ii^i^^^fiik 
 
 
 t*t *W,^.* 
 
 ^%^S 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 '\ 
 
 / 
 
 r^^: 
 
 v<^- 
 
 :i.^-. 
 
 m*: 
 
 ■ t-'tffy 
 
 i^^w^i 
 
crtii/><^ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/transmigrationOOcoll 
 
TRANSMTCxRATlON. 
 
 MORTIMER COLLINS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "MARQUIS AND MERCHANT," 
 
 &o. &c. 
 
 " Our birlh is but a sleep ami a forgetting : 
 The Soul that risfs with us, our life's Star, 
 Hath had elsewhere ita setting, 
 And Cometh from afar." 
 
 WORDSWOBTH. 
 
 IN rtfllEE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1874. 
 All rights ruervtd. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 rHiNii:i) iiy macdonalo and tugwell, 
 
 BLKNUEIM HOUSE. 
 
TO 
 
 ELIZABETH, 
 MARCHIONESS OF WESTMINSTER, 
 
 WHOM ALL WHO DESIRE 
 
 "THE PRESERVATION OF OUR RELIGION AND OUR LOYALTY 
 
 TO OUR queen" 
 
 MUST HONOUR FOR HER COURAGE IN THEIR DEFENCE. 
 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 TI7RITERS of what have been called Utopian Ro- 
 mances need not accuse their rivals of plagiary, 
 since they are all treading in the track of giants like 
 Aristophanes and Swift. But it may be well to state 
 that I had not read The Coming Race until these volumes 
 were passing through the press, and that I have never 
 seen Ereivhon. 
 
 The idea of an experience of metempsychosis has 
 <lwelt in my mind since, walking with one of England's 
 great poets on the terrace of Rydal Mount, in full-sight 
 of that " aerial rock '' which he loved to greet at morn 
 and leave last at eventide, lie answered an inquiry of 
 mine with the immortal words on my title-page. 
 
 Knowl Hill, 1873. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A WIFE ON THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 " Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might : 
 ' Whoever loved that loved not at first sight ?' " 
 
 II ,TY father, Colonel Ellesmere, one of 
 ^"-^ the most brilliant cavalry officers of 
 his day, sold out after the Peace of Paris in 
 1763, and afterwards passed his time be- 
 tween London and the family seat of his 
 uncle. Sir Ralph, near Rothwell, in North- 
 amptonshire. Sir Ralph, a bachelor, was 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 always fond of him, and made him his heir. 
 As I was not born till 1780 — the memorable 
 year of Lord George Gordon's riots — I have 
 only traditions of my father's fame. He 
 had been a gallant leader in India and 
 Canada, and became quite a favourite with 
 the young King and the ladies of the 
 Court. The King knighted him ; the ladies 
 coquetted with him ; he was the most ad- 
 mired dancer at Almacks', which famous 
 assembly was opened in the very year that 
 the King was first suspected of insanity, and 
 that our American colonies resisted the 
 Stamp Act. My father might have made 
 choice between many beauties (so I have 
 been told) in those days when his feats of 
 war were fresh ; but he liked better his gay 
 life about town, which was then a brilliant 
 city of manageable size. He wore the finest 
 Nivernois hat in St. James's ; there used 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 6 
 
 to be a picture of him in the gallery at 
 Ellesmere, cetai. 35, his long curls adorned 
 with this toy of the time, a large silver 
 chou-fieur set in front. A hideous affair, — 
 but a man of his build could wear it without 
 being very ridiculous. 
 
 My father, in the course of a few years, 
 came to live much at Ellesmere, for Sir 
 Ralph's health began to fail, and he wanted 
 the company of his favourite nephew. Sir 
 Arthur came to live permanently in Xorth- 
 amptonshire, the year the great Lord Chat- 
 ham died ; after that time he settled down 
 into a country gentleman, taking (by Sir 
 Ralph's desire) the management of the estate, 
 and setting up a pack of foxhounds. 
 
 " When wilt thou marry, Arthur ?" Sir 
 Ralph used to say. 
 
 I have often heard my father tell the 
 story. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " I can't die happy till I see you with a 
 boy to take the estate." 
 
 " I'm an old fogy, sir," my father would 
 say. "I'm forty-five. Where's the lady 
 who will take an old soldier like me, when 
 there are so many gay gallants of the town 
 to be had ?" 
 
 " Not many like thee !" said the old man. 
 " Why, I'm twice thy age, and could find it 
 in my heart to marry to spite thee." 
 
 This friendly after-dinner quarrel between 
 uncle and nephew went on day after day ; 
 but nothing came of it till one afternoon, as 
 Sir Arthur was riding home alone from the 
 hunting-field, he met with an adventure. 
 He saw a coach overturned in the miriest 
 lane of the neighbourhood. Those North- 
 amptonshire lanes are knee-deep in slushy 
 mud to this day ; what they were in 1778 
 passes the imagination of man. I don't 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 think the Mount Sorel quarries had been 
 opened ; at any rate, their hard stone has 
 not reached the Rothwell vicinage to this 
 day. 
 
 My father (how often he told me the 
 story, while ray mother's blue eyes filled 
 with tears, though she laughed all the 
 while!) rode up to the overturned travel- 
 ling chariot, which liad four horses, and 
 helped the frightened postilions to extricate 
 the travellers. They were two : a lady not 
 more than sixteen or seventeen, evidently 
 of perfect blood, as indeed of perfect beauty, 
 but with a sad perplexed terrified expres- 
 sion in her eyes ; a gentleman, over six feet 
 high, with black hair and eyes, and a coffee- 
 brown complexion, his brow cut by a sabre- 
 slash diagonally. My father recognised 
 him at once as a notorious bully and black- 
 leg of London ; Captain Mayo he called 
 
6 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 himself, but was better known as Bully 
 Mayo. He evidently did not recognise my 
 father. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," he said, when my father 
 had got him out — for the fall had regularly 
 doubled him up. " We have had an ac- 
 cident, you see, and I am afraid it will take 
 us some time to get things in order again. 
 I am anxious to make — this lady comfort- 
 able." 
 
 "There isn't a house of entertainment 
 near,' said my father, who saw at once there 
 was something wrong ; " but if you like to 
 come on to my house, or rather my uncle's, 
 we can make you pretty comfortable." 
 
 "Oh, let us go! Is it far?" said the 
 young lady. " I am so tired ! Oh ! my 
 dear sir, I shall be so thankful for a little 
 rest." 
 
 " Can't we get on, postilions ?" cried 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 7 
 
 Bully Mayo, in a surly, vexed voice. 
 
 " There's a wheel right off, and a shaft 
 broke, your honour," said one of the men. 
 " I wonder whether there's a blacksmith or 
 a carpenter near." 
 
 " Just a mile on, my man, at Rowell," 
 said my father. 
 
 " I am afraid we must accept your kind 
 offer of hospitality, sir," said Bully Mayo, 
 with grim reluctance. " To whom am I in- 
 debted?" 
 
 " I am Sir Arthur Ellesmere," said my 
 father, who all this while was not wasting 
 time, but had seated the lady on his hunter, 
 and prepared to lead her homewards. " We 
 shall be at the gates in five minutes," he 
 continued, " and then," with a gay smile to 
 this distressed damsel, " you will be com- 
 fortable." 
 
 Sir Ralph, who so loved his nephew that 
 
8 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 he was wont to watch for him on hunting 
 afternoons from the library window that 
 looked down the long oak avenue, was 
 rather surprised to see the approaching 
 cavalcade — my father leading his hunter 
 with a lady seated on its splendid loin, and 
 a tall black man stalking stolidly along on 
 the other side. When this procession reach- 
 ed the great hall door, it was at once 
 thrown open, and servants were ready. My 
 father lifted the lady from her horse, and 
 almost carried her up the steps. He declar- 
 ed that he lifted her over the threshold, 
 that being the way to bring luck to a house 
 the first time any lady enters it. The old 
 housekeeper, Mrs. Scott, was in the hall — an 
 ancient personage, whom I used to revere 
 intensely. Slie had been Sir Ralph's confi- 
 dential servant for luilf a century. To her 
 care my father consigned the young lady ; 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 9 
 
 and then showed Bully Mayo into the 
 librar}'^, where Sir Ralph was sitting. They 
 were most courteous to each other all this 
 time, but Mayo was evidently puzzled. 
 
 Sir Ralph received him with the same 
 courtesy. My father explained in few 
 words what had occurred. 
 
 " These are very bad roads," said my 
 great-uncle. " We ought to mend our ways. 
 The least we can do, after leavinsj our roads 
 in such a state as to upset your equipage, is 
 to offer hospitality until you can proceed." 
 
 "Much obliged, I'm sure," said Mayo. 
 "We wanted to get forward on important 
 business." 
 
 "Not to get married, I hope," said Sir 
 Ralph, jestingly. 
 
 " Not a second time," said Mayo, thought- 
 lessly. 
 
 While this brief conversation took place. 
 
10 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 my father silipped out of the library, caused 
 ample refreshment to be sent in to Mayo, and 
 went in search of Mrs. Scott. The upper 
 staircase was full of excited servant-maids. 
 The first he met told him that the young 
 lady had been ill-used. When he reached 
 the apartment Mrs. Scott had provided for 
 her, he encountered the old housekeeper, 
 
 " Oh, dear Sir Arthur," she said, excited 
 beyond what you would imagine possible of 
 an old lady near seventy, " this poor young 
 creature is in such trouble. This wretclied 
 man, she never met but once before, has 
 decoyed her away from her aunt's house by 
 Market Harborough, with a letter saying 
 that her father was over at the Duke's, dying, 
 and must see her directly ; but she says he 
 has been talking to her in such a dreadful 
 way that she is sure something is wrong, and 
 she was so glad when the coach upset and 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 11 
 
 you came by. She wants to know what she 
 ought to do." 
 
 "Who is she, Scott?" 
 
 " She's the Lady Amoret Lyle, sir, daugh- 
 ter of Lord Lyle, that used to come to see 
 Sir Ralph years ago." 
 
 " We'll take care of her, Scott. She's a 
 pretty little thing. I'll send a man to 
 Boughton, to know if Lord Lyle is there. 
 Cheer her up." 
 
 My father had come to a prompt conclu- 
 sion. He knew Bully Mayo well by repute, 
 and had seen him once or twice. When he 
 descended to the library he found him alone, 
 Sir Ralph liaving retired. Mayo, happily 
 engaged with a decanter of port-wine, look- 
 ed at him with a glazed eye, regarding the 
 event with iuappreliensive brain. 
 
 "You did not offer me your name,'' said 
 my father; " but are you not Captain Mayo, 
 of the Guards?" 
 
12 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " I am," he said, beginning to see that he 
 must try to be equal to the situation. 
 
 " And the lady with you ; may I ask who 
 she is ?" 
 
 " You may a^/;," he said. " She is a lady, 
 that's all." 
 
 Mayo stood up, rather unsteadily. 
 
 " You were going to Boughton, were you 
 not ?" 
 
 " Damn it, sir," said Mayo wrathfuUy, 
 with hand on sword, " liow dare you ques- 
 tion me? Do you call this hospitality? I 
 was thankful for your entertainment — but 
 now you are troublesome. Lend us a car- 
 riage for a mile or two, and we'll get away 
 to-night." 
 
 " Lady Araoret Lyle is far too ill to leave 
 to-night, Captain Mayo, and will not leave 
 in your company at any tinie." 
 
 When Bully Mayo saw that tlie lady's 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 13 
 
 name was known he grew desperate and 
 drew his sword. 
 
 "0, is that your game?" said my father, 
 one of the finest masters of the rapier in 
 Europe . . . and disarmed him in an in- 
 stant. Then he touched a bell, and two or 
 three stalwart servant-men came in. 
 
 "Take that man," he said, " and duck him 
 in the horsepond. Then turn him outside 
 the gates." 
 
 The order was carried out to the letter. 
 
 Next morning my father saw Lady Amoret 
 Lyle, and thought her the most perfect 
 creature in the world. She received him 
 in an undress of cashmere and tears. She 
 looked provokingly pretty. Her almost 
 baby face, her blue eyes, her pouting petu- 
 lant lips, her hair that was neither fair nor 
 dark, her girlisli bust and shapely arms, 
 have been well depicted on ivory by a 
 
14 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 master of miniature. My father fell in love 
 at once. He could not wait to hear any- 
 thing she had to say. He strode across the 
 room to the beautiful child, took her in his 
 arms, and kissed her, with old Mrs. Scott 
 looking gravely on. 
 
 He had not the remotest idea that she 
 was the first heiress in England — in pras- 
 millionary days. 
 
 When she came to herself after this 
 sudden embrace, she looked up merrily, 
 and said, 
 
 "What will papa say?" 
 
 She was at once joyous, having been 
 relieved from a scoundrel who wanted to 
 get her fortune, and finding a chivalrous 
 gentleman who loved her at first sight. For 
 she knew it was love at first sight, both for 
 him and for her. Slie has told me so many 
 a time. Indeed, the story of this adventure, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 15 
 
 the only fragment of hearsay in my narra- 
 tive, was usually told me with one of my 
 parents as narrator, and the other as cor- 
 rector. It used to be great fun at Elles- 
 raere of a Winter evening in the library 
 after dinner. Being an only child, I had 
 fortunate privileges. 
 
 What became of Bully Mayo nobody ever 
 heard, nor indeed did anyone ever care to 
 know. After that horsepond, he ujay pos- 
 sibly have repented. He kept well out of 
 the way both of Lord Lyle and of my 
 father. 
 
 At the time of this event Lord Lyle was 
 in London. My father sent a courier to 
 him, and he came down. He was some- 
 thing at Court — Lord Chamberlain, I think. 
 I have seen his portrait — tall, stately, silver- 
 haired. When he came, he seemed at once 
 to have given consent to my father's mar- 
 
16 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 riage ; so here I am, the son of Sir Arthur 
 Ellesinere and Lady Amoret Lyle. 
 
 Events move in continuous cycles. How 
 often the same thing recurs it would be 
 impossible to say. What always struck me, 
 as soon as I began to think, was the absurdity 
 of age. I never could treat my mother 
 with proper veneration — I always regarded 
 her as the girl of sixteen who was the 
 heroine of my father s favourite after-dinner 
 story. And, in my judgment, she never 
 grew older. She was a precociously wise 
 little woman in her own opinion ; but, oh ! 
 how she liked to throw off the trammels of 
 custom, and have a bit of real fun ! My 
 father and mother were a perfect couple, 
 though between them there were nearer 
 thirty years than twenty. He had a plea- 
 sant paternal way of treating her, which she 
 liked very mucli. Besides, he was a young 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 17 
 
 man for his age. When I was a boy, he 
 always seemed young to me — he was full 
 of energy, riding, walking, driving. He 
 looked after all the affairs of the estate. 
 He was restless, indefatigable. So he never 
 seemed old to me in my youth, though 
 there was nearly half a century between 
 us. 
 
 Sir Ralph died just before my birth. 
 They called me Edward : I don't know why, 
 having no reason to believe it a family name. 
 However, Edward EUesmere I am — or was 
 — and one name or label is pretty much 
 as good as another. My earlier years 
 are to me a perfect chaos of delight in the 
 memory. I could give no account of them. 
 I remember cantering with my father over 
 the grassland on an Exmoor pony ; I re- 
 member listening to my mother as she 
 played sweet music on the organ in the 
 
 VOL. T. C 
 
1 8 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 great Hall. Thousands of days are de- 
 liciously blended, all alike, all unlike, in my 
 frail memory, the central figures in every 
 scene being my stately father and my grace- 
 ful happy mother. Those two were all the 
 world to me ; those two, and the old house, 
 which seemed as if it were made for them. 
 It was Eden ! — it was Elysium ! Pity such 
 pleasures cannot last — that boys must be- 
 come men and girls women ! 
 
 As for me, poor devil, I was booked, in 
 time, for Eton ! 
 
19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ETON. 
 " I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence." 
 
 " "JPOOR devil !" That really was what I 
 -*- thought when I started drearily from 
 Northamptonshire in the family travelling- 
 carriage, my father accompanying me a stage 
 or two, just to keep up my spirits. And ray 
 heart sank when he left me, and the old 
 coach floundered southward. And it was 
 with a decided sinking of heart that I enter- 
 ed the tutor's house at which I was to live. 
 But that was soon over. In a few days I 
 
 c 2 
 
20 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 was a bappy atom of that marvellous micro- 
 cosm, a great public school. I was just 
 the fellow for the situation. My father 
 had taught me self-reliance, my mother (how 
 often I thought of her and her last tears !) 
 had taught me courtesy, and I was born 
 with a tendency to enjoy the study of charac- 
 ter. Unluckily I was not always accurate 
 in my estimate of character ; and a school- 
 fellow of mine at Eton was the cause of 
 nearly all my subsequent ill-fortune. 
 
 His name was Algernon Norton. He 
 had curly red hair, and greenish eyes, and 
 knees that were always making too close an 
 acquaintance with each other, and a most 
 plausible persuasive style of flattery. I fancy 
 his f\ither was Norton & Co. Plenty of 
 money he always had, and I suspect was in 
 the habit of lending it to his extravagant 
 sch(^ol-fellows, at an exorbitant interest. If 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 21 
 
 Dr. Keate liad found him out he would 
 have received the soundest flogging in the 
 annals of Eton. 
 
 This fellow became my favourite from my 
 first arrival at the school; he was in the 
 same house, and had ample opportunities. 
 He flattered me, mind and body ; and boys 
 are quite as fond of flattery as girls. I 
 wrote his Latin verses for him — he did any 
 menial service I chose. He was my umbra. 
 I can onlv understand his conduct on the 
 supposition that he was the descendant 
 of a long line of knaves, and that his here- 
 ditary instinct made him attach himself to 
 the heir to a baronetcy and two fine for- 
 tunes. Two or three of my independent 
 friends warned me asrainst him, but I argued 
 that he was a harmless useful fellow, though 
 confoundedly ugly. 
 
 " He'll serve you some rascally trick, by 
 
22 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Jove !" said Harry Vane, one cla}'. " He's 
 just ray ideal of Judas Iscariot or Oliver 
 Cromwell. I detest the fellow ! Cut him, 
 Ned." 
 
 I wish I had taken Harry's advice ; but I 
 indolently allowed Norton to maintain his 
 parasitical relation to me, finding that he 
 was useful in one way or another. 
 
 One of my pleasantest recollections of 
 Eton is the kind interest King George took 
 in the boys. There were few fine da3's 
 when he was at Windsor that he did not 
 stroll down to the pla3dng-fields. When 
 he first saw me, and found out who I was, 
 he said, 
 
 " What, what, what ! — Ellesmere's boy ? 
 'Gad, he shall have a commission." 
 
 Wherewith he put his royal hand on 
 my long light curly hair, and went 
 on — 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 23 
 
 "Wilt fight, ray boy, fight for your 
 King?— eh, eh, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, your Majesty." 
 
 " Not your father's son if you didn't. Tell 
 him you're a cornet in the Guards." 
 
 " You're in luck, Ned," said Harry Vane, 
 when the King had left the field. " You'll 
 get your commission." 
 
 "Nonsense !" 
 
 " You will, though, and full pay. There 
 are a lot of fellows with commissions. One's 
 a Major already, bless you ! — Charlie 
 Nevile. He's eighteen, and he got his com- 
 mission at eighteen months. When Keate 
 flogs him, he always says — ' Now^ Major 
 Nevile r 
 
 It turned out true. I was gazetted Lieu- 
 tenant and Cornet of the first Life Guards, 
 about the year 1796. I think it was the 
 same or the following year that I made the 
 
24 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 largest score in the famous cricket- match 
 against the Oldfield Club ; the next being 
 made by Sumner, who was afterwards an 
 Archbishop. Sumner was a very fast bowl- 
 er. We went in for fast bowling in those 
 days (before the " round hand " had been 
 invented), and I very seldom took a wicket 
 without breaking it. Greaves were un- 
 known ; but the Etonian skin is marvellously 
 strong. Still, " leg before wicket "' was a 
 rare olfence. 
 
 Now I must relate one of the first messes 
 into whicii that villain Norton got me — I 
 cannot conceive why. One day he came to 
 me mysteriously. 
 
 '' Ellosmere," he said, " can you keep a 
 secret?" 
 
 " Well, Yd rather not— I've a bad 
 memory. I might forget it ivas a secret, 
 and tell somebody." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 25 
 
 " Come, be serious, old fellow. What 
 should you say if a girl was in love with 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, that she had better give it up, 
 and try somebody else. Get out, or I'll 
 throw an inkstand at you ! I'm turning 
 Romeo and Juliet into iambics." 
 
 " Better turn your iambics into Romeo," 
 he retorted. " Do you remember that 
 little girl in pink we saw the other day in 
 Datchet Lane ? — pretty little plump thing?" 
 
 "Well, what about her?" 
 
 " She's awfully in love with you. Her 
 father's a chemist in Peascod Street. She 
 wants to meet you." 
 
 " She must be a remarkably nice young 
 woman," I said, " Get out of this, Norton, or 
 I'll kick you out! Be off!" 
 
 He saw I was in earnest, and went; but he 
 returned to the charge. He was so persist- 
 
26 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 ent that at last I half believed him ; and we 
 one Summer afternoon met the girl, whose 
 name was Emily Watts .... quite accident- 
 all}^ of course. Young, and devoid of ex- 
 perience as I Avas, at once I saw that it was 
 what in these days is called a " plant"; there 
 was something in the look of the sirl which 
 showed me that she was of a bad type. 
 When Norton had got us into conversation 
 he disappeared. 
 
 I spoke civilly to the young woman, who 
 was evidently disappointed by my slowness, 
 and thought me a fool. To say truth, my 
 great desire was to get away from her as 
 quickly and courteously as possible. I had 
 just succeeded in doing this, to my compan- 
 ion's obvious disgust, when I noticed one of 
 the assistant-masters passing on the opposite 
 side of the road. His keen eye gave nae a 
 recognizing glance. I walked homeward, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 27 
 
 very much ashamed of myself, and fright- 
 fully angry with Norton. 
 
 I lounued down to the margin of the 
 Thames and watched the boats. It was a 
 delicious Summer afternoon-; the sky was 
 cloudless; the larks were ]\Iidsummer-mad; 
 a thrush on a great willow across the river 
 sang "Do it again! Do it again! Do it 
 ao;ain !" I remember it all, though I could 
 not enjoy it — for I was angry with myself, 
 with Norton, with the girl, with that keen- 
 eyed master. There was no great reason 
 for being angry with myself, seeing that I 
 had avoided temptation. Still I was. 
 
 Presently Norton came up, and touched 
 me on the shoulder. 
 
 "What luck?" he said. 
 
 I sprang to my feet. He was in his shirt- 
 sleeves, having been at cricket. I threw off 
 m}' jacket. 
 
28 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 "Now, my good fellow," I say, "stand 
 your ground. I am going to thrash you." 
 
 He was two years older than I, and at 
 least a stone heavier; but before a ring could 
 be formed I had knocked him out of time. 
 
 " Bravo, Ned !" said Harry Vane. " With 
 a little practice you'll hit beautifully straight 
 from the shoulder. You shall come to my 
 room and put on the gloves with me now and 
 then." 
 
 We walked away together. Norton was 
 lying incapable upon the turf. 1 did not 
 speak to him again that term. 
 
 Of course I was not surprised at being 
 " sent for." 
 
 " You young officers of His Majesty's 
 Guards," said Doctor Keate, with bland 
 irony, " must not suppose that you are to 
 make love to all the girls of Windsor. 
 Colleger, bring me a birch-rod that is suita- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 29 
 
 ble to the dignity of a cornet of horse." 
 Such an easy indolent tolerant fool am I, 
 that durino; the course of the next terra I 
 allowed Norton again to become familiar 
 with me. Harry Vane was left, else I think 
 it could not have happened. 
 
 Norton was the most penitent of croco- 
 diles. He made himself useful at every 
 point; and I began to discover that it was 
 impossible to do without him. 
 
 In the Autumn of 1797, I was summoned 
 suddenly from Eton. My father was on his 
 death-bed. His horse had made a mistake 
 at a sunk fence, and my poor father was 
 brought home on a litter, with his spine 
 severed beyond the power of surgeons to 
 patch it up. I was so fortunate as to be 
 with him half an hour before he expired. 
 My dear motlier was kneeling by his bed- 
 side, holdiniz one of his hands in both her 
 
30 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 own. He languidly stretched to rae the 
 other hand. 
 
 " Ned," he said, " thou art a true gentle- 
 man, I believe. Love thy mother, and 
 trust in God. I am <^oino^ to meet Him in 
 a few minutes. I am not afraid. I fous^ht 
 for my King." 
 
 How quietly he passed ! Something — a 
 sob or a sigh — seemed to shake that grand 
 frame, and then all was over. My dear 
 mother fainted ; the women came and took 
 her to her room. It was long before I could 
 tear myself away from my father's body ; 
 there came upon the dead face a calm still 
 satisfied expression, which seemed to me a 
 revelation. Tlie soul is happy elsewhere (I 
 thought), or the body could not look so 
 happy here. 
 
 I pass by all the funereal celebration. 
 IMy mother was ill for weeks ; when she 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 31 
 
 recovered, she implored ine not to return to 
 Eton, but to remain at Ellesmere, to take 
 care of her. My mother had always been 
 very like an elder sister to me, and I felt 
 toward her in her present state a tender 
 pity, born of a love that was almost as 
 much fraternal as filial. She was so young, 
 I thought, for this terrible blow to fall upon 
 her — to lose the love and strength of a 
 man like my father — a man whom you 
 could not look upon without thinking that 
 he belonged to the noblest class of men — a 
 man to whom fear and dishonour were 
 words without meaning. I knew full well 
 that my darling mother would not long 
 survive this terrible loss. She did not. 
 Within six months she also lay in the family 
 vault in Rothwell churchyard. 
 
 / was alone ! Yes, in one sense ; but in 
 another sense I had too much company. 
 
32 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Mv father's will was vacjue ; the Court of 
 Chancery kindly appointed two trustees to 
 look after my affairs till I came of age. 
 How they came to be chosen, I cannot 
 imagine. One was Ezra Sykes, a retired 
 lawyer, who had at some time been em- 
 ployed by my father ; the other was General 
 Lord Clanfurly, G.C.B., the youngest Gene- 
 ral in His Majesty's Army, and an old crony 
 of my father's. Sad as I was, I could not 
 help being amused when my two guardians, 
 or trustees, or whatever they were, met for 
 the first time at Ellesmere. Clanfurly rode 
 over in uniform, with his staff attending 
 him, and a troop of horse ; for he was Com- 
 mandant of the district, and those were 
 days when we dreamt of French invasion. 
 It was quite cheery to hear the bugler's 
 call as the rod coats came rattling into 
 Ellesmere courtyard. Mr. Ezra Sykes had 
 
TRANSMIGRATION, 33 
 
 come in a carrier's cart from the nearest 
 point at which a stage-coach stopped ; so, 
 when shown into the library to meet Lord 
 Clanfurly, his dingy yet glossy black habili- 
 ments were covered with scraps of straw. 
 
 There had been some conversation about 
 me between my two ill-assorted guardians 
 before I was summoned to their presence. 
 When that summons arrived, I could not 
 help laughing at the coup-d'oeiL I have an 
 intuitive sense of humour, and cannot avoid 
 laughter under the gravest situation, if any- 
 thing tickles my fancy. On the present oc- 
 casion, what did I see ? There was an aide 
 of the general's sitting at a table, pen in 
 hand, suppressing his amusement as well as 
 he could. There was the legal and pious 
 Ezra Sykes, in greasy black broadcloth 
 much obscured by straws, standing on one 
 side of the fireplace — a blear-eyed round- 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 shouldered knock-kneed splay-footed ani- 
 mal. On the other side stood Lord Clan- 
 furly, tall, shapely, and vigorous, one hand 
 by habit on his sword-hilt, his steel-blue eyes 
 looking right into the middle of his next 
 battle. 
 
 " Sir Edward Ellesmere," he said, when 
 I was called into the room, " Mr. Ezra 
 Sykes and I have been appointed by the 
 Lord High Chancellor your guardians. We 
 cannot quite agree as to what it is best for 
 you to do. I think you should go back to 
 Eton and finish your studies, Mr. Sykes 
 seems to object to this." 
 
 " I object to Eton," said the lanky Sykes, 
 with a mighty sigh, " because time is wasted 
 upon heathen studies, such as Latin and 
 Greek, which would be more properly ex- 
 pended on Hebrew and commercial arith- 
 metic. Tlie dulness of modern vounpr 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 35 
 
 gentlemen is dreadful. Few of them know 
 that there are three six-and-eightpences in a 
 pound." 
 
 " Important knowledge," said the general 
 laughing, while the aide at the table gave 
 me an eucouramnf? wink. " Come, vouncr 
 gentleman, as your guardians differ, what 
 do you say ? Will you go back to Eton ?" 
 
 "No, my lord," I said. 
 
 "Then will you follow my advice?" said 
 Ezra Sykes, becoming eloquent. "Will 
 you let me be your guide, philosopher, and 
 friend." 
 
 "I'll see vou damned first !" I said, indicr- 
 nantly. " My lord," I went on, addressing 
 myself to the General, "I am a Captain in 
 His Majesty's Life Guards. My first duty 
 is to the King. I intend to join my regi- 
 ment." 
 
 S3'kes's horror would have made a picture. 
 
 d2 
 
36 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Clanfurly put his hand in fatherly fashion 
 on my young shoulder and said, 
 " All right, my boy." 
 
37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 " White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee !" 
 
 YES, while I had been fagging away at 
 my Homer and Horace, my cricket 
 and boating, promotion had reached me, and 
 I was now, at eighteen, a captain in the 
 Guards. The Earl of Clanfurly encouraged 
 me in my military ambitions, and I went to 
 London in the gayest spirit, with a fine allow- 
 ance and a splendid outfit. Ezra Sykes had 
 to give way to my resolute will, backed as 
 I was by the Earl, and he uttered a snuffled 
 
38 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 protest through his nose. But Ezra had 
 his revenge ; the management of my es- 
 tate was left in his hands : a pretty picking 
 the scoundrel made of it ! 
 
 Before joining my regiment, I spent a 
 couple of weeks with Lord Clanfuily, at a 
 pleasant house he had near Totteridge, with 
 plenty of park-land. He was a widower, 
 with one daughter, married, and the mother 
 of many children ; and his house was kept 
 for him by an elegant and demure person of 
 about thirty, who treated him with great 
 deference, but evidently had her own way 
 in everything. To me she was remarkably 
 courteous, and made mc as comfortable as I 
 could desire. I spent a very pleasant fort- 
 night there ; and the General gave me a 
 series of worldly lectures after dinner each 
 day, that were worth their weight in gold. 
 He inculcated a philosophy of refined and 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 39 
 
 elegant selfishness. I was by nature selfish 
 enough ... a lover of luxury and laziness, 
 and a spoilt child to boot ; Lord Clanfurly's 
 lectures confirmed me in my tendency to 
 become " Epicuri de grege porcus." 
 
