matter if I am ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear sir. My business 
 is to prolong. life, not to examine into the 
 desirability of preserving it. Most of my 
 patients prefer to live. Doubtless they 
 consider the chances of a change dubious.'' 
 
 Philip went away relieved. He would 
 go away and travel. The new thought 
 occupied his mind all day; and for that 
 night he slept soundly, and if skeletons 
 danced in his room, as they did sometimes, 
 he was asleep, and did not see them. 
 
 Where to go ? 
 
 He awoke in the morning, asking himself 
 the question. And then a happy thought 
 struck him. He would go away for good 
 and all ; he would get out of a country 
 where all the memories were miserable to 
 him. The past should be shaken off like 
 an old garment. He would begin a new 
 life ; he would go and live on his own 
 estate, ■ — Arthur's, by right, said his con- 
 science, — in Palmiste. 
 
 His thoughts flew to the place. He felt 
 again the warm breath of the summer air ; 
 he sat in the shade, deep down in the ravine, 
 where the cool dash and plash of the moun- 
 tain stream made sweet music in his ears ; 
 roamed the forest, gun in hand, while the 
 branches sighed in the breeze. He saw 
 the hill-tops purpling at dawn, and the 
 heavy dew lying in great beads upon the 
 roses. He heard the shrill voices of the 
 coolies, and watched the Indian women 
 pass by, with their lithe, graceful figures 
 and their scarlet robes. And all at once 
 a wild longing came over him to be there, 
 and at peace. 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 159 
 
 All day long he went about, radiant with 
 the new thought. He drove to Silver's, 
 and ordered a lot of things to be put 
 together at once. He drove to his agent's, 
 and told him what he was going to do. He 
 ascertained that the steamer left Southamp- 
 ton in three days, and he took his passage. 
 
 Then he went home, and dreamed of the 
 future. 
 
 There, in that land where it is a/lways 
 afternoon, peace would come to him at 
 last, arid conscience be still. A pleasant 
 life lay before him, — a life of ease and 
 dignity. He would be a judge among the 
 people of his estate, as his father had been 
 before him : he would be the giver and dis- 
 penser of hospitality. He would leave be- 
 hind him, and forget forever, the two 
 women who could be happy while he was 
 wretched ; Arthur, the wronged, — all 
 against whom he had sinned. He would 
 forget them all, and be happy. 
 
 Alas ! " Ccelum, non animum, mutant qui 
 trans mare currunt." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVm. 
 
 Bad indeed must be the condition of that 
 man whom a long voyage does not restore 
 to freshness and health. Here are no let^ 
 ters, no duns, no newspapers. The world 
 goes on without, you. One has no longer 
 the fidgety feeling, like the fly on the wheel, 
 of being essential to the march of events. 
 Nor is there any sense of responsibility. 
 Nothing to be done ; nothing to be thought 
 of: eating and drinking the business of the 
 day, its pleasure to watch the waves and 
 the skies. 
 
 For Philip there was the additional pleas- 
 ure of renewing intercourse with his brother 
 man. He lost all his spectres, grew once 
 more bright-eyed and keen-witted, and, 
 when they steamed into the harbor of St. 
 Denys, had altogether forgotten the 
 wretched being who clung to the -railings 
 of the little house at Regent's Park, and 
 peered into the brightness within. _ He 
 stepped upon the quay, — the old familiar 
 place, — and looked around him. There 
 were the coolies at work ; the white houses 
 of the residents stretching up the broad 
 street ; beyond, the ugly spire of the cathe- 
 dral, like a gigantic extinguisher ; and over 
 • all towered the mountains, blackening now 
 with the shadows of evening, And then 
 there fell upon him a very curious feeling, 
 because he suddenly remembered that he 
 should not know a single soul in the whole 
 island : not one. During the whole voyage 
 he had been nursed by a vague idea that he 
 was rushing back into the arms of innu- 
 
 merable friends. Now he felt like Oliver 
 Goldsmith when he went among the Hol- 
 landers with the grandest projects, and only 
 remembered too late that he knew no 
 Dutch. But his laughter was short ; and 
 he felt somewhat saddened as he ordered 
 his things to be taken to the hotel. 
 
 There is a hotel at St. Denys, — in fact, 
 there are many, but only one of decent re- 
 pute. It consists of a long, low, wooden 
 house, pain,ted a bright yellow, with a deep 
 veranda round it. It has two stories, the 
 upper one containing the bedrooms ; and, 
 for coolness' sake, the partitions are not run 
 up to the ceiling, leaving a clear space 
 above. This not only allows the air to cir- 
 culate, but also permits the guests the ad- 
 vantage of overhearing all the conversation 
 that may be going on in the adjoining 
 rooms. Lying and sitting about the veran- 
 da are a crowd of Indian boys, dressed in 
 a suit of uniform, of white trousers and black 
 jackets, neat and handy looking. Outside, 
 under the thick shade of the trees, sit the 
 happy islanders, playing dominoes. They 
 begin this amusement at early dawn, and 
 go on, with short intervals for business and 
 longer ones for breakfast and dinner, till it 
 is time to go to bed, that is, till about eight 
 o'clock. They do this every day, including 
 Sunday, and are never tired ; and when 
 Azrael is sent to fetch them away, theyai'e 
 thinking — as they have been thinking all 
 their lives — of the last combinations of 
 the pips. At least their lives may be called 
 happy, because they have all that they de- 
 sire. 
 
 All was as Philip remembered it years 
 before. The waiters ran about and chat- 
 tered ; the players smoked cigars, drank 
 orgeat, and chattered ; and, that nothing 
 might be wanting, a great black parrot, 
 which had been there ten years before, was 
 there still, stalking about with an air of 
 being the only really superior person pres- 
 ent. It was a parrot of infinite accomplish- 
 ments ; and at sight of him Philip laughed, 
 thinking how he had made Arthur and 
 himself laugh years before. For he had 
 been carefully instructed in, and had by 
 sheer force of imitative genius acquired, the 
 art of representing all the sounds which 
 proceed from a, person affected with cold, 
 from its earliest appearance to its most ad- 
 vanced stage of pulmonary consumption. 
 Too much of him might be undesirable, but 
 at first, he was amusing. Nothing was 
 changed. At the table d'hote, the same 
 dinner. The principal guests were his fel- 
 low-travellers in the mail, — at all events, 
 the most important, because they had the 
 latest news. Of course their importance 
 lasts only five minutes ; for no one can be 
 expected in Palmiste to pay attention to 
 
160 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 foreign news for a longer time. The con- 
 cession of five minutes granted to the outer 
 ■world, the conversation rolled on in its 
 usual groove, and the latest scandal re- 
 sumed its proper place. Philip noticed it 
 all, and listened, wondering how he should 
 get on with all these people, whom he 
 seemed to remember in a kind of dream. 
 It was their old manner of talk, he remem- 
 bered. 
 
 He went to bed early. Just, as he was 
 turning in, he heard voices from the next 
 room. 
 
 '' Dites moi, mon ami," — it was a lady's 
 voice, — "who was this M. Durnford, who 
 has just arrived and dined at the table 
 d'holef" 
 
 ',' It is not the son of our old friend," re- 
 plied her husband, — " not, that is, the son 
 of your school-fellow, Adrienne de Rosnay. 
 Another son altogether. Some early liai- 
 son. His nanie is Philip. He has, bought 
 the estate of his half-brother, and comes 
 here to see it, I suppose. It is not proba- 
 ble he will live here." 
 
 " No : that is, of course, out of the ques- 
 tion. He is a handsome young man. 
 Pity he is a mulatto. He had much better 
 go back to England or France, where they 
 are not particular as to color." 
 
 There was a plunge and a heavy thud, as 
 if some stout person was getting into bed ; 
 and in five minutes dead silence, but for a 
 gentle breathing, which gradually deep- 
 ened into a melodious snore. 
 
 But Philip was lying in bed, tossing 
 about, and clinching his fists. On the very 
 first night to be reminded in this brusk 
 and brutal way, it was too much. He 
 lay . awake. Why had he come here '? 
 What cursed fate was it which brought 
 him back to the island he had always 
 hated ? 
 
 The night was hot top ; and the mosqui- 
 toes were stinging his face and hands. He 
 got out of bed, and lit a candle, and sat at 
 the open window, smoking a cigar. The 
 town was silent and asleep. Not even a 
 do'g barked ; but outside the moonlight 
 bathed every thing with a flood of rich 
 white light. The breeze from the moun- 
 tains fanned his check. There was the 
 solemn silence of the night on the sleeping 
 city ; but the peace of night brought no 
 peace to him. Why, why had he come all 
 this way to be reminded of what he had run 
 away from England to forget ? And then 
 he cursed his fate and himself 
 
 All night he sat brooding and wretched. 
 As the day broke, he full asleep, his head 
 on the window-sill, and slept till the noise 
 of the Indian boys recalled him to wake- 
 fulness. Then, to avoid meeting' the peo- 
 ple of the next bedroom, he ordered a 
 
 carriage to be brought round, and drove, 
 in the early morning, away to his own es- 
 tate. 
 
 As he had written to no one, he was 
 quite unexpected. The house was unin- 
 habited, the manager and his wife^ living in 
 a cottage close by. They came and wel- 
 comed him, — a bright, cheery young 
 Frenchman, with a pretty little wife. 
 While his own house was being set in 
 order, would he use theirs ? The manager 
 led him over his mills, pointed out the ' 
 great improvements that had been made, and 
 then took him back to his wife, who had 
 got a dainty breakfast, with the best claret 
 at her command, ready for him. Then all 
 day there was cleaning and setting in 
 order; and then, for a few days after, no\-- 
 elty and strangeness, which distracted 
 Philip, and kept him in high spirits. Then 
 he had to go and see his lawyer, which was 
 a day's journey, in and out of town ; then 
 to get the lawyer to come and stay a day 
 or two with him. All this took time, and 
 a fortnight passed away belore Philip found 
 it dull, or had a thought for the past. 
 
 - After that, things began to be a little 
 monotonous ; for no one called upon him. 
 
 Philip fell back upon the officers. There 
 was a regiment whose head-quarters were 
 stationed at a place some eight miles oif. 
 It -was on detaclimfent duty, but there were 
 always a good many of the officers to be 
 found about the mess-rooms. He knew the 
 regiment, and called upon his old friends. 
 So, at least, companionship was attained, 
 at the cost of perpetual dinners at Fontaine- 
 bleau — which mattered little, for Philip 
 
 liked hospitality. But the th was a 
 
 fist regiment, and the young fellows who 
 went to Fontainebleau were the fastest ; 
 and the old "_pace" began again, with 
 cards, brandy and soda, and late hours. 
 
 The first event of importance, as the his- 
 tories say, was a special humiliation. The 
 estate adjoining his own belonged to a cer- 
 tain old French gentleman who held strong 
 views on the subject of the mixed races. 
 He had been a friend of Mr. Durnford pferc, 
 but he abstained from calling upon his son. 
 
 Now he gave, once a year, a great hunt- 
 ing-party, lasting a week, to which all the 
 island was invited, — the governor, the 
 merchants, the officers, everybody who had 
 the least claim to call himself sonie one. 
 Philip was his next neighbor ; but he did 
 not invite him. Then his guests began to 
 talk about putting up at Fontainebleau 
 during the chasse ; and it was awkward to 
 have to say that you were not invited. 
 
 The time drew near. Phihp was riding 
 with one of his guests in the evening. They 
 passed the house of M. d& Geofiroi, who 
 was sitting in his veranda. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 161 
 
 " Aha ! " cried Philip's companion. " Let 
 us ride in, and call on the old boy. You'll 
 do the talking, you know. I can't speak 
 French." 
 
 Philip assented, and in a few moments 
 was introduced to a white-headed old gen- 
 tleman, who saluted him coldly. 
 
 " I had the honor of knowing Capt. 
 Durnford well," he said. 
 
 "I remember 'you well, M. de Geoffroi. 
 You were often at Fontainebleau when I 
 was a boy." 
 
 " I was. And your brother, M. Durn- 
 ford ? He is married, I hear, to Mdlle. de 
 Villeroy." 
 
 " He is engaged, at least." 
 
 " Yes. It was once the wish of both par- 
 ents that the estates should pass into the 
 same hands." 
 
 Philip reddened. 
 
 " That, at least, 'cannot be, because the 
 estate has now passed into my hands." 
 
 " So I have been informed." 
 
 Then they talked about weather, and so 
 forth ; and presently, when they went 
 away, M. de Geoffroi offered his hand to 
 the other, and merely bowed to Philip. 
 
 " Must have set the old man's back up, 
 Durnford. What did you say to him ? " 
 
 But Philip did not answer ; being, in 
 fact, in a temper the reverse of amia- 
 ble. 
 
 The hunting-party came off, and Philip 
 sat at home with troubled heart. The 
 party was nothing, but the reason, — the 
 reason for his exclusion from it. Then lie 
 gave a great party of Bis own, asking all 
 the Englishmen, who came, and as many 
 Frenchmen as he thought would come. 
 It was purely out of revenge ; but it seemed 
 to affect M. de Geoffroi very little. 
 
 One more event happened to him ; and 
 then he shut himself up altogether at Fon- 
 tainebleau. 
 
 There came the cold season, and the 
 time for balls and dances. Of course 
 Philip got an invitation to the great ball of 
 the year, at Government House, at which 
 the governor appears in uniform, — a gor- 
 geous suit, similar to that of a lord lieu- 
 tenant ; while the members of the legisla- 
 tive council wear wonderful coats, with 
 gold lace in a sort of cushion j ust where the 
 tails begin, too high up for use, except in a 
 second class railway carriage, where it 
 might protect the small of the back. Then 
 the heads, and the sub-haads, and even the 
 tails of departments, appear in wonderful 
 and strange costumes, the effect of which 
 at first, on the civilian of plain clothes, is 
 simply bewildering, and even appalling. 
 Of course there are also the scarlet coats 
 of the officers. And, on the whole, a Colo- 
 nial .State Ball is as pretty a sight — with 
 11 
 
 the ladies all in their very finest and best 
 — as one can generally see. 
 
 Why do we sneer at the universal desire 
 to put on a uniform ? I have never worn 
 any, not even as a volunteer private ; but I 
 can sympathize with it. I like to see a 
 man in all his bravery. I think there i^ no 
 more admirable and edifying spectacle than 
 that of the ordinary Briton in some strange 
 and wonderful costume, put on about once 
 a year. He wears it with such a lordly air, 
 as one who should say, " This is nothing to 
 what I could look if I had on what I deserv- 
 ed." Then his wife admires him, and his 
 daughters. And more than that, all the 
 black-coated civilians who sneer at him 
 envy him. The last is a very great point. 
 