 When I joined my regiment, I took rooms 
 in Pall Mall, over a saddler's . . . capitally 
 furnished and arranged, with a pleasant 
 view of the trees and lawns of Carlton Gar- 
 dens. When first I got into my uniform 
 and mounted my charger, what a splendid 
 fellow I thought myself! Everybody in the 
 regiment received me with a hearty wel- 
 come. The son of a distinguished soldier, 
 with youth, good looks, and plenty of 
 money, it was not likely that I should be 
 unpopular. This was a time of delirious 
 delight. We were never weary of enjoy- 
 ment. Our life passed between London 
 and Windsor. We glittered through the 
 
40 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 western streets, a splendid pageant. We 
 passed our nights sometimes in good society, 
 and sometimes in bad, but always where 
 life moved fast. We betted high, drank 
 deeply, threw money away on diamonds 
 and other luxuries for our frail friends. 
 We crushed ten years of life into one — with 
 the customary result. If I exceeded my 
 allowance, old Ezra Sykes showed a cour- 
 tesy you would not have guessed from his 
 grim appearance, and sent me as much as I 
 wanted. Of course he was quite right. 
 Why should the income of an estate be ac- 
 cumulating at compound interest, when its 
 owner wants the money ? 
 
 The history of my life at this time cannot 
 well be written. It was the mere foam and 
 froth of existence. I was popular every- 
 where, from the Court downwards. I spent 
 money as if I had the purse of Fortunatus. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 41 
 
 I rode the best horses, and drove the finest 
 equipages, and gave the costliest dinners in 
 London. I had in the highest degree the 
 passionate generosity of an intense selfish- 
 ness. My boyish career was the wildest of 
 that wild time when there was always 
 lightning in the air . . . the terrible time 
 of Napoleon. Anyone who cannot remem- 
 ber that period cannot realize what men 
 felt then, or how fast we youngsters lived. 
 The great name of Napoleon hung in the 
 political atmosphere like some mighty comet 
 that comes close to earth, burning so fiercely 
 that moon and stars flicker and grow pale. 
 And because this great thought haunted us, 
 we lived in a defiant gaiety, sure that when 
 the supreme hour should arrive victory 
 would be with England. The temper of 
 the time is well indicated by Gillray's cari- 
 cature . . . King George in colossal size. 
 
42 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 curiously examining a Lilliputian Bona- 
 parte, who struts en petit caporal on the 
 palm of his hand. 
 
 My chief friend in those days was Captain 
 Lovelace, of my own regiment, about two 
 years older than myself He differed from 
 me widely, being quiet and unostentatious, 
 though he spent money freely enough, and 
 thoroughly enjoyed any reasonable pleasure. 
 He used to give me excellent advice, and, 
 when I laughed at it, he would suggest 
 some brilliant dissipation. His motto was 
 that of Ovid, which Thackeray loved so 
 well : — 
 
 " . . . . video meliora proboque, 
 Deteriora sequor.'' 
 
 The truth about Charles Lovelace was 
 that he ought to have been on active ser- 
 vice — his fine brain wanted work ; at the 
 head of an army he would have been a 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 43 
 
 match for an}' marshal of Napoleon's — per- 
 haps for Napoleon himself. He did not 
 enjoy the lazy luxury of life as I did ; he 
 pined for occupation, and took severe dissi- 
 pation as the only alternative. I saw through 
 the dear boy at the first, and the fact that I 
 appreciated his character made us close 
 friends. 
 
 He never talked of his family — indeed, 
 he was a man of singular reticence. I re- 
 member it was in the Summer of 1804 (I 
 was a Major by that time, and expecting 
 soon to be Lieutenant-colonel) that he came 
 to my rooms one morning, and said, 
 
 "Ned, have you time for a ride this 
 morning, after parade ?" 
 
 I was at breakfast, drinking claret, which 
 had become the fashion with us instead of 
 chocolate. This was wine for which I had 
 given a guinea a bottle. I confess I have 
 
44 TEANSMIGRATION. 
 
 since tasted as good at a shilling. I was 
 turning over a heap of unopened notes 
 which my villain of a valet had just brought 
 in upon a gold salver — some were in pink 
 paper, and some in blue, but there was not 
 one worth the trouble of opening. I neither 
 wanted to know the amount of my tailor's 
 bill, nor what Aphrodite Severn had to say 
 to me. It was abominably hot — the trees 
 in Carlton Gardens opposite could not catch 
 a breath of air ; T had already forgotten my 
 cold bath, and began to want another. 
 
 " I am at your service, Charlie," I said, 
 languidly. "Where do you want to go?" 
 
 There was a kind of sly hesitation about 
 him that puzzled me. He replied, 
 
 " Twickenham. The Thames breezes will 
 cool you." 
 
 " Charming idea !" I said. " But have 
 you any special reason for going to Twick- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 45 
 
 enham ? And have you breakfasted ?" 
 " Yes, to the first question ; no, to the 
 second. I shall attack that lobster. Have 
 you any champagne? I've been up all 
 night, and want a reviver." 
 
 The Villain (he was known as such among 
 my friends, and I have clean forgot his 
 name) brought some champagne. Lovelace 
 ate and drank with that fine ferocity notice- 
 able in a man who has been up all night. 
 I looked on languidly, dipping dry toast in 
 claret, and trying very hard to finish a 
 rognon aux fines herhes. 
 
 " My mother," said Lovelace, presently, 
 *' has lately come up from the country, and 
 taken a house at Twickenham. I want you 
 to know her. I think she would do you 
 good, old fellow. So I arranged to bring 
 you down to luncheon, if yuu could manage 
 to come to-day. You will meet nobody else 
 
46 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 except my sister Lucy, who is a mere girl. 
 She is several years younger than you and 
 I. So many of my family died young." 
 
 When a brother talks disparagingly of 
 his sister as a mere girl, don't you always 
 believe hira. A stolid young gentleman 
 will often look contemptuously on a sister 
 who is made of much finer clay than himself. 
 Charlie was not stolid, but he did not un- 
 derstand his sister Lucy. 
 
 That I accepted va sans dire. We had a 
 lovely ride that Summer afternoon. We 
 had a charming al fresco luncheon on the 
 lawn of Mrs. Lovelace's pretty cottage . . . 
 a lawn that sloped to the Thames, and was 
 dotted with beautiful trees. Mrs. Lovelace 
 herself was quite worthy of being Charlie's 
 mother ... a kind stately old lady, who 
 had evidently borne a prominent part in 
 society of the highest class. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 47 
 
 But Lucy ? She had the tremulous move- 
 ment of the sensitive plant — the fragrant 
 life of the tall white lily. Her hair was a 
 rich brown, with specks of gold in it. Her 
 eyes were like the dog-violet. She was tall ; 
 her hand was long and flexible, tipped with 
 narrow rosy nails. What struck you about 
 Lucy was that her soul seemed to burn 
 through its tenement ; her flesh was trans- 
 lucent ; if she held her hand against a candle 
 the light shone through. Lucy answered 
 Milton's definition of poetry, being " simple, 
 sensuous, passionate." Her electric spirit 
 was stirred by even the unexpressed thoughts 
 of those who were with her, and her own 
 thoughts made themselves known, without 
 aid of speech, by the light in her eye, by the 
 movement of lip or hand. When her hand 
 was in yours it told you the thoughts of her 
 heart. Lucy was as near to being a pure 
 
48 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 spirit as anybody could be in this world. 
 
 It was love at first sight with us both. I 
 knew it, the very moment I met her glance 
 in that wainscoted Twickenham parlour. She 
 was mine. She knew it also ; a psithurism 
 seemed to pass through her, as when a fuU- 
 foliaged tree is caught by the wooing south 
 wind. But we were very quiet and polite 
 that afternoon, and neither Mrs. Lovelace 
 nor Captain Charles for one instant suspected 
 what was very well known to Lucy and me 
 . . . though without a word. 
 
 What a time it was ! England against 
 the world ! Nelson, flower of Admirals, 
 was at sea, longing to catch Bonaparte " on 
 a wind." Charlie was perpetually pining to 
 be on service ; I hypocritically echoed liis 
 longings, but had really no desire to have 
 the sea between me and Twickenham, to 
 which riverain village my horse's head turned 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 49 
 
 with diurnal regularity. Mrs. Lovelace soon 
 saw what was the matter with me, but she 
 had no objection. Why, indeed, should 
 she ? I was a soldier, and Charlie's best 
 friend, and the owner of a great estate. In 
 those days a man's having lived pretty fast 
 did not make him an abomination in the 
 eyes of either young ladies or old ones. 
 Milksops were not popular. 
 
 My London cronies did not see quite as 
 much of me as of old, for almost every after- 
 noon was spent in Lucy's company, and 
 often I dined with Mrs. Lovelace instead of 
 returning to join the mess. Happy little 
 dinners ! . . . though they were simple 
 enough — a bit of fish, and a joint of mutton, 
 perhaps, and an apricot tart, and a glass of 
 old Madeira. The Prince Regent had not 
 spoilt our dinner-tables by making that vile 
 fluid, sherry, fashionable. After dinner, on 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 clear Summer nights, the old lady would 
 obligingly fall asleep, and Lucy and I would 
 ramble down to the margin of the Thames, 
 and watch the reflexion of moon and stars 
 in the restless river. 
 
 One night may stand for all. Charlie's hav- 
 ing dined with us that evening makes it more 
 strong in my memory ; but he left soon after 
 dinner, having some engagement. The old 
 lady was soon serenely asleep in her cus- 
 tomary chair near an open window, through 
 which came fragrance of multitudinous roses. 
 Lucy loved roses ; and the queen of flowers 
 seemed to return her love, for she always 
 had them in profusion. They grew in her 
 garden more profusely than I had ever seen 
 them anywhere, and in varieties more 
 numerous. Some vast masses of odour, 
 ruddy and inexhaustible, some pale and 
 delicate white, with just a blush in their 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 51 
 
 centre ; some of crocus hue ; some a dark 
 deep purple. Lucy's roses were the marvel 
 and envy of all her fair friends. Nobody 
 else could grow them in such profusion and 
 perfection. There was magic in it ; the 
 nightingales came to sing among them ; their 
 music this very night was thrilling through 
 the air. The moon was at its full this nidit. 
 One planet burnt near it ; which of the two 
 chief planets I know not, being perfectly ignor- 
 ant of astronomy and astrology, and all such 
 matters. Only Mars I know, the soldier's 
 star, red as blood ; and this night he shone 
 like a ruby in the cloudless blue. I had 
 noticed him a night or two before ; so I had 
 gone to a jeweller's, and bought the finest 
 ruby I could find, and made the man set it 
 in a thin tiat hoop of gold, that should suit 
 Lucy's delicate ring-finger. And this night, 
 as we strolled up and down in silence by the 
 
 E 2 
 
52 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 never-silent Thames, I suddenly said : "Lucy, 
 which is your favourite star ?" 
 
 She looked up into the sky with a dreamy, 
 questioning gaze. 
 
 " I am rather superstitious about the stars," 
 she said. " My mother laughs at me for it. 
 The Bible says they were made ' for signs 
 and for seasons, and for days and for years.' 
 I think they have some strange influence. I 
 always have a tremulous excited feeling 
 when I look at the planet Mars." 
 
 " That means you are to be a soldier's 
 wife," I said, " and here is the ring of be- 
 trothal." 
 
 " what a lovely ruby ! Edward, how 
 extravagant you are ! It is just the very 
 colour of the planet." 
 
 I put it on her finger, and pressed my 
 lips to her lovely hand. She was half 
 laughter, half tears. She leaned her fair 
 head on my breast. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 53 
 
 " I hope this happiness will last," she 
 said. " But can such happiness last ? I am 
 terrified lest it should come to a sad and 
 sudden end. Edward, be true to me." 
 
 " My darling child," I said, " I will be 
 true to you as long as the planet Mars en- 
 dures. Come, throw aside these fancies ; 
 sing me one of your pretty little ballads." 
 
 She sat on a garden seat. My arm was 
 round her waist. She sang. 
 
 " O songs of the olden time I 
 
 That were so wondrous sweet, 
 When the world was a fairer clime, 
 
 And the turf was cool to the feet, 
 
 And the days fled all too fleet, 
 And lips had their low love-rhyme, 
 
 W hen lovers were fain to meet : 
 O songs of the olden time ! 
 
 " O songs of the olden time ! 
 
 Who dares to sing them now ? 
 For love may be turned to crime 
 
 By the basely broken vow. 
 
 And alas ! we know not how 
 The marriage-bells may chime. 
 
 'Tis a weary world, I trow, 
 O songs of the olden time !" 
 
54 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " What a melancholy darling you are to- 
 night !" I said. " Come into the candle-lifrht, 
 and give me a cup of coffee before I go, 
 and be cheerful. You must sum me a 
 
 o 
 
 merrier song to-morrow." 
 
 Lucy did as she was bid. An hour later 
 I rode townwards joyously, for she had 
 broken into her gayest mood of caprice and 
 merriment. We parted with a laughing 
 kiss. I rode gaily to town, sent my horses 
 home, strolled into Vandesme's, intending 
 supper only ; played, broke the bank, won 
 twenty thousand ; went home, and slept 
 right soundly. 
 
55 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LUCY AND I. 
 
 " O, my good lord, the world is but a word ; 
 Were it all yours to give it in a breath, 
 How quickly were it gone !" 
 
 ATEXT morning, as I was at breakfast, 
 -^ ^ Charlie Lovelace came in ; very 
 woe-begone he looked, and as if his immedi- 
 ate intention were suicide. I knew every 
 phase of his countenance by this time, hav- 
 ing a real brotherly love for him. So, 
 when I saw him in this condition, I made 
 him drink some sparkling wine, and await- 
 ed his confidence. 
 
56 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 It was simple enough when it came. He 
 also had been playing the night before. 
 He had lost twelve thousand. He did not 
 see what he could do, unless he sold out, 
 and also sacrificed some freehold property 
 in Leicestershire. 
 
 I laughed at him. 
 
 " My dear Charlie," I said, " you are 
 absurd. What is twelve thousand pounds ? 
 You know perfectly well that if I gave you 
 a cheque for that sum, Coutts's people 
 would honour it, whether or not I have so 
 much to my credit. But it does so. happen 
 that I can put you out of your trouble at 
 once; for I broke the bank at Vandesme's 
 last night, and there are rolls of notes to the 
 amount of twenty thousand lying about 
 somewhere. The Villain can find them." 
 
 "You don't expect me to take this 
 money from you, Ned ?" said Charlie. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 57 
 
 "Why not? What I win or lose at play 
 I always consider ivaste money. I had a 
 run last night, and landed twenty thousand ; 
 you happen to want twelve thousand of it 
 — there it is ; the other eight I shall throw 
 away somehow." 
 
 Saying this, I told the Villain, who had 
 just brought in an omelet, to fetch a small 
 black bag from my dressing-room. 
 
 He obeyed orders. The bag was cram- 
 med with bank-notes. I put it on the table, 
 and said to Charlie : 
 
 " Now, old fellow, take what 3'ou want." 
 
 He gave me a whimsical smile, and pulled 
 out a roll of notes. 
 
 " You are a good fellow, Ned," he re- 
 marked ; " but you are a devilish odd fellow. 
 Fancy having twenty thousand pounds in 
 your bag, and with the Villain close at 
 hand." 
 
58 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " I should have asked leave of absence 
 first, sir," said the Villain, with a grin. He 
 was a very honest Villain, I believe ; at 
 any rate, tiie bank-notes were safe enougli 
 on tills occasion, and I gave the fellow a 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 The value of money had never occurred 
 to me at that time. I had not mastered 
 the fact that every sovereign means so much 
 human labour — so much human life. A 
 rich man gives fifty pounds for a thing with- 
 out thinking that he is giving away a year 
 of somebody's existence. Yet it is so ; every 
 piece of hard money is the mere representa- 
 tive of human toil. for a miracle to 
 make the gold we squander speak, and tell 
 us what hard work it represents ! 
 
 Charlie, having been persuaded to take 
 what he needed, went away quietly. I was 
 onlv too ujlad that a run of luck had thus 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 59 
 
 enabled me to help hira. I thought no 
 more about it. He did, I regret to say ; he 
 felt himself under some sort of obligation — 
 I can't think why. If he hadn't had that 
 twelve thousand pounds, I should certainly 
 have tlirown it away, as I have no doubt I 
 did the other eight, though on this point I 
 have no distinct recollection. 
 
 What chiefly I remember in that time 
 was my pleasant intercourse with my darling 
 Lucy. Her mother and Charlie both con- 
 sidered her too young to marry, and she 
 and I obediently acquiesced in their decision, 
 though most assuredly it would have been 
 fortunate for us both if she had been pro- 
 nounced of matrimonial age. However, she 
 was not, and we had to play at love-making, 
 and we both enjoyed it very much indeed. 
 
 Given, a delicious rose-garden, sloping to 
 the Thames, and the lady of that garden a 
 
60 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 creature of perfect beaut}^, and most loving 
 and loveable temper, is it not easily con- 
 ceivable that Major Sir Edward EUesmere 
 was happy? As a fact, I was rather glad 
 that Lucy was not old enough yet. Cynical 
 sneerers had made me rather afraid of mar- 
 riage. It was a belief of those times that 
 the most charming girl in the world might, 
 when she became a wife, become also a 
 nuisance. I hardly know how to account 
 for the prevalence of this theory, but just 
 then it was the fashion with men to run 
 down women — to regard them as mere toys 
 and playthings — to maintain that they were 
 heartless and untrustworthy. These cynical 
 fashions of thouglit come round in cycles, 
 according, doubtless, to some hitherto un- 
 discovered law. 
 
 " Most women have no characters at all," 
 wrote Alexander Pope ; yet Pope had read 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 61 
 
 Shakespeare, in whose chief plays there is 
 not one woman without distinctive cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Of course I was in tlie fashion, and pro- 
 fessed to regard women as below one's 
 notice, otherwise than as mere playthings. 
 I was obliged silently to recant every day 
 of my life, for every day of my life I saw 
 Lucy, and she taught me more in a night 
 than I ever learnt anywhere else in a year. 
 She was the verv darlinsj of nature. As I 
 have heretofore said, the roses seemed to 
 grow for her delight ; and the nightingales 
 came to sing amid the roses, and Lucy and 
 I were happy. She had not a touch of 
 coquetry about her. She was mine ; she 
 knew it, and was satisfied. Every night of 
 my life I came down to see her, and we 
 wandered into the garden in Summer, or 
 sat in the little library in Winter. Mrs. 
 
62 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Lovelace left us to our own devices. Ah ! 
 it was a happy time ! 
 
 I was in no hurry for wedlock. I like to 
 have this tremulous sweet virgin-flower my 
 own, uncrushed, unsoiled. She had given 
 herself to me, my Lucy, but I would not 
 take her yet ; I would let her grow and 
 ripen, pass from girl to woman, from bud 
 to flower. It was only too delightful, this 
 happy, innocent converse with a beautiful, 
 simple creature like Lucy Lovelace. 
 
 One night I brought her some rhymes, to 
 the same air which she had fitted to most 
 melancholy words. Right gaily she sang 
 them. 
 
 " O songs of the time unkuowTi ! 
 
 That is coming, so sweet, so fair. 
 The time of the loosened zone, 
 
 Of love in the Summer air. 
 
 Of days that are void of care, 
 Of nights passed never alone, 
 
 Of a heart whose dreams I share. 
 O songs of the time unknown ! 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 63 
 
 " O songs of the time unknown ! 
 
 They haunt the restless stream, 
 And the woods where we roam alone, 
 
 And the valleys where we dream ; 
 
 And love is their one sweet theme, 
 And I think, my darling, my own. 
 
 Our joy shall be supreme. 
 O songs of the time unknown !" 
 
 Trivial rhymes, you will say, dear reader ; 
 but what is trivial when a man's in love? 
 Heartily do I wish my worst offence against 
 my beautiful Lucy was making bad verses 
 about her ! I could forgive myself for that, 
 seeing that every man is not born a poet. 
 But 1 cannot forgive myself for the way I 
 treated her ; though I believe when we meet 
 again she will say she heartily forgives 
 me. 
 
 Looking back upon that hap])y time, I 
 have come to the definite conclusion that to 
 be in love is a man's highest fortune. It is 
 
 o 
 
 far better than to be an emperor or a mil- 
 
64 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 lionaire. The despot is in daily dread of 
 assassination ; the owner of millions is in 
 hourly dread of being robbed or swindled. 
 The true lover has no dread ; his wealth, 
 his empire, cannot be taken from him ; it is 
 inalienable, inviolate. 
 
 So I say that the happiest time of a man's 
 life is not when he obtains distinction as 
 statesman, soldier, poet, what not ; nor is it 
 when he finds a comfortable balance lodged 
 at his banker's, whereby he can snap his 
 fingers at his creditors ; but it is when two 
 bright eyes look lovingly into his, and two 
 sweet lips are ready to be kissed, and a 
 warm white hand rests trustfully in his. I 
 am of opinion that we do not yet half under- 
 stand the philosophy and psychology of 
 sexual completion. Our modern sophists 
 are so anxious to prove the non-existence of 
 God and the monkey ancestry of man, that 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 65 
 
 questions of real importance are forgotten. 
 A Universe self-created is far less imaginable 
 than a creating Deity ; a monkey made as a 
 caricature of man is far more probable than 
 the development of man from a monkey. 
 The thing cannot be done. Even a Darwin 
 could not be grown from the chimpanzee . . . 
 and there could be no easier form of the 
 experiment. 
 
 But, ye philosophers and students of 
 life, there is room for great discovery in 
 connexion with the higher nature of man. 
 It is not our relation toward the beasts that 
 perish which requires investigation ; it is our 
 relation toward God, who created us in his 
 own iraafTe. Just at this moment we have 
 fallen on a time when sham science is ram- 
 pant ; when anything new is accepted by all 
 the shallow thoughtless people whose minds 
 have no -real culture. The man who argues 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 that we are mere developments of the lower 
 creatures finds hosts of admirers ; his books 
 pass through many editions ; his miserable 
 misrepresentations of nature are accepted 
 as absolute truth by persons who have never 
 observed nature. " The Divinity is an ape, 
 and behold ! I am his prophet," is one man's 
 cry. Logic works no cure ; fallacy is the 
 fashion, and with the multitude fashion is 
 stronger than either revelation or reason. 
 
 While I was tasting the joyous hours 
 with Lucy Lovelace, drinking the wine of 
 my young life, learning lessons of love from 
 her fragrant lips, I suddenly, for the first 
 time, came in contact with a very decided 
 annoyance. It reached me in the form of a 
 letter from that abominable old canting ras- 
 cal, Ezra Sykes, to whom I had carelessly 
 left the management of my estates, and who 
 had hitherto always sent me money with 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 67 
 
 promptitude. Having occasion for a few 
 thousands in a hurry, I despatched the Villain 
 down to Ellesmere, with an order to Sykes to 
 get it. To my amazement, he returned next 
 day without it, but with a note from this 
 rascal Ezra, saying that my income had been 
 greatly exceeded, that there was no balance 
 in hand, that he would endeavour to raise 
 the money at interest in a few weeks ! A 
 few weeks ! — to me who had never had to 
 wait an instant for money ! Well for Ezra 
 Sykes he was miles away, or I would have 
 horsewhipped the truth out of the old hypo- 
 crite. Of course I had kept no accounts — 
 why should I, with my princely income ? I 
 decided at once that Sykes was a thief, and 
 sent the Villain off again with a letter, threat- 
 ening him with my severest vengeance if he 
 did not at once send the money. 
 
 " If the fellow does not at once send the 
 
 f2 
 
68 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 money," were my last words to my unscru- 
 pulous servitor, "bring him. Strap him on 
 to a horse, if necessary ; I'll hold you harm- 
 less." 
 
 The Villain rode off with an obedient grin 
 on his countenance, that angered ill for Ezra 
 Sykes. 
 
 He was off, and I was thinking of a ride to 
 Twickenham, when a servant came in to ask 
 if I could receive Mr. Norton. I said yes — 
 I did not connect the name with my old 
 schoolfellow, of whom I had seen nothing 
 since I left Eton. But when the man en- 
 tered, I knew him at once. He was oppress- 
 ively overdressed, and wore, over a white 
 satin waistcoat, an immense gold cable, 
 attached to a watcli the size of a half-guinea. 
 His coat was black velvet, with a collar of 
 sable ; liis breeches were fawn-coloured 
 kerseymere ; the diamonds on his fingers 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 69 
 
 were about the size of those in his shoe- 
 buckles. His hair was redder, his eyes 
 greener, his hands dirtier, his knees weaker, 
 than they used to be at Eton. 
 
 Now what could this fellow want ? I 
 was in no mood to be civil to him. I was 
 wroth with Sykes ; I was eager to quiet my- 
 self in the peaceful company of Lucy. I 
 felt quite out of humour with Norton and 
 Co., and showed it unmistakably. 
 
 But Norton's plausibility and humility 
 were too much for me. He was a Belial- 
 lago. He congratulated me on my fashion- 
 able distinction, my brilliant career, my fame 
 for wit, my success among the ladies. The 
 strongest of us are accessible to flattery ; I, in 
 those days, was very weak ; I have become 
 hard as heart of oak since. This Norton, 
 whom in my inmost soul I utterly contemn- 
 ed, managed to cajole me with his fulsome 
 
70 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 flattery. I tolerated liis red hair, green 
 eyes, and grimy hands — because he told me 
 pleasant lies. 
 
 By-and-by he introduced a subject that 
 at that moment was for the first time in- 
 teresting to me — money. He delicately 
 remarked that, although 1 had a noble 
 estate, I might sometimes be pressed for a 
 trifle ; and that he was connected with 
 a large financial firm that always had money 
 at the service of their clients. 
 
 Fool that I was, it never occurred to me 
 that this fellow was in league with Ezra 
 Sykes. I took his opportune arrival as a 
 fortunate dispensation of Providence. I 
 borrowed ten thousand pounds of him, 
 giving merely an I U. He seemed to 
 consider I did him quite a favour by accept- 
 ing it, and withdrew from my rooms a per- 
 fect incarnation of humbleness. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION, 71 
 
 I sent two hundred pounds of this money 
 to a girl named Laura Scarth, whom I had 
 met a few evenings before in the streets. 
 She was the daughter of one of my father's 
 tenants. I remembered her quite a child — 
 a pretty little blue-eyed thing. She had 
 grown up too pretty, and come to sorrow, 
 and broken the heart of old Michael Scarth, 
 her father. She recognised me and spoke 
 to me. She seemed passionately eager 
 to lead an honest life, and thought she 
 could set up a small shop if she had a little 
 money. I sent her this two hundred pounds, 
 and I believe she used it prudently, and 
 rescued herself from degradation. But my 
 detractors made this act of charity a ground 
 of assault on my character. 
 
 Foreseeing nothing of the unpleasant 
 future, I took horse, and was soon with my 
 beautiful Lucy, among the roses and night- 
 ingales. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LADY DIANA CRE9I. 
 
 " Que voulez-vous, Diane bonne, 
 
 Que vous donne ? 
 
 Vous n'eustes, comme j'entends, 
 
 Jamais taut d'heur au printemps 
 
 Qu'en automne ?" 
 
 -pLANTAGENET AQUILA, Marquis of 
 -■- Cre9i, was the descendant of a race 
 whose men were always sans i^ur et sans 
 reproclie, while the women were generally 
 sans peur only. The Cre9is, a very old 
 Catholic family, Hereditary Grand-Masters 
 of the Revels of the Crown, were prouder 
 than prelates and poorer than church mice. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 73 
 
 The young Marquis, who was about my 
 own age, was living a careless brilliant life 
 in London at this time, with no perceptible 
 income except what he won at play ; and 
 certainly his luck was amazing. It was he 
 indeed who had cleared out Charlie Love- 
 lace, that time when I was able to help 
 him ; and it was through Charlie that some 
 time after I made his lordship's acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 I certainly never met any one so bril- 
 liant — not with wit, for he had not a 
 scintilla, but by reason of his inexhaustible 
 animal spirits, his gay daring, his passionate 
 delight in adventure. He had a clear blue 
 eye, a keen classic face, a splendid agile 
 figure. The wildest dissipation did not 
 affect his health. He was the most perfect 
 specimen of the human animal I ever 
 knew. 
 
74 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 My acquaintance with him would have 
 been comparatively unimportant, had it not 
 led to ray knowing Lady Diana Cre^i, his 
 father's youngest sister. This lady was 
 certainly the most notable person of her sex 
 in London at the time. She was not young ; 
 the polite Peerage told not her age, but I 
 fancy she was nearer forty than thirty. She 
 had however the family health and spirits, 
 and was a very skilful artist in self-adornment. 
 She was not handsome ; but her figure was 
 good, and she possessed a wondrous wealth 
 of hair, the very colour of Californian gold. 
 She was not clever; indeed she knew 
 nothing, and spelt abominably ; but she was 
 the most fascinatiug woman I ever met. I 
 have said she knew nothing ; but she cer- 
 tainly did know every trick of coquetry, 
 every artifice of dress, every device invented 
 by women to make themselves irresistible. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 75 
 
 Lady Diana had a small house in Kensing- 
 ton ; it was called Bijou. It stood in the 
 centre of about an acre of lawn and garden, 
 surrounded by a wall eight feet high. It 
 had a cloister all round it, and four rooms 
 on the ground-floor all opening into each 
 other, and two conservatories, one on each 
 side, which were entered from the reception 
 rooms by crossing the cloister. Here was 
 always a wonderful show of the choicest 
 flowers ; and rare birds flitted about in large 
 cages. The kitchens, offices, servants' 
 apartments, stables, were at the rear, ap- 
 proached through a corridor. 
 
 Charlie Lovelace, making acquaintance 
 through the Marquis with Lady Diana, was 
 soon fascinated. She had the power of 
 magnetising men. After awhileshe command- 
 ed Charlie to bring me to Bijou, v/anting, 
 as I presumed at the time, to make an ex- 
 
76 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 periment on a new victim. I did not till 
 afterwards learn that she had a cruel plea- 
 sure in fascinating men whom she knew to 
 be engaged, and proving to her own satisfac- 
 tion that she had more attractive power than 
 the pretty girls of a younger generation. 
 
 When Charlie pressed me to accept an 
 invitation to Bijou, I reminded him that my 
 evenings all belonged to his sister. 
 
 "Pooh, pooh!" says Charlie. "She'll 
 give you up for one night, and glad ; I dare 
 say you're boring her. Depend upon it, old 
 fellow, it's a mistake for you to see so much 
 of each other ; you'll find out all one another's 
 faults before marriage — and you may just as 
 well leave it till after." 
 
 As I knew that Lucy had no faults, and 
 was quite ready to forgive mine, this argu- 
 ment did not touch me ; but Charlie was so 
 resolute that at last I gave way. That even- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 77 
 
 ing, amid the roses and the nighingales, I 
 told Lucy that her brother and I had an im- 
 portant engagement on the coming Wednes- 
 day, and that I should not be able to come 
 down. 
 
 " Well, Edward," she said, " I am so used 
 to your coming every night that it will seem 
 quite strange. But no ; I tell you what jou 
 shall do ; you shall come and dine with us. 
 Mamma will give you a roast fowl and a 
 bottle of poor papa's favourite Madeira, and 
 you can go straight from here to meet 
 Charlie. We dine at five, you know ; and I 
 suppose your engagement is some hours 
 later." 
 
 " Nine, my darling," I said. As her 
 sweet face, luminous with love, looked up 
 into mine, I felt a strange sharp presenti- 
 ment that I was about to do a very foolish 
 thing in deserting her for one night only. I 
 
i 5 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 dreaded it. I felt disposed to throw Lady 
 Diana over, and to pursue my customary 
 course ; but then Charlie had my promise. 
 He laughed at me a good deal when I told 
 him that I was going to dine at Twickenham 
 on the evening in question. 
 
 " You're a regular Romeo," he said. " I 
 hope the mater's wine won't poison you." 
 
 Wednesday came ; we had our little 
 dinner together, and enjoyed it. Mrs. 
 Lovelace was slightly didactic ; slie always 
 deemed it her duty to drop pearls of wis- 
 dom into the ears of any young men whom 
 she got at the dinner-table, whence of course 
 they could not escape, and it may be 
 guessed that her very choicest pearls were 
 reserved for her future son-in-law. How- 
 ever, I always enjoyed the dear old lady's 
 clever lectures ; but I could hardly keep 
 from laughing wlien, at intervals, I saw T^ucy 
 
TKANSMIGRATION. 79 
 
 making a pretty little wicked grimace at 
 nie. 
 
 I had something beside roast fowl to eat, 
 and the wine was by no means what that 
 rascal Charlie wanted me to anticipate, 
 
 " Now, sir," said Lucy, bringing me with 
 her own pretty hands a cup of fragrant 
 ]\Iocha, " have you dined well ? / arranged 
 that dinner, and I expect you to praise me. 
 How do you like red mullet with sauce of 
 capers and periwinkles ? I am sure you 
 never tasted it before." 
 
 " Certainly, I never did." 
 
 " Ah ! I thought not. Well, did you like 
 the young pigeons on anchovy toast, with 
 Muscat grapes ?" 
 
 " They were delicious, my own Lucy ; 
 but why are you asking me these ques- 
 tions ?" 
 
 " Because I want to know whether I can 
 
80 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 arrange a good enough dinner for you. Do 
 you suppose I have not learnt that man's 
 chief idea is dinner and politics, just as wo- 
 man's chief idea is tea and gossip ? It is all 
 very well to talk about love — you and I 
 are very much in love, I know ; but then, 
 you see, we shall have to dine together so 
 many times ! Suppose we should live toge- 
 ther fifty years — and I have heard of such 
 things — why, that would be nearly twenty 
 thousand dinners !" 
 
 The child was in one of her mad moods. 
 I knew how it would be. She was all 
 action and re-action ; life was to her like the 
 flow and ebb of the tide beneath the mis- 
 chievous magnetic mysterious moon. I felt 
 only too certain that when I left her she 
 would grow melancholy. Very loath I was 
 to leave her, but the thing had to be done, 
 and, at about eight, I was on horseback, 
 bound for Bijou and Lady Diana. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 81 
 
 There was no gateway to Bijou — no car- 
 riage-entrance ; you passed througii a quiet 
 green door in the high wall, and were at 
 once in a most perfect garden. That night, 
 even after Lucy'5 roses, the fragrance of 
 Lady Diana's parterres seemed wonderful. 
 I have since seen her gardens in the sun- 
 shine, and they seemed to me more original 
 and various than any other of which 1 have 
 had experience. 
 
 Bijou was brilliantly lighted. At the 
 threshold I met Charlie, who had been 
 awaiting me, and who forthwith presented 
 me to the hostess. At first sight I thought 
 her grotesque, but after a little conversation 
 1 forgot her undeniable ugliness, and began 
 to think her a very fine woman. She had 
 a mellow voice ; she had suggestive eyes ; 
 she had unlimited capacity for lying. She 
 was a female Mephistopheles. 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Her reception this night took the form of 
 a kind of artistic conversazione. Some 
 painters and sculptors whom she patronized 
 had brought their most I'ecent work. We 
 were all divided between a picture by Jack 
 Easel, of Ares and Aphrodite caught in the 
 golden net of Hephaistos, and a statue by 
 Claudius Chisel, of the divine bull with 
 Europa on his back, preparing to swim the 
 Bosphorus. 
 
 " Which do you like best ?" said Lady 
 Diana to me. 
 
 "I like both equally," was my answer. 
 "They are real works of genius." 
 
 And, indeed, so they were. Later in the 
 evening I managed to get a few quiet 
 minutes with the artists, bought both picture 
 and statue for a few hundred pounds, and 
 determined to offer them to Lady Diana. I 
 had some difficulty in making this arrange- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 83 
 
 ment, for her lively ladyship kept me by her 
 side as much as she could. She quite snub- 
 bed poor Charlie, who, to my great amuse- 
 ment, was immensely jealous. Of course, 
 with the customary contrariety of human 
 nature, I did all 1 could to increase this 
 jealousy. It never occurred to me that I 
 was treading on ground doubly dangerous. 
 
 There was a brilliant supper in one of the 
 rooms. Lady Diana put her hand on my 
 arm when it was announced, and made it 
 clear to the assembly that I was the favoured 
 cavalier that evening. Charlie went off to 
 the other end of the table, where he got 
 between two middle-a^ed blue-stockino;s, 
 who treated him with ferocious afFectionate- 
 ness. Evidently, till my arrival, he had 
 been Lady Diana's favourite — now he felt 
 dethroned. I had made up my mind I 
 cared not twopence for Lady Liana, but I 
 
 G 2 
 
84 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 could not help being gallant and deferential 
 to her, just to spite Charlie, who pretended 
 indifference, but at intervals looked as if he 
 would like to meet me with pistol or rapier. 
 Supper ended, there was a general gather- 
 ing of the guests to take leave. I was about 
 to do the same, but Lady Diana said, in a 
 whisper, 
 
 " Stay a little longer." 
 
 So I stayed. I was not sorry, for I 
 wanted to see whether she would accept my 
 presents, which I had told one of her ser- 
 vants to place where she would see them. 
 Charlie, I observed, did not come to take 
 leave of Lady Diana — whence I judged that 
 he was decidedly in love, and wondered at 
 his choice. She was fascinating, doubtless, 
 but I, who liad known Lucy, could not think 
 of Lady Diana otherwise than as a mere 
 soulless heartless creature, witty and wicked. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 85 
 
 I should have saved myself unutterable 
 agony if I had acted on my intuitive know- 
 ledge of her character, and left her to 
 Charlie, or anybody else that might fancy 
 her. 
 
 The brilliant company gradually left. 
 
 The last straggler, an undecided gentle- 
 man, who could not find his gloves, was 
 eventually disposed of. A footman lighted 
 us up stairs to a lovely boudoir, in which 
 every article was beautiful in material and 
 workmanship. As I entered, I saw that 
 Easel's picture and Chisel's statue had been 
 brought hither. 
 
 Lady Diana sank into a low lounging 
 chair, and then caught sight of Aphrodite 
 and Europa. 
 
 "I wonder why these are left behind ?" 
 she said, languidly. 
 
 I explained to her that I had bought them, 
 
86 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 and hoped she would accept them. She 
 looked at me for a minute. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I will accept them. I 
 like your gentlemanly generosity to a lady 
 you never saw before. I am afraid you are 
 too generous. I have heard a great deal of 
 you, Sir Edward, or I should not have told 
 Captain Lovelace to bring you here. By 
 the way, what do you think of Captain 
 Lovelace ?" 
 
 " He is my most intimate friend, and I 
 have the highest opinion of him." 
 
 " Distrust him, Sir Edward," she said ; 
 "he is a disappointed man, and disappointed 
 men are never safe. Besides, I am sure you 
 have done him some great service, he always 
 speaks of you so bitterly." 
 
 " What, Charlie !" I exclaimed, in amaze- 
 ment. " Why, we are the best friends in the 
 world." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 87 
 
 She laughed ; not a pleasant laugh. 
 
 " Don't trust your best friend too far," she 
 said ; " I am told that you are to marry his 
 sister. Tell me what she is like." 
 
 It appeared to me profanation to describe 
 my beautiful pure Lucy to this cynical 
 woman of the world ; so I excused myself 
 by saying that I was a bad hand at descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 " You will never marry her," she said, 
 laughing lightly. 
 
 " Who will prevent me?" I asked. 
 
 " Your best friend, Captain Lovelace. He 
 hates you, Sir Edward. I knew that from 
 his references to you, and for that reason I 
 made him bring you here. I am rather 
 sorry for him ; with a career before him he 
 might have been a good fellow. He'll break 
 off your engagement with Miss Lucy, de- 
 pend on it." 
 
88 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " I am not afraid," I said. 
 
 " Of course not. I despise a man who is 
 afraid of anything in the world. But this 
 fellow will beat you, Sir Edward, if you do 
 not play a very clever game." 
 
 " I am sure of Lucy," I said. 
 
 " Is she as sure of you?" 
 
 Just then a waiting woman brought in a 
 silver tray witli a few anchovy sandwiches 
 and Presburg biscuits, and chocolate and 
 liqueurs. 
 
 " This is ray real supper," quoth Lady 
 Diana. " What we had down stairs was a 
 mere sham." 
 
 So she took a sandwich and a glass of 
 maraschino. 
 
 " Do you drive four-in-hand, Edward ?" 
 she asked. She had dropt the *' Sir" and 
 become quite familiar. 
 
 " yes," I replied ; "I can drive." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 89 
 
 "I am very glad. Are you engaged to- 
 morrow? If not, come here at two. I've 
 just bought such a lovely roan team, a 
 beautiful match, but the off leader is much 
 too frisky. I want to try them to-morrow 
 afternoon. Will you help me ?" 
 
 " With infinite pleasure," I said. " Two 
 o'clock. I'll be here, and your most humble 
 servant ; but I suspect you can manage four 
 horses better than I." 
 
 " We shall see to-morrow," she said with 
 an amused smile. " Now you must go^ or I 
 shall lose my character. Be off with you !" 
 
 My horses were waiting at the garden gate. 
 I rode home and went to bed ; but I'll be 
 hanged if I could sleep. Lady Diana Cre^i 
 was too stupendous a study of character. 
 
90 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FOUR-IN-HAND. 
 
 " Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum 
 Collegisse juvat, metaque fervidis 
 Evitata rotis palmaque nobilis 
 Terrarum doninos eveliit ad Deos." 
 
 T HAVE met many people who could see 
 -■- nothing delightful in driving four-in- 
 hand. To such folk I say — Try it, if you 
 dare. No man can do it who has not an 
 intellicrent left hand, which is a verv rare 
 endowment. Gather up the ribbons : the 
 horses know in an instant whether they have 
 a master. And the intelligent left must 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 9 1 
 
 have as partner a dexterous right hand, so 
 guided by a quick eye that a horse can at 
 once be admonished by a stinging touch on 
 exactly the right point. Till you can cut 
 down a wasp on the wing with the very end 
 of the long lash, do not try to drive four-in- 
 hand. 
 
 That I was punctual, may be supposed. 
 When I reached the gate of Bijou, I recog- 
 nized Charlie's horses being led up and down, 
 and naturally supposed that he was to join 
 the party ; but just as 1 was about to ring 
 the bell, Charlie came rapidly out, stared at 
 me as if he hardly knew me, threw himself 
 on his horse, and galloped away. 
 
 Having long been of opinion, from ex- 
 perience of myself and of others, that we all 
 have our mad moments, I took no notice 
 whatever of Charlie's vacraries. The mad- 
 der a man is, the sooner he comes to his 
 
92 TRANSMIGEATION. 
 
 senses. It is your slow lunatic that is a 
 nuisance ; the man who gradually grows 
 mad, and who has to be cured even more 
 gradually. That is not the sort of fellow 
 Shakespeare meant when he classed toge- 
 ther "the lunatic, the lover, and the poet." 
 
 I entered the house, and was received by 
 Lady Diana, who was just finishing her pre- 
 parations. She had on a rose-coloured silk 
 dress, adorned with most miraculous lace; 
 but, as I came in, her attendants were cruelly 
 hiding it beneath a many-caped similitude 
 of a coachman's coat, built of drab velvet. 
 Then she placed on her head a broad- 
 brimmed beaver hat, and, turning round to 
 me, said, with a laugh and a curtsey, 
 
 '* Now don't I look the real thing ?" 
 
 " Lovely," I said. " You might drive the 
 Chariot of the Sun." 
 
 "Too airy a trip," she replied. " I should 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 93 
 
 smash the whole Zodiac. But come, I hope 
 you won't be ashamed to sit on the box with 
 me r 
 
 " I shall be delighted, T have never seen 
 a lady drive four-in-hand yet, and it will be 
 quite a treat." 
 
 " Ah ! well, you differ from your great 
 friend Captain Lovelace. He has just been 
 scolding me for the extraordinary things I 
 do, and went off in a huff because I laugjhed 
 at him. He is quite jealous of you : he 
 need not be ; he ought to know by this time 
 that I only amuse myself by finishing the 
 education of boys like you and him. You 
 have no idea how many boys I have educat- 
 ed. But come, they ought to be ready for 
 us!" 
 
 At the garden-gate stood a beautifully- 
 appointed coach, with dark body and red 
 wheels — helpers at the heads of the four 
 
94 TRANSMIGKATION. 
 
 roans ; three grooms ready to mount behind 
 — one of them dressed like a mail-guard. 
 Lady Diana always carried out her caprices 
 so thoroughly that people wondered almost 
 as much where she got her money as where 
 she got her ideas. 
 
 She mounted to the box-seat as easily as 
 if she had been a Jehu born — and if any- 
 body caught a glimpse of her ankles, they 
 were very pretty ones. The reins and whip 
 were handed her; she gave the off-leader a 
 touch under the ear to remind him that his 
 mistress had him in hand ; and away we 
 went, eleven good miles an hour, while the 
 groom-guard blew a startling peal on a 
 silver horn an ell long. All the vicinage 
 turned out to see the sight. 
 
 Soon we were beyond the suburbs, briefer 
 and less populous b}'' far thau in these days. 
 It was a most delicious Summer afternoon ; 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 95 
 
 the Thames was clear and bright as we 
 crossed the hideous bridge at Putney. Full 
 of excitement was the air as we rattled over 
 the heath beyond. The roans went well ; 
 the silver horn rang through the air ; Lady 
 Diana laughed and chatted and sang, till I 
 began to forget her age, and to think she 
 must be a mere girl, after all. 
 
 I had never much geography about me ; 
 I knew nothing of London south of the 
 Thames, and so I could only wonder where 
 Lady Diana was taking me. It was a love- 
 ly drive, but a long one ; three times, I 
 think, we stopped to rest and bait the 
 horses. We were among beautiful green 
 hills at last, with tall ferns by the wayside, 
 and a clear shallow stream, in which I could 
 see the trout, crossing the road at intervals. 
 We began to descend a hill so steep that 
 the skid was necessary. In the valley we 
 
96 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 pulled up in front of a quaint old inn, with 
 a wide archway, under which we drove, and 
 galleries all round the inner court. It was 
 as if Chaucer's Tabard had been removed 
 into the country. 
 
 There were plenty of people to help the 
 grooms with the horses, and in the side 
 entrance, under the archway, stood the stout 
 landlord, with a portly wife and a ruddy- 
 faced daughter, making obeisance each in 
 their own wa}^ The yard was full of 
 bustle — waggons loading and unloading, 
 and, just as we had arrived, an up-mail 
 stopped to change horses, and there was a 
 rush of travellers for refreshment. Lady 
 Diana, in her coachman's cape and wide- 
 brimmed hat, was an astonishing apparition ; 
 but she was soon out of si^ht, turninsj to 
 me as she went upstairs with the landlord's 
 daughter, and saying, gaily, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 97 
 
 " Don't you want your dinner ?" 
 
 On reflexion, I did. I had taken no- 
 thing all the way down, and was hungry, 
 but more especially athirst. I said to the 
 burly landlord, who, though immense, was 
 well-grown, and did not waddle in his gait, 
 or run to abdomen, 
 
 " What's the name of your inn ?" 
 
 "The ' Cre9i Arms,' your honour. Look 
 at the sifTn." 
 
 It hung right across the road, as you may 
 see them to this day, I believe, at Croydon 
 and Temple Cloud, and the sun was upon 
 it, and threw up the emblazonment of the 
 arms of Cregi, with the haughty motto, 
 " Dux regit exameny 
 
 "Is your ale as good as your sign?" I 
 asked. " I have drunken nothing since 1 
 left town." 
 
 The landlord left the room with greater 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 alacrity than I should have expected from a 
 man of his weight, and returned in about 
 five minutes with a quart tankard of silver, 
 bearing also the Cre9i arms, and full to the 
 foam-kissed brim -of that amber fluid which 
 all Englishmen love. 
 
 " That's some of the Marquis's birth-day 
 ale," said the landlord with a grin, " It's 
 fine stuff." 
 
 As Cre^i had been of age some years, I 
 at once guessed this was fine ale, and ray 
 anticipation was amply fulfilled. It passed 
 the palate with exquisite softness ; it filled the 
 frame with a healthy warmth ; it nimbly 
 reached the brain and stimulated the forget- 
 tive faculty. I was grateful to mine host, 
 for I wanted to be ready for a gay en- 
 counter with Lady Diana, and this grand 
 beverage, the happy gift of Demeter and 
 Dionysus, had just supplied my mental and 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 99 
 
 physical need. I thought of the famous 
 apostrophe of a poet of the period : 
 
 " Hear, O hear ! 
 Dionysus and Demeter ! 
 
 Give, O give 
 Wine and bread that a poet may live ! 
 
 All Olympus I disdain, 
 
 If I get the gifts of this glorious twain." 
 
 Now the unique beauty of ale is that it is 
 wine and bread in one. Demeter, Dionysus, 
 and Co.'s entire. 
 
 Just at this moment there came across me 
 the feeling that I was further from London 
 than I ought to be, and that my chance of see- 
 ing Lucy Lovelace that evening was slight. 
 When I accepted Lady Diana's invitation, it 
 was with the notion of a short drive oat of 
 town ; but I was at least twenty-five miles 
 away. When this thought came suddenly 
 upon me, Lady Diana passed from my mind, 
 and my sole idea was to get to Twicken- 
 
 H 2 
 
100 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 liam, to see Lucy. I made inquiries. The 
 last stage coach had passed just as we ar- 
 rived. There was a mail up at twelve. I 
 could have post liorses, but a glance at them 
 sliowed they would not reach London till 
 midnight. 
 
 I was very angry with myself for having 
 tlioughtlessly got into this difficulty. I saw 
 no one else to blame. I did not know then 
 what I know now — that Lady Diana Cregi 
 planned the trip to keep me away from 
 Lucv, and that she had a bet of a hundred 
 guineas on the event. With whom, think 
 Nou ? With my friend Captain Charles 
 Lovelace. However, Lady Diana cared no- 
 thing for the hundred guineas, but it abso- 
 lutely delighted her wicked heart to wile a 
 man away from a girl who loved him. That 
 idiot, Charlie, had told her of my devotion 
 to Lucy ; she, diablease, resolved to interfere. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION* 101 
 
 These things I found out afterwards. That 
 night I accused Lady Diana of nothing 
 worse than a wild caprice. Had I known ! 
 When I came back from my foiled inves- 
 tigation, I ascended the quaint black oak 
 staircase of the old inn, which was brilliant- 
 ly liofhted. A larse room on the first floor 
 was shown me, where preparations for 
 dinner were made ; in the window stood 
 Lady Diana, looking out upon the sunlit 
 afternoon, dressed in white muslin, witli 
 roses in her hair. She certainly had the 
 art of looking marvellously young. As she 
 stood with her back to me in the bay 
 window, her long hair wreatlied with roses, 
 her white arms bared girlishly, one might 
 have thought she w^as a mere girl. This 
 was her policy. She went in for immortal 
 youth. She died many years ago, where- 
 fore I may candidly criticize her character. 
 
102 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 My step caused her to turn, and I saw 
 that she was dressed for conquest. 
 
 "Ah! Sir Edward," she said, " what do 
 you think of the Cre9i Arms ? I am going 
 to teach you that a good dinner is obtainable 
 at a country inn." 
 
 " If it bears your name," I said, "1 Avould 
 fight the man who dared question its cookery 
 or its wines. Diana Cre^i means perfec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Ah ! you are making fun of me, I see. 
 Never mind ; I shall have my revenge." 
 
 " Revenge !" I said, pretending alarm — 
 " don't be too cruel." 
 
 "No, I sliall simply give you so good a 
 dinner that you will be compelled to admit 
 all women are not always fools." 
 
 She did so ; it was a real good dinner for 
 a country inn. Even the vvine was sound. 
 I was not very loquacious during dinner ; I 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 103 
 
 was all the time speculating on my compan- 
 ion's character. There seemed something; 
 entirely original about it. All that time I 
 had not caught any infection from the 
 superstitious epidemic which crops up at 
 intervals. If I had, I might have imagined 
 Lady Diana influenced of unseen spirits — 
 some working good, and some evil. The 
 idea did not occur to me. I regarded her 
 as a very fine, but rather uncanny specimen 
 of the human race. The under-current in 
 her temper was as carefully concealed as 
 cats conceal their claws. 
 
 The port of the Cregi Arms was undeni- 
 able, and I enjoyed it greatly. There was 
 quite an artistic dessert, and the waiters 
 were as easy and dexterous as one's own 
 men-servants. Travel in tlie open air makes 
 a man hungry and drtnvsy ; I was in a state 
 that seemed half-way between apathy and 
 
104 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 felicity. We chatted pleasantly enough 
 through dinner ; quite abruptly Lady Diana 
 said, 
 
 " When are you to be married, Sir Ed- 
 ward?" 
 
 The question took me entirely by sur- 
 prise, but I knew Lady Diana well enough 
 to be aware that she could stand a joke on 
 such a topic ; so I simply said, 
 
 " I have a blank licence in my pocket — 
 may I put in tlie name of Lady Diana 
 Cregi ?" 
 
 " No, you may not, you audacious boy ! 
 But of course you talk nonsense when you 
 are so young. How dare you attempt to 
 flirt with me, when you arc in love with 
 Charlie Lovelace's little sister ? Don't no 
 about on false pretences ; consider yourself 
 married, then you will cease to be danger- 
 ous. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 105 
 
 " Am I dangerous ?" I asked. " I never 
 thought so," 
 
 " Did you ever read the Beaux^ Strata- 
 gem ?" she inquired. 
 
 " Yes — played Archer in it once." 
 
 " Ah ! tlien you remember the catechism 
 of love, and the little catechized girl ? 
 Now let me catechize you. Answer, on 
 pain of not getting another bottle of port." 
 
 " Terrible punishment !" I said. " I will 
 do my best." 
 
 So the catechism besfan : — 
 
 Lady Diana. — Are you in love ? 
 
 Myself.— Yes. 
 
 Lady Diana. — Do you love the lady, or 
 the creature you imagine her to be ? 
 
 Myself.— ^oih. 
 
 Lady Diana. — Be good enough to explain 
 that answer. 
 
 Myself. — Easily. I love in the lady the 
 
106 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 beautiful character which I perceive in her, 
 and I purge that character in my imagina- 
 tion of all the trivial stains given by the 
 world ; and so I love her both as she is to- 
 day, and as she will be in the infinite to- 
 morrow. She is a lovely bud just now ; I 
 love the bud, and also love the future 
 flower. 
 
 Lady Diana. — Does the bud return this 
 sentimental affection of yours ? 
 
 Myself. — I disown the epithet sentimental, 
 and I think it wrono; to " kiss and tell." 
 
 Lady Diana. — You are not the least use 
 in the world to catechize. I have set up a 
 Christmas catechism class at my little place 
 in the country. I shall make you join that 
 class, and learn the eternal verities in words 
 of one syllable. 
 
 Myself. — I like words of one syllable. I 
 also like the eternal verities. The combina- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 107 
 
 tion must be something perfect. I will join 
 your class with pleasure. 
 
 Lady Diana. — Ah ! but I am afraid you 
 are one of the wicked, and my Christmas 
 class is made up of innocent creatures of 
 both sexes. You would come among them 
 like Satan in Eden. 
 
 Myself. — I feel flattered, Lady Diana. I 
 always rather admired Satan, as a resolute 
 rebel, who must have known from the first 
 he had no chance. At the same time, I 
 thought it was hardly worth his while to 
 trouble himself about such very weak crea- 
 tures as the parents of the human race seem 
 to have been. 
 
 Lady Diana. — Then you don't think much 
 of the human race ? 
 
 Myself. — I don't think much of Adam and 
 Eve ; they were hardly equal to you and 
 me. The race has improved. I liave no 
 
108 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 doubt that in a few generations we shall 
 arrive at something much finer. Science, 
 you know, must have its effect. There is a 
 scheme for manufacturing children b}'' steam. 
 Don't you think it would be a great im- 
 provement ? 
 
 Lady Diana. — What dreadful nonsense 
 you talk, Sir Edward ! But it is growing 
 late ; I think I shall go to bed. 
 
 I rancj the boll, and she was liujhted to 
 her room. It was past midnight. I, how- 
 ever, had decided that I would not pass my 
 night at this place. I was restless. I was 
 disgusted at not having seen Lucy. Going 
 downstairs, I found no one about but an 
 " odd man," who apparently took an occa- 
 sional nap in the coal-cellar ; him I aroused, 
 and made him find the key of the stables. 
 On examination, it appeared tliat the only 
 animal with an ounce of go in him was Lady 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 109 
 
 Diana's troublesome ofF-leader; so I iDade the 
 man saddle that unfortunate animal, and 
 gave him a guinea, with instructions not to 
 know anything of what had happened. He 
 leered at me with a wide-mouthed grin of 
 such inimitable immeasurable stupidity that 
 I knew my instructions would be obeyed. 
 
 It was a moonless night, but the sky was 
 full of stars. Orion had written his auto- 
 graph of three initials firmly across the sky. 
 The six Pleiades were radiant, regardless of 
 their lost sister. Sirius was doing his best 
 to look as bright as Venus, and failing 
 utterly. The Milky Way was like unto the 
 cream of Devon. I rode along in a pleasant 
 mood, the soft night air cooling me after 
 ray dinner and wine, while a myriad odours 
 came from the wild-flowers in hedgerow 
 and on open common. 
 
 Never liad I a pleasanter ride. All the 
 
110 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 while I thought of Lucy Lovelace. Her 
 brown hair and violet eyes haunted rae ; the 
 wild-flower fragrance made me remember 
 the roses that she loved, and that seemed to 
 love her in return. I compared her with 
 this witch of a woman who had lured me 
 away. What a chasm lay between them ! 
 Lady Diana was false to the core, anybody 
 might see. She was always playing a part. 
 There was no iota of truth in her. She was 
 all intrigue and manoeuvre. As I rode 
 along beneath the starlit sky, the figure of 
 my darling Lucy was before me. The old 
 roan plodded along, his skittishness quite 
 lost; the stars shone clear; the Cre9i Arms 
 and Lady Diana were left behind, while in 
 front of me shone, in divine purity, the per- 
 fect form of Lucy Lovelace, her exquisite 
 spiritual beauty seen through her fair undu- 
 lations of form. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. Ill 
 
 I did not hurry. It was about three in 
 the morning when I reached Pall Mall, and 
 rang up the Villain. He might possibly 
 have been surprised to see me, if anything 
 could have surprised him. He wasn't. He 
 took the unhappy horse in charge, and 
 walked off with it to some mews or other, 
 while I, feeling reflective, opened a bottle 
 of Champagne, which, with a biscuit, carried 
 me to bed. 
 
 When the mornins: came I was in an un- 
 certain state. I lav and thousjht over the 
 position. Church bells rang (it was Sunday, 
 as it sometimes is . . . the arithmetical equa- 
 tion of Sunday is 142,857), and I wished, 
 with Voltaire, that the ringers had round 
 their necks what they held in their hands. 
 Sunday in London is dreadful, and always 
 has been dreadful. The middle class puts 
 on its best clothes. The worst of it is that 
 
112 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 the best clothes of the middle class cannot 
 be persuaded to fit. 
 
 After some reflexion, I decided not to 
 get up just yet. I rang for the Villain, and 
 got a bottle of hock, and some prawns. 
 This light breakfast (always a favourite of 
 mine) I took quietly in bed. The Villain 
 had brought me the John Bull newspaper, 
 and I laughed greatly over Theodore Hook's 
 wild rhymes. I quite agree with Coleridge 
 that Theodore was as great a genius as Dante. 
 That unerring untiring faculty of improvisa- 
 tion is the sign of wondrous intellectual 
 force. Thackeray and Dickens, rolled into 
 one, had not the power of my friend Theo- 
 dore Hook. 
 
 Late in tlie afternoon I turned out, went 
 to White's, met a few friends, showed my- 
 self, in fact. When evening came I rode 
 down to Twickenham. Rather to my sur- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 113 
 
 prise, Charlie Lovelace was tliere ; not often 
 did he show himself in the conipauy of his 
 mother and sister. But he was here to- 
 night, and he, too, looked grieved, and my 
 beautiful darling Lucy looked perplexed. 
 
 I took extremely slig]it notice of my old 
 friend and his mother. I talked to my own 
 sweet love. I explained her that I had 
 been kept away by an accident. Her lovely 
 blue eyes told me at once that she believed 
 and forgave. 
 
 Strong sighs the sexless woman heaves, 
 And in a whirl of fight she lives : 
 
 Happier the woman who believes, 
 Happier the woman who forgives. 
 
 That man is weak full well we know : 
 We also know that man is strong ; 
 
 'i he weakest man wiU strike a blow 
 ^^'hen woman suffers wicked -wTong. 
 
 'Neath workman's cap or soldier's helm 
 
 Always let loyal blood appear ; 
 And be the maxim of the Realm, 
 
 In England ladies need not fear. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 My darling Lucy was very good. We 
 went, out into the rose-garden. how the 
 roses smelt! how the nightingales san^! 
 how my sweet little love delighted me 
 with her rare and ineffable freshness and 
 beauty ! Lucy ! She was like a wild- 
 flower — a lovely May lily, such as in my 
 boyhood I used to find in Birchanger 
 Wood. Lucy was just as pure and white 
 and fragrant as those wild lilies of May. 
 Lucy was a very foolish little girl (dear 
 Lucy !), as the event will prove — she gave 
 me no end of trouble ; she made me live 
 many years of lonely misery ; but for all 
 tliat Lucy was the sweetest brightest 
 happiest girl in the world ! Ah me, how 
 well I remember her ! The years pass, the 
 girls fade, the senses weaken, the spirit 
 which God gives to man grows stronger as it 
 approaches its next movement through the 
 
 i 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 115 
 
 infinite universe. I have good reason to 
 know this, as my story will show. 
 