 Philip, being an ex-commissioned officer, 
 was above uniforms, it may' be presumed ; 
 but he was not above admiration for the 
 uniforms of the other sex. The women of 
 Palmiste, pale and colorless, perhaps, are 
 yet, above the generality of women, gra- 
 cieu^es. They become their uniforms. 
 They dance with a passion and an abandon 
 which is unknown in colder regions. It is 
 their one great accomplishment ; and the 
 young fellow fresh from London rooms looks 
 on with astonishment at the lightning ra- 
 pidity with which the smoothly polished 
 floors are covered. Very soon he falls in 
 with it, too, if he be of a sympathetic 
 mind. 
 
 Philip, long exiled from ladies' society, 
 enjoyed it hugely ; danced every thing, al- 
 ways with English ladies; devoured a 
 splendid supper ; took plenty of champagne. 
 Then, as bad luck would have it, after sup- 
 per one of his friends introduced him to the 
 lady he had been dancing with, a liberty 
 quite unpardonable by all the rules. Philip 
 asked for the next waltz. The girl turned 
 red, and, after a moment's hesitation, ac- 
 ceded, and put her arm in his. Her broth- 
 er, who was standing by with frowning 
 forehead, stepped forward at once. 
 
 " Pardon me, monsieur," he said. " My 
 sister does not dance any more this even- 
 ing." 
 
 The young lady took her brother's arm, 
 and walked away. 
 
 The next moment he ' saw her whirled 
 round in the arms of an Englishman. 
 
 All the blood rushed to his head, -and he 
 staggered with the rage which nearly sti- 
 fled him. For he knew the reason. 
 
 He stepped across the room to where 
 the young Frenchman was standing, and 
 touched him on the arm. 
 
 " Will you give me a moment's conversa- 
 tion outside ? " 
 
 The young fellow hesitated for a moment : 
 then he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " As you will," he said. 
 
162 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 They stepped down the stairs, and into 
 the garden. No one was there but them- 
 
 " May I ask the reason of your refusal to 
 let your sister dance with me just now ? " 
 
 The Frenchman hesitated. Philip re- 
 peated the question. 
 
 " Really, monsieur,'" said the young fel- 
 low, " it seems absurd to put such a ques- 
 tion. Can we not leave it unanswered ? " 
 
 " No. I demand an answer, and the true 
 one. I am publicly insulted : I insist on 
 an explanation." 
 
 " Suppose I have none to give you ? " 
 
 " I will have one." 
 
 " You shall not have one,'' returned the 
 other quietly. 
 
 Philip lost command of himself, twisted 
 his hand in the other's collar, and threw 
 him heavily to the ground. 
 
 " Will you give me one now ? " 
 
 " Mulatto, I will give you none," hissed 
 out his enemy, lying on the ground. 
 
 Philip left him there. Going back to the 
 ball-room, he found young Freshley, of the 
 — th. _ , 
 
 " Come with me for a moment," he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 They went outside. In the garden was 
 the young Frenchman, trying to repair the 
 damage done to his necktie and collar. 
 
 " There has been a row," said Philip. 
 " You know this man, perhaps ? I have 
 knocked him down." 
 
 " I know Mr. Freshley," said the French- 
 man. 
 
 " Be my friend, Freshley. I will wait 
 for you in your quarters." 
 
 Philip went away to barracks, leaving 
 the two together. 
 
 "Whatisit, D'Auray?" 
 , "I called him a mulatto. Eh, bien: it 
 is true, at any rate. Then he put his hand 
 to my collar, and I fell over his foot." 
 
 " Doesn't seem manners to tell a man a 
 thing he isn't proud of, does it ? " 
 
 " What business has he among ladies ? " 
 
 " I didn't invite him, so I can hardly say ; 
 but you had better ask the aide-de-camp. 
 Look here, old fellow, this is a bad busi- 
 ness. Don't let us have any public shindy. 
 Give me the name of a man, and I will try 
 to make things square." 
 
 " I put myself in the hands of my cousin. 
 You will find him in the ball-room." 
 
 Duelling has gone out of fashion in Eng- 
 land ; but it still lingers in one or two of her 
 majesty's colonies, where, although they 
 have the institution of a jury, the sympa- 
 thies of the jury are sure to be with the 
 combatants-. Here there would surely be 
 'fighting, thought Freshley, beginning to 
 wish he had nothing to do with the busi- 
 ness, in case of the tiling ending seriously. 
 
 He found the cousin, and put the case to 
 him. 
 
 " Pm going home now to barracks. Find 
 me there early to-morrow morning." 
 
 He went home, and discovered Philip 
 walking up and down in a wild state of 
 excitement. 
 
 " I will kill him, Freshley. By Heav- 
 en ! I will kill him." 
 
 "You've knocked him 'down, anyhow. 
 Now go to bed, old fellow, — it's past two 
 o'clock. The cousin is coming to-morrow, 
 and we shall have an apology or a chal- 
 lenge. ]f the latter — why, then, I sup- 
 pose, we must fight." 
 
 " Fight ? Of course I will fight. I tell 
 you, I mean to kill him." 
 
 " Deuced easy to pack a jury if he kills 
 you, Philip. Don't quite see my way to 
 packing one if you kill him." 
 
 " Bah 1 You don't know the country. 
 Any lawyer will do it for you." 
 
 They went to bed, but not to sleep ; and 
 at five o'clock Freshley saw Philip outside, 
 walking up and down, clinching his fists, 
 in the moonlight. So, with a sigh, he got 
 up too, and, half dressing, went out and 
 joined him. Day broke at six, and then 
 they had coffee and a cigar. 
 
 At half-past six the cousin was seen com- 
 ing to the barracks. 
 
 " It's manners for me to receive him 
 alone, I suppose," said Freshley. " Let's 
 look as if we had done it fifty times before. 
 Hang it, I feel like an Irishman out of one 
 of Lever's novels. You go in, Phil. Well, 
 M. D'Auray, and when do we fight ? " 
 
 " I think, Mr. Freshley, that — well, you 
 see, it's an awkward business. I hardly 
 see my way to a fight." 
 
 " Oh, very well ! for my own part, I'm 
 very glad. My man is insulted : that you 
 will acknowledge. Your man is knocked 
 down : that there is no getting over, is 
 there ? So you won't fight ? I'm sure I'm 
 not displeased ; because, after all, yours is 
 the most injured side, I should say. Mat- 
 ter of taste, — never been knocked down 
 myself. Why can't we fight? " 
 
 " Well, your principal — I am not in the 
 least wishing to insult or offend you." 
 
 " You forget that Mr. Durnfbrd has had 
 the honor of bearing her Majesty's comniis- 
 sion." , 
 
 "Not at all. That was considered. I 
 laid the case before several of my friends. 
 We all agreed that if he were still an offi- 
 cer in the British army, to refuse a duel 
 would be to insult the English flag ; but he 
 is- no longer an oflScer, and we cannot fight 
 him." 
 
 Freshley whistled. 
 
 " Oh, very good, I'm sure I The knock- 
 ing down is on your side, as I remadced 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL, 
 
 163 
 
 before. Have a pick-me-up this fine morn- 
 ing, M. D'Auray, — a brandy and soda ? " 
 
 " Nothing, thank you. I have the honor 
 to wish you a good-morning." 
 
 " Good-morning, M. D'Auray. Perhaps 
 your cousin would like a pick-me-up." 
 
 But M. D'Auray did not appreciate the 
 joke, being unacquainted with the niceties 
 of the English language. 
 
 " Now, that's devilish smart and good," 
 said the lieutenant, left alone. " Phil, my 
 boy, come out. They won't fight." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Don't know. , Can't say. Wasn't told. 
 Funk," I expect. I say, Phil, I asked him 
 if his cousin wanted a pick-me-up this 
 morning. Devilish good remark, eh ? I 
 don't know when I said any thing sharper. 
 He'll find out what I meant by and by. 
 Look -it up in the dictionary, I suspect. 
 Well, old boy, I'm glad we're out of it. I 
 didn't like it at the first; and, between 
 ourselves, I couldn't afford to lose my com- 
 mission just now. Pretty fools wo should 
 look, the bi-aee of us, in a dock, with the 
 beak pounding away at us, saying it was 
 the woist case he had ever known in the 
 whole course of his professional career, — 
 eh ? and then, perhaps, chokee for six 
 months, and a court-martial afterwards. 
 Upon my word, I'm delighted. And now 
 I think I shall have another nap." 
 
 But that was Philip's last appearance in 
 public. Henceforth his days are few and 
 troubled, and they are spent wholly on his 
 own estate at Fontainebleau. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the quiet Jiouse at Re- 
 gent's Park, the two women waited, — 
 some women seem to have nothing to do 
 except to wait. No change came to them. 
 All they knew — and this through Arthur's 
 lawyer — was that Philip had arrived in 
 Palmiste, and was residing on the estate. 
 Nothing more.' As for Laura, her suffer- 
 ing was over. 
 
 Only she was subdued. Time, and the 
 atmosphere of love with which they sur- 
 rounded her, had cured her. 
 
 " You love him still, child, do you not ? " 
 asked Marie. 
 
 " I will tell you, as truthfully as I can, 
 every thing," said Lollie. " You cannot 
 tell — it is impossible for any one to know 
 — how ignorant and foolish 1 was a year 
 ago. When Mr. Venn said he should like 
 to see me married to a gentleman, I under- 
 stood nothins, ; — nothing of what he meant. 
 Then I met Philip ; and he asked me to 
 marry hiui. Mamma, 1 declare that I ac- 
 
 cepted him. only to please Mr. Venn, — for 
 no other reason whatever. Then he said 
 I was cold, and wanted me to say 1 loved 
 him- Of course I could not say so, be- 
 cause I did not then. Afterward^ we 
 were married, and we went abroad ; and 
 he was kind. I think I began to love him 
 then. But now I always think of the last 
 time I saw him, when he asked my forgive- 
 ness, and looked sorry. And since then I. 
 have loved him better than ever before. 
 Poor Philip 1 Perhaps if I had been fitted 
 for him he would have been a better^ man." 
 " I think of him always, my daughter," 
 said Philip's mother. " I lie awake, and 
 think of him. They took him away from 
 me when he was only one year old. I 
 have seen him, since then, only twice in 
 my life. Once he refused to own me, and 
 once he refused to sp6ak to me ; but what 
 woman can forget the little hands that curl 
 round her neck — of her own child ? Philip 
 is my son, Lollie ; and a mother's love is 
 better than a wife's." 
 
 " I wish I loved him more, mamma, for 
 your sake," said Lollie, caressing her. 
 
 " Nay, dear. You are the sweetest and 
 best of daughters. ^ My life, now its great 
 hope has failed, would be sad indeed, and 
 lonely, if it were not for you. And we 
 must pray, dear, more and more, for his 
 return to us. I know that he will one day 
 lay his head in my arms, and kiss me him- 
 self. Don't ask me how I know it. I am 
 certain. Only I cannot see all the future ; 
 and there seems a cloud which I cannot 
 pierce. Somehow, you are not with me, 
 child." 
 
 She oflen talked like this, pouring out 
 what still haunted her of the old negro 
 superstitions. 
 
 " I know where he is now, at this mo- 
 ment," she murmured, half closing her eyes. 
 " It is morning with us, but afternoon with 
 him. He is riding alone along the road. 
 The canes are waving each side of him. 
 His face is clouded and angry. He is not 
 thinking of us, Lollie. Alas — alas I he 
 only thinks of himself. The time is not 
 yet come." 
 
 Lollie grasped her hand, and cried out. 
 Marie started, and looked round her. 
 
 " Kiss me, my daughter. I was far away 
 in Palmiste with my son, our Philip." 
 
 Their only visitors were Hartley Venn 
 and his sister, Arthur and Madeleine ; and 
 they went nowhere, except sometimes to 
 the opera, which was a necessary luxufy 
 to the singer. 
 
 "You have changed Lollie altogether, 
 madame," said Hartley, looking at his little 
 girl. 
 
 " How am I changed, Mr. Venn ? " asked 
 Laura. 
 
164 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 " That is what I am trying to find out. 
 You look thinner than you were ; but it is 
 not that. You are no taller ; so it is not 
 that. I give it up, Lollie." 
 
 Marie could have told him. The ^irl 
 had been, for the first time in her life, living 
 among ladies, and was now a lady herself 
 — such as all the arts of Hartley Venn 
 couldnot fashion or produce. 
 
 " It is only you, Mr. Venn," said Made- 
 leine, " who never change. Oh that I 
 could tie ropes round you, and drag you 
 away from your chambers, and make you 
 work I " 
 
 " He does work, Madeleine. He really 
 works very hard," said Lollie. 
 
 '"Part of your wish has been already an- 
 ticipated. Miss de Villeroy ; for I have met 
 with a grave misfortune." 
 
 " What is it ? " they cried. , 
 
 " I have received notice to quit my cham- 
 bers at the end of the year." 
 
 '• Oh ! " cried Lollie, " the dtar old cham- 
 bers ! " 
 
 •' I shall not have the heart to find out 
 new chambers, and so I shall go and live in 
 lodgings. It is sad, after so many years of 
 occupation. I had hoped that my life would 
 be finished there." 
 
 " Indeed," said Madeleine, " I think it a 
 very good thing. You men get into a 
 habit of doing nothing, going nowhere, and 
 living three or fouir in a s6t, which seems 
 to me destructive of every thing. Gro into 
 the world, and work, Mr. Venn." 
 
 ' " Really, Miss de Villeroy, you carry 
 about so deep an air of resolution and ac- 
 tivity that you shame us ajl. I will go 
 into the world and work. What shall I 
 do?" 
 
 This was easier to ask than to answer. 
 Besides, Madeleine was at this time in- 
 tently occupied in considering Arthur's 
 future. He, too, professed a willingness to 
 go into the world, and work ; but what 
 work ? Here was a tall, strong man to be 
 thrown on her hands for life, and what was 
 she to find for him ? Arthur said he 
 would work ; but' he never made the least 
 efibrt to find work, and went on burying 
 himself in his books, while Madeleine fret- 
 ted about his useless life. 
 
 " Marry me at once, Madeleine," he said, 
 " and I will be your secretary. Will that 
 do?" 
 
 " I don't want a secretary," she said. 
 
 But she consented to marry him at once, 
 which was all he wanted. 
 
 This was in February. The weddinn- 
 was quiet enough, for they were a compara- 
 tively friendless pair. Mrs. Longworthy 
 was there ; and iti the church, as specta- 
 tors, Marie and Laura. Madeleine invited 
 them to the breakfast ; but this was against 
 
 Marie's rules, and Laura would not go 
 without her. 
 