 Little Lucy did not say much as to what 
 was the matter with her mother and 
 Charlie ; and T, being perfectly happy in 
 her company, asked no questions. It would 
 have been better if I had. But I merely 
 thought that Charlie was jealous of me with 
 Lady Diana, and wondered much at his 
 taste, and then forgot everything but Lucy. 
 Ah me, it was the last of my happy even- 
 ings at Twickenham, and I shall remember 
 it throughout eternity. Some memories are 
 imperishable. The musical lapse of Thames, 
 the sweet song of the Daulian minstrel, the 
 bright soft eyes of my lovely Lucy, remain 
 on my memory. Ay, that night I was 
 happy ! Well saidst thou, glorious Jolin — 
 
 " Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, 
 But what has been has been, and I have had my hour." 
 
 i2 
 
1 1 6 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 That hour in that garden with Lucy was 
 worth a millennium of common life. Laui^h 
 if you will, you who cannot understand 
 love in its purity, love that is beyond pas- 
 sion and appetite, as the star is beyond the 
 fire, love that can flourish without words, 
 without kisses, without anything but the 
 magnetic interpenetration of two spirits that 
 have become one. You don't understand it, 
 madam ? Well, then, take Sir Anthony 
 Absolute's advice, and, when you marry, 
 begin with a little aversion. 
 
117 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MONDAY NIGHT AND TUESDAY MORNING. 
 
 AsTROLOGOS. — Monday, you know, is the Moon's day, and 
 
 therefore is 
 The week's most certain time for utter lunacy. 
 Raphael. — And Tuesday ? 
 
 Astro LOGOS. — Tuesday is the day of Mars, heau sire ; 
 If you will fight, let Tuesday be the day for it. 
 
 The Comedy 0/ Dreams. 
 
 /"^HARLIE had left when we came in from 
 ^-^ the garden, and Mrs. Lovelace was 
 gone to bed with a headache. How I hate 
 women who are capable of such meanness 
 as going to bed with a headache ! Lucy came 
 down with me to tlie garden gate, where my 
 man was waiting with the horses, and as I 
 
118 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 touched her red little rosebud of a mouth I 
 saw that there was a diamond tear in her 
 eye. But she took leave of me cheerfully, 
 and ran gaily back to the house, singing 
 some whimsical song. I wonder what I 
 should have done that night had I known 
 how loner it would be before I should see 
 her again. Clara luce refulsit. 
 
 I rode slowly home. Next day I was on 
 duty. We were suddenly ordered to Wind- 
 sor ; the King was going down. I sent a 
 messenger with a note to Lucy, saying that I 
 should not be able to see her that evening. 
 I felt rather savage ; I am loyal, but what is 
 your king to your sweetheart? At the same 
 time, I know His Majesty would have given 
 me leave of absence if he had known I was 
 in love. Perhaps if it had been Charles II. 
 instead of George III. I might have plucked 
 up courage and told him. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 119 
 
 I dined at mess that niufht. Colonel 
 Darell presided. We all liked the old 
 Colonel, for he was as fearless as a lion and 
 as crentle as a ladv. The evening would have 
 been pleasant enough, but that Charlie Love- 
 lace, who Avas seated nearly opposite me, 
 glared at everybody, would not speak, and 
 was evidently in an abominable temper. I 
 could not make it out. I could only suppose 
 that he was annoyed because I had gone out 
 with Lady Diana. To me it seemed such a 
 trifle that my chief feeling was pity towards 
 Charlie for carins; about such a woman. I 
 acknowledired Ladv Diana's marvellous flis- 
 cinative force . . . but then Iloved Lucy. To 
 love her was to love truth, purity, intelligence 
 ... to love indeed the God who made her. 
 For you could not really know her without 
 seeing that she came straight from God's 
 hand. Such creatures as my beautiful Lucy 
 
120 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 are not developed from gorillas or ascidians. 
 Colonel Darell, who was seventy that year, 
 left the mess early ; a Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Wynu took the chair. I always liked Wynn, 
 though lie was a Welsliiuan, and as intensely 
 Cambrian as Fluellen himself. When the 
 Colonel had gone we went in for Lafitte and 
 desultory talk. I listened, saying very little 
 indeed, for I was thinkinsc over the divine 
 Sunday evening at Twickenham, and inward- 
 ly grumbling that I was at Windsor that 
 night. The talk was dull ; I had sunk into 
 a contemplative state, and my spirit was 
 away by the margin of Thames, when I was 
 aroused from my reverie by strident sound 
 of Charlie's voice. He was talking, with in- 
 tentional loudness, to his next neighbour. 
 He was saying — 
 
 " Well, I am "lad Lady Diana has re- 
 turned safely. She has had a narrow escape, 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 121 
 
 I should think. Where did they pass the 
 niglit, I wonder?" 
 
 " Somewhere in Surrey," said Lieutenant 
 Rolfe. " All London is talkins; about it. 
 They say everybody will cut Lady Di." 
 
 " Rolfe," I said, sharply, across the table, 
 " what are you talking about ? Lady Diana 
 Cre^i drove me into Surrey on Saturday 
 night, and I came up to town tlie same 
 evening. I know very little of her lady- 
 ship, to whom, by the way, I was introduced 
 by my friend Lovelace ; but it appears to 
 me that her name ought not to be lightly 
 mentioned at our mess-table." 
 
 " Quite right. Sir Edward," said AVynn, 
 oracularly. 
 
 But Charlie, who was evidently in a fury 
 of jealousy, rose from his seat, and threw 
 the contents of his glass at me, saying, 
 
 "I'll name Diana where and when I 
 
122 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 like. Choose your weapons, if you are not 
 a coward !" 
 
 I am not a coward. I was, physically, 
 in my early boyhood, but I got it well 
 thrashed out of me at school. Cowardice 
 is a vague term. In a sensitive frame it is 
 merely the dislike to physical pain. Moral 
 coura2;e — bv wliicli I mean the will — is far 
 more useful than the mere physical courage 
 of the dull strong human animal. The man 
 wlio can say / luill has found the fulcrum 
 desired by Archimedes. 
 
 A few drops of Charlie's claret fell on the 
 ruffles at my wrist. I was sorry, for his 
 sake as well as liis darling sister's ; but 
 thinu;s of this kind admit one onlv solution. 
 Fownes Luttrel was sitting next me ; with- 
 out even glancing at Charlie, I said to 
 Fownes, 
 
 " Will you arrange this affair? Let it be 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 123 
 
 as early as possible to-morrow morning. I 
 never £i;o to bed when I have to fi^ht — it 
 chills one." 
 
 I think, from what I have since heard, 
 that poor Charlie was ratlier puzzled by my 
 cool wav of receiviniij his insult. He was 
 not sober, dear old boy ; had it been any- 
 where but our mess I'd have reasoned with 
 him in friendlv fashion, and sot liim to see 
 that he had made a fool of himself. But 
 this was obviously impossible at a regimental 
 mess. Insult is rightly inexcusable among 
 men whose profession is war. I knew I 
 must fight Charlie. It made me horribly 
 unhappy ; whether I killed Charlie, or 
 Charlie killed me, what would Lucy say? 
 Ah ! the grey morning on the heath . . , 
 the hostile forms vaguely looming through 
 the mist . . . the chill sad feeling of 
 meeting an old friend as a new enemy. We 
 
1 24 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 were to fight with pistols ; how I wished it 
 could have been the rapier ! But I was 
 known to be the best fencer in the Guards, 
 and so I could not use the weapon which 
 would have enabled me to disarm Charlie 
 without taking a drop of his blood. On the 
 other hand, I am an abominably bad shot, 
 so it seemed as if I were marked down for 
 destruction. 
 
 I resolved to fire in the air. Charlie 
 might kill me if he liked. But, just as the 
 handkerchief dropped, I felt a sharp touch 
 on my right arm, and my bullet, which was 
 to have been harmless, shot Charles Love- 
 lace right through the heart. He, firing 
 first, caused his own death. He never 
 spoke a word. Mine was a slight flesh- 
 wound in tlie forearm, wliich a little lint 
 set right. 
 
 I was stunned. It was the end of my 
 
TRANSMIGEATION. 125 
 
 life, I saw. I could not marry Lucy now. 
 She would never speak again to the man 
 who had killed her brother. When I had 
 seen that Charlie was dead — my old friend, 
 dead by deed of mine — 1 walked blindly 
 away across the heath. Luttrel wanted me 
 to drive home quietly, but I exclaimed 
 hoarsely, 
 
 " Let me alone ! — let me alone !" 
 I walked away from the scene of murder, 
 and tried to tire myself out by sheer exer- 
 tion. That night I had not slept. I felt 
 ha"f:^ard and hideous. I had killed Charlie ; 
 of course it could never be rightly explained 
 that I did not mean to kill him. But I 
 could never dream of marrying my darling 
 Lucv now ; and how would Lucy feel to 
 me, her brother's murderer? 0, how mad 
 I felt that day ! The power of consecutive 
 thought seemed lost in me, and my brain 
 
126 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 was a hell of hot fancies. I have no idea 
 how I passed the hours which followed the 
 duel. Some mere instinct brought me to 
 my own rooms late in the afternoon ; I 
 went straight to my bedroom, locked myself 
 in, and threw myself on the bed without 
 undressing. Nature avenged herself; I 
 slept — a strange heavy dreamless sleep. I 
 did not awake for hours. 
 
 When I did awake, it was with an inde- 
 scribable feeling of numbness and dejection. 
 I was stupefied. For some time I could 
 not recall what had liappened. When I 
 did, I almost relapsed into my previous 
 madness ; but presently, through mental 
 fatigue, as I suppose, I fell into a state of 
 strange apathy. All that had happened 
 was like a farce. I laughed a strana;e sar- 
 donic laugh at myself for caring that I had 
 killed Charlie and lost Lucy. A kind of 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 127 
 
 fiendish spirit took possession of lue. I re- 
 garded myself as the victim of an inevitable 
 fatality. 
 
 What ought I to have done ? How often, 
 for years and years, did I turn that question 
 over and over ? I ought to have refused 
 Lady Diana's invitation ; I ought to have 
 forgiven Charlie's insult ; I ought to have 
 fired in the air more carefully ; I ought, all 
 these other mistakes having been made, to 
 have gone to see Lucy. Ah ! there I was a 
 coward. I dared not. I knew I could not 
 venture to look into her tear-dim lued eyes. 
 
 I don't know how long I was alone, in a 
 state of incredible languor. When I began 
 to think of time, it was very early in the 
 morning. I went to my window, and was 
 rewarded by seeing Pall Mall looking 
 dreary beyond measure beneath a heavy 
 " weeping " fog ; the air was yellow. The 
 
128 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 chill of the miserable morning, so exactly 
 suited to my wretched situation, smote me 
 to the marrow. I could think of nothing 
 but my own amazing ill-luck ; I dared no 
 more think of Lucy than Adam dared think 
 of Eden after the cherubim had been set on 
 guard to warn him from its irates. I felt 
 rebellious. I did not see what I had done 
 to deserve such a series of misfortunes. 
 Again I tlirew myself on the bed, and tried 
 to forget my care in sleep. It could not be 
 done. I rang the bell at last, and when 
 the Villain came, told him to light a fire, 
 and brinsT some coffee. 
 
 o 
 
 To do the Villain justice, he was wonder- 
 fully attentive on this occasion. I think he 
 had a kind of liking for me. Of course he 
 had heard of the duel, and knew well 
 enough what was the matter with me ; but 
 he offered no remark. He lighted the fire, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 129 
 
 prepared breakfast, brought up the Courier 
 and a pile of letters. Whea he had finished, 
 I dismissed him. Sitting in an easy-chair 
 by the fireside, I drank a cup of strong 
 coifee, with some brandy in it, and strove, 
 but strove vainly, to eat. Under the covers 
 were several tempting trifles, but I could 
 touch none of them. 
 
 I took up the morning paper ; the very 
 first thing I saw was an account of the duel. 
 I turned to my letters. None looked in- 
 viting. The first was from Norton & Co., 
 with a formidable account of ray liabilities, 
 suggesting either prompt payment or ad- 
 ditional security. My next was from Ezra 
 Sykes, informing me that the year was a 
 very bad one, and that my rents were diffi- 
 cult to collect, and that I was considerably 
 in advance of my income. I laughed cynic- 
 ally. I felt quite an agreeable sensation 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
1 30 TKANSMIGRATION. 
 
 when I thought of being ruined. It served 
 me right. I had killed my friend, and 
 broken my mistress's heart — to have flung 
 away my property completed the circle of 
 my achievements. These letters gave me an 
 appetite. I ate some kidneys aux fines 
 herbes, though they were getting cold. 
 
 What to do? My energy returned. I 
 had a bath and dressed. I went first to my 
 agents, and instructed them to sell my com- 
 mission promptly. Then I went to Rich- 
 mond, hired a boat, and rowed to Twicken- 
 ham, past the lawn of Mrs. Lovelace's house 
 — I yearned to know something of Lucy. I 
 could only see that every blind in the house 
 was drawn. T went ashore, got writing 
 materials at an inn, and wrote a few lines to 
 my darling. They were incoherent, I know. 
 I tried not to throw any blame on Charlie, 
 though I knew he was more to blame than 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 131 
 
 1. If Lucy could have seen me as I wrote, 
 I think she might ahnost have been per- 
 suaded to forgive me. I sent the note by 
 a messenger, ordering him to wait for an 
 answer. It came soon enough, written on 
 paper with a wide black edge. 
 
 " Mrs. Lovelace, on behalf of herself and 
 her daughter, declines all farther intercourse 
 with Sir Edward Ellesmere." 
 
 They gave me some very fair port wine 
 at that Twickenham tavern. I finished the 
 bottle, with aid of an anchovy toast, and 
 then returned to London in a state of rebel- 
 lious disgust. The world was against me, 
 clearly. I had got into a downward cur- 
 rent, as much by other people's fault as my 
 own. Only a few days ago the happiest 
 man in England, with every hope of a pleas- 
 ant country home, with a lovely and loving 
 wife. I was now about the most miserable 
 
 k2 
 
132 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 of human beings. Why should this be, 
 through the fault of others ? This was the 
 ceaseless question in my mind. It seemed 
 so infernally unfair. 
 
 I could not remain in London. I told 
 the Villain to pack up a few things in a 
 valise, and started that night by the mail 
 for Northamptonshire. I drove most of 
 the way, to the delight of the coachman, 
 who pocketed his guineas and rested his 
 arras. We reached the " George " at North- 
 ampton earlier than usual. 
 
133 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EZRA. 
 
 " Oculus domini saginat equum." 
 
 VTEXT morning I took horse and rode to 
 ■^^ Ellestnere. Years had passed since 
 I had visited my old home. The terrible 
 blow which I had received made me reflect 
 sadly on the foolish way in which I had 
 neglected my estates and wasted my life. 
 The whole of my career unwound itself 
 slowly before my eyes, and I felt that it was 
 a series of lamentable blunders. I left be- 
 hind me a murdered friend and an estranged 
 
134 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 mistress ; I came to find an estate neglected 
 and impoverished. It was a dreary situa- 
 tion for a young man who had started with 
 all the materials necessary for a distinguished 
 career. 
 
 Soon I saw the old gables and turrets of 
 Ellesmere in the distance. But before I 
 reached it I had to pass a very handsome 
 mansion, newly built, among pleasant gar- 
 dens, standing on a spot where I remem- 
 bered open common. Who could live 
 there, I wondered? — who had been cool 
 enough to enclose a part of my manor ? 
 There was no one near of whom to inquire, 
 so I pushed on to Ellesmere. 
 
 The place was terribly altered since my 
 father's days. The beautiful gardens were 
 devoted to the growth of the commonest 
 vegetables ; sheep grazed in the park where 
 there used to be herds of deer ; the shutters 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 1 8 
 
 of all the windows were closed, and I could 
 not detect a wreath of smoke from any 
 chimney. Everything seemed so melan- 
 choly that I felt almost inclined to ride 
 back to Xorthampton at once. The gates 
 were open, the lodge was unoccupied. I 
 rode to the front door, and rang a tremen- 
 dous peal on the bell. It brought a rough- 
 looking country lout from somewhere be- 
 hind. He said with surly civility, 
 
 "What's your will, master? Nobody 
 lives here now." 
 
 "Whose house is it?" I said sternly. 
 
 " You'd better ask Mr. Sykes. 1 suppose 
 he knows." 
 
 " Where is Sykes ?" 
 
 "0, he lives down below in that new 
 house. He's a nice 'un, he is." 
 
 " Open the front door," I said. " This 
 house is mine. I am Sir Edward EUesraere." 
 
186 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Open the door — tlieu go and fetch 
 Sykes." 
 
 The fellow evidently did not understand 
 what it all meant; but my tone of command 
 made him obedient, and I soon heard the 
 unaccustomed bolts creaking in the locks. I 
 entered. There was a room on the rio-ht 
 my father had used to receive visitors on 
 business ; I had the shutters opened, and 
 waited there for Sykes, striding up and 
 down impatiently amid the dust of years. 
 
 Ezra came. His hair was white — his 
 lank frame liad grown portly ; he was 
 dressed most respectably. He entered the 
 room with a doubtful look, as if not know- 
 ing whether to be servile or impudent. 
 
 " You are quite a stranger. Sir Edward," 
 he said. " I am sorry you did not give 
 me notice, that I might have had some 
 rooms prepared for you. Perhaps you will 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 137 
 
 condescend to stay at my little place." 
 
 " Your little place," I said, " appears to 
 
 be built on part of the common. I have no 
 
 recollection of "ivinof leave that this should 
 
 O O 
 
 be done." 
 
 " You left me general permission to man- 
 age your affairs, Sir Edward, and of course 
 it was necessary I should be on the spot." 
 
 " Being on the spot," I replied, " you 
 might have kept this house and grounds in 
 order." 
 
 " What I did was for economy's sake. Sir 
 Edward. You know you required very 
 large sums of money. There seemed no 
 need to keep up a staff of servants." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you might have kept servants 
 enough to prevent the place from being 
 ruined. I call this disgraceful ! Am I to 
 be without a dinner or a bed in my own 
 house ? You had better get some people 
 
138 TRAXSMIGRATIOX. 
 
 in, and prepare rooms for me at once. 
 After that, I will talk about business." 
 
 " You received ray letter, Sir Edward ?" 
 
 " Oh ! ves — I received your letter, I will 
 talk about that as soon as you can produce 
 your accounts in a fit state for examination. 
 Meanwhile, see if you can get some part of 
 the house made habitable." 
 
 My abrupt and irritated manner frighten- 
 ed Ezra, who shuffled off to obey orders. 
 I was in a lovely temper — everything was 
 going wrong. Well, I would fight to the 
 end, and see if I could not discomfit some 
 of my enemies. It was bad enough to kill 
 my friend in a duel, and to lose my ladylove, 
 but when, in addition, I found my house 
 shut up and no apparent chance of dinner, 
 things became intolerable. 
 
 However, the worthy scouncb-el Sykes 
 exerted himself. He sent up his own ser- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 139 
 
 vants, and emptied his own larder ; he had 
 not had the audacity to invade the wine- 
 cellar, so I succeeded in getting a good 
 bottle of claret, to wash down a sirloin of 
 the juiciest, grown, of course, by an ox of my 
 own. 
 
 Before the post went out I wrote a letter 
 to my London agents, telling them to send 
 down at once, without regard to expense, 
 an accountant from the city, with ample 
 experience in landed propert3^ I also 
 wrote to Norton for a statement of account. 
 
 For the next day or two I was alone. I 
 told Sykes that business must, for the pre- 
 sent, be deferred. I could see he was evi- 
 dently in suspense, and at a nonplus. He 
 had never expected to see rae so resolute. 
 For my part, there was a melancholy in my 
 father's old house which seemed to calm my 
 maddened brain ; I could see him and my 
 
140 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 mother again, as they sat in the library or 
 wandered upon tlie terrace. One night, 
 when I had been in bed some hours, I 
 awoke suddenly believing that I heard the 
 orcjan in the hall — and the music was a 
 plaintive melody my mother loved. I sprang 
 from bed and descended the stairs, the 
 music dwelling in my ear all the while ; I 
 half-fancied I should see my mother in her 
 long-remembered seat, her white hands 
 playing with the keys, my father bending 
 over her. Ah no, the hall was still ; the 
 organ shut, the silence saddening. No foot- 
 fall or rustle of silk proclaimed the flight of 
 the spectral organist. It was all a dream — 
 a dream that had rested on brain and dwelt 
 in the ear after the passing of sleep. And 
 yet — was it a dream wholly ? Might it not 
 be a visionary revealing of my mother's sat- 
 isfaction in what I was now doing ? 
 
TRANSAnORATION. 141 
 
 My agents sent down an accountant, and 
 Norton sent down his account. The ac- 
 countant was a Scotchman of sixty, named 
 Fraser, who had evidently lived upon 
 figures all his life. He came just in time for 
 dinner ; over our wine I told him what I 
 had done (or rather, left undone), and what 
 I proposed to do. 
 
 " You are quite right," he said, with a 
 kind of deliberate drawl that seemed to in- 
 dicate profound reflexion. " You will pro- 
 bably find matters not half so bad as these 
 people are interested in proving ; but it 
 generally ends, when accounts have ran so 
 long, in some sort of compromise. Of 
 course you have kept no account of the 
 suras advanced by Norton or supplied by 
 Sykes ?" 
 
 He put this with an amusing air of pity, 
 as if the idea of a man in my position keep- 
 
142 TRANSMIGRATIOX. 
 
 ing accounts was really too absurd. Why, 
 you might as well expect your dog to read. 
 Homer. In reply to my negative he said : 
 
 " There will be my main difficulty. But I 
 shall conquer it, if I can make them think 
 you did keep accounts." 
 
 Fraser rewarded himself for this astute 
 idea by another glass of port. Then he 
 went on : 
 
 " I have had many experiences with men 
 of this kind, Sir Edward. It is like a game 
 of whist ; the great point is, to discover your 
 opponent's cards. Now, in the present in- 
 stance, you and I are partners against Norton 
 and Sykes," 
 
 " I'm no better than a dummy," I said, " if 
 as good." 
 
 " My dear sir," said Fraser, " you once 
 held all the trumps, but played them very 
 badly ; you still hold the ace, being the 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 143 
 
 actual possessor of a great estate, however 
 much deteriorated and entangled. I shall 
 extricate you from labyrinthine imbroglios, 
 and we shall win the odd trick at least." 
 
 Fraser was fond of long words, which he 
 paired rather oddly, and of metaphors which 
 he sometimes mixed. But he was an ac- 
 countant of the first order, born with an 
 intuitive faculty for unravelling accidental 
 or intentional muddles ; while his long ex- 
 perience had made him familiar with the 
 greedy moneylender and the dishonest 
 steward, and he knew, by an inevitable in- 
 stinct, where to put his fi.nger on the weak 
 points in their transactions. 
 
 I gave him carte blanche, and left him to 
 encounter the two scoundrels — one my 
 schoolfellow and the other my guardian — on 
 his plan. Only one point I was determined 
 about — to investigate to the utmost the cir- 
 
144 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 cumstances of Sykes's building on my manor 
 without leave, and to bring him to an ac- 
 count. As for me, I sent to London for 
 the Villain, and for my horses and groom ; 
 and spent my days in solitary rides about 
 the country, dining with Fraser at about 
 eight. I relapsed into a kind of apathy, 
 pending the settlement of m}^ affairs. I did 
 not even open my letters. I felt stunned 
 and weary ; ray time was divided between 
 the saddle and sleep. Strange to say, I 
 could sleep dreamlessly ; my brain, I think, 
 was so shocked that its imaginative power 
 had suffered paralysis. When I rode out, 
 the brisk motion and fresh air seemed to 
 give me a kind of languid pleasure ; when I 
 went to bed, it was with a feeling that T 
 should be glad to sleep always. I should 
 have welcomed that impossibility of the 
 scientist, annihilation. I read no journals 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 145 
 
 at that time, though the war was at its 
 fiercest. 
 
 Ezra Sykes and Algernon Norton were 
 disgusted when they found they had Fraser 
 to meet ; he was known as a redoubtable 
 antagonist. I forget how many months he 
 was at Ellesmere ; but at length he came to 
 me with a statement of what he could effect. 
 He had immensely reduced Norton's claim, 
 and had made Sykes a debtor to the estate ; 
 but still my extravagances had been such 
 that he saw no way of clearing the property 
 except by my letting the place, and allow- 
 ing the rents to accumulate for gradual pay- 
 ment of arrears. 
 
 "I sliould not live here in any case," 1 
 said. "It would drive me mad." 
 
 " Well," replied Fraser, " an unobjec- 
 tionable tenant is easily found. Indeed, I 
 think I can find one immediately." 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 "What about Sykes's house?" I asked. 
 
 '" He has taken counsel's opinion, and 
 finds he is in ,the wrong. He offers ten 
 thousand pounds for the land on which he 
 has built." 
 
 "Ten thousand pounds, that he stole from 
 me, in return for land that he also stole ! 
 No ; turn him out at once. I will not have 
 the reptile within sight." 
 
 Fraser remonstrated, but I was resolved. 
 Within a week Sykes left his new mansion, 
 T think he was glad to get away from 
 within my reach, but a grocer's widow, 
 whom he had married for her money, and 
 her two daughters (by the grocer), execrat- 
 ed me as an abominable tyrant, and called 
 ])Oor Ezra a mean-spirited wretch for giving 
 in without an action at law. Mrs. Sykes 
 and the two Miss Figgeses had been quite 
 the chief people of the neighbourhood for 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 147 
 
 some years; they went away in a great 
 rage. 
 
 The next thins; I did excited Eraser's re- 
 monstrance still more. I pulled down 
 Sykes's house, removed his conservatories, 
 destroyed his gardens (leaving only trees 
 and shrubs), and restored the place to its 
 previous condition of common land. I 
 would have no trace of the pestilent rascal 
 in the vicinage. The materials did well to 
 build a row of cottages for labourers, which 
 happened to be much wanted. Thus, thank 
 God, I was relieved from Ezra Sykes, who 
 has never crossed my path since. 
 
 l2 
 
148 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LORD LESBURY. 
 
 " 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 Than never to have loved at all." 
 
 riRASER, as he supposed, was able to 
 -■- obtain a tenant immediately for the 
 house, and park, and the home-farm. Cu- 
 riously, it was a client of his own, a good deal 
 in my position — the young Earl of Lesbury. 
 Lord Lesbury's father had been so extrava- 
 gant that on his death it became necessary 
 to let Lesbury Hall for a terra of years, and 
 the young Earl found himself with a very 
 sinall income indeed. But within a twelve- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 149 
 
 month a rich bachelor uncle, high in the In- 
 dian service, died, leaving him a very 
 large fortune ; and, as he was anxious to 
 have a place in the country, while waiting 
 to re-enter his own demesne, he was glad to 
 make an offer for Ellesmere. He, as well 
 as I, had been Fraser's client, and the ar- 
 rangement between us was quickly made. 
 
 He came down to look at the place, and 
 we seemed to become friends at once. 
 There was a candour about him, a luminous 
 temperament, that reminded me of Lucy. 
 It was almost painful to be in his company 
 on this account, but it was a pleasurable 
 pain. I soon found out the meaning of this. 
 On the first night of his visit we were sitting 
 together after dinner, Fraser having left us, 
 no doubt designedly, when Lesbury said, 
 
 " Sir Edward, there is one thing I must 
 ' tell you — pardon me if it gives you pain — 
 
150 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 I am a first cousin of Charles Lovelace." 
 
 " And of Lucy," I thought. " No wonder 
 I felt a strange trouble." 
 
 But I said nothing. 
 
 " I know what happened between you 
 and Charlie," he said, " and I can assure you 
 that I, in common with every man to whom 
 I have spoken on the subject, think that 
 the fault was entirely his." 
 
 " Not entirely," I said. " Chiefly, I ad- 
 mit ; but if I had possessed more strength of 
 mind, I might have prevented the duel, and 
 saved myself from life-long sorrow." 
 
 " I never could understand Charlie's lay- 
 ing a trap for you as he did. It was so dif- 
 ferent from his usual character." 
 
 " He was maddened by jealousy. He had 
 led too fast a life, and it did not suit him." 
 
 " Not faster than yours," said Lord Les- 
 bury, " if I may say so." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 151 
 
 " Not so fast. But I am an easy Epi- 
 curean, to whom self-indulgence is only too 
 natural. Charlie was a Stoic, created for 
 hard work and brave deeds, who took to 
 dissipation because he was weary of enforced 
 inaction. He was born to command, and 
 might have been a Wellesley if he had had 
 the chance." 
 
 *' And you, Sir Edward?" 
 
 " 0, I might have been a Cotton, perhaps." 
 
 There was silence for a time; then Les- 
 bury said, 
 
 " I have something more to tell you, if 
 you will kindly have patience to listen. 
 Years ago Lucy and I were boy and girl 
 sweet-hearts. When she grew into her 
 beautiful youth I loved her, but I saw she 
 regarded me simply as a brother. Of course 
 I said no word. When you were visiting at 
 Twickenham I was away in Warwickshire, 
 
152 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 trying to arrange my father's affairs ; but I 
 saw her once, duringahasty visit to London, 
 and she spoke of you in a way that showed 
 me you loved each other. It gave me a 
 pang, but I was sincerely glad she would be 
 happy. I have not seen her since till about 
 a month aQ;o." 
 
 " Is she changed ?" I asked. 
 
 " She is more serious, perhaps, though 
 she always had her fits of melancholy. It 
 is a serene sadness ; she reminds me of a 
 Madonna of Raphael's that I saw^ in Italy. 
 Her eyes have a remote look ; she is more 
 beautiful than ever. She spoke of you." 
 
 "She did?'" 
 
 "Yes. 'I must never see Edward asrain 
 
 o 
 
 in this world,' she said. ' If it were right, I 
 could not bear it. Ah ! and, besides, I 
 should be afraid of myself and of him. We 
 could not meet coldly. You may tell him 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 153 
 
 what I say, Harry, if you should ever see 
 hiio.' I think I remember her very words." 
 
 I could not speak to thank him. My face 
 was hidden by my hands. He rose and 
 paced the room, respecting my grief. 
 
 After a long pause, I said, 
 
 " Lesbury, I thank you. Do not speak 
 to me again of Lucy." 
 
 " I will not," he said ; "but I wish to say 
 something more noiv. May I ?" 
 
 " Go on," I replied. 
 
 " How should you feel if Lucy were to 
 marry f 
 
 " I hope she will. It will only add to 
 my own grief to think of her as living a 
 lonely life. If she should marry a good 
 man, and have children, all this will be only 
 a bitter-sweet memory of the past, to be re- 
 called in melancholy hours. 0, I wish 
 her to marry !" 
 
154 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " You speak generously and nobly. I 
 love her still. I have never in ray life said 
 a word to her of love. But, as we are first 
 cousins, and know each other sow^ell, I have 
 thought in time she might learn to love me 
 a little. It would be a love like twilight at 
 first." 
 
 " A mornino; twilight, that becomes full 
 noon in time," I replied. " You have my 
 heartiest wishes. I know that with you 
 Lucy will be happy — happier, perhaps, than 
 she misjht have been with me." 
 