 When they cslme back, after a month in 
 Paris, the old life went on just as before. 
 Mrs. ^jongworthy lived on with them, being 
 one of those old ladies whom it is pleasant 
 to have in the house. Arthur had his study, 
 where Madeleine repaired sometimes in the 
 evening, for those little talks and confiden- 
 tial whisperings which even the most 
 queenly -of women are not above liking. 
 But all became as it was before, and the 
 house at Regent's Park was still a favorite 
 place to spend an evening. 
 
 " I like it, Arthur," said Madeleine. " It 
 is all so different from what you get any- 
 where else. I like Madame de Guyon, 
 poor woman, and the noble way she bears 
 her misfortunes. I like Lollie, with her 
 innocent dependence upon Mr. Venn. 
 And I like that lazy, good-for-nothing Bo- 
 hemian, who is everybody's friend except 
 his own. They are quaint, delightful peo- 
 I pie. I suppose the world would object, if 
 the world knew all ; but then the world 
 j knows nothing. And as for poor little Lol- 
 I lie, our sister-in-law, no one could possibly 
 j blame her." 
 
 " Surely not. If ever there was an 
 act " — 
 
 " No, Arthur. Do not put yourself into 
 a rage about whatjias been done, and can- 
 not be helped. After all, it was mostly 
 Mr. Venn's fault. Did ever man devise a 
 more absurd training for a girl ? " 
 
 Came again the spring, and with it the 
 little excursions that Venn was so fond of; 
 but they were not quite the same. The 
 relations between himself and Lollie were 
 altered, somehow. He could no longer 
 kiss her in the old paternal way. Some- 
 times, as he thought of he r, he ground his 
 teeth, and cursed ; but ever with her, his 
 voice was soft and kind. He was always 
 thoughtful and anxious about her. She 
 was still, as before all this, his little girl. 
 
 Marie grew to love him as if he had been 
 her own son ; scolded him for liis laziness 
 almost as soundly as Madeleine ; went to 
 his chambers, and brought away great 
 stores of linen, which she and Lollie 
 amused themselves by setting in order for 
 him; made liim read her some of his nu- 
 merous Opuscula, and criticised the;.- in a 
 way whicli astonjshed him ; and gave him 
 hints and suggestions which opened out 
 vistas of innumerable other literary efibrts, 
 so that he formed as many projects as 
 Coleridge. 
 
 The spring grew into summer; and 
 then a change was to happen. For one 
 morning the Palmiste mail came in, and 
 Arthur received a letter from his lawyer. 
 
 " Your half-brother," he said, " is going 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 165 
 
 on, I fear, as badly as possiUe. It is my 
 duty, — or, rather, I make it my officious 
 duty, — to tell you that his only compan-, 
 ioils are the most dissipated young English- 
 men of the colony, — officers chiefly. At 
 Fontainebleau there are reported to be 
 nightly scenes of drink and play, which 
 ■will most certainly end in disaster, if not 
 to fortune, then to health. In this climate, 
 as you know, one has to exercise some dis- 
 cretion. Poor Philip has none. I liked 
 him at first. He landed here fresh and 
 bright, as if he had never touched a bottle 
 of brandy ; but that is four months ago, 
 and his face is now bloated with drink and 
 late hours. If you have any influence over 
 him, write and expostulate. If you, or any 
 friend, could only come out here, all might 
 be well. Philip is open to any influence. 
 He can resist no temptation : he is led 
 away by every voice that he hears ; but 
 he is kind-hearted. In an evil hour he in- 
 sulted little Volet, his manager, whom you 
 remember as a boy. No better or more 
 honest man ever lived. Volet was obliged 
 to resign. Since he went away, Philip has 
 been secretly sending him money to keep 
 him going : I suppose, out of a desire to 
 make atonement; but the estate is going 
 to the.dogs. In a few months the hot sea- 
 son will be upon us again, when these ex- 
 cesses will tell more than they do now. I 
 may say that he always speaks of you in 
 terms of the highest respect. He told me, 
 what I did not know before, that the es- 
 tate is only his own because you refused to 
 fight the case. I think that you might, at 
 least, write to him." 
 
 And so on, all in the same strain. 
 
 Arthur showed the letter to his wife. 
 
 "What shall we do?" 
 
 " You must write to him. Say nothing 
 of the past, except what is kind. I will 
 write too. You will remember that he did 
 once do what I asked him." 
 
 " I know, — that was because he loved 
 you." 
 
 " He did not really love me. He fan- 
 cied he did. The only woman he ever 
 really loved was LoUie. I am sure of it, 
 from the way he spoke of her, the bitter- 
 ness with which he remembered the poor 
 girl's look when he cast her. off." 
 
 " How can you be bitter against a wo- 
 man you have ever loved ? " 
 
 " I knew you would say that. It is just 
 what a man would be sure to say. The 
 bitterness, great stupid, was in his own 
 breast; and he thought he felt bitter to- 
 wards her. Suppose you are bilious. It 
 is not a romantic comparison, but it will do. 
 You see every thing yellow. That is' how 
 Philip saw tilings. His real nature was 
 turned inside out. I told you, months ago, 
 
 that his mind was like your old garden, all 
 overrun with pumpkins. 
 
 " What a silly, unreasonable creature he 
 is I Why does he hide his head in a bush, 
 like an ostrich ? He is ashamed of his 
 mother, — he knows, my dear Arthur, that 
 all the stupid story of the marriage is a 
 forgery.' I saw the look he gave her in 
 the church. There was longing and re- 
 pentance in it, as well as shame. He is 
 stupidly ashamed that his mother is a great 
 singer, as well as that she is colored. And 
 what a woman is he ashamed of ! Is there 
 one woman in all the world more charita- 
 ble, more large-hearted, less selfish, than 
 poor Marie ? Ashamed of her I He ou^ht 
 to be proud of her, and to thank God, who 
 gave him such a mother." 
 
 Arthur moved his hand. 
 
 " And, O Arthur I he is more, ten thou- 
 sand times more,.ashamed of himself and 
 his treatment of Laura. I believe that is 
 the secret of all his sins. He wanted at 
 first to make money by gambling, for her. 
 But gambling is a hard master to serve. 
 And then — and then — oh I my poor Phil, 
 what a melancholy ending it all is I " 
 
 " It is not ended yet." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You do not know," she said, "but I 
 know ; because he sent me a letter before 
 he went away, and his landlady brought it. 
 He used to wander about at night, to 
 drink all day. He saw no one. He used 
 to lie on the sofa, with his head in his 
 hands, and groan. He used to see things 
 that do not exist in the daytime. He knew 
 he was dishonored, poor fellow; and he 
 tried, like a weak creature as he is, to 
 drown it all in drink." 
 
 " I blame myself, Madeleine. I should 
 have gone to him, in the old way, and said 
 what I could to help him. Poor Phil is 
 good at heart." 
 
 " Good at heart 1 What is the good of 
 that ? Everybody is good at heart. I 
 want men to be strong of will. Women 
 only love strong men." 
 
 " Then, why do you love me, Madeleine? " 
 
 " I don't know, Arthur," she said, smil- 
 ing. " You know that I love you, dear — 
 do you not V — with all the strength of my 
 nature. But then you are strong in all 
 good things. I believe in your nobleness, 
 dear. God knows, if man and wife cease 
 to believe in that, there can be nothing 
 left. . . . Let us go and see madame." 
 
 They got thtere in time for luncheon. 
 Venn was lying lazily on the sofa. He did 
 not get up as they came in ; but held out 
 his hand, smiling." 
 
 ' " You come like a breath of the most' 
 invigorating breeze, Mrs. Durnford. Do 
 not reproach me. I am hard at work, try- 
 
166 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 ing to make out, with LoUie here, what it 
 is I am to work at." 
 
 " I tell him he ought to practise at the 
 bar," said Lollie. 
 
 " So I would, but for two things. I 
 know no solicitors, and I know no law. 
 Bless you ! if I had a brief I should be 
 obliged to put it into a drawer for a couple 
 of years while I read law. No : think of 
 something else." 
 
 " What do rich men do ? " asked Marie. 
 " They seem always at work." 
 
 " They become directors. Then they 
 make speeches. They take chairs. They 
 do all sorts of things for nothing, which 
 poor men get paid for. They even write 
 for the magazines, confound them ! " 
 
 " Write a novel," said Madeleine. 
 
 " Eh ? " cried Venn, starting up. 
 " Now, that is a practical suggestion. 
 Lollie, do you remember the novel we 
 wrote together, and buried close above 
 Teddington Lock? Thafwas real work, 
 if you like. Oh, if we had not buried that 
 novel 1 " 
 
 " Let us go and fish for it," cried Lollie, 
 laughing. 
 
 " We will. We will go at once. Mrs. 
 Durnford, you will come tob. We will go 
 this afternoon. The sun shirfts. The blue- 
 bottle buzzes. The lilac is in blossom. 
 The lark will be singing. The laburnum 
 is golden. Lollipops, put on your hat, — 
 your summer hat, with the brightest feath- 
 er in it. We will have a glorious day." 
 
 Madeleine made a sign to Marie. 
 
 " You three go," she said. " Madeleine 
 will stay with me, and you shall have a 
 late dinner at nine. Go away, all of you, 
 and leave us two to make ourselves miser- 
 able together." 
 
 " Wliat is it, dear ? " she asked. 
 
 For all answer, Madeleine gave her the 
 lawyer's letter. 
 
 Marie read it, and the tears came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " What are wo to do ? " asked Made- 
 leine. 
 
 "I knew it was coming. I have had 
 presentiments. I have had dreams. I 
 dreamed that I saw my brother Adolphe — 
 poor Adolphe, I wonder if he is living yet 
 — putting a gri-gri under Philip's head. 
 That is to produce disaster, you knpw. 
 Every night my thoughts carry me back to 
 Fontaihebleau. George Durnford speaks 
 to me in visions. And every night I see 
 Philip's face averted. My dear, since 1 
 saw him, I have felt myself en rapport with 
 him. You may laugh as you will ; but, as 
 he suffers, I suffer. When he is wretched, 
 lonely, repentant, I am sad. I hide it 
 from that poor child, who does not know 
 
 what such love means, and thinks she loves 
 Philip because she pities him ; and, as I 
 look forward, I see nothing but clouds and 
 blackness. A great disaster is before me, 
 
 — that is, before Philip. Day by day, the 
 yearning has become stronger in me to 
 
 go out and try to save my boy. If I go, 
 I may find him in the midst of his compan- 
 ions, drunken and dissolute. He may 
 drive me away with hard words. Ho may 
 
 — but he will not, he will not, Madeleine. 
 I feel that the hour for reconciliation is 
 drawing near. I shall see my boy. I 'shall 
 feel his cheek to mine. I shall be able to 
 put my arms round his neck, and kiss him. 
 
 child, child ! if ever God gives you a 
 son, pray — pray — pray that you may not 
 suffer what I am suffering now." 
 
 She was silent for a while, struggling with 
 her emotion. 
 
 "Do you think that God is punishing 
 me ? I cannot think that. I have learned 
 long since my sin, and been forgiven. Of 
 that I am as sure as if a voice from Heav- 
 en had pronounced my pardon. I know it 
 from my own heart. My Father has for- 
 given the sin of an ignorant childhood. It 
 cannot be that. Then what is it ? — what 
 is it ? I lived but for , him. All those 
 years when I toiled in Italy, trying to im- 
 prove the defects of my education, all those 
 years when I sang upon the stage, it was 
 all for Philip. I lived upon nothing : my 
 money all went into the bank for him. I 
 waited for the day when I could say to 
 him, ' Son, son, take all I have, and be 
 happy. Only kiss your mother — if only 
 it be once, and to let her go away.' I 
 never thought to be to him what most 
 mothers are to their children : I prayed 
 only for a kind thought, a kind word. I got 
 none ; and now, what are all my riches 
 worth ? I have no son." 
 
 " You have Laura. You love her." 
 
 " Yes — I am wicked. I forget, in my 
 selfish passion. I love this child, who loves 
 me. There is no better girl in the world 
 than ' my daughter. But, Madeleine, I 
 want my own child, — my very own : the 
 baby that lay in my lap — my own life's 
 blood — my darling, my gallant son I Do 
 not tell me that he has fallen from his 
 ideal : he suffers, and would rise again 
 if he could. Let me go to him. Let me 
 try once more to gain his love, all alone, 
 by the verge of that great forest where I 
 wandered one night all alone, and saw vis- 
 ions of the future. Did I ever tell you ? 
 
 1 went out, with the first money I ever 
 earned at singing, by myself I crept at 
 night through the woods. I found George 
 Durnford weeping for his dead wife, — not 
 me, dear Madeleine. I was bitter and 
 cruel. Then I saw poor Adrienne, white, 
 
MY LITTLE GIKL., 
 
 167 
 
 pale, and imploring, before me ; and I was 
 softened. I saw the children. Arthur 
 clung to me, and kissed me, in his pretty 
 way. My own boy, my Phil, turned his 
 face away, and cried. It was an omen, and 
 my heart fell. I left George Durnford,- 
 and wpnt back as I had come, through the 
 forest. All the night, as { walked along in 
 the black darkness, I heard voices saying 
 to me that there should be no happiness 
 for me, — riothing but bitterness, disap- 
 pointment, and misery." 
 
 "But you have found happiness, dear 
 Madame de Guyon."- 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but not the happiness I 
 wanted. There is nothing that I desire 
 but the love of my son, — nothing but to 
 hear him say that he is sorry for the words 
 he spoke." 
 
 " Play to me, dear. Soothe me with 
 music, for my spirit is troubled." 
 
 Madeleine played, while Marie walked 
 up and down, with fingers interlaced, try- 
 ing to recover from her agitation. 
 
 Presently she sat down, close to the 
 piano. 
 
 " Don't leave off, my dear. It soothes 
 me as nothing else can. I am determined 
 what to do. I will go out by the next mail. 
 That starts in a few days, and I shall pack 
 to-morrow, — take my ticket, and go." 
 
 As she spoke, a wailing was heard from 
 the next house in the street, of a child. 
 She shrank back, with a white face. 
 
 '' That is the worst sign you can hear." 
 
 " Do not be superstitious," said Made- 
 leine. " If you had heard the child cry at 
 any other time you would have laughed." 
 
 " At any other time — yes. That I am 
 superstitious is true, my dear. I can never 
 shake it off. Call it what you please, weak- 
 ness, prejudice. I was made superstitious, 
 when I was a child ; and the old iears cling 
 to me like — like the color of my birth." 
 