 No more was said. I dreamt that night 
 of Lucy at Ellcsmere, not my wife but 
 another's, and wealth of roses blooming to 
 greet their queen, and nightingales singing 
 passionately through the sweet Summer 
 niirhts. But in that dream I was not miser- 
 
 o 
 
 able — for there had risen in my heart a 
 mighty desire for Lucy's happiness. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 155 
 
 Very soon after this I left Ellesmere to 
 Lesbur}^, and went forth on a pilgrimage. I 
 discharged all ray servants, the Villain among 
 the rest ; he was profoundly sorry to go, 
 and I don't wonder at it. He must have 
 made a very fine income out of my follies ; 
 the rumour reached me that he himself set 
 up as a countrj'^ gentleman, and eventually 
 got into the society of people whom he had 
 previously seen when standing behind my 
 chair. Why not ? Has not a footman be- 
 come a Secretary of State ? 
 
 Fraser advised me not to draw more than 
 two thousand a year from the property, and 
 I had inwardly determined to live on much 
 less than that, in order to free my paternal 
 estate. My mothers large inheritance, I 
 should have mentioned earlier, passed to 
 the Lyle family on her death. But Elles- 
 mere was a noble property, if only I could 
 
156 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 clear off the encumbrances ; and this I 
 resolved to do, having a special object there- 
 in. 
 
 Lesbury wished to correspond with me. 
 I told him that he might write to me when 
 he found his happiness secured, but that I 
 wished, for a time at least, to isolate myself 
 from all my friends and acquaintances. I 
 wanted to try a new kind of life Too long 
 had I been travelling in one groove — the 
 straight and swift descent to Avernus; I 
 pined to take a wholly different track. 
 Lesbury tried liard to persuade me to keep 
 up a correspondence with him, but could 
 not shake my resolution. It was at last 
 agreed that he should write to me, under 
 care of Fraser, wlicn he had asked Lucy 
 and received her answer. 
 
 He seemed more grieved than I when I 
 rode away one A])ril morning entirely alone. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 157 
 
 I had kept from my stud a famous brown 
 hunter, Mazeppa, steady and strong, and a 
 splendid fencer ; on him, with a valise strap- 
 ped to the saddle, containing the merest 
 necessaries, I rode away from Ellesmere. I 
 took with me a good stock of money, not 
 wishing to communicate with Fraser for 
 some time. Lesbury went with me to the 
 gate, where I grasped his hand with a 
 hearty wish for his success, and cantered 
 away across the wide common, no longer 
 made hideous by Ezra Sykes's mansion. 
 
 What was I leaving behind ? My father's 
 house ; my true love ; my wasted life. No 
 pleasant thought for a man past his fresh- 
 ness of youth — past the days of illusion. A 
 time comes when you comprehend the 
 world, and find that much of what you 
 deemed its beauty was the mere creation of 
 your own ebrious brain. Somebody says 
 
158 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 that youth is a perpetual fever ; my youth 
 was. I have since learnt that you can only 
 be happy when you see the world as it is, 
 not as you fancied it in your early deliriumi 
 of delight. But to see the world as it is ! 
 who can do it ? Some regard it through 
 the golden glass of perpetual sunshine ; 
 some through the blue glass of perpetual 
 frost. What we want is the white light of 
 truth. 
 
 I rode for weeks through the lovely 
 weather of April ; and, though I did not 
 forget my great grief, I felt some consola- 
 tion in the thought that I had now acted 
 rightly. Great strength and solace nature 
 gave me, in the song of heaven-seeking sky- 
 lark, and cyclic flight of ever-returning swal- 
 low — with wealth of wild flower, and music 
 of brook, and delicious breath of wind. 
 And from humanity I also found relief; 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 159 
 
 country folk, peasant lasses, had their gay 
 greeting for the traveller, gave information 
 in a kindly way ; landlords of wayside inns 
 apologised for their humble accommodation, 
 yet made me far more comfortable than 
 when I stopped at an hotel at The Bath or 
 at Weymouth. I seldom met a churl, 
 though those were rougher times than these ; 
 and I often thought, what a pity it is the 
 different classes of the English do not 
 know each other more intimately. I am of 
 the same opinion to this day, after an ex- 
 perience without parallel. The poor have 
 something to learn from the rich ; the rich 
 have quite as much (perhaps more) to learn 
 from the poor. 
 
 On the last day of April, being a Sunday, 
 late in the evening, I rode into a small mid- 
 land village, and pulled up at what seemed 
 to be the principal inn. It was a large 
 
160 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 rambling two-storied place, with a rustic 
 porch in front, where smokers were sitting. 
 The landlord came forward in his shirt- 
 sleeves, and a boy ran to hold Mazeppa, and 
 I dismounted. On asking whether I could 
 have supper and a bed, mine host began to 
 apologise at once, but I cut him short by 
 saying that I was used to rough living, and 
 could eat anything and sleep anywhere. Upon 
 this he showed me into the bar, where a 
 not unwelcome fire was burning, and went 
 to consult the " missus." The favourable 
 result of this conclave being quickly an- 
 nounced, I went off to look after Mazeppa. 
 
 The landlady wanted to do me honour 
 by putting me in a private room, but I was 
 too old a campaigner. 
 
 " No," I said, decidedly, " this is far too 
 comfortable a corner for me to leave. And 
 I dare say you will have company pres- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 161 
 
 ently, and then I shall hear some clever 
 talk." 
 
 " Ah, that you will, sir," said the land- 
 lord. " I don't think e'er a man in Eng- 
 land knows so much about old Bonypart as 
 our Will Smiter, the blacksmith ; and I be- 
 lieve, if he were to be Minister, we should 
 soon have that fellow in a cage to show as 
 a wild beast." 
 
 " Nonsense about Will Smiter," said the 
 landlady ; " Mr. Drawl, the parish clerk, 
 knows far more than he does. As how 
 shouldn't he, seeing that he has to help the 
 Rector on with his surplice every Sunday 
 morning? — if so be he comes, that is." 
 
 The difference of opinion between land- 
 lord and landlady as to the village oracles 
 did not prevent my having a capital supper. 
 I got a joint of roast lamb, and some first- 
 class home-brewed ale. I thought I might 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 TKAXSMIGRATION. 
 
 as well finish the entertainment with some 
 wine, " for the good of the house," and was 
 surprised by getting an excellent bottle of 
 port — though port was much better at the 
 beginning of the century than it has ever 
 been since. 
 
 The village wiseacres arrived while I was 
 engaged with my wine. It was easy to 
 recognize Mr. Drawl by his seedy, semi- 
 clerical look, and Mr. Smiter by the stal- 
 wart hammer-hardened muscles that seemed 
 to resent compression within unaccustomed 
 sleeves. Other rural luminaries were pres- 
 ent, but I cannot recollect them all. 
 
 The village debate this evening did not 
 deal with Bonaparte and the Ministry. Two 
 other topics of closer interest made this 
 bucolic senate neglect foreign affairs. The 
 next day was May Day ; there was a may- 
 pole, a wake, and the like; and a tremen- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 163 
 
 dous scliism had occurred between the vil- 
 lagers as to who should be Queen of the 
 May, I should hardly have recollected the 
 names of the two candidates but for their 
 country origin ; one was Ruth Greenland, 
 the other Mary Appleyard. No choice had 
 been made ; the wise seniors anticipated, 
 apparently with pleasure, the appearance of 
 two rival Queens, and a free fight between 
 the lads of the village of the opposing 
 Greenland and Appleyard factions. It was 
 Montagu and Capulet in miniature. 
 
 On the other topic they spoke with bated 
 breath. "Mad Will Scudamore was back." 
 With some difficulty, their dialect being 
 peculiar, I found that this worthy was a 
 native of the village ; that he had been 
 the plague of the place till he 'listed for a 
 soldier ; that he came back, having deserted, 
 and turned highwayman, so that none of 
 
 M 2 
 
164 TRAXSMIGRATION. 
 
 the roads were safe ; that he had been away, 
 nobody knew where, for three or four 
 years ; that now he was back again, and 
 had robbed several people quite lately. He 
 rode an iron-grey horse, but nobody could 
 guess where he lived, unless it was at 
 Eynsham Caves — which appeared to be some 
 old lead mines. 
 
 I went to bed more amused with the 
 evening's talk than I have often been with 
 the conversation at the mess-table. I slept 
 soundly, and was awakened by sounds of 
 rustical music. Looking from my window, 
 I beheld the tall maypole on the village 
 green, and two opponent bands of young- 
 sters were each bringing forward a rival 
 queen. One, whom I afterwards learnt to 
 be the Greenland, was a tall slender girl, 
 who looked as if she were dying of con- 
 sumption. The Appleyard was short and 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 165 
 
 round and plump, and looked as if nothing 
 could hurt her, unless she overate herself. 
 Whig and Tory never had better causes of 
 quarrel. Between tall and slender and short 
 and plump there is a definite issue. 
 
 I strolled down before breakfast to see 
 the fun. The rival bands of lads used 
 strong language to each other, but seemed 
 loth to fight. There ought to be a teacher 
 of boxing in every village. These louts had 
 pluck enough to throw stones at each other, 
 but dared nothing further. I was going 
 away to look for breakfast, when I heard 
 Mr. Drawl, the parish clerk, speak with 
 tones of authority. He threatened the 
 ringleaders of the riot with the stocks and 
 the whipping-post, and advised them, as 
 they could not agree which was the prettiest 
 girl, to have two queens, and pass their 
 holiday in a peaceable neighbourly way. 
 
166 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 The sagacious words of this ecclesiastical 
 Nestor allayed the stortn ; the two queens 
 became allies, and I, wishing to cement the 
 peace, handed Mr. Drawl a guinea for each 
 of them, which seemed to give the girls and 
 their lovers amazing delight. I had thrown 
 away such myriads of guineas, just to pass 
 the time, that I walked back to the inn aston- 
 ished at the pleasure two guineas could give. 
 A wholesome country breakfast was pre- 
 pared for me in a parlour looking on a 
 quaint, old-fashioned garden. After that 
 meal, I walked out on the common, where 
 the fun grew fast and furious. If they had 
 begun to dance already, where would their 
 legs be by bed-time ? As I thus reflected, 
 I was joined by the parish clerk and the 
 blacksmith, both of whom looked so anxi- 
 ous that I thought perhaps the French had 
 landed. 
 
TRANSMIGEATION. 167 
 
 " Are )^ou going to travel to-day, sir ?" 
 said Drawl. 
 
 " Towards evening, I think." 
 
 " I ask," continued the parish clerk, 
 " because that highwayman, Mad Will 
 Scudamore, was on the green to-day, and 
 saw you give me money for the girls." 
 
 " On the green !" I said. " Why the devil 
 didn't 3^ou seize him ?" 
 
 "We're all afraid of him," said Smiter. 
 " He's bewitched — you can't hurt him." 
 
 I knew full well it was useless to reason 
 with this sort of superstition. It has an 
 intelligible basis. The most reckless men, 
 whether soldiers or robbers, are always the 
 most fortunate ; if two men meet, of whom 
 one values his life and the other does not, 
 the latter has the advantage ; so I merely 
 said, 
 
 " Well, I am not afraid of the fellow. I 
 
168 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 thought of riding over to a little town called 
 Redborough ; I see it is only a dozen miles 
 by the map, so I need not start till late^" 
 
 Parish clerk and blacksmith both shook 
 their heads sadly, and evidently deemed me 
 lost. Even the landlord and landlady pite- 
 ously remonstrated, when, after a ramble of 
 many hours, and a final glance at the May- 
 day sports (the two queens were somewhat 
 dishevelled and rumpled), I came in for 
 some dinner before starting. I merely 
 laughed at their scruples. 
 
 The sun had set, and there was a bright 
 crescent moon as 1 rode away toward Red- 
 borough. I had pistols in my holsters, but 
 my main reliance was on a heavily-loaded 
 riding-whip, and on my knowledge of 
 Mazeppa's cleverness. I had travelled about 
 four miles, when my quick eye caught some- 
 thing that moved in a lane that joined the 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 169 
 
 high road just in front of me ; I patted my 
 horse's shoulder, and rode rather faster. 
 Out of the dim light came down upon me a 
 man on an iron-grey horse, pistol in hand, 
 shouting some blasphemous threat. 
 
 Quick as light I rode Mazeppa at him ; 
 with one cut of the whip I broke his pistol 
 wrist ; with a second, right on the temple, I 
 struck him from his horse. The animal, 
 too good for his master, stood like a rock. 
 
 A few hundred yards beyond I thought I 
 saw the licrhts of a house. Without waiting 
 to ascertain the scoundrel's condition, I rode 
 forwards, and found a picturesque roadside 
 inn, with a group of splendid trees in front 
 of it. 
 
170 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FIVE TREE HILL. 
 
 Arborum direct! in quincuncem ordines. 
 
 Cicero. 
 
 T REINED up Mazeppa at the inn door ; 
 -^ under the porch stood the landlord, a 
 wiry fellow, shirt-sleeved, erect. He gave 
 me a soldierly salute with the left hand, and 
 I perceived his right arm was gone. 
 
 " Cavalry officer," he said. " Knew the 
 trot. What can I do for your honour ?" 
 
 "I have just knocked over a fellow who 
 tried to rob me," I said. " It was close by 
 here. Can you send some people to see 
 what has happened to him ?" 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 171 
 
 " Why, it must be Will Scudamore, sir," 
 said the landlord. Then he blew a shrill 
 whistle, and several men came running up 
 from the stables. " Go down the road with 
 lanterns ; this gentleman has knocked down 
 a robber. Won't you come in, sir? I'll 
 take the greatest care of your horse, and 
 my wife will take the greatest care of you." 
 
 I dismounted. There seemed no reason 
 why I should trouble myself about this dis- 
 comfited highwayman. I had no particular 
 desire to push on to Redborough, and might 
 just as well see what this old soldier could 
 supply in the way of provender and sleeping 
 arrangement. The place looked promising. 
 I was shown into a parlour comfortably 
 furnished ; and the landlady, a brown dark- 
 haired lass of five-and-twenty, did all she 
 could to make me comfortable. 
 
 Having discovered that a supper and a 
 
172 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 bed were procurable, I visited the stables to 
 see that Mazeppa was well-housed and well- 
 fed. When I returned, they had just brought 
 in the highwayman and his horse. The 
 fellf.w was stunned, but, I am happy to say, 
 not dead. Having, by inadvertence, killed a 
 friend, I had no wish also to kill an enemy. 
 The landlord had him shut up in a room 
 that night, with a man on guard ; and in the 
 mormn^ sent to Redboroudi to the ma^is- 
 trate. The famous iron-grey horse was im- 
 pounded. 
 
 I, being the hero of the hour, got a capital 
 supper, and the best wine the house afford- 
 ed. Things were good, for it was a coach- 
 ing house, and about a dozen coaches chang- 
 ed horses there during the day. This brought 
 in a nice little bit of busitics.^, as the land- 
 lord alleged. When 1 hud dined, I asked 
 him to make a bowl of punch, and to join 
 
TK ANSMIGRATION. 173 
 
 me in drinking it, and we grew quite confi- 
 dential. His buxom wife did not disdain a 
 glass. I soon found out that both the land- 
 lord and his wife were originals. 
 
 "My name, your honour," he said, "is 
 Timothy Short " 
 
 " Well, you needn't be so proud of such a 
 name as that," interrupted the landlady. 
 " I never thought I should live to be Mrs. 
 Short." 
 
 " It was very wrong of you, my dear, to 
 condescend. My wife's a superior w^oman, 
 sir, and I'm afraid I don't exactly do her the 
 justice which her sublime character requires. 
 I've always thou<iht myself rather an un- 
 lucky man, sir ; if vou're born short, and 
 christened Timothy, what are you to expect 
 but to lose your n[^\ arm in battle and marry 
 a scolding wife?" 
 
 " Isnt he a wretch ?" said buxom Mrs. 
 
174 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Short, good-humouredly. " As if I ever 
 scolded him !" 
 
 I saw clearly enough that Timothy and 
 his wife enjoyed these little squabbles, and 
 played them off as a kind of comedy for the 
 amusement of spectators. They were a 
 capital pair. Each had a special humour, 
 and each had opportunity to gratify it. 
 While Tim was absorbingr all the casual 
 news brought by the stage-coaches that 
 breakfasted and dined and supped at his 
 house, Mrs. Tim made herself agreeable to 
 anybody who stayed at the house, whether 
 for an hour or a ni^jlit. 
 
 Timothy Short was by no means short in 
 his narratives ; he made me acquainted that 
 evening with the greater part of his history. 
 I learnt where he had left his riglit arm, and 
 how his wife Barbara came to fall in love 
 with him. He liked to talk about himself, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 175 
 
 but too often got cut short by his wife, who 
 had doubtless heard all his stories so often 
 that she could have told them better than 
 he. I ascertained from him that the inn 
 was the " Romayne Arms," and that the 
 little village around was called Five Tree 
 Hill. The property belonged to General 
 Romayne, who was on foreign service. 
 Timothy, who had been born on the estate, 
 and bad served for years in the General's 
 own regiment, was put into the inn when his 
 wounds compelled him to leave the army. 
 
 "He's a good gentleman, the General," 
 said Tim, " though uncommon fierce. When 
 he came to see me in the hospital he said, 
 ' Short, my man. you shan't starve. There's 
 a new landlord wanted at the little inn at 
 Five Tree Hill, so I've written to my steward 
 that you're to be the man. Get well, go 
 home, and marry a woman that can manage 
 
 \ 
 
176 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 a house, then you'll make your fortune.'" 
 
 " You seem quite in the way to it, Timo- 
 thy," I said. " You've got the right sort of 
 wife, anybody can see. But why is this 
 place called Five Tree Hill ?" 
 
 " There's a story about that, sir. The 
 arms of the Romaynes are five trees. I 
 don't know in what century it was, your 
 honour ..." 
 
 " Any century will do, Timothy," said I, 
 thinking of my uncle Toby. 
 
 " Well, there were five brothers of the 
 Romaynes, and the eldest stayed at home and 
 married, and the other four went out to see 
 the world, and make their fortunes. Before 
 they went they planted five trees in a clump, 
 each putting in one. Years passed away, 
 and nothing was heard of any of them, for 
 I believe it was before writing letters was 
 invented ; but one morning, when the Squire 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 177 
 
 came downstairs, he saw that one of the 
 trees was withered, and said, ' Mv brother is 
 dead.' And the other trees died in the 
 same way, the eldest brother's being last of 
 all. So his son took five trees for his arms, 
 and wherever the Roraaynes settle, they 
 always plant five trees in a cluster. There 
 are five opposite my door." 
 
 There were, as I discovered next morn- 
 ing, when lovely May sunshine brought me 
 down early. As I walked out of the front 
 door I heard the rin^in"; horn of a mail- 
 coach, and ostlers came out with four fresh 
 horses. Up came the mail ; the steaming 
 horses were unharnessed, and rubbed their 
 heads together as they walked into the well- 
 known yard, expectant of corn ; outside 
 passengers tumbled off hastily to snatch a 
 glass of "something short," Timothy being a 
 renowned maker of " lamb's wool." Mrs. 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Short herself appeared at the coach door, 
 to see if any ladies inside required refresh- 
 ment. 
 
 " Harry," said Timothy to the guard, 
 " you needn't carry that old blunderbuss of 
 yours any more ; we've got Will Scudamore 
 safe." 
 
 " You don't mean it !" said coachman and 
 guard at once. 
 
 " I do, though. There's the gentleman 
 that did it. I want you to tell the Red- 
 borough constable, that he may come after 
 him." 
 
 " Well, it's a blessing that scamp's taken. 
 I'll send the constable." 
 
 At this moment off started the fresh team, 
 and the place was quiet. I examined the situa- 
 tion. The high-road ran along the ridge of 
 a long hill ; on the right hand, as you look- 
 ed towards Redborough, there was a wide 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 179 
 
 common, gradually sloping downwards ; on 
 the left a lane that was half grass descended 
 much more steeply to a valley in which 
 water was visible. The Romayne Arms 
 occupied a corner of this lane, the front 
 being in the lane itself, while the stable-yard 
 faced the road. At the opposite corner, on 
 a space of turf, was a quincunx of stately 
 trees ; the centre one a very tall Lombardy 
 poplar, the other an oak, a beech, a walnut, 
 and a Spanish chestnut, all evidently of 
 great age. The sign that swung in front of 
 the Romaj'ne Arms was a real work of art ; 
 this very group of trees was painted on it, 
 and by no mere dauber, clearly. 
 
 The whole aspect of this place pleased 
 me ; the bold sweep of common one side, 
 across which there was a glimpse of Red- 
 borough town ; the steep suggestive lane on 
 the other, with immense trees and crystal 
 
 N 2 
 
1 80 TRAXSMIGKATION. 
 
 water. Half way down the lane on the right 
 hand there seemed to be a cottage buried in 
 trees ; and in front of its gate there was 
 another quincunx, of exactly the same 
 character, A third, as I discovered later, 
 had been planted at the foot of the hill. 
 
 I determined to stay at the Romayne 
 Arms a day or two, and explore the neigh- 
 bourhood. So I went in, and found Mr. 
 Short busy preparing my breakfast. The 
 kitchen was visible from the wide passage ; 
 there was the buxom landlady toasting her- 
 self before a brisk fire, while she delicately 
 toasted my rashers of bacon. The meal 
 was excellent — the freshest cream and eggs 
 and water-cresses ; and Avhen I praised the 
 tea, Timothy said, 
 
 " Well, your honour, it goes against my 
 conscience, having served the King, but I 
 must confess to you tliat tea hasn't paid duty. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 181 
 
 My wife's brother is in that way of business, 
 and. I 'can't quarrel with him for bringing me 
 a chest of good stuff when he comes this way. 
 I hate quarrels between relations." 
 
 " And your wife likes good tea, Timothy. 
 Small blame to her. You needn't let your 
 conscience trouble you ; if the duty had been 
 paid the King wouldn't have got it — it would 
 only have been wasted by his ministers." 
 
 This casuistry gave Tim great satisfaction. 
 
 "Who painted your sign, Timothy?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Ah, sir, I wish I knew. He was a gen- 
 tleman about fifty perhaps, that came here 
 by the down mail one dreadful snowy night. 
 He'd been going further, but the cold was 
 too much for him travelling outside, and he 
 had his luggage got out, and stayed here. 
 He was very feeble at first, and said he had 
 been suffering from a sharp illness ; but he 
 
182 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 got better in a week, and looked quite 
 young again. One day he asked for his 
 bill ; I gave it him, and he paid it, and turn- 
 ed over the gold he had left ('twasn't much) 
 in the palm of his hand with a queer look. 
 ' Landlord,' says he, ' that's all the Dioney 
 I've got, and I ought to be somewhere else 
 making more ; and I don't want to go. 
 That old sign of yours is in a seedy state ; 
 how long will you keep me here if I paint 
 you a first-rate one ?' 
 
 " 'A month, sir,' says I, without thinking; 
 and didn't my missus blow me up when I 
 told her ! But when she saw him put out 
 his easel and sit all day patiently drawing 
 the trees, and bringing out branch after branch, 
 she said, ' He may stay a year if he likes.' 
 The trees were all bare, for the late snows 
 made it a dull spring ; but he painted them 
 as they were — and then, when they came 
 
TRANSMIG RATION. 183 
 
 quickly into leaf with the hot sun, he paint- 
 ed them with their leaves on. So one side 
 of the sign is Winter like, and the other's 
 Summer." 
 
 " I did not notice that, Timothy," I said. 
 " I must look at it." 
 
 They were two masterly pictures, that im- 
 proved as you examined them. The char- 
 acter of each tree had been caught perfect- 
 ly, both with and without its leaves ; you 
 could see from the bare bough that it must 
 have such foliage as the companion picture 
 showed. 
 
 "Well, your honour," continued the 
 garrulous landlord, " he didn't say a word 
 about going away ; but when the sign was 
 finished and hung up, he set to work and did 
 a picture of the house. And then he 
 painted the missus, and then he painted me 
 — they're wonderfully like." 
 
1 84 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " Where are they, Timothy ?" I asked. 
 
 " Upstairs, sir." 
 
 He led me to a large old-fashioned 
 panelled room on the first floor, evidently 
 kept for great occasions — full of nick-nacks, 
 and with two bow-windows, through which 
 the light streamed cheerfully. On the walls 
 were the picture of the inn, and life-size 
 portraits of Timotli}' and his wife, done with 
 real power. There was not only masterly 
 execution — there was also that divination of 
 character which belongs to the great 
 portrait-painters only. The great painter is 
 the best of all historians. What a revelation 
 is there in a portrait of Titian or Vandyke ! 
 I have just seen Mr. Millais castigated by an 
 art-critic for adhering to portraiture ; but if 
 he has the supreme art he is right. Un- 
 luckily the people who can afford to pay 
 the fee of a great portrait-painter are 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 185 
 
 seldom the people whose portraits posterity 
 will care to see. 
 
 "These are admirable, Timothy," I said. 
 " How long did your friend stay with you ?" 
 
 "About eight mouths, 3'our honour. One 
 Autumn morning, when the London coach 
 from Redborough pulled up, he walked out 
 as cool as possible, without any luggage, and 
 got up outside. ' I'm going to London for 
 a day or two, Timothy,' he said. ' Take 
 care of my things; and, by-the-way, just 
 deliver this letter.' He threw down the 
 letter as the coach was off, and I picked it 
 up Avithout looking at it, and told my wife. 
 ' Let's look at the letter,' says she ; and 
 fancy, sir, it was addressed Mr. Timothy 
 Short! So I opened it, and there was a 
 Bank of England note for a hundred pounds, 
 and nothing else in the world. That was 
 two years ago, and I've heard nothing more 
 
186 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 of the gentleman ; his luggage is here still, 
 and I've kept the bank-note, for his paint- 
 ings are worth more than that, I'll swear, 
 and he never cost me half the money." 
 
 Tim insisted on showing me the note ; it 
 was charmingly crisp and new, and bore the 
 magic signature of Abraham Newland. 
 
 " Put it in a frame, Tim," I said, " and 
 hang it up in your bar — it will astonish 
 your visitors. Only mind Mrs. Short takes 
 it up to bed along with you and the silver." 
 
 There was a long morninsf before me. I 
 left the landlord, just full of business through 
 a stage-coach arrival, and strolled down the 
 lane. It was very steep, and by no means 
 straight. Half way down, as I have said, 
 there was another quincunx formed of trees 
 of the same kind ; it stood opposite a green 
 gate, through which I could just catch a 
 glimpse of a pleasant lawn and a quaint cot- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 187 
 
 tage. A thick yew hedge, six feet high, 
 ran down the hill, securing the privacy of 
 the garden. Idly speculating as to who 
 might live there, I passed on to the bottom 
 of the lane. 
 
 This was an idyl. A grass ride, equally 
 tempting in both directions ; parallel with it 
 a clear stream, in which the trout were visi- 
 ble ; on the other side, accessible by step- 
 ping-stones, an ancient chapel, which Hater 
 found was dedicated to Apollonia, that 
 saint whose teeth cured the toothache, and 
 who was kindly so prolific of teeth that 
 many tons of them were found when the 
 monasteries were dissolved. Saintly kindness 
 could go no farther ; St. Apollonia could not 
 have wanted so many teeth for her personal 
 use, though rumpsteaks were probably 
 tougher in her time than in ours. 
 
 The chapel was small and old ; the sur- 
 
188 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 rounding soil had grown up round it ; the 
 windows were mere arrow-slits ; moss and 
 lichen of centuries encrusted it, and there 
 was maiden-hair fern growing on its topmost 
 stones. The door was a round archway. 
 There was not a house in sight, nor a human 
 being; it was a solitude that to me seemed 
 delight. Since I had killed my friend, and lost 
 my love, I pined for nothing but to be alone, 
 unknown. I could bear the company of ab- 
 solute strangers, people not of my own class ; 
 but I preferred absolute solitude. I did 
 not brood over my great trouble ; I accepted 
 my fate, and hoped that Lesbury and my 
 beautiful Lucy might be happy together. 
 But it seemed strange that I, wlio liad lived 
 the gay life of a Londoner, should find no 
 solace now except in the quietude of woods 
 and fields and streams. Song of bird 
 and colour of fiower seemed sent to cheer 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 189 
 
 me. When alone in the Spring sunshine, I 
 fell into a visionary state, and seemed to as- 
 similate the natural calm around me. 
 
 I was not, however, on this occasion des- 
 tined to remain long in my trance — being 
 aroused by the arrival of Timothy Short, 
 who cried out to me across the stream — 
 
 " Begs pardon, your honour, but the 
 Redborough magistrates wants you to go over 
 about Scudamore." 
 
 I crossed the brook, and found that the 
 magistrates wanted my deposition before 
 they sent the highwayman for trial, and had 
 adjourned their session till four in the after- 
 noon, that I might be present So I walked 
 up the steep lane in the landlord's company, 
 and, as I passed the gate of tlie cottage half 
 way up, asked him who lived there. 
 
 " Nobody, your honour. It's to let — to a 
 gentleman." 
 
190 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " It belongs to the General," said Tim. 
 "His greatuncle, Doctor Romayne, lived there 
 till about four years ago, when he died — 
 over a hundred, they say. He didn't look 
 above seventy at the last, and he wouldn't 
 have died if he hadn't fallen downstairs. He 
 was a wonderful nice old gentleman, and 
 knew everything." 
 
 " And the place is to let ?" I said, inter- 
 rogatively. 
 
 " Wei], your honour, its this way — I've 
 got the letting of it. There's the old gar- 
 dener and his wife living there, and keeping 
 it in order. The General, after the old 
 Doctor's funeral — he's buried close where 
 your honour was sitting — the General says 
 to me : " Short, if any gentleman that 
 looks the right sort would like to live in the 
 cottage, you may let it him, sticks and all, 
 
TRANSMIGEATION. 191 
 
 for twenty pounds a year. But don't let any 
 damned tradesman have it ; burn it down 
 first." 
 
 After a bit of bread and cheese, and a 
 pint of Timothy's home-brewed ale, I mount- 
 ed Mazeppa, and rode towards Redborough. 
 As I rode, I could not help thinking of the 
 quaint cottage which, " sticks and all," was 
 to be let for twenty pounds a year. Why 
 shouldn't I take it, and be forgotten ? I de- 
 termined, at any rate, to see it the very next 
 day. 
 
 It was slightly down hill all the way to 
 Redborough. The town — a flourishing one 
 — apparently got its name from the red 
 sandstone of which it is almost entirely 
 built. The effect is pleasant. There are 
 three fine old churches and a ruined castle 
 in this material. The streets are mostly 
 narrow, but very clean, from the abundance 
 
192 TRANSMIGRATIOX. 
 
 of water, which flows clown from the moor, 
 and turns the gutters into brooklets. The 
 County Hall, which I had to visit, stands in 
 a market-place ; where also are some other 
 public buildings. In the centre of this 
 market-place is the statue of a queen, 
 crowned, under a rich stone canopy ; but 
 the antiquaries cannot decide what queen it 
 represents. 
 