 They spent the day making preparations. 
 There were not many wanted ; for Marie 
 was a woman whom stage experience had 
 taught to be profuse in dress. 
 
 •' Lollie will go and live with Miss Venn," 
 she said. " Yes, dear, I know what you were 
 going to offer, and it is very kind of you ; 
 but it is better for the present that she 
 should not go into society. I do not want 
 her to feel things." 
 
 " She would not feel any thing. She is 
 quite convinced that she was properly mar- 
 ried at first." 
 
 " It is not only that. People might ask 
 who Mr. Philip Durnford was, and — and 
 — O 'Madeleine ! do you not see that I am 
 right y " ,, 
 
 " You are always right, dear madame." 
 
 In the evening the party came back — 
 Venn, at least, happy. They had been 
 
 fishing for the novel, and failed to find it. 
 Lollie had caught a gudgeon, Arthur had 
 caught nothing. And so on, childishly 
 happy, as they always were when Venn 
 was with them, — the man who never lost 
 his delight in childish things. 
 
 And so, after their late dinner, Venn 
 thought it was time to go. 
 
 " Stay a moment, dear Mr. Venn," said 
 Marie. "I have something to say. Will 
 Miss Venn take our child for a little 
 while-? " 
 
 " Mamma ! " cried Lollie. 
 
 " Yes, dear. We have had a letter from 
 Palmiste. I am going out." 
 
 Laura turned white. 
 
 " And I so happy to-day. It is wicked. 
 Is he ill ? Tell me." 
 
 " We will tell you every thing, dear," 
 said Madeleine. " Philip is not well, and 
 the news is not good." 
 
 Laura gave a great gasp. 
 
 " And I shall go, too, — shall I not, Mr. 
 Venn ? Who ought to be with a man who 
 is ill but his wife ? " 
 
 They looked at each other, and were 
 silent. Venn spoke first. 
 
 " Lollie, dear, let me talk to you alone 
 for a moment." 
 
 He took her into another room. 
 
 *' Would you like to go, my dear ? " he 
 said, folding her in his arms in the old 
 fashion, while her head leant upon his 
 shoulder. " Would you like to go V Re- 
 member all. He has treated you cruelly " — 
 
 " But he asked my forgiveness." 
 
 " And he said himself that you had better 
 be away from him for a while. My dear, 
 your husband is not a good man. He has 
 done bad things. When he comes back, 
 with his mother, and asks to be taken into 
 your arms again, I shall not be one to re- 
 fuse him forgiveness ; but he does not ask 
 for you, or his mother either. If humilia- 
 tion is to fall on the one who goes out to 
 him, do not let it be you." 
 
 " He will think I have forgotten him, — as 
 if I ever could forget him," sbe pleaded. 
 
 " Do you love him, Lollie ? " 
 
 " Always the same question : I love him 
 as I always did, no more and no less ; but 
 he is my husband." 
 
 Venn choked a spasm of intense jealousy. 
 
 " Love him still, dear. Love your hus- 
 band ; but you must not go to him. Will 
 you be guided by me ? " 
 
 " I am always guided by you. Whoever 
 else have I in the world ? " she said simply. 
 " As if I did not love you better than all the 
 world." 
 
 " My dear little girl 1 " he whispered, be- 
 cause his voice choked, — " ever my dear 
 little girl, are you not ? Nothing can part 
 us. Nothing shall sever the love we have 
 
168 
 
 M-S LITTLE 6IEL. 
 
 for each other. But you will stay with 
 Sukey, while madaine goes out and tries to 
 recover her son for all of us." 
 
 He went back to the others, leaving Lollie 
 there. 
 
 Then they arranged things ; and next day 
 he went to see Sukey, telling her only that 
 Madame de Guyon had business in Pal- 
 miste, her native place. For there was sad 
 deceit and hiding of the truth necessary ; 
 and only the little circle themselves knew 
 all the history that bound them together 
 with ties so sacred and so sad. 
 
 The day she went away, Marie sought 
 Hartley Venn alone. 
 
 " I know,"' she said, " that evil will come 
 to me : I feel it like the cold wind before the 
 rain ; but good will come too. See, now, 
 dear Mr. Venn, there is but one thing I 
 have to say. You will find at my law- 
 yer's, in case — in case 1 never come back 
 — my will. To whom should I leave my 
 money but to my Philip's wife ? " 
 
 . CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Weakied in body and mind, Marie 
 landed at the old familiar wharf at Port 
 St. Denys. Five and twenty years since 
 last she stood there, filled with the bitter- 
 ness of regret, and yet the confidence of 
 youthful hope. She recalled now the mo- 
 ment when, standing on the deck, she 
 marked the mountains growing fainter and 
 darker as the sun set, plunging them in a 
 bath of light and color, till night came on, 
 and they disappeared. Now she stood 
 once more on the wharf, and marked the 
 old things little changed. The half-naked 
 Indians rolled the sugar-bags about, and 
 piled them in great heaps, with their shrill 
 cries and wild laughter, just as she remem- 
 bered to have watched them as a child. 
 Under the trees on the Place sat the same 
 old men — or they seemed to be the same, 
 — who had always sat there, talking and 
 squabbling over the little politics of the 
 day. Among the talkers under the trees, 
 rolled and played the little naked mulatto 
 and Indian children, as they had always 
 done ; and in long line stood the carriages 
 waiting to be hired, as they had stood a 
 quarter of a century since. Nothing was 
 changed ; and for a moment the years 
 rolled back, and all her youth flashed again 
 before her, with its happiness, such as it 
 was, and its regrets. Only for a moment. 
 One of the ship's officers, seeing her stand- 
 ing alone, profi'ered his assistance ; and 
 Marie woke to a sense of the dismal errand 
 on which she had come. 
 
 " I have got your boxes on shore, Mad- 
 
 ame de Guyon," he said : 'f what shall I do 
 next ? You had better let me get you a 
 carriage. ' Have you no friends waiting for 
 you?" 
 
 " No,'' said Marie. " I am going into the 
 country. It is a long drive. Will you 
 kindly see that the man has good horses ? 
 I am going quite, to the other side of the 
 island." 
 
 " You are surely not going alone, Mad- 
 ame de Guyon ? " 
 
 "Not alone! Why not? Oh, I have 
 never told you that I was here as a girl. I 
 know every road in the place, I believe. 
 Thank you, Mr. Hatton, for your kindness. 
 If you will only, now, get me a carriage." 
 
 Presently came rattling up a long, low 
 carriage, with a pair of screws that looked 
 like any thing in the world except going a 
 long journey. 
 
 Marie said something to the officer, who 
 spoke to the driver. He was a mulatto, 
 approaching very nearly to the negro type, 
 with woolly head, and face almost black. 
 He was apparently about fifty, and was ac- 
 companied by a little boy, clothed chiefly 
 in a ragged straw hat, half a jacket, and say • 
 a quarter of a pair of cotton trousers. He 
 answered the officer's objections, laughing 
 and protesting in a patois that made Marie's 
 heart leap within her, for it was the patois 
 that she had first learned to speak. She 
 understood it all, after these long years ; the 
 intonation of the voice, the gestures which 
 eked out the imperfections of the language, 
 tha rough, rude inflections of the barbaric 
 tongue ; and she asked herself whether, in 
 the far past, she herself could have been as 
 these naked children rolling in the dust, 
 could have talked this jargon, could have 
 been such as her driver. Getting into the 
 carriage, however, she explained to him 
 that she was to go to the estate of Fon- 
 tainebleau. 
 
 " How, madame ? " said the man. " No 
 one lives at Fontainebleau since Mr. Durn- 
 ford died." 
 
 " You know the place, then ? " 
 
 " I was born there, madame. My par- 
 ents lived close by." He called them his 
 " papa and mamma," this grizzly mulatto. 
 
 "But Mr. Philip Durnford lives there> 
 now." 
 
 " Madame wants to see Mr. Philip ? 
 Ohl" 
 
 He jumped upon his box, called the boy? 
 whipped up his horses, arid went swinging' 
 down the street at full gallop. The boy 
 kept prattling to himj but he made no an- 
 swer. When they had gone some three or 
 four miles, taking advantage of a hill, he 
 turned round, and, poking his head into the 
 carriage, hi remarked, in a tone as if he 
 were conveying information, — 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 169 
 
 "Madame is going to see Mr. Philip 
 Durnford." 
 
 Some five or six miles farther on, he put 
 his head in again, — 
 
 " Does mMame know Mr. Philip ? " 
 
 " Marie said she had seen him. 
 
 " A mauvais sujet, madame. Alphonse, 
 take the reins. Do not whip them, my 
 child. I will tell you, madame. Ah ! bri- 
 gand, you want to repose already ? Up, 
 then. Alphonse, take the whip to that 
 vaurien." This was addressed chiefly to 
 Ills horses. " Madame, 1 am about to tell 
 you, Mr. Philip, — why do I say monsieur ? 
 — he is the son of old Mr. Durnford, who 
 died in the cholera, and the little Marie. 
 Pah I everylDody knows that." 
 
 Poor Marie 1 
 
 " Philip goes to England with Mr. Ar- 
 thur. There was a young man, madame. 
 Philip stays for seven, eight years. He 
 comes back without Mr. Arthur. He says 
 the estate is his ; and he lives there." 
 
 "Who was Marie?" asked the poor 
 mother. 
 
 " Marie ? I will tell you, madame. 
 There was a young lady, white as a lily, 
 who lived in the great house close by my 
 father's hut. She was lonely, and had no 
 one to play with ; and so they took my little 
 sister, who was almost as fair as she 
 was " — » 
 
 " Your sister 1 You are Adolphe ? " 
 
 " Madame knows my name ? See, mad- 
 ame." He produced a sort of card, on 
 which was printed a tariflf of prices. It 
 was inscribed with the names, in fbll, 
 "Monsieur Adolphe Napoleon Kohan de 
 Montmorenci." This he read out with unc- 
 tion. " EJow did madame know my name ? 
 My nephew,, who went to the great col- 
 lege, ^ave me the surnames; for I must 
 confess to madame, who knows every thing, 
 that I was formerly plain Adolphe. Al- 
 phonse, with all your force, flog that vieux 
 scelerat who will do no work." 
 
 The intelligent steed, hearing this, in- 
 stantly quickened, and Alphonse put back 
 the whip. 
 
 "Yes, madame," he resumed, "Marie 
 was as fair-cheeked as Mademoiselle Ad- 
 rienne herself. Only mademoiselle had 
 light hair, and Marie black. Droll, was it 
 not? I was as black as Alphonse here, 
 and so was my brother Alcide ; and Marie 
 was as white as a lady. Eh, the viem papa 
 used to laugh when he looked at her. Only 
 the priest said it was . fhe will of God. 
 Well, madame, Marie went to live with 
 mademoiselle, and staid there till she was 
 fifteen years old ; then she ran away." 
 
 " Where did she go to ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I know, because I saw her often 
 enough.' She lived for a year in a little 
 
 cottage close by Mr. Durnford's house, in 
 the forest. There she had a baby, white 
 as — as " — here his eyes wandered to lit- 
 tle Alphonse for a suitable simile ; but, not 
 finding one in his brown face, lie turned 
 back to the carriage, — " as white as mad- 
 ame herself." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, madame, that baby is Philip him- 
 self. You could hardly believe it, but it 
 is so ; and I who sit here am his uncle. 
 Ha, hfi, ha ! Alphonse is his cousin. Ho, 
 ho, ho ! but it's droll." 
 
 "And — and — your sister ? " 
 
 " Mr. Durnford married ma'm'selle, and 
 poor Marie went away. She came back, 
 though, and walked all the way to Fon- 
 tainebleau through the forest — Alcide saw 
 her — on the night after Madame Durnford 
 was buried. Then she went away again, 
 and no one lias heard of her since. Poor 
 Marie I She was too good for us, and the 
 bon Dieu took her to heaven." 
 
 "Good? When she lived with Mr. 
 Durnford?" 
 
 " Eh ? " said the black, " why not ? Ah I 
 she was gentiUe. You should have seen 
 her, madame, go to church with her white 
 kid gloves, and her silk parasol, and a rose- 
 bud in \&c hair. All the white folks stared 
 at her. Poor Marie ! But the hon Dieu 
 hag taken her, and her son is a vaurien. 
 Alphonse, if the idler does not go quicker, 
 get down and kick him." 
 
 The idler instantly quickened repent- 
 antly. 
 
 " He is a vaurien, I say, madam%. He 
 drinks in the morning, he drinks all day, 
 he drinks at night ; and he goes to bed — 
 saoul. No one goes to see him. He lives 
 alone, he sees ghosts, he laughs and cries. 
 The servants run away. Last week one 
 ventured to sit up and watch him all night. 
 He gets up, takes a pistol, and — ping ! — 
 if the boy had not ducked his head, like 
 this, he would have been killed. Alphonse, 
 thou laughest ? Malin ! He is very dan- 
 gerous, madame. And madame is going to 
 see him ? " 
 
 Presently they left- the high road, and 
 turned down a rudely-made lane, cut 
 through the forest. The still, quiet air re- 
 called all the old moments to Marie. She 
 remembered when George Durnford, her 
 lover, made the road ; and here, before it 
 was finished, he would walk and talk with 
 her in the evening, telling her a thousand 
 things she had never dreamed of, opening 
 up paths for her thoughts which she had 
 never suspected, lifting her above the petty 
 things that she had been accustomed to 
 feed her mind with, and filling . her mind 
 with a happiness that was all the sweeter 
 as it was the newer and more unexpected. 
 
170 
 
 MY LITTLE QIEL. 
 
 Forgetting her present miseries, dn invol- 
 untary smi'e wreathed her lips, and her 
 eyes glowed again with the brightness of 
 her youth, as she thought of those days, 
 all too brief, of love and tenderness. Do 
 women ever repent of first love? I think 
 not. The man repents, thinking of the 
 wreck he has made of a woman's happiness. 
 She weeps, not for the folly and the sin, 
 but for the shattered image, the perished 
 hopes, and the cruel punishment. Guilt? 
 What guilt was there in the young mulatto 
 girl, who, knowing that she could never be 
 aught but the white man's mistress, yet ran 
 willingly into his arms, and obeyed the in- 
 stincts of a passionate nature that knew no 
 religion, and had no sense of a higher duty ? 
 Thousands of times had poor Marie, in the 
 height of her popularity and fame, pondered 
 over the question, and, against all the dog- 
 mas ot creed, had acquitted herself; and 
 thousands of times, besides, had she will- 
 ingly acquiesced in the results of the social 
 necessity under which we are all slaves. 
 
 The road, winding through thick under- 
 wood, presently crossed a rude wooden 
 bridge over a small ravine. Marie made 
 the driver stop, and leaned out of the 
 carriage, looking at a scene she remem- 
 bered so well. On the steep, damp sides, 
 towering above the tangled herbage, grew 
 the tall tree-ferns, each with its circle of 
 glory, clear cut against the blue of the 
 sky ; along the foot bubbled a little moun- 
 tain stream over great bowlders that lay 
 strewn about. Just above the bridge was 
 a tiny .waterfall of some three or four feet, 
 over which the water leaped merrily, with 
 as much fuss and splash as if it were a 
 great Niagara. And above the fall, hud- 
 dled together and gazing with suspicious 
 eyes on the carriage, stood a herd of twen- 
 ty or thirty soft-eyed deer. But not on 
 them were Marie's eyes resting ; for half 
 hidden within the trees, stood the remains 
 of an old cottage, the thatch half torn off 
 and covered with creepers, the door hang- 
 ing by one hinge, the door-posts wrenched 
 out by the force of a growing tree, and the 
 whole place presenting a dreary look of 
 desolation. Calling Adolphe, she pointed 
 it out to him, with a look of interroga- 
 tion. 
 
 " It is the cottage of Marie, madame. 
 That is whore Mr. Durnford put her when 
 she left ma'm'selle. He thought no one 
 knew. But I knew, and many a time I've 
 lain down there watching Mr. Durnford 
 coming to call her out. Every evening be 
 used to come ; and all day long Marie used 
 to sit and wait, looking along the path 
 where he would come." 
 
 It was so true ; and her heart was 
 pierced to think how this poor fellow, her 
 
 own brother, not ashamed of her disgrace, 
 would lie and wait to see her lover come. 
 
 " Mr. Durnford taught her to read, mad- 
 ame ; and then she used to sit at the win- 
 dow with a book all the -day, and at night 
 would tell him all she had learned. Eh ? 
 I have listened often at the window. But 
 it did not last long. Then sl^e went away ; 
 and then she, came baok. And tjien — I 
 don't know where she went. The bon Dieu 
 took her." 
 
 " Why do you think she is dead ? " 
 " Madame, I will tell you. Because — 
 how long ago? Alphonse, how old are 
 you ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " said the boy. 
 " Well, it was twelve years before Al- 
 phonse was born. I was down here ; it 
 was the cholera time.^ Ouf ! what a time I 
 No one died here except Mr. Durnford ; 
 but the night he died I was passing throuo-h 
 this road, and in the mobnlight just here, I 
 saw two figures in white, — one was Marie 
 and the other Was Mr. Durnford. Since 
 then, no one has passed by here at nio'ht." 
 " How do you know it was Marie ? " 
 " What a droll question. As if I should 
 not know ray own sister." 
 
 ■ They went on ; and, as they drew near 
 the house-, Marie began to think what she 
 should say to her son, and how she would 
 be received. Her long voyage was ended, 
 hilt the uncertainty of it remained yet. 
 Nor had she ever realized until now the 
 almost utter hopelessness of her journey. 
 She was to save her boy. But how ? ■ By 
 what subtle art was that ruined nature to 
 be raised — that seared conscience to be- 
 come softened ? Alas 1 she knew not that 
 what she hoped to effect by pleading, the 
 mystery of pain and suffering was even 
 then accomplishing. 
 
 The carriage drew up in front of the 
 veranda. She got out, and told the dri- 
 ver — her brother — to put down her boxes, 
 and to drive back. 
 
 No one received her. It was strange. 
 In the old days, when a visitor arrived, 
 troops of servants came running. Now 
 not one. The veranda, too, once like a 
 well-ordered apartment, with its matting, 
 the blinds, the long chairs and little tables, 
 now stood stripped of all. The floor of 
 concrete was in holes. The old ropes of 
 the blinds hung helplessly about. Creep- 
 ers climbed up the posts, and trailed along^ 
 the woodwork of the roof. Outside, the 
 pretty rose-garden was all destroyed, and 
 grown over. The mill beyond was closed. 
 There' was no sign of work or noise from 
 the adjacent " camp,'' which seemed de- 
 serted ; no voice from the house within, no 
 barking of dogs, or clattering of hoofs. A 
 strange dread came upon Marie. She 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 171 
 
 shivered from head to foot. It was too late 
 to recall her carriage, which was now out 
 of sight, and almost out of hearing. And 
 with a dull foreboding of sorrow she en- 
 tered the house which, four and twenty 
 years ago, she had quitted with such repent- 
 tance and regrets. 
 
 The old furniture was there, in its old 
 places ; but " dust-covered, mildewed, and 
 uncared for. No one was in the salon, no 
 one in the dining-room. Avoiding the 
 rooms to the right, w,hich had been those 
 of George Durnford, she went into the 
 smaller bedrooms on the left, put up origi- 
 nally for children and guest-rooms. These, 
 with all their old furniture, which she re- 
 membered so well, had yet a dreary and 
 desolate look. Only, in one, provided with 
 a deal table, a bookcase, and a few chairs, 
 lay the relics of the days when her son , 
 wiiom she had seen so seldom, was yet 
 but a child. In one corner were the bro- 
 kfeu toys of the two boys. On thg shelves 
 lay the old well-thumbed grammars and 
 school-books. Damp had loosened the 
 bindings ; white ants had burrowed long 
 passages through them ; the cockroaches 
 had gnawed away the leather ; and when 
 she moved them, a whole colony of scorpi- 
 ons ran out, brandishing their tails in fran- 
 tic assertion of their long-established rights. 
 
 She turned away sorrowfully, and, once 
 more entering the dining-room, went in, 
 with sinking of heart, to the great bed- 
 room beyond. The silence and stillness of 
 the house oppressed her. It seemed haunted 
 with ghosts of the days gone by ; and, 
 added to this was the dread of something, 
 she knew not what, which she might find 
 within. 
 
 Twice she tried to turn the handle of the 
 door ; twice her heart failed her. She 
 went to the well-known buffet in the din- 
 ing-room, where water always stood, and 
 drank a glass of it. That, at least, in its 
 red earthenware vase, was the same as 
 ever. Then she resolutely opened the door, 
 and went in. 
 
 On the bed, — ah, me ! the bitterness of 
 punishment, — on the great bed which had 
 once been her own and George Durnford's, 
 lay, pale and motionless, her only son, 
 stricken even unto death. Alone and un- 
 cared for. With dry, parched lips, that 
 sometimes murmured a wail, and sometimes 
 moved to let fall some wild words of deliri- 
 um, with bright rolling eyes, Philip was 
 waiting for the approach of death. This 
 was written on his forehead in unmistaka- 
 ble signs. He was not even undressed. It 
 appeared as if he had thrown himself upon 
 the bed with his clothes on, and, in the 
 passion of fev#r, had torn his shirt-colla,r 
 opsn, and tried ineffectually to take off his 
 
 upper clothing ; and though the fever made 
 his brow and his hands burning hot, he 
 shivered occasionally, and his teeth chat- 
 tered with cold. 
 
 Marie took in the whole at . a glance. 
 Stepping back to the dining-room, she has- 
 tily brought water, and gave him to drink, 
 and bathed his burning face. He drank 
 eagerly, and as long as she would let him. 
 Then she opened the windows, for the air 
 was stifling ; and then — what hands are 
 so tender as a mother's ? — she undressed 
 him, and managed to make him at least a 
 little easier. And when all was done, — her 
 patient rambling incoherently, — she knelt 
 by the bedside, and prayed with passionate 
 sobs and tears, that, if her son was to die, 
 she might at least be permitted to breathe 
 a few words — only a few — out of the ful- 
 ness of her heart, into his listening ear. 
 Presently she recovered, and went in search 
 of help. The silence and stillness were 
 inexplicable. At the back of the house, 
 behind the stables, stood the huts for the 
 servants. Thither she went. They were 
 empty. A hundred yards from the house, 
 close by the road, stood the huts which 
 formed the " camp," — a little village for 
 some eight hundred folks. It was empty 
 and deserted. The shop was closed, the 
 stables were empty. What could it all 
 mean ? 
 
 Coming back to the house, she went to 
 the kitchen. This stood by itself, a small 
 stone building. There she found a fire ; 
 and, crouching by the fire, though it was an 
 afternoon in the height of summer, sat an 
 Indian boy, who only moaned when she 
 touched him. He, too, had fever. She 
 took him up, — a light burden enough, — 
 and carried him to a room next to Philip's, 
 where she tended him, and laid him in the 
 only bed he had ever slept in in his life. 
 Fortunately, he was not delirious ; and, from 
 him, she learned something of what had 
 happened. 
 
 The luckless Philip had taken to drink- 
 ing all day long, and almost all night. He 
 had become moody, irritable, and capricious, 
 so that the very men who came for the 
 coarse revels that went on there, grew tired 
 of him, and left off coming at all. Then, 
 having no companions and no resources, he 
 became every day worse. Once, the near- 
 est doctor, an old friend of his father's, 
 rode over to see him ; and after his depart- 
 ure Philip improved for a short time. He 
 even sent for his lawyer, and gave him in- 
 structions to sell the estate. No purchaser 
 came for it. The crop was put through the 
 mill, and sent up to town; and after it, the 
 unhappy man, growing mad with the dread- 
 ful life he lived, resolved to have nothing 
 more to do with the estate, and actually 
 
172 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 took steps to get rid of his coolies, in which 
 he had almost succeeded. And for two 
 months the canes had been uncared for, 
 the fields almost left to themselves. He 
 said he was going back to England. As 
 tliey learned afterwards, there was still a 
 large sum of money left out of Arthur's 
 savings. As for the estate, Philip declared, 
 with many oaths, that, if no one would buy 
 the place, no one should work in it ; and 
 then he reduced his private establishment. 
 Two boys and a cook were all he kept ; 
 while for two long months he wandered 
 gloomily about his deserted estate, and at 
 night drank himself into a state of insensi- 
 bility. And then, one night, he was strick- 
 en with lever. The cook and one of the 
 boys ran away in terror. The other would 
 have followed, but that fever seized him, 
 too, and held him down. 
 
 Marie gathered this partly from the sick 
 boy, and partly from what she heard after- 
 wards. Going into the camp again, she 
 found some bustle and noise. Thank Hea- 
 ven 1 tnere was some one. As she learned 
 afterwards, the whole body of the remain- 
 ing coolies had struck work that very day, 
 and gone off together — men, women, and 
 children — to complain to the nearest ma- 
 gistrate about getting no wages. Now they 
 were all returned, and, gathered in knots, 
 discussed their grievances. Marie called 
 a sirdar, and despatched him, with a hand- 
 some gratuity beforehand, for the nearest 
 doctor. This done, she returned to her pa- 
 tients, the Indians gazing curiously at her. 
 
 The boy told her where some tea could be 
 got, and she hastily prepared it for Philip, 
 who lay quietly enough. He was too weak 
 to move, poor fellow ; and only murmured 
 incessantly. He drank the tea, however, 
 and then fell asleep, whfen Marie was able 
 to leave him, and doctor the little Indian 
 who was almost as ill as his master. Slowly 
 the hours passed. She marked the sun set, 
 as, long ago, she had often watched it, be- 
 hind the hills in front of the house. ' She 
 saw the moon rise in the dear old ' tropical 
 lustre ; the cigale shrieked its monotonous 
 note ; the watchman began to go his rounds, 
 and cry, " All's well ! " the same as he had 
 always done ; and, but for the heavy breath- 
 ing of the poor stricken prodigal, her son, 
 she could almost have thought the tour and 
 twenty years since last she sat there a 
 dream. About nine o'clock a deputation 
 waited on her. She knew the rustling of 
 the muslin and the clink of the bangles, and 
 went out on the veranda to receive her 
 visitors. Some half-dozen Indian women 
 stood there. One bore a dish of curry for 
 madarae. All wanted to know what they 
 could do for her ; all were curious to learn 
 who she was and why she had come ; and 
 
 all looked on her with a sort of superstitious 
 dread. Their husbands accompanied them 
 as far as the garden hedge, but would go no 
 farther ; and now stood, prepared to uy, in 
 case of any- supernatural manifestations. 
 None occurred, however. Marie asked if 
 two of them would stay with her, and ac- 
 cepted the curry gratefully. It was the 
 first thing she had taken since the early 
 morning coffee ; and a long night was before 
 her. 
 
 Tlie women were horribly afraid of the 
 fever. They would do any thing for mad- 
 ame in the house — they would sleep 
 on the veranda ; but nothing would 
 induce them to go into rooms of the 
 sick. However, it was something, in 
 her desolation, to have even them with her ; 
 and, with a sense of companionship, she 
 went back to watch her charges. Tlae boy 
 at last fell asleep ; and she brought a chair 
 and sat by Philip's bedside, watching his 
 deep breath come and go. 
 
 The two women outside, curled under a 
 blanket, chattered for a wliile, and then fell 
 asleep. The watchman at first made a 
 great show of wakefulness, expectorating 
 loudly every time he passed the doors of 
 the bedroom ; finally, he, too, subsided into 
 his usual corner, and fell fast asleep, with 
 his long stick in his hands. The dogs 
 began by barking against each other, but 
 gradually grew sleepy, and left off. The 
 cocks, who disregard all times and sea- 
 sons in Palmiste Island, loudly called for 
 the sun about midnight. As he declined to 
 appear at their bidding, they tucked their 
 heads in again, and had another nap. Aud 
 then the silence of the forest seemed to 
 make itself felt; and Marie, her old super- 
 stitions coming back in all their force, al- . 
 most gasped with the tension of her nerves. 
 The room filled with ghosts, — not ghosts 
 that filled her with terror so much as regret. 
 Her long-dead mistress, Adrienue, with long, 
 floating feht hair, seemed to be hoveiing in 
 white robes in the moonshine ; the faces of 
 old acquaintances laughed at her from the 
 dark corners of the room ; or the still, sleep- 
 ing face of Philip would suddenly change 
 into the face of her dead lover. Voices, too, 
 were whispering about her, till she could 
 bear it no longer, and went out into the 
 open air, to pace the veranda, and look 
 upon the old familiar scene bathed in the 
 silver moonlight. 
 