 My business with the magistrates was 
 brief enough. The court was crowded — all 
 the neisfhbourhood had come to see the 
 famous highwayman, and the man wlio had 
 terminated his career, and I was received 
 with applause. The robber had engaged a 
 pettifogger to defend him, and this fellow 
 cross-examined me amusingly. I liad given 
 my name as Edward Ellesmere, leaving the 
 baronetcy unmentioned, and had said that 
 I had no fixed address, but was travellinir 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 193 
 
 for my amusement. The scene that followed 
 was laughable. 
 
 Pettifogger. — You say you have no ad- 
 dress r^ 
 
 Myself. — None. 
 
 Pettifogger. — Do you consider that re- 
 spectable ? 
 
 Myself. — Yes. 
 
 Pettifogger. — Oh — h — h ! Respectable ! 
 Are you sure you are not a highwayman 
 yourself? 
 
 Myself. — Quite. 
 
 Pettifogger. — Can you produce testimonials 
 to your respectability? 
 
 Myself. — I do not consider it necessary to 
 produce such testimonials before knocking 
 down a robber — or an insolent lawyer. 
 
 Pettifogger gobbled like a turkey-cock ; 
 the old fogies on the bench interposed, and 
 complimented me on my courage, and com- 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 TKAI?SMIGRATION. 
 
 initted the prisoner ; and I went across the 
 market-place to what seemed the principal 
 hotel, to make arrangements about corre- 
 sponding with Fraser. Whether I took the 
 cottage or not, I meant to stay at Five Tree 
 Hill for some time. 
 
 The Royal Hotel was crowded with 
 people who had come to hear the case. I 
 got complimented on all hands for my pluck. 
 Loudest in his praise was Sir Boanerges 
 Brooks, cliairman of the bench of maais- 
 trates, whose every alternate word was an 
 oath ; and who danmed himself to the 
 twentieth power (as a mathematician niight 
 say), with the wish tliat he had liad the 
 chance of doing the same thing. As I 
 looked at Sir Boanerges's blear eyes and 
 puify abdomen, I doubted whether he would 
 have done it. 
 
 Escaping as well as I could from the 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 195 
 
 bucolic crowd, I got at the landlord, and 
 arranged with him to receive any letters 
 addressed, "ilir. Ellesmere, Royal Hotel, Red- 
 horoughy Then I mounted Mazeppa, and 
 rode home to dinner — received with quite 
 an ovation by Timothy and Barbara. 
 
 o2 
 
196 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 BEAU SEJOUR. 
 
 " Hie in reducta valle Caniculae 
 Vitabis acstus." 
 
 rpiMOTHY SHORT took me next day to 
 -■- see old Doctor Roniayne's cottage, 
 which he had called Beau Sejour. It was 
 a rambling place, two stories high ; tlie 
 garden and lawn were delightful, shut in by 
 thick hedges of yew and Portugal laurel, 
 haunted by innumerable starlings, black- 
 birds, thrushes, grosbeaks ; a perennial 
 spring rose in front of the house, and, after 
 filling a wide water-cress bed, ran in a tiny 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 197 
 
 rivulet down to the brook below ; the sunny 
 May air was ahve with pigeons, there being 
 a large dove-cot, with pyramidal roof, at 
 the back of the cottage. It was the quaint- 
 est isolated corner. The entrance was at 
 the side, into a little hall ; beyond were a 
 couple of sitting-rooms opening on each 
 other, and a door from each of those rooms 
 opened into a bedroom behind. 
 
 " What is upstairs ?" I asked Timothy. 
 
 " Come and see, your honour," he said. 
 
 I ascended, and found one large room, 
 rather low, extendin^j over the whole of the 
 house — the servants' rooms, as well as those 
 I have described. It was lined on all sides 
 with bookcases and bookshelves, and the 
 floor was covered with boxes full of books. 
 The room was very light, having windows 
 on all sides, and in one of those windows 
 stood an old black oak writing-table, with 
 
198 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 an uncomfortable straiujht-backed chair to 
 match. A sheet of paper and an old quill 
 lay in front of the chair. I glanced at the 
 paper, wondering what Doctor Roniayne 
 may last have written in that antique chair. 
 There was one word — :" Yes " — in very 
 faded ink. Perhaps it was only the first 
 syllable of yesterday. 
 
 I said yes in my own mind at once, for I 
 thoui^ht I would sit in that straii^ht-backed 
 chair, and look at the lovely landscape 
 below — -all garden and lawn to the stream 
 and Saint Apollonia's chapel — and investi- 
 gate this quaint old forgotten library. Doc- 
 tor Romayne's yes seemed proplietic and 
 effective, as, indeed, it was. 
 
 That evening I was much amused by a 
 little fight between Timothy and his wife 
 on the merits of their respective almanacs. 
 Almanacs were dear then, thanks to the 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 199 
 
 shilling stamp ; one and tenpence seems a 
 heavy price ; but who could do without his 
 almanac? Mrs. Short takes the work of 
 " Francis Moore, physician," and reads to 
 her husband with delight the following pre- 
 diction for ]\Iay : — 
 
 " This month is ushered in with an oppo- 
 sition of Jupiter and Mars, and soon after 
 there is an opposition of the Sun and 
 Saturn ; these show the motions of armies, 
 and the usual misfortunes and miseries at- 
 tending the same ; the loss of honour, or 
 death of a great prince, also of a military 
 commander of the first degree." 
 
 " There !" says buxom Mrs. Barbara, 
 " what do you say to that, Timothy Short?" 
 
 Now Timothy's favourite almanac was 
 Old Poor Robin, and he at once began to 
 read in return : — 
 
200 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " Now jolly lads, who, left at home. 
 
 Are safe from war and strife, 
 Let each in haste fulfil his doom. 
 
 And take himself a wife. 
 For soldiers if one half are gone, 
 
 What must the maidens do ? 
 Why, I myself, good faith, for one, 
 
 Am wilhng to take two." 
 
 "Yes, that's your poor Sir Robin!" says 
 Mrs. Short. " I wonder you aren't ashamed 
 of such nonsensical trash in these dreadful 
 times !" 
 
 " Pooh ! my dear," says the old soldier, 
 " Sir Robin's right enough. He says just 
 after : 
 
 ' We all of us will mend our lives. 
 And fight our foes, and love our wives, 
 Keep dear Old England hale and hearty, 
 And thrash this rascal Buonaparte.' " 
 
 " Ah ! now that's better," quoth Mrs. 
 Short, " But still, you know, Moore does 
 tell what's going to happen." 
 
 " Ay, but it doesn't happen," retorted 
 Timothy. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 201 
 
 "Now, how can you say so? Didn't he 
 prophesy, only two years ago, the deatli of 
 the poor Emperor of Turkey ? I remem- 
 ber the very words. ' If he can save his 
 life, let him : I give him fair warning.' 
 And isn't the Emperor murdered, just as 
 Doctor Moore said he would be ?" 
 
 " Well, I can't deny the Grand Turk, 
 that's a fact," says Timothy. " It was a 
 good guess." 
 
 " Guess !" cried the indignant Mrs. Short. 
 "Why, last December our cow died, and 
 you know Moore said there would be lots 
 of casual accidents." 
 
 " Your honour's a scholar," said the pro- 
 voking Timothy, turning to me. " Is casual 
 accidents Latin for a cow's dying of old 
 age? 
 
 The quarrels between Timothy and his 
 wife were mere comedy quarrels, and soon 
 
2(32 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 came to an end; and on this occasion the 
 old soldier got the best of it by declaring 
 that Poor Robin, some five years ago, had 
 made Mrs. Short propose to niarry him, 
 saying — 
 
 "Girls, this is Leap Year. Come, be bolder; 
 Next time you will be four years older. 
 Don't throw away another Summer, 
 Marry the very earliest comer." 
 
 When Timothy found that I had a fancy 
 for living at Beau Sejour he was perfectly 
 deli<];hted. There were no stables at the 
 cottage, but Timothy could make Mazeppa 
 comfortable, and I saw full well he would 
 bo pleased to do it. Then came the ques- 
 tion of somebody to cook my dinner, and so 
 forth. The gardener and his wife were in 
 charge, and I designed to keep them on, but 
 the gardener's wife was very deaf, and had 
 imperfect ideas of cookery. 
 
 " Wouldn't your sister Emma like to come, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 203 
 
 my dear ? " sa^'s Timothy to his spouse. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Short, "she would do 
 very well, I think. Only you know I must 
 tell the gentleman all about her." 
 
 " True," quoth Timothy, with profound 
 gravity. " Never hide anything." 
 
 " You see, sir," said Mrs Short, with a 
 tear in her e^'e, " my sister has had a mis- 
 fortune. She was very great friends with a 
 young man, who pretended to be very religi- 
 ous, and went to the same chapel . . . and 
 she, poor dear! believed in him, and he took 
 advantage of her, the mean wretch! and then 
 ran away. She had a poor little child, that 
 died; she's living at home with mother at 
 Redborough, and moping; but I think she'd 
 make a good servant if you don't object, 
 sir. 
 
 " Your sister's a good girl, I'll swear, Mrs. 
 Short," I said. " She will do capitally. 
 
204 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Don't tell her tluit I know anything of her 
 misfortune. It would onl}' make her uncom- 
 fortable, without cause." 
 
 "She is sure to ask, sir," said Mrs. Short. 
 
 " Say 720," T answered, " There is not the 
 slightest need for anvone'sknowiner anything 
 about it. If she comes here without any 
 explanation, she may get on very comforta- 
 bly." 
 
 Thus I was provided with a servant, and 
 a capital servant she became ; but before I 
 took possession of Beau Sejour we had an 
 adventure at the Romayne Arms. My high- 
 wayman had been kept in Redborough gaol 
 all this time ; one morning the guard of the 
 up mail told Timothy that all the town was 
 excited because he had escaped. 
 
 "You'll hear something about him up 
 here," said the guard. " He's desperate re- 
 vengeful and cunning." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 205 
 
 His conversation Timothy repeated to me. 
 Although not alarmed, I was prepared for 
 anything. From all I had heard of this man 
 Scudamore he was not a mere ordinary thief; 
 a disordered brain had driven him to the 
 highway, just us it drives others to the Stock 
 Exchange, others into Parliament. 
 
 The Romayne Arms was generally half 
 awake all night, thanks to the night coaches. 
 Sunday night was the exception ; and one 
 Sunday night I was awakened by feeling a 
 rough hand upon my shoulder. It was 
 pitch dark. My greatest annoyance is to be 
 disturbed in my sleep, and my greatest 
 virtue is promptitude. I struck savagely at 
 the place where the head of such a hand 
 ought to be, and was rewarded by finding 
 my fist do damage. My assailant fell to the 
 ground. I got out of bed and vigorously 
 rang the bell, disturbing the whole house- 
 
206 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 hold. The first arrival was a servant-maid, 
 who, determined to be decent, had in her 
 hurry put over her arms the garment design- 
 ed for her lower extremities. My man was 
 stunned ; and the affair cost me, much to my 
 annoyance, another interview with the Red- 
 borough magistrates. However, on this 
 second occasion rather more care was taken 
 of Will Scudamore. 
 
 I took possession of Beau Sejour. I found 
 the old gardener and his deaf wife very use- 
 ful servants ; he, though slow, was sure, and 
 had that old experience which 
 
 " doth attain 
 
 To something like prophetic strain." 
 
 Though never rapid, having outlived rapid- 
 ity, he was never idle. Tom Radstock 
 couldn't be idle if he tried ; he must be do- 
 ing something. 
 
 His wife kept the kitchen fire burning. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 207 
 
 and was indefatistable in cleanini^ — hatinu' a 
 speck of dirt as much as Nelson bated a 
 Frenchman. She and Emma got on well 
 together. So I got settled down, and I en- 
 joyed two things — the lovely quiet country, 
 and old Doctor Romayne's library. I studied 
 the country first. I wandered and ponder- 
 ed. It was to me a new form of existence, 
 and I learnt manv thinijs in that isolation. 
 Down where the clear stream murmured 
 and rippled by the dusty old lichen-stained 
 walls of St. ApoUonia's chapel I drank in 
 the beauty of nature, and thought over the 
 infatuate folly of my own life. " What 
 shadows we are," said the most eloquent of 
 men, " and what shadows we pursue !" I 
 resolved to pursue shadows no longer. I 
 determined to follow (a long way off ) those 
 philosophers who cared only for intellectual 
 beauty. Rang in my ears those lovely lines : 
 
208 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " How charming is divine philosophy ! 
 Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute." 
 
 And to philosophy I was recalled, when one 
 day through Fraser I received a letter from 
 Lesbury. Thus it ran : 
 
 " Dear Ellesmere, 
 
 "Forgive rae for being happier 
 than you. When the only girl that I could 
 ever love told me, with tears in her eyes, 
 that she would try to love me, I felt, amid 
 my supreme happiness, almost the misery of 
 a murderer. If I lost Lucy now it would 
 kill me ; yet I sometimes think I could suffer 
 that loss if it were possible for her to be 
 yours. 
 
 " But I will not waste words, when words 
 cannot touch the depths of meaning. Lucy 
 vows she will not marry without a line from 
 you to say she may. 
 
 " Your loving friend, " Lesbury." 
 
TKANSMIG RATION. 209 
 
 It took me some hours to decide how to 
 answer that letter. I thought I had obtained 
 the power of sacrifice ; but then came the 
 vision of Lucy Lovelace in another man's 
 arms — ay, even Lesbury's — and, my God ! I 
 felt as if I must kill that man. I wandered 
 up and down my garden : I went down to 
 St. ApoUonia's chapel, and listened to the 
 river. I walked myself dead tired, and 
 positively frightened poor little Emma by 
 my face's pallor, when I came back, after a 
 long struggle with myself, anxious to catch 
 the post. Then, with tremulous hand, I 
 wrote a blotted line, not to Lesbury. 
 
 " Dear Lucy, 
 
 " Marry Lesbury. Try to be 
 happy. I will try to be content. 
 
 " Your lover once, yonr friend for ever, 
 
 "E. E." 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 When I wrote that scrawl, I little thought 
 I should ever see it again. Yet I did again 
 see it, carefully kept in an ivory casket, and 
 yellow with age. 
 
 I sent off my letter, and shut myself in 
 Dr. Roraayne's library. I wanted something 
 rough to break my mind upon, as a great 
 poet hath said. I took a quarto MS. volume, 
 and sat in the black oak chair, and gazed at 
 the book some time without realizing what 
 it was about. When I did, I found there 
 was a weird wild geometry in it. There 
 was the family quincunx, pentagrammatic : 
 
 # m 
 i 
 
 There was a stellated pentagon thus ar- 
 ranged : 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 2 1 1 
 
 This puzzled me greatly for some time, 
 till I saw that Pax and Lux were herein 
 indicated, a cross being the common terminal 
 of both. And this, indeed, I found more 
 clearly shown by some verse, in a most crab- 
 bed MS. that followed the pentagram : 
 
 " Lux est amor, Pax est Lui, 
 Christe, animarum Dux ! 
 Alihi da amoris flammam, 
 Iklihi daque pacis mammam. 
 Amo ubi amet Dux : 
 Sequor ubi signet Crux." 
 
 There was a good deal more Latin rhyme 
 in the volume, some whereof struck me as 
 not exactly what Catullus would have tole- 
 rated, and as being particularly loose in its 
 subjunctive moods. There was mathematics ; 
 there was astrology ; there w^as cheirognomy ; 
 there was alchemy. Here is a recipe for 
 makinfr f^old, which I have never tried : — 
 
 " Take a female toad, seven years old ; 
 
 p2 
 
212 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 put it in a new linen cloth ; carry it seven 
 miles (walking and fasting) between mid- 
 night and one o'clock, on the eve of Saint 
 Bridget ; as the clock strikes one drop it on 
 a mass of red-hot iron, saying the Paternos- 
 ter backwards; then sneeze seven times, and 
 wait till the iron becomes aurum purumy 
 
 It struck me that the man who could 
 walk seven miles in an hour, and sneeze 
 seven times at w^ill, had better go in for some 
 mode of making gold less dubious than 
 alchemy. 
 
 When I came to investigate old Dr. 
 Romayne's MS, I found, amid much whimsi- 
 cal and capricious stuff, some very suggestive 
 essays. He was, I discerned, a Pythagorean 
 ... or perhaps I should say a developed 
 disciple of the Samian sage. He did. not 
 believe that Homer had been a camel in 
 Bactria, at the time of the siege of Troy. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 213 
 
 He laughed to scorn, in a fine vein of irony, 
 the theories of one Dr. Erasmus Darwin, 
 who, as I am informed, declared the origin 
 of man from geometrical figures, in a trea- 
 tise entitled. The Loves of the Triangles. If 
 the father of the human race was an isosceles 
 triangle, he might almost as well have been 
 an ape. As a great poet remarks : 
 
 "Blockheads there are who gladly would disgrace 
 By hideous origin the human race, 
 Make equal with poor products of the sod 
 The only creature who is like to God. 
 Who, if he wisely uses life's brief hour, 
 With the Creator shares creative iwwer." 
 
 And this, indeed, is so. For in the many 
 isolated years I passed among Dr. Romayne's 
 books in Beau Sejour, I came to know 
 people like Hamlet and Falstaff, like Rosa- 
 lind and Desdemona (poor little girl, why 
 did she marry a bragging black man ?), like 
 Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, that are 
 
214 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 more thoroughly flesh and blood than a good 
 many people who walk about and coolly 
 pretend to be alive. 
 
 But I digress. Let me come to Doctor 
 Romayne's Pythagorean theories. " The 
 man," he wrote, " who has not lived before, 
 is an impertinent fellow to pretend he is 
 alive now. His death can be as logically 
 and irrefragably proved as tliat of Par- 
 tridge, the almanac maker. If he is not at 
 once buried, it is simply because ground 
 grows dear. The soul is immortal ; he who 
 deems otherwise, can have no soul, but is an 
 automaton produced to resemble a man, 
 and designed entirely for a warning to real 
 human creatures. Such eidola, or phantoms, 
 move among us, 'tis certain, and write theo- 
 logic and philosophic essays, and set up to 
 be emperors and statesmen. This danger- 
 ous age is fertile of such creatures, as there 
 
TRANSMIGEATION. 215 
 
 is a blidit of baneful insects when an evil 
 east-wind blows. 
 
 " To determine between men with souls 
 and their simulacra," continued the vener- 
 able doctor, " is the most important and 
 most diflBcult problem of philosophy. After 
 long and severe study of men and books, I 
 have formed certain opinions, which I hope 
 to make clear to myself as I pursue this 
 inquiry, in an essay toward truth which 
 probably will be read by no eyes save 
 mine. 
 
 " An inspired poet has written : 
 
 ' Their idols are silver and gold — 
 
 The work of men's hands ; 
 Mouths have they, yet speak not ; 
 
 Eyes have they, yet see not ; 
 Ears have they, yet hear not ; 
 
 Noses also, yet smell not ; 
 Hands have they, yet handle not ; 
 
 Feet have they, yet walk not ; 
 Neither uttereth their throat speech. 
 They that make them are like unto them.'' 
 
216 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " Herein," continues the doctor, "lies the 
 essence of my philosophy. Those who make 
 idols are like idols. As from etScoXov, by 
 gradual trituration of language, came idol^ 
 so idol is shortened to doll; and as mono- 
 syllables are convenient, I propose in my 
 future nomenclature to divide the human 
 race into men and dolls. The man believes 
 in God ; the doll believes in dolls. 
 
 " I have met in ray time with persons ap- 
 parently virile, who declined to admit the 
 immortality of the soul. Examine such a 
 person, you will find he is a doll, and a doll 
 cannot have an immortal soul, or indeed any 
 sort of soul. Examine such a doll farther, 
 and you will find he has eyes that cannot 
 see the glory of God, ears than cannot hear 
 His words, hands and feet that cannot do 
 His work and walk in His ways, lips that 
 utter what seems speech, yet is not. To 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 217 
 
 imagine him the bodily presentment of an 
 immortal soul would be absurd. He ex- 
 pects annihilation — he is already annihil- 
 ated. 
 
 "My essay towards establishing this first 
 principle of ontology must needs desult (as 
 the Romans said of the rider of more steeds 
 than one in the Amphitheatre), since I am 
 only gathering by degrees its proofs and 
 examples from history, and experience, and 
 observation. Indeed, this is only an essay ; 
 should I live to form it into a treatise (which 
 seems unlikely, being now ninety-five), I 
 hope to base my theory on the true inductive 
 method of the great Verulam. 
 
 " I may say here that doubtless my distinc- 
 tion between the man and the doll applies to 
 both sexes ; but women are so unwilling and 
 unable to answer philosophical questions as 
 to their mental and physical structure in a 
 
218 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 direct manner, that I have small hope of ex- 
 tending the proofs of my theory on that 
 side. This shy incapacity proceeds from a 
 delicate instinct, like that of the mimosa, 
 which shrinks from the touch — like that of 
 the timorous bird which flies away into the 
 woods at a step. Without troubling that 
 instinct, I may yet prove my thesis — 
 
 Ilpb TMV iwaia'^biv yprj Xoyav SciKvetv crrofMa. 
 
 " But if I have met, or should meet, an 
 apparent woman, who possesses either no 
 grace or modesty, no love of kin, no forti- 
 tude in suffering, no belief in God, I shall 
 maintain that she is no woman, but a pale 
 simulacrum, an eidolon, a doll." 
 
 " Queer old philosopher !" thought I, as I 
 shut the big book, resolving to re-open it 
 soon. 
 
219 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TUTOR AND PUPIL. 
 
 Comes not weird counsel from a vanishing voice ? 
 Have I not heard unsyllabled sayings, often, 
 By rivers where perchance the gay nymphs whispered, 
 In ghostly ruins where dead wizards mm-mured ? 
 Ah yes, I know the stern words heard at midnight, 
 And also what the dreary twilight told me : 
 And both are one, for love and death are one. 
 Who loves, meets God — who dies, meets God. 
 
 The Mystic, 1773. 
 
 T>wR. ROMAYNE'S library had an ira- 
 
 -*-^ mense influence over me. I listened 
 with loving awe to the voice of this vener- 
 able thinker, coming from beyond the river 
 of fate. As I read essay after essay that 
 
220 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 had come from his unresting brain, I grew 
 gradually to think I knew him. I used, 
 after a long perusal of his work, to picture 
 to myself a tall and venerable sage, stoop- 
 ing, white-bearded, with keen penetrative 
 eye, with attenuate long fingers, eagle-claws, 
 till I might have painted his portrait easily. 
 Then I would go down to the little burial- 
 ground by Saint Apollonia's chapel, and sit 
 on the grass mound that covered his dust, 
 and watch the sunshine on the pleasant 
 trout stream, and read again and again the 
 simple inscription on his tombstone : 
 
 HENRY ROMAYNE, M.D. 
 
 BORX, 
 
 MDCGIV. 
 
 Died, 
 MDCCCV. 
 
 I had fixed his imaginary portrait on my 
 mind so much that I was always conjuring 
 it up before me ; and when I took long 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 221 
 
 rides over the moorlands on Mazeppa, I used 
 to fancy the doctor by my side on a com- 
 fortable cob. Indeed, we carried on imamn- 
 ary colloquies to an immense extent, and I 
 clung to his personeity as a fixed idea. 
 
 Odd how well I remember coming back 
 from one of those rides, after a glorious 
 gallop over gorse and heather, that made the 
 moor a double stream of colour, and dis- 
 mounting at the " Romayne Arms," and 
 walking in to get a tankard of Timothy 
 Short's home-brewed. Some demon prompt- 
 ed me to say, 
 
 " Timothy, you knew old Doctor Ro- 
 mayne, didn't you ?" 
 
 " Lord, yes, your honour. He larruped 
 me once when I was a boy for throwing 
 stones at a cat." 
 
 " And served you right, you vagabond !" 
 promptly said buxom Barbara. 
 
222 TEANSMIGRATION. 
 
 "What sort of a man was he, Timothy?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " What, to look at ? Never saw his like, 
 your honour. He was short and plump, 
 with white fat hands, and quite a round 
 rosy face, and brown hair (the little he had) 
 to the very last, and such a laughing look 
 with him, and so quick ! I wish I could 
 see him now, sir, trotting up the lane, in his 
 black breeches and gaiters. It was a treat 
 to hear him talk. He took a deal of exer- 
 cise, and used to walk, mostly ; he kept an 
 old pony here, your honour, but when I 
 asked him if he wouldn't ride, he'd say, 
 ' 'Tis a shame, Tim, to have out poor old 
 Jack, when I've got good legs of my own.' 
 And he'd drink a glass of beer as hearty as 
 your honour, and walk away laughing and 
 singing and rubbing his hands, and oft- 
 whiles talking to himself in all manner of 
 languages. he was a man !" 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 223 
 
 " Ah ! that he was I" said Barbara. " He 
 used to kiss me and call me a little slut, and 
 tell me if ever I was a widow he'd be my 
 second." 
 
 Alas for ideals ! Could this lively cen- 
 tenarian be my departed Pythagorean Doc- 
 tor ? Surely some mocking fiend had got 
 into the library and transformed him 
 utterly. 
 
 When I got home and had dined, I pon- 
 dered much. A glass of old port helps one 
 to ponder. What had happened to me had 
 forced my intellect, making me prematurely 
 old. I wished I had asked no questions 
 about Doctor Romayne's personal appear- 
 ance ; having done so, I philosophized over 
 the affair in the method taught me by my 
 unseen tutor, till I began to believe that, 
 after all, I might be right, and Timothy 
 Short and Barbara wrong. 
 
224 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 "There are those who have eyes, yet see 
 not," I reflected. " How easily might such 
 people, who can see no splendour in the 
 sky, transform the Doctor into the odd little 
 man they describe ! I won't believe it. I 
 have seen him." 
 
 At midnight, in the Doctor's sanctum, I 
 pursued the theme in my own mind, trying 
 to decide whether the soul forms the body, 
 or whether soul and body have only inci- 
 dental connexion. What we call chance 
 led me to a desultory essay in another part 
 of the great folio T was studying. 
 
 " Mr. Abraham Johnson," it said, " in his 
 ironic letter to the Royal Society, published 
 this year of grace, 1750, is intentionally 
 wrong in his main thesis, but unconsciously 
 right in an argument on which he bases it. 
 There can be no doubt that the body is a 
 mere tenement, into which the soul passes 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 225 
 
 from another similar tenement. If the soul 
 enters on its new domicile wearied by a pre- 
 vious period of toil and distress, its energy 
 cannot control the development of that 
 domicile, and hereditary tendencies often 
 get the better of it. Thus may we account 
 for the frequent appearance of a great man 
 in a frail or ugly body ; for 
 
 ' The tenth transmitter of a foolish face ' 
 
 being a statesman or soldier, or even poet. 
 Who would expect genius from Epicurus, if 
 his profile has correctly reached us ? 
 
 "Now, if the soul comes fresh from a 
 happy career, these hereditary influences 
 have no force. The strong spirit moulds 
 the frame. Poetry lightens the eye ; elo- 
 quence curves the mouth ; skill shapes the 
 flexile fingers ; courage and vigour mould 
 and poise the frame. You have Apollo, 
 not as he shepherded for Admetus, but as 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 he sends afar the unerring arrow, or brings 
 marvellous music from the lyre. 
 
 " Hence, those who would possess greater 
 happiness and beauty hereafter, should aim 
 at happiness and beauty here. 
 
 " Corollary, There is no limit to the height 
 of happiness and beauty to which man may 
 ascend." 
 
 " Egad !" thought I, " this may explain 
 the mystery. The Doctors philosophical 
 soul, tired by a previous residence not quite 
 satisfactory, doubtless fell into the mould of 
 a family of lively humourists !" 
 
 I must not weary 'my readers with too 
 many extracts from the essays of this 
 modern Pythagorean ; nor, indeed, must I 
 be too minute in describing the life which I 
 lived at Beau Sejour. It was a very quiet 
 one all through — being about thirty years ; 
 during which time the mighty tide of affairs 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 227 
 
 which agitated Europe seemed to flow 
 through another world, so completely had I 
 isolated myself. Lover once, I heard with 
 slight interest of the birth of Lucy's son and 
 Lesbury's heir. Soldier once, I felt no 
 pulse of triumph when " the meanest man 
 of men" fell before our loyal Captain at 
 Waterloo. Landowner once, I was un- 
 moved when Eraser reported that I was as 
 rich as I had ever been. Henry Romayne's 
 mysticism had enthralled me ; to follow his 
 sinuous track of thought was " riches fine- 
 less." I believed his theory more absolute- 
 ly every day, and looked forward for years 
 with eagerness to the proof which death 
 would give of it. Wherever I was, 
 Romayne's mystical spirit haunted me. I 
 not onlv read all he wrote and all the 
 books in his library, but wrote a whole 
 library of essays myself — all on the one 
 
 Q2 
 
228 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 great theme. By the time there came an 
 end to my studies, I was master of many 
 lanQ;uaf:^es and of abstruse science — all self- 
 taught, as some would say ; all really taught 
 me by Henry Romayne, archididasculus. 
 
 Still, thouo;h the outer world interested 
 me slightly, the microcosm of Five Tree Hill 
 had its events. One morning, some years 
 after I had lived at Beau Sejour, returning 
 home from an early meditation by Saint 
 Apollonia's Chapel, I was told that a gentle- 
 man was waitini]^ to see me. Enterinoj the 
 room, I perceived an old man who, in all 
 but the stoop, was the very picture my vola- 
 tile imagination had drawn of Doctor 
 Romayne. He met me with extended 
 hand, saying, 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Ellesmere. I am 
 General Romayne." 
 
 I said I was glad to see him, and said so 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 229 
 
 truthfully ; for I had always felt grateful to 
 the unknown landlord whose " twenty 
 pounds, sticks and all," had made me a 
 Pythagorean. 
 
 " We've beaten that damned rascal over 
 the water," he said, his eyes flashing fiercely, 
 " so I've time to look after my estate, which 
 is going to the devil ! I'd be glad to see 
 you any time, but they tell me you're quite a 
 recluse." 
 
 I told the General I was a solitary 
 student, and that the old Doctor's books had 
 made me so, and that I hoped never to leave 
 home again. 
 
 " Damned odd fellow you are, Ellesmere ! 
 Guessed who you were before I saw you. 
 'Gad! you're uncommon like your father! 
 We've ridden side by side in two or three 
 hot things, my boy ! He cut a fellow's right 
 arm off at the shoulder just as he was pok- 
 
230 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 ing a lance into me once. I've got the mark 
 now," he said, putting his left hand to his 
 side. "An inch farther, and where the 
 devil should I have been ? Fancy your 
 burying yourself here, and reading old 
 Harry Romayne's magical stuff! Why don't 
 you come into the world again, and marry ? 
 You're ten years younger than your father 
 when he married Araoret Lyle — the prettiest 
 woman I ever saw. Your estate's getting 
 free, I hear — you dipped it pretty well, you 
 young dog ! Come now, give up old 
 Harry's magic; I'll soon find you a wife. 
 I'm the best judge of virgins and horses in 
 His Majest3''s Army. Better marry a 
 widow than be roasted for a wizard." 
 