 Then she came back, and prayed a^ain — 
 in the Catholic faith that had reared ner — 
 to the Madonna. What matter if no Madon- 
 na heard her ? The prayer was the same to 
 God, who hears all prayers, and seems to 
 grant so few. Does any one ever get all he 
 prays for ? I trow not. And yet we pray, 
 — pray against hope and certainty — 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 173 
 
 though we see the advent of the inevitable, 
 and know that God will not turn it aside for 
 any prayers or vehement calling-out of ours. 
 But still we pray ; and when the hand of 
 death is on the nearest and dearest to us, 
 when all that makes life sweet is to be torn 
 from us, we betake ourselves to our knees, 
 and so we go on praying till the world's end, 
 despite the calm persuasion of the philoso- 
 pher, and the experience of a life. Only, by 
 prayer, we soften our hearts ; and it seems 
 as if God answers us by alleviating the blow, 
 alid giving some comfort while our sorrow 
 is at its bitterest. 
 
 So, while Marie prayed^ it seemed to 
 her, in the dim light, as if the face of the 
 sick man altered and softened. The fierce 
 heat of the fever died away, his brow grew 
 damp and chill, his hands soft and warm, 
 and his breathing calm and regular ; and 
 f6r the time, she fancied that her prayers 
 were heard indeed. 
 
 Do you know that moment in the night 
 — the passage, as it were, from day to 
 day — when a chill breath seems to pass 
 oveJ"^ the earth, and for a space all the world 
 is hushed as if in death ? You may feel it 
 by sea or by land. I have shivered and 
 trembled under its spell, while gasping for 
 breath in the sulphureous Red Sea. Or in 
 the heart of London, should^ you be awake, 
 you lie and feel that yesterday is dead in- 
 deed, and the new day not yet fully born. 
 This is the time when feeble old men and 
 children die ; and when death seems most 
 terrible. 
 
 At this moment Philip woke : and, at 
 sight of his eyes, the mother's heart leapt 
 up, and she thanked God ; for one part of 
 her prayer, at least, was answered. For 
 the delirium, was gone, and her son was in 
 his right mind. She did not dare to speak, 
 while, on her knees at the bedside, she 
 looked him face to face, and met his eyes, 
 which gazed wonderingly into hers, so full 
 of tears and tender love. 
 
 " There are so many ghosts," he mur- 
 mured, " about this house, that I suppose 
 you are another. You are the ghost of my 
 mother." 
 
 " Ah, no I herself," she cried out. " No, 
 my son, your own mother herself come to 
 nurse you, — your own loving mother. 
 Oh, my boy, my darling, forgive me ! " 
 
 " I am weak," he said, " and my head is 
 confused. Touch me, that I may know you 
 are no phantom of my brain. Kiss me, my 
 mother." 
 
 She showered a thousand kisses on his 
 poor thin cheeks ; she took his head in her 
 arms, and bathed it with her tears, — those 
 precious woman's tears, not all of repent- 
 ance, but some of thankfulness and love, 
 like those that once washed our Saviour's 
 
 feet, till Philip's heart, softened by suffering, 
 broke down ; and he wept aloud. 
 
 But then her fears took alarm, and she 
 quickly dried her eyes. And when he 
 would have spoken, — when he would have 
 answered some of her love with repentance 
 and prayers, — she forbade him to utter a 
 word. 
 
 " Not yet, my son — not yet," she said. 
 " To-morrow we will talk. Now, sleep 
 again — or, stay a moment." 
 
 She went to the old buffet in the dining- 
 room, and found some claret, of which she 
 made him take a few drops.' This bright- 
 ened his eyes for a moment ; and then, 
 overcome with his weakness, he fell asleep 
 once inore. Her heart danced within her, 
 — she could not sit still. Leaving him 
 sleeping, she went out again to the veran- 
 da, and watched the coming dawn. 
 
 The moon was down by this time ; and 
 save the Southern Gross, paling before the 
 coming day, all the stars were gone. Only 
 the bright morning star was left in the 
 east. The birds began to twitter in the 
 trees, just in their dreams — as she remem- 
 bered long ago — before the dawn ; and 
 the sweet words of the poet came into her 
 mind : — 
 
 " Ah I Bad and strange, as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square : 
 So sad, so strange, the days tlmt arc no more t " 
 
 And she was sitting with the memories 
 of by-gone days ; with her dying son in his 
 last sleep, — save the longest, — while this 
 gray summer dawn crept slowly up the 
 east. 
 
 Slowly ; but it came. First a dull gray, 
 and presently a silver gray; and then 
 those long, marvellous fingers of light 
 which spread themselves out upon the 
 world as though they would fain seize it, 
 and make it their own. And then the 
 rocks, which had been black, otcw purple ; 
 the mist upon the nearest peak, which had 
 been a cloud, became a bridal veil, drawn 
 loosely round, and falling in a thousand 
 folds upon the woods below. And then a 
 few short minutes of bright green, and red, 
 and gold, and the great sun bounded into 
 the sky with a single leap ; and another day 
 was born to the world. And then the 
 birds all flew about to greet the sun ; from 
 the woods chattered the monkeys ; the 
 lizards woke up, and began ;to hunt about 
 for the hottest places, blinking at the light ; 
 the dogs from the camp resumed their 
 musical contest in Amaebean strains, just 
 where they had left it off the previous 
 night ; the cocks began to crow, and make 
 a great triumph, as ' if they had compelled 
 the sun to come back by their own per- 
 
174 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 sonal efifbrts ; the turkeys began to strut 
 about with a grea t babbling and cackle ; 
 the mules came out, and rolled in the cane 
 straw ; the mosquitoes all went away to 
 bed ; and the 'women's voices began, in the 
 way she knew so well, — the women al- 
 ways seemed to waken first, — to rail at 
 their lords from the huts of the camp. 
 Her own two companions of the night 
 shook themselves together, and greeted her 
 kindly. She set them to make sbme tea, 
 and sat with her hands crossed, looking 
 before her at the bright and hopeful morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Presently she remembered her little In- 
 dian, and went to look at him in his bed. 
 Alas I alas ! the poor child was dead. 
 Without a sound, or she would have heard 
 it through the open door, his spirit had 
 gone from him in the night ; and he lay, 
 cold and stiff, in the careless grace of sleep- 
 ing childhood, his head pillowed on his 
 arm, his eyes closed. Struck with terror, 
 she turned to the other room. There, at 
 least, was sleep, — kinsman, but not fHend, 
 of death ; and, sitting patiently by the 
 bedside, she resumed her watch. 
 
 The hours passed on, the sun grew high ; 
 but still he slept. About ten arrived the 
 doctor, — sire had simply sent for the near- 
 est doctor ; but she recognized an old 
 friend of George Durnford's, and went to 
 meet him as an acquaintance. 
 
 He took off his hat, — Dr. Staunton, — 
 and, seeing an unknown lady who held out 
 her hand, took it with great astonishment. 
 
 " Pardon me, madame, I " — 
 
 " O Dr. , Staunton ! you have forgotten 
 me, then ? But come in quickly." 
 
 He went in without a word, and began 
 to listen to her account of his patient. 
 
 " It is a bad case, madame, a very bad 
 case. I ought to have been sent for four 
 days ago. If you are interested in him " — 
 
 " Interested ? O Dr. Staunton 1 is it 
 possible you have forgotten me ? I am his 
 mother." 
 
 "You — Marie? Can it be, indeed? 
 I thought you dead. Tell me about your- 
 self My poor child, — I mean " — 
 
 " Never mind, doctor. People call mo 
 Madame de Guyon. But tell me about 
 my son." 
 
 " Madame de Guyoa ? Is it possible 
 that you are " — 
 
 " Yes, — I am the singer ; but now tell 
 me about my son." 
 
 "Marie — be strong,, — strong to bear 
 the worst. He cannot live. No human 
 art can save liim." 
 
 She sat down dry-eyed. 
 
 " When will he die ? " 
 
 " We cannot tell. Perhaps in an hour, 
 — perhaps in twji. He will die before the 
 
 evening. I will stay with you to the 
 end." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, — 
 not to weep, but to keep back the hard, re- 
 bellious thoughts that surged up in her bosom. 
 In a few moments she stood up, and began 
 to busy herself about her boy, smoothing 
 his pillows, and laying the sheets straight. 
 
 " I heard," she said, " in England, — 
 Arthur Durnford told me, — that he was 
 being led away by bad companions. I am 
 sure his heart was good. I came out, 
 thinking to try and save him. I find hi«a 
 dying. O doctor, save him 1 You loved 
 George Durnford, who loved , me ; for his 
 sake save him.' In all his life, since he was 
 a baby, — since I gave him up to his father, 
 — this is only the third time I have seen 
 him. And, Dr. Staunton, he loves me still. 
 Oh, save him ! " 
 
 " Marie, I cannot." 
 
 " And why," — she turned fiercely upon 
 him, — " why did you not save him before, 
 for his father's sake ? Why, when you 
 knew that he was here, and that he was 
 not what he should be, did you not come 
 and reason with him'? Oh ! " she added 
 bitterly, " I know the reason, — after four 
 and twenty years of England, — that his 
 mother was a mulatto." 
 
 " I swear, Marie," said the old doctor 
 earnestly, " that you wrong me. I came 
 here, — I came twice. The first time, — I 
 must tell you, — I was insulted. I came 
 again, and he listened to mer I have been 
 ill myself, and could not come a third 
 time." 
 
 " Doctor," cried a weak, thin voice from 
 the pillow, " I thank you ; and again I beg 
 your forgiveness." 
 
 Marie was at his side in a moment, kiss- 
 ing and fondling him. 
 
 " What shall he have, doctor ? Tea, — 
 oh I hear it comes." 
 
 Dr. Staunton ordered him some simple 
 things. 
 
 " I have heard what you have been say- 
 ing, " said Philip. " I shall die to-day." 
 
 " Oh, no, my son, ^ oh, no ! — God will 
 not permit it." 
 
 " God knows, dear mother, that it is the 
 best thing I can do. Perhaps that is the 
 reason why he lets me do it. Doctor, I 
 have a good deal to say to my mother, and 
 very little time to say it in. Leave us 
 for a little ; but first shake hands with 
 me." 
 
 Left alone — 
 
 " Kiss me, mother," said Philip. " Tell 
 me that you forgive me. Mother, in my 
 weakness, I implore your pardon." 
 
 " O Philip! with all my heart's love, I 
 forgive you. You did not know me. You 
 could not know I was your mother, indeedi 
 
MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 175 
 
 It was I who was wrong. There is nothing 
 to forgive, dear." 
 
 " But there is," he said. " I knew you 
 were my faiother, directly you told me so. 
 \felt it. But I was proud, and I had just 
 — without knowing all my wickedness, it 
 is true — robbed Arthur of his inheritance ; 
 and I could not bear to give it back again. 
 My heart, too, was bitter with that other 
 wrong I had committed, — O niy mother ! 
 a deeper wrong, even, than what I did to 
 you. You may forgive me for one, but you 
 can never forgive me for the other." 
 
 " Hush ! my boy. It is all forgiven." 
 
 " All ? " He hardly seemed astonished, 
 and had forgotten how she knew.' 
 
 " All. Laura told me herself. She bade 
 me take out to you her love and pardon. 
 She implored me to bring her out with me. 
 She says that all she wants' now is to hear 
 one loving word from you, to treasure up, 
 and hide the memory of all the things you 
 did and said — when you did not know 
 what you were saying, my dear." 
 
 Philip turned his face, and wept on the 
 pillow." 
 
 " Wipe my eyes, mother. I am so weak 
 that I cannot even do that for myself. 
 And now, get some paper, and write a let- 
 ter for me, but call the doctor first." 
 
 Marie went to get the paper : before she 
 came back. Dr. Staunton had administered 
 a restorative. \ 
 
 " How long ? " asked Philip of the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Don't talk too much, qr you will kill 
 yourself in anhour." 
 
 "Good!" said Philip." Write, dear 
 mother, — 
 
 " ' Dearest Wife, — I have but a short 
 time now to live. With my last breath, I 
 ask pardon of you for the grievous wrongs 
 I have done you. No punishment could be 
 too great for me. My mother tells me you 
 have ^ent me your forgiveness. My dear, 
 if I could tell you how I have repented — 
 if you knew the bitter remorse that has 
 seized me since. I have been in this place I 
 But all is over at last. The great weight 
 is lifted. God has sent my mother with 
 her love and your pardon. I go into the 
 other world. I have no excuse for myself. 
 I have been a bad man, and have led a bad 
 life. Only, if God lets me ask any 
 thing'" — 
 
 " My son 1 " cried Marie. 
 
 " ' If God lets me ask any thing, I will 
 ask him to bless you both. This is my 
 only prayer — I dare have none for myself. 
 My dear — my Laura — I am very, very 
 sorrj'. Think only for the future that I 
 
 loved you all along. God Hess you, my 
 wife. Your most affectionate and peni- 
 tent husband, — 
 
 ' Philip." " 
 
 He signed it with feeble fingers, guided 
 by Mari^ and then fell back. 
 
 " I should like to write to Arthur, but I 
 cannot. Write for me, and tell him how I 
 repented, and ask his forgiveness. ' Mac- 
 Intyre wanted me to do it eight years ago, 
 but I refused. You will write ; won'tyou, 
 dear mother V " 
 
 She promised. 
 
 " Sing to me, dear mother ; you sing so 
 well. I should like to hear your voice once 
 more. Sing me a hymn." 
 
 It was a cruel trial. She steadied her- 
 self, and sang — his head upon her shoulder- 
 — with all her fulness and richness of 
 voice, so that the old doctor wiped his 
 brimming e)'es at the sound, — 
 
 ** ' Abide with me ! fast falls the eventide : 
 The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide 1 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
 Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me I 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out Ufe's little day. 
 Life's joys grow dim, its glories fade away ' " — 
 
 His cheek dropped against; hers. She 
 stopped in sudden affi-ight. 
 
 " Mother," he murmured very faintly, 
 " is it growing dark ? Is it night already ? " 
 
 "O Philip 1 " 
 
 " I think I am dying — give my love to 
 Laura. Kiss me, mother. Shall we meet 
 again V " 
 
 " My boy — in heaven. I could not go 
 there without you." 
 
 His head fell heavily forward. He was 
 dead. 
 
 The little Indian boy was buried that 
 same evening, in the Indian cemetery on 
 the hillside. Small funeral rites .had he, 
 and no mourners. The man who dug his 
 grave, and carried him under his arm to 
 the place of sepulture, all out of the good- 
 ness of his heart and a kind of natural 
 piety, placed a bottle on the grave, so that, 
 should he perchance awake, there might be 
 the means of at least slaking his thirst. 
 And in India, perhaps his mother waited 
 for him to come, and wondered, looking as 
 the years went by, that he delayed so 
 long. The lifo of man is short at the 
 best ; but the shorter it is, the less of bit- 
 terness he knows. Solomon said much the 
 same thing. 
 
 Dr. Stainnton staid with Marie. After 
 the , first burst of passionate grief, she 
 began, womanlike, to find her consolation ; 
 and the thought that his last few hours 
 
176 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 were spent in love and repentance ; that 
 the memory she would have of her son 
 would not be of cruel insult and wrong, but 
 of tenderness and affection, made her thank 
 God for one great mercy at least. 
 
 They buried him next day, in the near- 
 est English churchyard, clbse to his father's 
 grave. After his feverish life, it was con- 
 soling to his mother's heart to carry with 
 her his last few words of repentance and 
 sorrow. She treasured them up ; and when 
 she thought of them, she forgot the cruel 
 scene in London, his harsh words, his tones 
 of mockery and pride, remembering only 
 his tender love at the last, and, when all 
 was over, his calm face set with the sweet, 
 sad, unchanging smile of death. 
 
 They buried him as the sun went down 
 into the sea. The fierce heat of a tropical 
 summer day was over ; and night, with its 
 perfect calm, was stealing upon the world 
 when the last words of the funeral service 
 were pronounced, and the mould rattled 
 upon the coffin of poor Philip, Marie 
 thought of his life : of the storm and hurri- 
 cane when she left him with his father, and 
 went back alone through the forest ; of the 
 blight that his birth had thrown upon him ; 
 of his wasted energies, ruined hopes, and 
 cruel misdeeds ; and of the sweet calm and 
 peace of the end. And it seemed to her 
 that this tropical day was an emblem of 
 his life, with its fierce and scorching heat, 
 its turbulent hurricanes, and its peaceful 
 night. 
 
 The clergyinan read the service, and 
 went away. Then Marie saw that she and 
 the doctor were not the only, mourners ; 
 for, with their hats off, and kneeling on 
 the sward, were her two brothers, Adolphe 
 and Alcide. Stepping reverently forward, 
 they each threw a handful of mould upon 
 the coffin ; their first and last claim at kin- 
 ship. And then the two poor fellows 
 walked slowly away, and Marie saw them 
 no more. 
 
 ■ She went back to the estate, the old 
 doctor keeping her company ; and though 
 Palmiste knew that the great singer had 
 been to their island, and was at Fontaine- 
 bleau when young Durnford died, no one 
 knew on what errand she had come, nor 
 what was her relationship to Philip. Dr. 
 Staunton kept the secret well. Nor did 
 she think it necessary to tell Adolphe Na- 
 poleo» Rohan de Montraorenoi that Marie 
 was not dead, after all. What would have 
 been the use ? It was not any false shame. 
 If all the world knew that her brothers 
 were poor blacks, gaining a living by driv- 
 ing a voiture de place, it would have mat- 
 tered nothing tQ her. No one in England 
 would think the worse of her. A singer is 
 not expected to be of unblemished family, 
 
 more than any other professional person. 
 And what good could she do to her rela- 
 tions ? They were happy ; they had no 
 wants that they could not satisfy ; they had 
 no ambition ; they desired nothing, looked 
 for nothing. Moreover, between them and 
 herself so great a gulf was fixed that it 
 could not be passed ; and, whatever her 
 childhood had been, she was now a lady. 
 Lastly, there was this, — '■ her story no one 
 knew except one or two persons in Eng- 
 land, and one person in Palmiste. There 
 was no need for any one to know. She 
 had suffered almost every thing that a 
 woman can suifer, except what tortures 
 women most, — the loss of her reputation. 
 Blameless and pure in conduct, she had 
 passed through the theatre without a re- 
 proach, whispered or spoken. She had 
 learned, soon enough, the value of fair 
 fame, and she was not disposed to give it 
 up. Therefore she kept the secret to her- 
 self. 
 
 Turning over Philip's papers, she found 
 among them evidences, not only of the 
 power he undoubtedly possessed, but of 
 thoughts which showed him in a better 
 light, — which betrayed the causes of his 
 wreck, the fatal moral wreck which his 
 nature had sustained when "he learned, 
 through the man who was his evil genius, 
 that he was illegitimate, and touched with 
 the blood of the lower race. 
 
 Philip, until the last few months of his 
 life, had been in the habit of writing ;' not 
 for papers or magazines, partly because it 
 never occurred to him to write for them, and 
 partly because he did not write well enough. 
 But his loose papers, heaped together in 
 his desk, written on slips and fragments of 
 paper, — sometimes in a few words, some- 
 times many — sometimes in prose, some- 
 times in verse, — showed that he knew 
 himself capable of good things, and that, 
 though he followed the worst, he apmroved 
 the better. • 
 
 She burnt them all but one. This she 
 kept, and sent to Laura. It had no title, 
 and consisted of four stanzas — rough 
 verses eno 
 of power. 
 
 " G-o, dig sAy grave for me — 
 Not where the painted sunshine lights the aisle, 
 Not where, through glories of the pillared pile, 
 
 The silver-voiced choir 
 Sing o'er the saci'ed bones of glorious dead 
 
 The strains of David's lyre. , 
 
 Rather seek out for me 
 
 Some village churchyard, where the world comes 
 
 not; , 
 
 Where mounds ignoble cover men forgot; 
 
 Where the hlacK branching yew 
 O'erhangs with midnight shade the moss-grown 
 stones, 
 And hides the graves from view. 
 
MT LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 177 
 
 Bnry me there, and write 
 
 liTo long Inscription on a marble stone : 
 
 Onh- a head-cro6B, with these words alone — 
 
 ' He dared not : therefore failed.' 
 Let the dishonor of a coward heai't, 
 
 So set forth, so he veiled. 
 
 Let no man weep for mc ; 
 
 Bather rejoice that one whose will was weak 
 
 No longer cumhers eai-th ; and, when they speak 
 
 (Not with hreath bated), say, 
 G-od made the world for those who dare be strong ; 
 
 Well that the weak decay I " 
 
 She kept these lines only, and on his 
 grave set up the head-eross he wished, with 
 his own words, " He dured not : therefore 
 failed." Under them she wrote — " P.D. 
 Aged twenty-six." 
 
 Over his grave, and his father's, wave 
 the tall filhaos, with the lon<r, mournful 
 sough, singing a perpetual lament over the 
 sins and sorrows of the dead. In this for- 
 gotten corner of the world, — no longer a 
 ■ memory even in Palmiste, though few years 
 have as yet gone hy since he died, — he lies 
 at rest. Arthur and his wife, and their 
 children, will perhaps be laid beside him, 
 but not Marie. Another grave is hers, — a 
 wider one, but I think quite as peaceful. 
 
 She sent Philip's last words to Laura 
 and Arthur by the next mail. She staid 
 to finish what she had to do ; left presents 
 for her people, to be given by Dr. 
 Staunton, and embarked again for Eng- 
 land in the first homeward-bound ship, 
 happier, if more sad, than when she arrived 
 but a short month before. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 ' " My dearest daughter,'' — it was the 
 last letter, the one letter, that Laura ever 
 had from Marie, — "I send you Philip's 
 last words. It is all over, my child. I 
 cannot write about him yet ; but he kissed 
 me at the last, and we prayed together. I 
 have given money to a man, who promises 
 to keep his grave, and to tend the flowers 
 that I have planted. There is a cross at 
 its head, with his initials, and a line that I 
 found in his desk, — ' He dared not : there- 
 fore failed.' It is tlie story of his life, — a 
 poor life, a sinful life, a sorrowful life. He 
 saw what was good, and took what was 
 bad, because it seemed the easiest. In all 
 his faults, he tried to make a compromise 
 between the two. My poor boy I He 
 looked so handsome, though he was pale 
 and worn at the last; and, as he lay dead, 
 his mouth was s^t with a sweeter smile 
 than I had ever seen on it in life. Alas I 
 I never saw him smile. I love to think of 
 him so ; and to feel that he is with One 
 
 12 
 
 who is far more merciful than we two wo- 
 men. 
 
 " I am, delayed by all this business, but I 
 return by the next mail. 
 
 " Strange presentiments fall upon me. I 
 cannot sleep at night. If I do, I have 
 dreams and visions ; and I feel as if I 
 shall never see you again. But I am not 
 unhappy. God has forgiven us both, — my 
 boy and me. I say that again and again ; 
 and I comfort myself with thinking how 
 my Philip laid his arms about my neck, 
 and kissed me, at the end. 
 
 " One thing I forgot to tell you. You 
 are now the owner of Fontainebleau. You 
 must give it back to Arthur. Make him 
 take it. What is mine is yours, and I am 
 rich. Should I never reach England, all 
 is bequeathed to you. 
 
 " I enclqse you a lock of Philip's hair. 
 I cut it Irom his head when I took my last 
 look at his poor, white, dead face. I put 
 up one of mine with it. Tie them up 
 together, dear child, and put them in a 
 locket. Here, too, is a flower from his 
 grave. And, with it all, his last letter. 
 God bless you, my daughter. Perhaps my 
 forebodings may come to nothing. 
 
 "Makie." 
 
 A wild day oflT the Cape, where the gales 
 are fiercer, and the waves longer, than in 
 any other part of the ocean. In the midst 
 of the warring winds and mighty waves a 
 gallant ship, tossing and groaning as every 
 successive mountain of gray-green water 
 strikes her. The sailors are holding on by 
 the ropes, the man at the helm is lashed to 
 his post, the captain is giving orders cling- 
 ing to the davits, and all the passengers, 
 except two or three who are on deck and 
 watching the waves, are below in the saloon. 
 The storm has rased without intermission 
 for three days. They have been driven 
 steadily south, far out of the track of any 
 ship. It is bitterly cold. The men have 
 been all day trying to get up cargo and 
 lighten the vessel. The engines labor 
 heavily. Every now and then the screw, 
 as the ship's stern is lifted out of the water, 
 whizzes round against the air, with a sound 
 that seems to terrify the ship ; for she 
 gives a shiver, and then makes another 
 bound forwards, and gallantly tries to right 
 herself. Now and again a passenger tries 
 to get hold of the captain or one of the of- 
 ficers, and essays to find a crumb of comfort 
 in the assurance that things, cannot get 
 worse, and therefore must change soon ; 
 but the officers wear anxious faces, and the 
 captain shakes his head when he talks to 
 his chief. Hour after hour goes on, and 
 things get worse, — the wind higher, the 
 waves longer. One after the other, the pas- 
 
178 
 
 MT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 senders creep below intxj the saloon, and try 
 to eneer eaoii other, with a sickening fear at 
 their hearts. Marie is there, sitting with 
 clasped hands and calm face and downcast 
 eyes. The women around her are crying and 
 weeping ; the men are sitting with haggard 
 faces, or sometimes looking at each other 
 with a smile ; and the storm grows worse. 
 Presently she feels a hand catching at her 
 arm. It is a young girl, going to England 
 to be married. She had not spoken to 
 Marie before. Now, in her misery, she 
 looks round, and finds hers the only face 
 with any courage upon it. Marie rouses 
 herself at the touch, and takes the girl into 
 her arms. 
 
 " My poor child," she whispers. 
 
 And at the sound of her pitying voice, 
 the girl breaks into a flood of weeping and 
 lamentation. 
 
 " Madame de Guyon," she cries, " do you 
 think we are going to be drowned ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my dear. God knows. 
 He will do what is best for us." 
 
 " Pray for us, Madame de Guyon." 
 
 Marie prayed, — whispering her prayer 
 in the girl's ear. The storm grew louder 
 and fiercer. She had to cling to the back 
 of the saloon-seat on Which she was rest- 
 ing ; and, in the middle of her prayer, an 
 awful crash was heard. The child — she 
 was little more — shrieked with terror. 
 Marie clasped her the more firmly. 
 
 " God, our Father," she whispered, " send 
 us what is best for us." 
 
 There was a great stamping and noise 
 upon deck, for the mainmast had been car- 
 ried by the board ; but it was finally cleared 
 away ; and presently more nbise befell 
 them when the foremast followed. Those 
 in the cabin trembled and shrieked. One 
 or two of the men got brandy, and drank 
 freely to keep up their courage. Four e.'i- 
 diggers from California sat down to have 
 a final gamble, and, holding the cards 
 firmly in one hand and the brandy in the 
 other, preipared themselves so to leave the 
 world. 
 
 But the end was not yet. This was the 
 forenoon. The wind abated towards one 
 o'clock ; and there seemed a prospect,.how- 
 ever distant, of getting through. The 
 diggers gave up their gambling, and grum- 
 bled, being half drunk, over the winnings 
 and losings. Those who had been most 
 terrified assumed an air of valor ; and the 
 women left off crying. Only the girl clung 
 to M.arie, and begged her not to leave her 
 again. The long day crept on. About 
 five, a pretence was made at dinner — what^ 
 ever could be found to eat being put out. 
 But by this time a good many of the men 
 were drunk, and lying helpless about the 
 scats on the floor ; and the women could 
 
 not eat. The captain came down, — a 
 cheery, hearty man. He looked with in- 
 finite disgust at his drunken passengers, 
 and hastened to say a few words to Marie 
 and the young lady. 
 
 " You seem brave, Madame de Guyon," 
 he said ; " and so I tell you, that, though 
 we may pull through, I do not think we 
 shall. If the wind rises a^ain to-night, we 
 shall have a rough time of it. Cheer up, 
 my pretty," he said to the girl, " we must 
 hope for the best. And here's the doctor 
 to look after you. He can save us .from a 
 good deal, if not from storm and tempest. 
 As for storm and tempest," he muttered, 
 " only the Lord can save us from those ; 
 and I don't think the Lord will." 
 
 Then the doctor — a young fellow of five 
 and twenty; as brave as if he had fifty lives 
 
 — sat down and talked to them, makin" a 
 rough dinner all the while, and trying°to 
 cheer up the poor lassie, but without much 
 efiect. Presently the sun set, — or, rather, ' 
 the night fell, — and darkness came upon 
 them. The stewardess lit one or two of 
 the saloon lamps, and relapsed into a sort 
 of torpor which had fallen upon her. The 
 doctor tried to rouse her up. It was no 
 use. She lifted up her head, and moaned, — 
 
 "I've been a great sinner — oh, I've 
 been a great sinner 1 " 
 
 " Well, come," said the -doctor kindly, 
 
 — " we all know that of course ; but you 
 might as well do your duty all the same." 
 
 But she refused to move. S'o the doctor 
 tried himself to minister to his two ladies, 
 without much effect. Indeed, there was 
 little to be done for them. 
 
 Marie raised her head, and listened. 
 Then she whispered to the doctor, — 
 
 " The wind is rising — I feel it comint^." 
 