 The General's humour was so magnetic 
 that I think he might almost have wiled me 
 away from the Doctor, and turned a Pytha- 
 gorean philosopher once more into a man of 
 
TR ANSMIGR ATION. 231 
 
 the world, but for a sudden thought of Lucy. 
 I had a vision of the Thames in the twilight, 
 of a myriad roses and a thousand nightin- 
 gales, of a maiden whose soul shone through 
 her — whose voice stirred the Daulian min- 
 strel to vain rivalry — whose touch made 
 roses bloom. No ; there could not be 
 another Lucy ; her love was worth a life. 
 For the minutest division of a breath me- 
 thought she was beside me again. In that 
 infinitesimal atom of time's diamond-dust I 
 swore allegiance to Lucy and my invisible 
 tutor. 
 
 " Well," quoth the General, laughing at 
 my refusal, " you must come over to Ro- 
 mayne Court for a w^eek, whatever you do. 
 It shan't be said your father's son was my 
 neighbour and tenant, and wouldn't visit 
 me. 
 
 I tried to decline, but I could not resist 
 
232 TRAXSMIGRATION. 
 
 the obstinate kindness of my father's friend. 
 The General had driven a curricle over 
 from Romayne Court, which is just beyond 
 Redborough ; he insisted on my having my 
 traps sent up to Timothy's at once. 
 
 " I won't lose sight of you, Ned," he said ; 
 " I shall call you Ned — you're a boy, 
 though you are a philosopher — and your 
 father called me Tom ; so come at once ; you 
 needn't bring anything dandified — you'll 
 meet no women." 
 
 We walked up to Timothy's, when, 
 evidently for the first time, the General 
 noticed the nobly painted sign. He stood 
 transfixed, with his lean right hand pointed 
 at it ; then he cried : 
 
 " Tim Short, you villain, who painted 
 that sign ?" 
 
 " Gentleman without a name. General," 
 says Tim, saluting. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 233 
 
 " What did you pay for it?" 
 "Board and lodging, General." 
 "Take it down ! — no, leave it there ! By 
 the Eternal, that's worth a thousand 
 guineas !" 
 
 The General's voice had a fine thunderous 
 quality — each of his short sentences grew 
 louder than the last, so that you wondered 
 what would be the final roar. It was a 
 voice trained amid the din of artillery on 
 the battle-field. 
 
 "The gentleman as did it left a hundred- 
 pound note behind him," says Timothy. 
 " It's framed in the bar." 
 
 Tim had taken my advice, and it had 
 brought him many customers. The yokel 
 thought it worth while to drink much beer 
 or grog, sitting with eyes and mouth wide 
 open, to stare at what he had never dreamt 
 of — a bit of paper worth a hundred pounds! 
 
234 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 When the General learnt what other 
 work the unknown artist had done, he went 
 upstairs to see it. He examined long, and 
 in unusual silence, the portraits and the 
 painting of the inn. 
 
 "Tim Short," he said, at last, " I want 
 the picture of the inn, and I'll give you an- 
 other hundred-pound note for it. Take it 
 down, and tell my servant to be devilish 
 careful of it, or I'll blow his brains out. 
 No, by the Eternal, I don't think I could do 
 that!" 
 
 Applying the Doctor's test to the General, 
 I concluded that he was a man^ not a doll. 
 
 The painting, carefully wrapped up, was 
 handed to the footman, and the curricle 
 came round. 
 
 " I wish you'd drive, Sir Edward," said 
 the General. " These horses are young and 
 fresh, and nearly pulled my arms off till we 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 235 
 
 got to the hill. After dinner, we'll talk 
 about that mysterious artist." 
 
 The young horses took us pretty fast to 
 Romayne Court, a handsome old place 
 above Redborough, built of the same san- 
 guine stone, with beautiful garden terraces. 
 No guests had the General except his 
 steward, who was busily engaged with him 
 in going through arrears of business. When 
 that gentleman, who lived in Redborough, 
 had left us. General Romayne said : 
 
 "Now, Ned, another bottle of port ; I'm 
 melancholy to-night. AVhat think you of 
 those pictures ?" 
 
 " They are wonderful," I said, " so far as I 
 am any judge. The painting of the trees on 
 that sign seems as good as anything I ever 
 saw." 
 
 " It is as good. Now, why the devil 
 should a great artist come and stay at Five 
 
236 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Tree Hill and paint all that, and give Tim 
 Short a hundred pounds ?" 
 
 "Men of genius have caprices not to be 
 explained," I suggested. 
 
 There was rather a long pause, during 
 which the General gazed at the beeswinsj in 
 his glass of port. There was a curious look 
 in his eye, as if he were trying to hide some- 
 thing that affected him. 
 
 "By the Eternal!" he burst out, "the 
 fellow is a genius, though I always thought 
 him a fool. Ned, that painter is my only 
 son, Lionel Romayne. We quarreled — he's 
 just as angry as I am — because I wanted 
 him to fight, and he ivould paint. Lord, I 
 might have remembered that iny father want- 
 ed me to preach, and I iww/(/ fight. I might 
 have been a Bishop by this time — a captain 
 of the Church Militant." 
 
 " And what is your son doing now, 
 General?" I asked. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 237 
 
 " Why, they tell me that, under an assumed 
 name (for he swore in his wrath he would 
 never be called Romayne) he is the most 
 famous painter of the day. I must not tell 
 you the name ; you will guess it." 
 
 •' No," I replied ; " I have been too long 
 out of the world. But his coming to Five- 
 Tree Hill seems to show that he had kindly 
 feeling to you, and would gladly be recon- 
 ciled." 
 
 "Ned, you're a damned humbug!" said 
 the fiery General. " If he likes to come 
 here and call himself Lionel Romayne, in- 
 stead of the false name he goes b}^, I'll for- 
 give him. The estate is entailed; when I die 
 he'll have to claim it, or it must go to the 
 next heir, if there is a next heir ; and if not, 
 to the Crown. We're an obstinate family, 
 Ned, and Lionel's just as obstinate as I. He 
 won't come to me, and I'll be hanged if I go 
 to him. So you need not try to persuade 
 
238 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 me, my bo}''. Nobody ever changed my 
 opinion, by the Eternal !" 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 " Laugh away, my boy," he said. " We 
 Romaynes pride ourselves on being the most 
 obstinate family in England. Obstinacy 
 makes men successful. My great-grandfather 
 made millions as a scrivener, obstinately 
 refusing to part with money at a low price. 
 His son was Secretary of State ; his grandson 
 was Archbishop of York ; his great-grandson 
 is a General ; his great-great-grandson is the 
 first painter in the world. All through the 
 family, father hated son and son hated father 
 obstinately ; but it has been a point of hon- 
 our that, however tliey quarreled, the pro- 
 perty should go straight. Come, if you have 
 had wine enough, let us look at the portraits 
 of these worthies. They're in the large 
 dinincj-room." 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 239 
 
 We went. The scrivener in black velvet, 
 but for his stoop, might have been painted 
 for the General. He had the keen eye and 
 attenuate electric hand which I had imagined 
 for Doctor Romayne. The Secretary of 
 State was exactly what Timothy Short had 
 described the Doctor to me — humorous, 
 vigorous, brown-haired, a laugh lurking on 
 his lips, a hand white and plump as a wo- 
 man's, with a diamond on one finger . . . 
 yet a born diplomatist ; one could see. The 
 Archbishop was of an alien type ; dark, 
 almost sinister, stern as to the mouth, with 
 an air of inflexible will in the knotted fin- 
 gers of the hand that grasped his crosier. I 
 wondered if the errant painter was of the 
 archiepiscopal type. I resolved to ask 
 Timothy Short. There passed rapidly 
 through my mind Doctor Romayne's theory 
 about hereditary influence, but to tlie 
 General I said. 
 
240 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " They are splendid portraits, and all fine 
 faces. The first of the series is very like 
 you. 
 
 " Yes, confound it ! Fancy being like a 
 scrivener, even if he is your great-grand- 
 father ! And, by the Eternal, my father is 
 very like that scamp of a son of mine !" 
 
 I spent a pleasant week with the General, 
 chiefly riding over the estate with him and 
 his steward. At the end of that time, he 
 went to London, and I returned to Beau 
 Sejour. What happened when General 
 Romayne died, and his son, the painter, had 
 to prove his identity, need not be recorded 
 here, being written in contemporary me- 
 moirs. 
 
241 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FORD COTTAGE. 
 
 Toiaiv efjU7relpoL<i ^porcov 
 /jl6voi<s olov re avvraXaiTrcopelv KaKa. 
 
 rilHERE was a ford across the stream, 
 -■- half a mile or so below Saint ApoUo- 
 nia's chapel : white stepping-stones, where 
 many a country lass had wetted her feet, 
 and a shallow crossincf, where wao^f^oners 
 had given their horses a drink for centuries. 
 Stood thereby an old cottage in a coeval 
 garden and orchard, occupied till lately by 
 the widow of the late miller at Eynsham 
 Mill, who had succeeded somebody else's 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 widow. Indeed, Tira Short called it Widows' 
 Cottage, and invented stories about a score 
 of widows that had occupied it in succession 
 — stories that could hardly be very near the 
 truth, as they varied on every occasion. 
 
 One day Tim informed me, with great 
 delight, that Widows' Cottage was let to 
 another widow — " a real lady this time, 
 your honour. She's a Mrs. Lee, and she's 
 got a little dot of a girl with her, about a 
 year old ; and she tells Barbara, who went 
 down to see what she could do for her, 
 that she has had much sorrow and trouble, 
 and wants to be quiet for the rest of her 
 life. I suppose she's not philosophical," 
 says Tim, " and so found her husband a 
 nuisance." 
 
 I thought very little of this bit of news, 
 and certainly never guessed what that " little 
 dot of a girl " would become to me. Two 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 243 
 
 or three years passed in my favourite study 
 and solitude before I even saw Mrs. Lee. 
 Wiieu I did meet her, it was by accident, in 
 the God's-acre of Saint Apollonia's Chapel, 
 where the pretty bright-haired little girl 
 was picking flowers and ferns. We talked 
 — about the weather, of course. The 
 young widow had the face of a sorrowful 
 yet resigned Madonna. Somehow we gra- 
 dually became friends. I never knew her 
 story, which it was easy to see must have 
 been a very painful one, since it had cast a 
 settled melancholy over a character natu- 
 rally designed to be joyous. This woman, 
 at thirty so pensive, was as gay as a skylark, 
 I'll swear, at twenty. What had crushed 
 her, I never desired to know. 
 
 We gradually grew friendly, and being 
 beyond the region of gossip, and beyond 
 the folly of love-making, we could enjoy 
 
 r2 
 
244 TRANSMIGEATION. 
 
 such friendliness. Helen Lee was like a 
 too early twilight in Summer. Her lovely 
 life had been saddened by some remediless 
 grief, and there was nothing left her but 
 the golden-haired " dot of a girl," who soon 
 became my playfellow. The choicest of 
 essayists has said that you may lose yourself 
 in another man's mind as easily as in an- 
 other man's grounds. So long had I lost 
 myself in the mighty mind of my archididas- 
 culus, Henry Romayne, that T was glad to 
 let myself out by a wicket gate, and talk 
 nature to a pensive lady, and nonsense to a 
 merry child. 
 
 We exchanged visits, regardless of scan- 
 dal — which, indeed, left us quite alone. 
 There was' a diagonal meadow-path up-hill 
 from Ford Cottage to a side-gate of my 
 Beau Sejour garden, and on fine days it 
 became an institution that Mrs. Lee and 
 
TRAXSMIGRATIOX. 245 
 
 " Dot" should come up to lunch, or that I 
 should go down to tea. Very often it was 
 both. Dot, by the way, had been christen- 
 ed Mavis — and a bird-like little fairy she 
 was. 
 
 Helen Lee and I did not fall in love, 
 though condition and juxtaposition might 
 have justified it. She thirty, I fort}*, 
 and her only incumbrance Dot with the 
 golden locks. I think we got so far as 
 platonic affection. But her great grief kept 
 her fancy-free, while I thought more of 
 Lucy the more I saw of another woman, 
 and kept the love of my lost darling as my 
 chief solace — the transcendental philosophy 
 of Doctor Romayne being the next. 
 
 My uneventful life at this timQ requires no 
 minute chronicle. As time went on. Mavis 
 Lee passed from a baby to a girl, and then 
 I took her for a pupil. I did not teach her 
 
246 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 abstract metaphysics — I taught her English 
 poetry and literature ; and when she had 
 drunk deeply of the sweetest spring that 
 ever flowed, I took her to the older foun- 
 tains of Greece and Italy. Some severer 
 studies were necessary, doubtless ; even girls 
 must know a smattering of history, geogra- 
 phy, and the like ; but we made tales of 
 our history, and maps of our geography. 
 Helen Lee often laughed at the odd way in 
 which tutor and pupil went to work, as we 
 three sat in the great book-room of Doctor 
 Romayne, whose windows always caught 
 the least stray sunshine ; but Mavis pick- 
 ed up plenty of pure bright knowledge in 
 this way, which made her after-life a myriad 
 times happier than it might have been. Her 
 mother taught her religion and music and 
 painting — the child was a born artist. And 
 on pleasant days, when Mavis was a dot of 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 247 
 
 a girl no longer, we used to haunt the 
 chapel of St. Apollonia with easel and 
 books, and I had a feelincj that the vener- 
 able Doctor, if his spirit ever approached 
 the spot where lay his dust, would deem that 
 I had turned his impalpable lessons to good 
 account. 
 
 All this time there were great things stir- 
 ring in the world outside ; they had slight 
 effect upon us three. My first personal 
 grief was that poor Tim Short died ; the 
 wars had knocked him about unkindly ; the 
 unkinder railways killed him. Tim foresaw 
 that, although no railway to Redborough 
 was talked of yet, it must come in time ; he 
 beheld in vision the Romayne Arms shorn 
 of its glories ; he took to his bed and wither- 
 ed away. The staunch old humorous 
 soldier lies in the shadow of Saint Apollo- 
 nia's Chapel. I think he might have lasted 
 
24S TKANSMIGRATION. 
 
 years long, but for the threatened coming of 
 steam. 
 
 Alas, and poor Mazeppa ! I had given 
 up riding him far, when Mrs. Lee first came 
 to Ford Cottage ; I was a heavy weight, and 
 he was growing old. When we got intimate, 
 I used to bring the old charger down to 
 the river-path, and Dot would have a ride, 
 while I led him ; and in time the child and 
 he became firm friends, as children and 
 horses will. But, as he grew infirm, I turn- 
 ed him into a paddock which I hired of Tim 
 Short ; and there we often visited him with 
 a gift of carrot or bread, dear old boy ! I 
 don't know his age when I bought him in 
 1800 ; but he was tlie staunch est steed I 
 ever strode — the Launcelot of horses. When 
 Mavis heard he was dead, she must come to 
 see him at once ; slie was wild with grief; it 
 took a week to console her. 
 
I 
 
 TRANSMIGRATION. 249 
 
 " Never mind !" she said at last, with a 
 kind of defiance, " I shall see Mazeppa 
 again. I am sure he had a soul !" 
 
 " Mavis !" says Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " He hadi mamma." 
 
 Soul or not, Mazeppa lies buried on Beau 
 Sejour lawn, and on a marble slab is the 
 legend — 
 
 EQUO FIDELI. 
 
250 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MAVIS LEE. 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in gay green wood, 
 When mavis and merle are singing. 
 
 A S a man passes onward through the 
 ■^-^ world, there are many delights which 
 he necessarily must leave behind him. Were 
 it otherwise, what a monotoned world we 
 should inhabit ! There comes a day when 
 you can no longer leap a five -barred gate ; 
 there also comes a day when you can enjoy 
 Horace, whose amazing collocations of words 
 and metre were your abhorrence at school. 
 It may be asked which is better, to leap 
 
TRANSMIGRATION, 251 
 
 gates or like Horace? I reply that there 
 is no comparison. Each is right at the right 
 time. If at eighteen you can leap your own 
 height, at eighty-one you may hope to be 
 in good form, enjoying Horace in your arm- 
 chair. 
 
 All those who regret the past are strange- 
 ly unwise. If it has been a time of trouble, 
 hope and work for a fairer future ; if of plea- 
 sure, why, the pleasure that we have had is 
 as thoroughly incorporated within us as the 
 ox-beef we have eaten, as the vineyards we 
 have drunken. There are those who pro- 
 fess to regret their youth, to be sorry they 
 can never again do what once they did. I 
 suppose they would like to be handsome 
 boys to the end of time. They ought logic- 
 ally to go farther back, to shed tears over 
 the cozy cradle, the comforting coral, the 
 delicious pap, the malicious slap ; to wish 
 
252 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 themselves always babies. Wish it or not, 
 they are babies, as is any man who desires 
 to be other than he is. One would have 
 thought that by this time the majority of 
 intelligent human beings would have dis- 
 covered that their first duty is to seize the 
 present, without weeping about the past or 
 hungering for the future, and to use all their 
 faculties to the utmost in the present. No, 
 the lesson is unlearnt, though every event of 
 life teaches it. 
 
 To give women their due, they are much 
 readier to learn it than men. They under- 
 stand repose. They can quietly accept a 
 sunny afternoon on a Liwn of the Thames, 
 strawberries and cream and champagne, a 
 perfect costume, a pleasant flirtation, with- 
 out caring twopence for what may happen 
 to-morrow, or what happened yesterday. 
 A primary use of women is to teach men 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 253 
 
 philosophy — not by lecture(Heaven forfend!) 
 but by example. That they have many 
 other uses not less valuable, I not only deny 
 not, but maintain. 
 
 Now, Mavis Lee, as she grew on into girl- 
 hood, an instructive and unconscious little 
 philosopher, gave me continuous lessons in 
 repose. She was restless enough in some 
 senses — she chattered, laughed, joked, raced 
 about the lawn, did a thousand things as 
 rapidly as lightning. She enjoyed the 
 instant ; she had no care for an hour ago or 
 an hour hence. This absolute content, 
 based on instinct only, is very rare. Based 
 on reason, it is not frequent. We find few 
 men who, deeming their future as certain as 
 their past, crush out the entire juice of the 
 passing moment, enjoying it as a child 
 enjoys a peach, as a bird enjoys its own 
 song. So far as I have learnt this happy 
 
254 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 art, it was from the practice of little Mavis 
 Lee. Yet I fancied I had attained it by 
 methods of strict logic ; that it sufficed me to 
 know that He who gave me fortunate en- 
 trance to the universe would secure for me 
 an exit not less fortunate. 
 
 Being thirty-five years older than this 
 little girl, it seemed odd that she could 
 teach me anything. Odd also it seemed 
 that we were such capital companions ; we 
 used to turn out of mornings, and wander 
 by the stream, when I, having previously 
 explored it each way, proposed often to 
 trace it to the sea. The idea puzzled her, 
 born and brought up very close to England's 
 centre. I had to tell her exactly what the 
 sea was like. If there is anything to puzzle 
 a man, it is to describe the sea intelligibly 
 to a land-born child. I found I could not 
 do it, hard as I tried. Having conscientiously 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 255 
 
 endeavoured to unite for her guidance the 
 scientific and poetic elements of the ocean, 
 I thought it hard when she exclaimed — 
 
 " I know where the sea is." 
 
 " You do, Mavis ?" 
 
 *' Yes, Eynsham Pond's the sea." 
 
 Now Eynsham Pond, the hollow formed 
 by an old quarry, or time, though perhaps 
 two hundred feet across, is not exactly the 
 Atlantic ; but I could not make Mavis under- 
 stand the difference, and I think she ratlier 
 resented my attempt to put her favourite 
 pond below any other body of water. Be- 
 side that pond she had lingered, cherishing 
 fairy fancies, many a happy afternoon. It 
 was large enough for her. It is a lucky 
 thing that the human imagination has a 
 transfiguring power. What visions Mavis 
 had beside that unpoetic pond I know not ; 
 they sufficed to cause her to disdain the sea. 
 
256 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 I was beginning, so f\ir as I can judge 
 myself, to resemble in some degree Dr. 
 Henry Romayne. I should have stiffened 
 into omniscience, but for Mavis. She sang 
 as freshly as the bird that was her sponsor. 
 She was just in that serene, unconscious 
 state which is charming in childhood — the 
 calm of the stream before it leaps over the 
 cataract, and the girl becomes a woman. 
 There is a moment — I wonder how it comes, 
 and when? — of transition from the romp to 
 the lady, from the creature whose move- 
 ments are those of a kitten to tlie grace that 
 walks with the dainty dignity of the mother 
 of ^neas, from the mere child to the true 
 woman. You are sorry to lose the child, 
 that pretty toy that has so much in common 
 with bird and flower, and tree and stream. 
 You are glad to greet the woman who 
 loves all these things, but is so far above 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 257 
 
 them all. Now where is the great poet who 
 shall fix the marvellous moment of change ? 
 
 It cannot be. With some the transforma- 
 tion is gradual, and there is an intervening 
 period of sh3^ness and gawkiness, painful to 
 both the sufferer and her sympathizers ; but 
 in higher cases I take the change to be sud- 
 den, and that there comes the feeling of 
 womanhood with an irresistible intensity. 
 She is a woman to-day who yesterday was 
 a child. Why ? Simply because the spirit 
 matures, the bud opens, the dream becomes 
 life. It must of course be admitted that 
 association with masculine youth sometimes 
 precipitates the change. 
 
 Mavis I watched with much curiosity, as 
 she passed on through her earlier teens, the 
 gayest little graceful hoyden I had ever 
 seen. Her feelins; towards me was half 
 daughter, half playfellow ; she called me 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " papa " sometimes, but generally " Sir Ed- 
 ward ;" for, since Romayne had found me 
 out, it was vain to attempt continuance of 
 incognito. Being, as I have said, thirty-five 
 years older than Mavis, and having, as may 
 clearly be seen, no interest in her except as 
 a pretty little pupil, whose happiness I natu- 
 ralty desired, I was in a position to watch 
 her development. I felt, indeed, much like 
 a highly scientific gardener, who watches 
 for the flowering of one of those astounding 
 plants — aloes I think they are — that flower 
 once in a century, with a noise like a park 
 of artillery, and usually select some incon- 
 venient hour for doing it. 
 
 Mavis went gaily on, in the unconscious 
 happy childish state, to a later age than is, 
 I suppose, common with young girls. So 
 far as I recollect, it was one fine Summer 
 morning, in 1832, that she came up to Beau 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 259 
 
 Sejour, with a look iu her eyes that made 
 me at once think Dot with the golden hair 
 was a creature of the past. That aureate 
 iota had become a woman. Why ? 
 
 "Sir Edward," she said, with a quite 
 amusing unaccustomed shyness, " will you 
 come down to see us to-day ? A cousin of 
 ours arrived last night." 
 
 " If that cousin is not male," said I to 
 myself, " I'll eat her, petticoats and all." 
 
 " I don't know how to tell you," she 
 went on, coaxingly, "but Arthur has run 
 away from school. Very wrong of him, I 
 suppose ; but they wanted to do something 
 dreadful to him, and he didn't wait to have 
 it done. He is mamma's sister's son ; and 
 he is so handsome!" 
 
 Certain psychophysiological ideas crossed 
 my mind. Had this runaway schoolboy 
 already made love to Mavis, or was it only 
 
 s2 
 
260 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 tlie little fool's natural tendency to find 
 something poetic in the very first male crea- 
 ture she saw ? 
 
 " Come along, Dot," I said. " We'll talk 
 to your cousin Arthur. What's his other 
 name, Mavis ?" 
 
 " Hartopp," she said. 
 
 " And what is he like ?" 
 
 " 0, you'll see him presently," she said, 
 " if you will be kind enough to come. 
 Mamma does so want your advice about 
 him." 
 
 I knew pretty well what my advice would 
 be, if there were any chance of its being 
 taken ; give the young rascal a good flogging, 
 and send him back to be flogged at school. 
 But Helen Lee would have thought me a 
 barbarian if I should offer such advice ; 
 wherefore I determined to offer no advice 
 at all. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 261 
 
 Mavis and I walked down to Ford Cot- 
 tage, and found Mrs. Lee alone. Arthur had 
 gone out ; he was restless, and did not know 
 what to do. At my suggestion, Mavis went 
 in search of him, and Mrs. Lee and I talked 
 over the matter. 
 
 " He only came here late last night," she 
 said. " friffhteninoj us to death. I am sure I 
 don't know how he found us out. He ran 
 away from school, about thirty miles from 
 here, because he had to be whipt for some- 
 thing or other ... he couldn't satisfactorily 
 tell what. I say a boy is a coward that 
 doesn't suffer punishment quietly when he 
 deserves it." 
 
 " Quite true," I replied. " How old is 
 he?" 
 
 "]\ravis and Arthur were born within a 
 week of each other." 
 
 I was annoyed at the thought that this 
 
262 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 runaway schoolboy, physically of Mavis's age, 
 yet mentally many years younger, should 
 by some unlucky chance have awakened 
 within her that consciousness of existence. 
 I was annoyed that he should be a coward, 
 who would run away thirty miles to avoid 
 punishment. I was annoyed that Mrs. Lee 
 should be troubled with this youngster, and 
 that Mavis should be thrown into his com- 
 pany. 
 
 Presently there was laughter in the gar- 
 den — and in the two came, quite merrily. 
 They were evidently on the best of terras, 
 Arthur and Mavis. They might well be so, 
 if form indicates spirit ; I never saw two 
 people more alike ; they might have been 
 twins, Arthur Hartopp was the most femi- 
 nine boy of seventeen I ever saw ; lie 
 looked as if he were a girl dressed up. I 
 saw now why ho had become a fugitive. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 263 
 
 The common English schoolboy is as hard 
 as nails ; he takes with equal power of re- 
 sistance a birching or a tunding ; he will 
 fiffht a fellow twice his weio;ht ; he would 
 rather have his head punched than read a 
 hundred lines of Homer. Arthur Hartopp 
 was as fragile as a china vase of the egg- 
 shell manufacture. Human fragility could 
 go no farther than this boy. It was clear 
 to me that associating with him could do 
 Mavis no harm. He was mentally more a 
 girl than herself. 
 
 So, when Mrs. Lee asked my opinion, I 
 meanly declined to give any. She had 
 written to her sister (a weeping widow 
 woman) and to Dr. Grindley, the master 
 of the school, pleading for lenient treatment. 
 The Doctor curtly replied : 
 
 "Madam, — Send Arthur Hartopp back at 
 
264 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 your leisure, if you think him worth sending 
 back. He will be treated according to the 
 ancient discipline of this school. 
 
 "Cato Grindley, D.D." 
 
 I should be sorry to have to transcribe 
 the weeping widow's crossed epistles ; the 
 burden of them was, " Take care of Arthur. 
 Don't let him go where the birch-tree 
 grows." So Arthur was taken care of, and 
 was not sent back to Dr. Grindley's, as he 
 ought to have been, and ran about the 
 neighbourhood with my little Mavis. 
 
 Well, I saw less of her than usual. She 
 was loving as ever to her old tutor, but 
 this cousin of her own age came upon her 
 like a charm. I was rather interested in 
 tlieir intercourse, from philosophic reasons. 
 I desired to know whether a girl like Mavis 
 could tolerate a young fellow like her cousin 
 Arthur. He was the sort of boy that ought 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 265 
 
 to have been put on a bencli, with a pina- 
 fore on, to work a sampler. There are such 
 weak creatures. 
 
 He tired Mavis, but he made interest with 
 her mother, who thought him such a per- 
 fect young gentleman. Women, having 
 reached a certain age, are apt to forget the 
 days when they preferred a man to a milk- 
 sop. To their daughters they commend the 
 milksop. The daughters do not always en- 
 tirely agree — small blame to them. How- 
 ever, Arthur Hartopp could not be in thecom- 
 pany of my beautiful Mavis day after day with- 
 out feeling that wondrous magnetic attraction 
 that might even make a wishy-washy being 
 like him feel heroic ; wherefore I was not 
 surprised when, one afternoon, Mavis came 
 to me, and said he had asked her to marry 
 him. She was very quiet about it. Indeed, 
 there was a laugh on her lips. 
 
266 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 " What do you think of him, Dot ?" I 
 asked, she having told her story. 
 
 You should have seen her. She drew 
 herself up. She is not a short girl, my 
 Mavis. She stood a moment, with her hands 
 behind her gold-crested head, and looked 
 very much like Artemis in a temper. I 
 always mentally compared the little girl 
 with Artemis, by the Latins called Diana. 
 
 " Think of him ! Dear Sir Edward, he is 
 dreadful! And I am so miserable about it. 
 I somehow or other fancied I liked him. I 
 made a man of him — picking up the pieces 
 from my own imagination. And now he 
 has dared to ask me to marry him. I was 
 obliged to run away, for I was afraid of 
 boxing his ears. Marry him! I'd rather 
 marry ray grandfather !" 
 
 " Well, little Mavis," I said, " will you 
 leave the young gentleman to me ? I think 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 267 
 
 I understand him. If he does what he 
 ought to do, he may make a place for him- 
 self in the world ; but he is not good enough 
 for Mavis." 
 
 " Ah !" she said, " I was tired of Arthur 
 so soon. He is pretty to look at, but, oh ! 
 dear me, how dull! If it had not been for 
 mamma's wishing it, I should have run 
 away. Dear Sir Edward, he is such a dread- 
 ful boy !" 
 
 I kissed the child's brow. What pleasure 
 it gave me to think that, though association 
 with this new-found cousin of hers had 
 aided to turn the bud into a flower, she had 
 a classic contempt for the said cousin. If 
 only I could find some one worthy of my 
 Mavis ! I fear it is impossible. 
 
268 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE TRIALS OF MAVIS LEE. 
 "Malo, mavis, mavult." 
 
 rjlHERE are some things in humanity 
 -■- very difficult to account for; among 
 them is the behaviour of mothers to daugh- 
 ters. Mothers usually allow their sons to do 
 much as they please ; but they worry daugh- 
 ters abominably, treating them much as a 
 hen-pigeon treats her female offspring. At 
 Beau Sejour I have had ample opportunity 
 to notice the habits of pigeons, and they 
 certainly offer a curious caricature of the 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 269 
 
 human race. The pigeon-mother's behavi- 
 our to her daughter is intensely human. 
 
 I could scarcely believe what I saw on 
 Helen Lee's part. She took quite a foolish 
 fancy to this silly boy, and would not send 
 him back to Dr. Cato Grindley, who very 
 soon would have thrashed him into form. 
 She let him stay on at Ford Cottage, and 
 make infantile love to Mavis. The love- 
 making of a boy of that age is very mild, 
 necessarily ; and Mavis got so terribly tired 
 of it that she took every opportunity of 
 running up to me at Beau Sejour for pro- 
 tection and instruction. Her effeminate 
 cousin Arther did not dare to follow her, 
 for I frightened the young fool out of his 
 life one day when he came prowling about 
 my premises. I came rapidly down toward 
 the gate, with a dog-whip in my hand, and 
 followed by a leash of greyhounds that I 
 
270 TRANSMIGKATION. 
 
 had set up as companions, and he ran off as 
 hard as he could, never re-appearing. So 
 Mavis was safe enough while with me. 
 