 The doctor shuddered. He could dis- 
 tinguish nothing beyond the dull roar of 
 the waves and the struggling of the ship ; 
 for the wind had almost died away. But 
 he listened intently. Presently it came, — 
 first a shrill whistle in the shrouds, and 
 then a sort of heavy, dull blow to starboard ; 
 and the good ship staggered and reeled. 
 
 " God help us I " said the doctor softly. 
 " We shall not get through this night." 
 
 Marie and the girl clun^ to each other. 
 
 " Come below," said Marie, " if there is 
 time." 
 
 He nodded, and went out into the black, 
 howling night. 
 
 " Madame," said the girl. 
 
 " Call me Marie, dear." 
 
 " Marie, call me Lucy. If there were 
 only a clergyman." 
 
 " Let me be your clei^yman, dear Lucy. 
 God hears us in the storm as much as in 
 the calm. We want no clergyman." 
 
 " But — but — oh ! 1 loved him so much, 
 
MT LITTLE GIKL. 
 
 179 
 
 — more than God I Do you think he will 
 forgive me? Marie, do you think I can be 
 forgiven ? " 
 
 " God forgives us all," said Marie. " He 
 has forgiven me. And God has taken my 
 son, and is going to take me. He has for- 
 given us both, — me and ray boy too. Do 
 you not think he will forgive you ? " 
 
 " Pray for me again," sobbed the girl. 
 
 Marie prayed. Two or three of the 
 women, — they were soldiers' wives, poor 
 things, second-class passengers, who had 
 crept aft for better shelter, — seeing the 
 girl on her knees, and Marie bending over 
 her, slid and crawled over to her,, and 
 kneeled round her, while Marie prayed for 
 all. 
 
 In the midst of her prayer there was a 
 confused rush and gurgle of waters, and the 
 ship' seemed suddenly to stop. In the roar 
 of the tempest, they hardly perceived that 
 it was her engines which had stopped. 
 And Marie, looking up, saw the doctor 
 making his way towards her. Catching 
 one of the iron pillars of the saloon, he bent 
 over, and whispered in her ear, — 
 
 " The ship will be down in ten minutes." 
 
 She nodded, and drew from her breast a 
 little packet, which she handed him. He put 
 it in his pocket; and then, with tears in 
 his eyes, kissed her upturned face, and dis- 
 appeared up the companion ladder. None 
 of the women noticed it. 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards, he found him- 
 self clinging to a rope on the deck. Next 
 to him was the chief officer. 
 
 " Where's the skipper ? " he shouted 
 through the storm. 
 
 " Gone overboard. All the rest, too, I 
 think, with the almighty wave that put out 
 our engine-fires. Doctor, don't be drowned 
 like a heathen. Say you didn't mean what 
 you said the other night." 
 
 " Not I," shouted the doctor. " If I've 
 been wrong, and there is something to 
 come, I won't go sneaking into it with a 
 miserable apology." 
 
 The chief officer' Said no more ; because 
 at that moment another wave, striking the 
 ship, washed them both off together into the 
 black sea. 
 
 The doctor, recovering his senses, found 
 himself clinging to some portion of the 
 wreck. How he got hold of it, by what 
 instinct, how in the crash and roar when 
 his senses left him he still managed to hold 
 to it, he never knew. It was a black ni^ht, 
 and he was alone on the waves. He looked 
 round, but could see nothing. 
 
 The morning found him still living. The 
 storm had subsided, and the sun broke fair 
 and warm. 
 
 Two days afterwards, a homeward-bound 
 ship saw an object tossing on the sea, and 
 
 made out that it was a man and a piece of 
 wreck. They lowered a boat. The man 
 was breathing, but that was all. They 
 took him on board, and gave him restora- 
 tives. He came to his senses presently, 
 and told his story. . And the doctor was 
 the only survivor of the ship. The captain 
 and the crew, Marie and little Lucy, and 
 the passengers, had all gone down together. 
 When they touched at Plymouth, the 
 doctor landed, and went straight to Venn 
 with the packet that Marie had put into 
 his hands. It contained nothing but a. few 
 memorials of Philip. 
 
 Laura had lost her husband and her 
 mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 Laura continued to stay with Sukey. 
 She made no new friends, and no change 
 in her life. Hartley came to see her nearly 
 every day, and the old visit daily was so. re- 
 stored, with the difference that he was the 
 scholar. 
 
 All her beauty had come back to her : 
 roses to her cheeks, the life and lightness 
 of youth, the sweetness and grace, doubled 
 and trebled by the lessons ot sorrow, with 
 that additional charm for which we have 
 no other word than ladyhood. 
 
 All , were happy, except Sukey, who 
 watched her brother day after day, with 
 feelings growing more and more irritated. 
 At last she spoke. He was in a particularly 
 good temper that morning. Laura was in 
 her own room, dressing to go out with him. 
 
 " It's ridiculous. Hartley," cried Sukey, 
 losing all control over herself. 
 
 " What is ridiculous, Sukey ? " 
 
 " I say it is ridiculous, the way you are 
 going on. How long is it to last? And 
 people talking. Even Anne says it's too 
 bad of you." 
 
 " My own Sukey, what is it ? " 
 
 " It's Laura. Has the man got eyes in 
 his head ? Are you stupid ? Are you 
 blind ? " 
 
 Hartley turned red. 
 
 " Tell me, Sukey — speak plain. Tell 
 me what it is you mean ? " 
 
 " O Hartley I You are the most fool- 
 ish creature that ever was, my dear brother." 
 She laughed hysterically. " The child loves 
 the very ground you walk upon. She dreams 
 of you, — she is never happy except with 
 you." 
 
 "Don't, Sukey, don't" — He began 
 walking about the room. " If you should 
 be wrong. Am I to lose the happiness I 
 have every day ? " 
 
 " Lose it I And a second time, this non- 
 
180 
 
 MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 sense I I haven't patience with the man. 
 While the prettiest and best girl in the 
 world is dying of love for him, he talks 
 about losing happiness I " 
 
 " Go send her here, Sukey, dear. It's 
 true our grandfather was a bishop, and hers 
 was a Gray'srinn laundress — no, that was 
 her grandmother." He looked at her with 
 a smile playing about his lips. 
 
 " It may be remarkable. Hartley,'' said 
 Sukey, " to quote yourself, but it is true, 
 that in our family there are two grand- 
 fathers, one of whom was not unconnected 
 with the wholesale " — here she made a wry 
 face — " the wholesale glue trade." 
 
 " Go away, Sukey," he laughed, giving 
 her that very unusual thing from him, a 
 kiss. He had never, by the way, been very 
 frugal over his kisses for little LoUie, in the 
 old time. " Go away, and send me my little 
 girl." 
 
 She came, dancing down the stairs and 
 singing, ready for lier walk, in a dainty 
 little costume, all her own invention, and 
 bringing the sunshine into the room with 
 her. 
 
 " Here I am, Mr. Venn. Are you impa- 
 tient? I have only been ten minutes. 
 Where shall we go I " 
 
 " I am always impatient, Lollie." He 
 took her hand, and held it lor a moment in 
 his. 
 
 " Child, I am more than impatient. I 
 am discontented. You give me all the joy I 
 have in life ; but you withhold some — the 
 greatest." 
 
 She began to tremble, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 " Give me the greatest, my darling. 
 Never to be separated from you, — to have 
 you always with me. Give me the right to 
 take you in my arms, as I used to do when 
 you were a little child. Be my ijrife, Lollie." 
 
 She looked in his face. The eyes were 
 smiling, — the face was grave. No, wild 
 ■tempestuous passion sucn as she might 
 have remembered, only that memory 
 seemed all dead. No fierce light of a 
 burning fire in those eyes, — only the hght 
 of a full, deep love which nothing could ever 
 destroy. 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and 
 laid her cheek to his. 
 
 " Mr. Venn, — Mr. Venn, I have never 
 loved anybody but you." 
 
 What could he say ? There was nothing 
 to say. Five minutes afterwards, Sukey, 
 hearing no voice, opened the door. They 
 were still standing in that same posture, 
 kissing each other, as Sukey afterwards 
 told Anne, "lik^ a pair of babies." 
 
 " My dearest," said Sukey, " I have al- 
 ways prayed for this from the beginning. 
 Hartley, you must tell Anne. iBing the 
 
 bell. Anne, you will be glad to hear that 
 Mr. Hartley is going to marry Mrs. Durn- 
 ford." . 
 
 Anne sat down, and wiped her eyes with 
 the corner of her apron. 
 
 " Now, I'm content to go," she said. " O 
 Mr. Hartley, Mr. Hartley I — and she never 
 tired of hearing how I dandled you on my 
 knees when you were a little baby a month 
 old. God bless and keep you both, my 
 dears I " 
 
 That evening the Chorus assembled. 
 Lynn and Jones arrived nearly at the same 
 moment. Both seemed strangely pre-occu- 
 pied and nervous. Jones could not sit down. 
 He walked about, upset glasses, and com- 
 ported himself as one under the influence 
 of strong emotion. Venn only seemed 
 perfectly tranquil. 
 
 " What is it, Jones ? " he asked at last. 
 
 " My play came out last night at the Ly- 
 ceum." 
 
 "Oh!" said Lynn; "and failed, of 
 course." 
 
 " Never mind," said Vemi, " you can 
 easily write another. After all, what mat- 
 ters little disappointments? Mere inci- 
 dents in our lifi), giving flavor to what else . 
 would be monotonous." 
 
 " Yes," said Jones," '' if one may quote 
 Byron on such an occasion as the pre- 
 sent — 
 
 ' Oh ! woep not for me, thougli the Bride of Abydos 
 
 Wildly calls upon Laura to slumber no more ; 
 Though fi'om^Delos to Crete, from Olyuthus to 
 CuidoB, 
 The canoB of the Corsair is hugging the shore. 
 
 Oh 1 weep not for me, though on Marathon's moun- 
 tain, 
 The cl^efs are at thirablerig, as is their wont; 
 Though beneath the broad plane tree, by HeUcon'a 
 fountain, 
 The languishing Dudn is murmuring "Don't." ' " 
 
 " We will not weep, Jones. Sit down 
 and be cheerful." 
 
 " I am a humbug,'' cried Jones. " Oh 1 
 why were you not there ? It was a great 
 success. The house screamed. I have 
 succeeded at last — at last." He sat down, 
 and his voice broke almost into a sob as 
 he added, " I have written to Mary." 
 
 " This will not do," said Venn. " He - 
 violates every rule of this Chorus. He 
 brings his private joys into what is sacred 
 to private sorrows. Lynn, he must be ex- 
 pelled." 
 
 " Stay a moment," said Lynn. " I, too, 
 have sorftething to communicate." 
 
 "What? You, too? Have you 
 then?"— ' 
 
 " No 1 I have accepted a judgeship in 
 Trinidad. I start next month." 
 
 Venn looked round him with astonishment. 
 
 Then he turned red and confused. 
 
MY LITTLE GIEL. 
 
 181 
 
 " I, too," he confessed, " have my secret 
 to communicate. Yes, my friends, the Cho- 
 rus is dissolved. I am going to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 They looked at him nervously. 
 
 " I am to marry my little girl." 
 
 « Thank God ! " said Lynn. 
 
 " Why, who else could I marry ? There 
 is but one woman in the world, so far as I 
 am concerned. We shall be married im- 
 mediately, and go to Italy till we are tired 
 of it ; then we shall come back again. 
 There will be no w^edding fuss, or breakfast, 
 or other annoyances, — unless Sukey likes 
 to come here for a final kidney." 
 
 "And the Opuscula?" 
 
 Venn winced. 
 
 " I shall begin their careful revision with 
 a view to publication — at my own expense. 
 LoUie is rich, you know," he added simply. 
 " Besides, it will be good to have something 
 to do. In the morning, we shall roam 
 about and enjoy the sunshine. In the even- 
 ing, I shall correct the manuscripts while 
 LoUie plays- to me. You see, I am not in 
 any hurry about publishing. Perhaps in 
 ten years' time you may see an announce- 
 ment of their appearance. 
 
 " The last night of the Chorus," he went 
 on. "My friends, there stands before us 
 the venerable bottle of champagne which 
 was brought in the very first night of the 
 newly-established Chorus, now twelve years 
 ago. This night must witness the drinking 
 of that wine. Aged and mellowed, it is 
 doubtless by this time in splendid condi- 
 tion. I would Arthur were here to join us. 
 Jones, get the champagne glasses from the 
 cupboard. Lynn, my boy, help me to re- 
 move the wire. Are' we ready ? Now, in 
 the sparkle of the generous wine behold 
 the brightness of the future. Our youth 
 will be renewed. We shall live again in 
 the sunshine of success and happiness. 
 Behold 1" 
 
 He removed his hand from the cork. It 
 did not immediately fly out, and he had re- 
 
 course to the vulgar expedient of pulling it 
 out With a corkscrew. After great exer- 
 cise of strength, it came out with a dull 
 thud. 
 
 He said nothing ; but while all three 
 crowded round the table, he poured out the 
 wine. It was flat, dead, and sour. Not a 
 single sparkle in the glass. 
 
 They looked at each other. 
 
 Lynn laughed bitterly. 
 
 "It is an emblem of life," he said. 
 " Nothing compensates. We have wasted 
 our youth." 
 
 Venn stared vacantly at the unhappy 
 wine, which seemed an omen of bad luck. 
 
 " T believe it was bad at the beginning," 
 he murmured. "It came from the, pubhcr 
 house." 
 
 Jones, however, brought his clinched fist 
 upon the table. 
 
 " Emblem of life ? Compensation ? 
 Rubbish ! " he cried. " AVe have waited, we 
 have sufiered. What of it ? The suffering 
 is gone, the waiting is over. It is no more 
 than the earache i had when I was a boy. 
 Even the memory of it is almost faded. 
 Venn, Lynn, this infernal bottle is the em- 
 blem of our hopes and disappointed ambi- 
 tions. Go, cursed symbol of defeat I " 
 
 He hurled the bottle into the fireplace, 
 and threw the glasses after it. 
 
 " And now, Venn, if you like, I will get 
 you some new champagne, and drink to 
 your happiness, and to yours, Lynn, and to 
 my own. In the words of the poet, — 
 
 * Look not for comfort in the champagne glasses, 
 
 They foam, and fizz, and die ; 
 Only remember that all sorrow passes, 
 As childhood's ear-aches fly. 
 
 At the great Banquet where the Host dispenses. 
 
 Ask not', but silent waV' ; 
 And when at last your helping turn comiaences. 
 
 Complain not 'tis too late. 
 
 \ 
 And see, O Chorus of the disappointed! 
 
 Ourselves not quite forgot; 
 And after aimless play and times disjointed, 
 
 Sunslune and love our lot.' " 
 
 THE END.