 I said my greyhounds were set up as 
 companions, but they were also of use. The 
 moorland around Five Tree Hill has plenty 
 of hares, and I had Romayne's permission to 
 kill as many as I chose. So I bought a 
 Norfolk cob for myself, and a little Exmoor 
 to carry Mavis, and we had the merriest days' 
 coursing imaginable. There was an old 
 fellow called Yaddles, an earth -stopper, who 
 came out with us and took charge of the dogs : 
 and by-and-by I took him entirely into my 
 employ, finding that he was trustworthy, 
 and could turn his hand to anything. 
 
 How we enjoyed these coursing days, 
 Mavis and I! The gay wind on Romayne 
 Moor blew her brown tresses about, and 
 her cheeks grew ruddy and sunburnt ; and 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 271 
 
 her mad little Exraoor stallion often ran 
 away with her, just for fun. And then puss 
 was started ; and away went two brace of 
 greyhounds after the cunning little beggar, 
 at their swiftest stride ; and it was all we 
 could do to gallop fast enough to keep them 
 in sight. Merry mornings ! How she enjoy- 
 ed them, ray little Mavis ! I could not 
 stiffen into a likeness of Doctor Romayne, 
 with Mavis and the greyhounds to keep life 
 in me. 
 
 Much did I ponder concerning the future 
 of Mavis Lee. Some old fogies might have 
 fallen in love with a handsome high-spirited 
 girl of seventeen, but I was not a fool of that 
 description. I have had my love. I could 
 not help feeling an intense and eager desire 
 for this child's happiness; and I determined 
 to leave her a few thousand pounds in my 
 will. She certainly deserved a good hus- 
 
272 TRANSMIGKATION. 
 
 band. Though as full of fun as a girl in her 
 teens ought to be, there was sometimes a 
 curious gravity about her, as if she had very 
 decided views concerning life. She would 
 be quite amusingly matronly sometimes, 
 and she has actually lectured me when she 
 thought I had sat up too late or drunk a 
 bottle of claret too much. 
 
 Arthur Hartopp remained at Ford Cot- 
 tage much longer than seemed advisable; 
 but I said nothing to Mrs. Lee on the sub- 
 ject, as she seemed to be quite fascinated 
 by that effeminate youth. Such things come 
 to an end. He bored her at last, almost as 
 much as he had bored Mavis ; and when 
 she suggested to her sister that he had been 
 almost long enough at Ford Cottage, that 
 weeping widow woman wrote her one of 
 those fierce letters which none but the 
 disconsolate and lachrymose seem able to 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 273 
 
 compose. Then I was called into counsel 
 — having previously been rather out of fav- 
 our, because I had encouraged Mavis to 
 come and see me as much as possible dur- 
 ing young Hartopp's stay at Ford Cottage. 
 The conversation which I then had with 
 Mrs. Lee satisfied me that this young fellow 
 ought to be back at school again ; so I sent 
 for a carriage and pair, took Yaddles into 
 my confidence, and carried Arthur Hartopp 
 by cross country roads to Birchanger Hall, 
 the residence of the Reverend Cato Grind- 
 ley, D.D. The boy didn t half like it, but 
 had not pluck enough to resist. 
 
 Doctor Cato Grindley's place is just what 
 a boy's school should be — a fine old Eliza- 
 bethan house, in about two hundred acres of 
 park and farm. Doctor Cato himself is, or 
 was, a model schoolmaster. I was delight- 
 ed with him. He wore a cap and gown ; 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 he might have been of any age from fifty to 
 a hundred ; he had a humorous twinkle 
 about the mouth and eye, which showed that 
 he was capable of understanding boys. He 
 insisted on my staying to dine and sleep, and 
 I was so amused with him that I could not 
 help accepting. He introduced me to his 
 only daughter, the lady manager of the 
 household, about thirty, I should think, with 
 a slightly suspicious and questioning look 
 in her eye. It must be hard work for a 
 lady of that age to arrange everything for a 
 household of about two hundred and fifty 
 people. 
 
 Doctor Cato Grindley gave me a glass of 
 unquestionable port, over which I asked him 
 what he would do with young Hartopp, and 
 what he thought of him generally. 
 
 " Well," quoth the Doctor, " he will have 
 to be flogged for running away. And 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 275 
 
 then I suppose we must try to teach him 
 something. His body and brain are of" the 
 consistency of jelly. He will always be 
 useless. I would rather not have him here. 
 But I never refuse a pupil unless he has 
 done something dishonourable. The boy 
 is flabby ; when he is flogged he will 
 only whimper, and wonder why it was 
 done. There's no dealing with that class of 
 youngster." 
 
 " What class do you like best, Doctor ?" I 
 said. 
 
 He laughed. His stern yet humorous 
 scholastic countenance lighted up with whim- 
 sical reminiscences. 
 
 " I like a thorough rebel," he said. " I 
 like the fellow who looks on his schoolmas- 
 ter as his natural enemy. There is real 
 fun in conquering a boy of that sort ; they 
 make my best pupils ; that's where I get my 
 
 T 2 
 
276 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 high wranglers and senior classics. I 
 wouldn't give a dolt for a boy without a 
 spice of Safan in him." 
 
 " But are not such boys difficult to get 
 into order ?" I asked. 
 
 " Not at all. The flabby boys remain 
 flabby to the end ; the canting boys deceive 
 you, and smoke bad cigars on the sly ; but 
 the real rebel becomes your best ally when 
 you have conquered him. His rebellion 
 arises from independence of character. I 
 first make him obey ; I then take the trouble 
 to show him why it is worth his while to 
 obey. I have one or two boys in the upper 
 form of this school whom I could leave to 
 manage the school if I were away a week. 
 They were rebels at first." 
 
 " There is something in your theory," 
 1 said, " which suggests a wider extension. 
 You make your rebels loyal. The same 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 277 
 
 process goes on with the whole human 
 race." 
 
 I enjoyed my evening with Doctor Cato 
 Grindley more than T could have deemed it 
 possible to enjoy an evening with a school- 
 master. We chatted much on many 
 themes, and of course in time we came upon 
 Pythagoras. 
 
 " I hope that theory is true," he said, 
 pathetically. " I have been a schoolmaster 
 so long that I should like to be a schoolboy 
 for a change." 
 
 Leaving Master Arthur Hartopp to his 
 fate, which doubtless involved an irritation 
 of the cuticle, I returned to Five Tree Hill. 
 A terrible shock naet me on the threshold of 
 Beau Sejour. Helen Lee was dead — of 
 heart-disease, quite suddenly. My Mavis 
 was an orphan. I rushed down to Ford 
 Cottage at once, and found the poor child 
 
278 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 in a state of ineffable misery. dear, 
 how utterly impossible it is for a man to 
 comfort a woman in her trouble ! While, 
 somehow or other, a woman knows exactly 
 how to console a man. You can laugh with 
 a woman, flirt with her, enjoy life with her, 
 make love to her seriously or in fun, but I 
 defy you to console her in any great grief. 
 Yet in any great grief a loving woman can 
 console a man, having in her a faculty of 
 solace denied to manhood. iVfter a pretty 
 long experience of life, I have reached the 
 definite conclusion that man is but a poor 
 creature. There are, I am told, exceptions, 
 but I never have encountered one. 
 
 What was to become of Mavis Lee ? That 
 question soon had its answer. There ap- 
 peared at Five Tree Hill a short stout 
 fussy plethoric gentleman, with a head as 
 bald as a billiard-ball, and a chin close- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 279 
 
 shaven, dressed in black apparel, with white 
 stockings and low shoes, and wearing the 
 largest gold watch and the largest diamond 
 ring I ever saw. He announced himself as 
 Mr, Arundel Lee, of the Stock Exchange, 
 paternal uncle to Mavis. He took charge 
 of everything, Mavis included. 
 
 "My sister-in-law mistrusted me, Sir 
 Edward Ellesmere," he said, " because I 
 was always trying to keep poor Tom — that's 
 my late brother — pretty straight. Tom 
 liked to make ducks and drakes of his 
 money ; poor Helen always maintained lie 
 was quite right, till one day he went too far 
 even for her. The story need not to be 
 told ; I wish my niece never to hear it. 
 Somehow, though I did all I could at the 
 time, Helen fancied I might have done 
 more ; so, though I have always managed her 
 money matters for her, we were never quite 
 
280 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 such good friends after. I am Mavis's guard- 
 ian and trustee, and, as I'm a confirmed 
 old bachelor, I shall leave her all my money, 
 if she's a good girl." 
 
 " She is a peculiar girl," I said, " but 
 thoroughly good. She is sensitive and 
 imaginative — fond of books and of nature 
 out of doors. I don't think you will be 
 disposed to cancel your will when you have 
 known her for a little time." 
 
 This fussy little stock-broking uncle was 
 thoroughly kind, and of course he had a 
 right — indeed it was his duty — to take 
 charge of Mavis. She, poor child, did not 
 like it. In Mr. Arundel Lee there was no- 
 thing whatever, in mind or bod}^, to attract 
 her poetic temperament. He was too re- 
 spectable for Mavis. That bald head and 
 plain costume, plus watch, chain, and dia- 
 mond-ring, were worth a fortune in the City ; 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 281 
 
 they did not delight a girl whose studies 
 and dreams were of knights and trouba- 
 dours. When we talked of heroic men, she 
 always said she preferred Walter of the 
 Bird-Meadow ; he could fight, he could sing, 
 he could love, and he endowed with his 
 estate the winged minstrels of the air. 
 Certes, that gentle patient lover of lady 
 and lute, of battle and birds, was a hero fit 
 for any girl's fancy. Alas ! there is no room 
 in the world for the troubadour now. 
 
 Mavis was sensible enough to see that her 
 uncle was very kind, and that it was his 
 duty to take charge of her ; but she had a 
 dread of the new life she would have to en- 
 counter. Mr. Arundel Lee lived at Clap- 
 ham Common, in a noble old red-brick 
 mansion, with ample grounds. But think 
 of this wild Mavis, untameable as her name- 
 sake bird, exchanging for Clapham the 
 
282 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 wild free air of Five Tree Hill, and passing 
 from St. Apollonia's lovely river-side chapel 
 to the ugly Cockney church whereof Mr. 
 Arundel Lee was churchwarden ! It was 
 impossible not to apprehend her being 
 miserable, though her uncle evidently in- 
 tended to make her happy, and thought he 
 knew the way. There are natures that 
 would rather be unhappy in their own way 
 than happy in some one else's ; and few 
 people do more harm than those who lay 
 down a plan of happiness, and expect others 
 to follow it. Procrustes was a mild tyrant 
 to these blundering benefactors to their 
 species. 
 
 I take credit to myself for having done 
 all I could to reconcile Mavis with her fate 
 during the short period before she left Ford 
 Cottage. I felt how dull Five Tree Hill 
 must become when my pretty lively pupil 
 
TRANSMIGKATION. 283 
 
 left it ; but I concealed my own annoyance, 
 and looked forward to the time when I 
 should have a good long yawn by myself 
 I was a downright hypocrite at that period. 
 I tried to persuade Mavis that Clapham was 
 Elysium, though I knew it was infested by 
 the Clapham Saints ; and when she asked 
 what a stock-broker was, I tried to invest 
 that vocation with a halo of poetry. 
 
 The day came. The poor child had to 
 go. How she cried that last morning, in 
 Doctor Romayne's back-room, with the sun 
 shining on the garden and meadows and 
 rivulet below. That happy laughing rivulet 
 by Saint Apollonia's old chapel ! To Mavis 
 and me it was a friend ; and we both at that 
 moment thought of long joyous days passed 
 within hearing of its endless song. Never 
 more ! This child was going forth into a 
 world which I had vowed never to re-enter. 
 
284 TKANSMIGRATION. 
 
 I, a recluse, must console myself as best I 
 might for the loss of ray spiritual daughter. 
 Far better than Mavis I knew how utterly 
 she was lost to me : but I made light of it 
 to her, and encouraged her to expect a 
 happy life .... at Clapham ! 
 
 When the bald-headed and respectable 
 Mr. Arundel Lee had taken Mavis away, I 
 walked down to Saint Apollonia's Chapel, 
 and pondered, while the stream sang a pleas- 
 ant Summer tune. And the outcome of 
 my meditation was that I had given too much 
 time to Mavis, and had neglected those high 
 studies dear to the liearts of Pythagoras and 
 Henry Rom ayne. So I resolved (how often 
 we resolve the impossible !) to forget Mavis 
 altogether, and to resume my mystical phi- 
 losophy, and to work out, in all its details, 
 the great theory of metempsychosis. There 
 were many points that demanded further 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 285 
 
 analysis ; one especially being the crucial 
 question, whether souls have sex. This mo- 
 mentous point had occupied my attention 
 for a long time ; but Mavis had come be- 
 tween me and my philosophy, as a sunbeam 
 shoots through the window on a schoolboy's 
 Euclid^ blotting out ABC and D E F, and 
 bringing a vision of the green meadow and 
 the flowing stream. 
 
286 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 I loved a girl, I loved her 
 
 Without a reason why, 
 For she was a gay young giglot. 
 
 And a careless boy was I. 
 
 I lost that girl, I lost her, 
 
 And haven't a notion how ; 
 But, oh ! I would give my right hand 
 
 For a glance of her gay eyes now. 
 
 Ballad : tempore^ Charles II. 
 
 CERTES, I was lonely. I fell back on 
 Dr. Romayne, and worked out some of 
 those difficult corollaries to the theory of 
 metempsychosis already indicated. I de- 
 cided, after much investigation, that there is 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 287 
 
 sex in souls ; also that only two sexes are 
 possible, although certain pseudo-philoso- 
 phers have imagined a third. My treatise 
 on this subject, written in Latin, since it was 
 not addressed ad popidum, will probably be 
 printed at some future date. I was fortu- 
 nate enough . . . but I must not antici- 
 pate. 
 
 To my surprise, old Yaddles set himself 
 to work to cheer me up. He induced me 
 to go out riding or coursing. It was dull 
 business without Mavis ; but Yaddles had a 
 dry humour that amused me, and so I got 
 into the habit of allowing him to persuade 
 me to take exercise. 
 
 " You see, sir," he would say, " I know 
 nothing about books, for I can't read, thank 
 God and ray parents, but I don't tliink 
 books come up to horses and dogs. If ytju 
 get on horseback you'll get an appetite for 
 
288 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 dinner, but I never heard tell of a book's 
 giving a man an appetite. 
 
 With such arguments the old earth-stopper 
 lured me into open air, and did me a deal 
 of good thereby. But for the humble Yad- 
 dles I should at this time have got into a 
 morbid state of deadly dulness. Mavis 
 helped him, by the way, for she wrote to 
 me. This was her first letter : — 
 
 " Dear Sir Edward, 
 
 " I hate Clapham. I hate stock- 
 brokers. how dull they are ! Uncle 
 Arundel is very kind. I love you and Five 
 Tree Hill. Do, do, do send me some 
 wonderful problem to puzzle my poor little 
 
 brain ! 
 
 " Mavis." 
 
 So I sent her some of the perplexing 
 nonsense which clever girls have a fancy 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 289 
 
 for. She liked absurd mathematical conun- 
 drums, and to have to show that, if there are 
 more people in the world than any one of them 
 has hairs on his head, there must be at least 
 two people with an equal number of hairs 
 on their heads. It is my conviction she con- 
 tributed enigmas and mathematical para- 
 doxes to that marvellous annual, the Ladies 
 Diary. When she was taken away from 
 Five Tree Hill and given over to that con- 
 foundedly respectable bald-headed member 
 of the Stock Exchange, with his big diamond, 
 and his gold chronometric turnip, she was 
 beyond reach of the influences that had 
 made her what she was. No more mystical 
 lectures in the old doctor's book-room ; no 
 more wandering in search of rare ferns 
 where the shadow of Saint Apollonia lay 
 across the rippling stream ; no more cours- 
 ing the cunning hare on pleasant mornings, 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 before the mist had left the moor. No, it 
 was all Clapham for Mavis. 
 
 Worse, by-and-by. The stockbroker uncle 
 considered that her education had been 
 neglected, and determined to send her to 
 school, to learn what are called " accom- 
 plishments." The school was at Brixton, 
 Clapham's uglier sister, and Mavis described 
 the mistress to me as being something be- 
 tween Lady Macbeth and a washerwoman. 
 The vigorous rules of this establishment 
 compelled poor Mavis to pass all her letters 
 through the mistress's hands. Thanks to 
 that, and the high rate of postage, I had 
 news of her but seldom. 
 
 Month after month at this time I grew 
 more tired of the dulness of things, more 
 inclined to settle down to my books and 
 papers, and forget the outer world, with all 
 its annoyances and all its excitements. I 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 291 
 
 was growing tired. While that merry, sug- 
 gestive little Mavis was about, prattling her 
 nonsense, playing her pranks, finding delight 
 in a wild flower, and fun in a sudden rain- 
 storm, my spirits kept up. Now they began 
 to flag. I looked back wearily on a lost 
 life. A strange somnolence came over me ; 
 my brain would not work ; I fell into a kind 
 of apathy. Man delighted me not, nor 
 woman neither ; nor the joy of morning, 
 when the birds run wild to see the sun 
 again; nor the cloud -frigates in the sea of 
 Summer sky ; nor books, learned, or humor- 
 ous, or poetic; nor my dinner. I seemed 
 to have lost all appetite — I cared for 
 nothing but sleep. In my long sleep I had 
 delicious dreams — sometimes of my later 
 years, with Mavis as my companion, and the 
 heather-clad moor, and the greyhounds, and 
 the old chapel ; oftener of the rose-garden 
 
 u 2 
 
292 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 at Twickenham, and Lucy's magic touch and 
 mellow voice. 
 
 Sleep is a fragment of death, and dreams 
 are a revelation of immortality. Some men 
 don't dream. As Coleridge remarked, " Such 
 men are never poets." Indeed, it may 
 greatly be doubted whether they are not 
 what Doctor Romayne, with graphic em- 
 phasis, called dolls. It is quite certain that 
 dolls don't dream. What could they dream 
 about except dolls of the opposite sex they 
 had seen in the toyshop before they came 
 out into the world? 
 
 A doctor from Redborousjh came over to 
 see me now and then. His name was 
 Tranter, and lie was the most cheerful old 
 boy I ever knew. 'Tis a pity doctors can- 
 not always be cheerful ; the infectious animal 
 spirits of a doctor are of more value by far 
 than all the drugs your scientific physician 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 293 
 
 can order to be administered. Tranter 
 used to laugh at my fancies, call me a 
 hypochondriac, or some such name, wake 
 me out of my lethargy by his own vital 
 energy. Tranter was a dull fellow— all his 
 schoolmasters laughed at him ; but what 
 they wanted to teach him was just what a 
 plain healthy intellect like his could not 
 assimilate. Offer Strasburg pie, with all 
 its truffles, to a labourer used to bread and 
 cheese and onions, and he will probably be 
 disgusted. 
 
 Tranter did me good, I suppose. He 
 kept me awake. I came to look for his 
 visits. He was a brusque doctor, accus- 
 tomed to scold poor people thoroughly if 
 they did not get well when they ought. 
 He used to tell me with creat crlee how he 
 shocked the " lady " of a rich Redborough 
 manufacturer. She had one dausrhter, about 
 
294 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 twelve, whom she spoilt, feeding her into 
 chronic indicrestion with all sorts of nice 
 things, and allowing her to pass a lazy life, 
 without movement of the mind. When 
 Tranter was called in, he saw at once what 
 was the matter, so he wrote a prescription 
 in some sucli terms as these : — 
 
 " Whip her once a week at least. IMake 
 her learn to read and write. Give her 
 nothino' for dinner but roast meat and suet- 
 
 o 
 
 pudding. Send her to bed at eight." 
 
 The lady was shocked. She called in a 
 fashionable doctor named Ozanne, who had 
 recently set up a system called homoeopathy, 
 which seems to mean the administering of 
 particles of sugar in all diseases. Ozanne 
 took the girl in hand, and made her a great 
 deal worse. He did not kill her, however ; 
 and I liave heard that slie became a more 
 languid fine lady than her mamma. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 295 
 
 Tranter cheered Die up, certainly. He 
 always had a new story of politics or society. 
 Between the papers and his clients he was 
 always full of news ; and he came into your 
 room lii^e a fresh breeze, waking you up by 
 sheer vital force. He wanted me to " rouse 
 myself." 
 
 " You are young," he said. " Living in 
 this quiet way is not good for you. Why 
 not go to London and amuse yourself?" 
 
 " I am not exactly young, Doctor," I 
 answered ; " but I believe your advice is 
 good if I could take it. Nothing would 
 amuse me now. I got past the age of 
 possible amusement too early." 
 
 " Yours is a mental malady," he said, 
 " and I have no medicine for a mind diseas- 
 ed. You have stayed in this old house, 
 among old books, till you're as melancholy 
 as an old rat that has passed all his life in 
 
296 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 the same drain-pipe. If you don't shake 
 yourself up, you'll just fall into a state of 
 permanent stupidity." 
 
 " What would you have rae do ?" 
 "Do! Anything fresh. Go to London 
 and see the world ; it must have changed 
 since you settled in this corner so many 
 years ago. It does any man harm to iso- 
 late himself, whatsoever his reasons. You 
 are your own master. Sir Edward ; pack 
 your portmanteau, and change the air for 
 awhile," 
 
 Such was Tranter's advice. I took it. 
 Thouiih threats of comin"; steam had sad- 
 dened the heart of Timothy Short, steam 
 was only rampant in the far north, and I 
 had still the pleasure of travelling by stage- 
 coach. I determined to be in London a 
 few days only ; so I took the least possible 
 amount of luasraofe. I left the Romavne 
 
 CO D »! 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 297 
 
 Arras late at night; I reached the White 
 Horse Cellar in Piccadilly early in the morn- 
 ing — so early that I went to bed, and slept 
 off the fatigue of tlie journey. 
 
 When, a few hours later, I descended to 
 the cofFee-roora and looked out upon Picca- 
 dilly, T thought that perhaps I liad done 
 wisely to leave ray hermitage and take one 
 more look at the great metropolis. I could 
 not, however, help feeling my perfect lone- 
 liness in London. There were, of course, 
 people who, if I found them out, would try 
 to get up a languid interest in me, but I 
 should be just like an old-fogyish ghost to 
 them. I had no desire to re-appear in that 
 way. I determined to look at the outside 
 of London life, and remain unrecognised. 
 
 I walked into White's that morning. I 
 had a right there, having kept my name on 
 the books all these years. I was slightly 
 
298 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 stared at by gentlemen of my own standing, 
 who looked a good deal older than I ; and 
 I consoled myself with the notion tliat, if 
 Five Tree Hill had done nothing else for 
 me, it had kept ray skin from becoming 
 vellum, and had left some vig^our in mv 
 vertebra?. As I walked among men clearly 
 my compeers, I felt as if I insulted them by 
 being in such splendid form — " Tranter, 
 thou reasonest well," I said to myself, after 
 ray first slight look at London. 
 
 I secured a stall at the Opera at Sams's ; 
 it was a great night . . . Grisi's first appear- 
 ance in Norma. I am no musician, though 
 I heartily love the concord of sweet sounds ; 
 but the young soprano's voice was so lovely, 
 and her acting so perfect, that an uneducated 
 fellow like myself could not help under- 
 standing her supremacy among singers. I 
 often have wondered whether it is better to 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 299 
 
 comprehend, or not to comprehend, the 
 technic part of music, ]\Iy friends have told 
 me that I know good music from bad ; I 
 really cannot guess why. Only there is some 
 nmsic that is as thorough a charm as the song 
 of nio:h tin sales, and there is some music that 
 resembles the butchers' serenade of marrow- 
 bones and cleavers. 
 
 I always sleep well after pleasant music. 
 It excites the brain at the moment, and 
 calms it afterwards. The effect is something 
 like that of a waterfall ; it dashes over the 
 precipice with a myriad caprices of foam and 
 sparkle ; it sleeps tranquilly in the deep pool 
 below. Montaigne's father always had him 
 awakened by music ; I should prefer being 
 put to sleep that way, if I could get the sort 
 of music I liked. 
 
 I don't think I have mentioned the unimpor- 
 tant fact that my hair and beard and mous- 
 
300 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 tache had, within the last year or two, turn- 
 ed very white, an excellent disguise for me 
 in wanderinsrs throu2:h London, when at 
 any turn I might meet a friend. It would 
 be impossible to put into words my feelings 
 as I looked again at the old old places 
 where I had lived my youthful life. Fancy 
 me at the Horse Guards ! 'Gad, how many 
 a time I had turned out the Guards in that 
 precious old Court Yard ! What would they 
 say to me now ? I never drive when I can 
 ride ; so I hired a horse and groom, and 
 went down to Clapham Common, to call 
 on Mr. Arundel Lee, stockbroker. Un- 
 luckily, he was at honje, and Mavis was not. 
 He received me with that unpleasant mixture 
 of servility and assumption wliich I often 
 have perceived in persons of his class. He 
 assured me that Miss Lee was greatly im- 
 proved by the course of study which she had 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 301 
 
 pursued at the Brixton seminary. Mavis 
 came in while he was talking ; recognised 
 me, despite my whitened hair ; shocked the 
 stockbroker by throwing her arms round my 
 neck, and crying as she kissed me. Why 
 not, poor child ? The uncle was a very 
 good fellow, but I'll be hanged if he could 
 understand ray Mavis. He invited me to 
 dinner, and I came and dined . . . and did 
 not criticize, since Mavis's presence made up 
 for his cook's and butler's blunders. He was 
 very very slow ; but he went to sleep after 
 his first glass of port ; and then my little 
 girl came close to me, and put her pretty 
 tremulous hand in mine, and wished she 
 belonged to me. Yes, she ought to have 
 been my daughter. 
 
 I got a box at the Opera for Grisi's Adel- 
 srisa, a night or two later, and the bald-head- 
 ed uncle consented to come, and snored all 
 
302 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 through the performance. As we had put 
 him in a back seat, it did not greatly matter. 
 Mavis and I enjoyed our evening; only, the 
 poor child's delight in seeing me was so 
 great that I felt sure she would suffer from 
 the subsequent reaction. She was content 
 enough, I found, with her uncle ... a kind 
 dull fellow, who gave her all she wanted, 
 except the difficult intimacy of the soul. He 
 . . . was a financier. He thought money 
 compensated all things. He regarded it as 
 the common measure of human affairs. If a 
 girl whom he liked had lost her father or 
 mother, he would try to console her with a 
 costly bracelet. You cannot get this fixed 
 idea out of some men. You cannot teach 
 them that it is absolutely impossible to 
 buy the song of a mavis or of a poet . . . 
 the love of a girl or of a dog. These are 
 things beyond gold. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 303 
 
 As we sat in our box that night, I, certain 
 of unrecognitiou, swept the "glittering horse- 
 shoe" with a powerful opera-glass, to gratify 
 my curiosity as to whether any old friends 
 or acquaintances were in the house. Sudden- 
 ly I started ; a lady sat in the opposite box, 
 her royally rounded arm leaning on the 
 velvet verge. Her hair was as white as 
 mine ; it was sprinkled with rubies and 
 flowers. She had been magnetized by the 
 beautiful young singer, but my gaze had 
 surpassed that magnetism. 
 
 She turned from the stag-e. She looked 
 
 o 
 
 across the theatre. She knew me, and 
 trembled. It was Lucy. 
 
304 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LUCY. 
 " dies ilia." 
 
 LUCY at fifty or thereabouts — a white- 
 haired widow, yet still superb and 
 noble — with a son of marriageable years. 
 What a chasm to pass from the old Twick- 
 enham days ! The knowledge that she had 
 known me at first sight was a solace to me. 
 I loved her still ; although there is sex in 
 souls there is no age — if there were, the 
 soul could not be immortal. That which 
 grows old, dies. 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 305 
 
 Sitting that night at my hotel, meditative, 
 frugally supping on an anchovy and a pint 
 of port, I asked myself whether I should go 
 and see Lucy. I had ascertained that her 
 husband was dead. I was heartily sorry for 
 Lesbury — a thorough gentleman, who well 
 deserved the good fortune of having Lucy 
 for a wife — and to say a man deserved that, 
 is praise enough for the noblest fellow 
 that ever breathed. I thought over the 
 matter till the morning seemed likely to 
 overtake my ruminations ; then I went off to 
 bed, postponing my decision till the next 
 morning. When morning came, I resolved 
 that I would call. Nearly four decades had 
 passed since we were obliged to separate, 
 and those years must surely have brought to 
 both the philosophic mind. 
 
 So I sought her that next afternoon, in 
 St. James's Square, at the family residence ; 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 and there I found her. She had expected 
 me, denying herself to all other comers. She 
 was in a room, half conservatory, half 
 library, with a thousand different roses 
 blooraino; around her. I thoui^ht of the 
 Twickenham rose-garden. My strong and 
 loving youth came back to me. The Duke 
 of Rochefoucauld says that youth is a fever ; 
 ah, it is a fever too soon cured. 
 
 " I knew you," said Lucy. " I knew you 
 would come. How much we have suffered 
 through the folly of my poor brother ! What 
 we have lost !" 
 
 The whole thing was fresh in her memory 
 still. She had been a happy wife, and was 
 a happy mother ; but the roses and nightin- 
 srales of Twickenham still haunted her. Her 
 
 o 
 
 half-century had not made her less a 
 
 girl. 
 
 " As I had to give you up, Lucy," 1 said, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 307 
 
 '* there was no man in the world save 
 Lesbury to whom I would have so willingly 
 resigned you. He was of noble mould, and 
 I knew you would be happy with him. But 
 now let us think of the past ; let us try to 
 drop all those terrible years that have 
 whitened our hair and taken the vigour out 
 of us. Let us recall the Twickenham rose- 
 garden." 
 
 " And sing songs of the olden time," she 
 said with a pleasant laugh. " Come, we two 
 old foQ-ies will have our flirtation. Ronald 
 is gone abroad ; I heard from him last at 
 Venice ; I wish he were at home, for I should 
 much have liked you to see him. He is a 
 good boy." 
 
 " It would be strange if he were not," I 
 said, " beino vour son and dear old Les- 
 bury's. I have lived a lonely life ; but in 
 my solitude I have learned many things, and 
 
 x2 
 
308 TEANSMIGRATION. 
 
 one is, that self-sacrifice brings a reward. At 
 this moment I feel strangely happy that 
 yours has been a happy life with Lesbury, 
 and that your son is a noble 3^oung fellow." 
 
 " Well, he is a noble young fellow," she 
 said ; " and if I can see him well married, I 
 shall die happy." 
 
 I thought how Mavis might suit him, but 
 I said nothing. I could make Mavis rich 
 enough to be a good match for young Lord 
 Lesbury. However, I said nothing, which 
 perhaps was fortunate. It did not occur to 
 me that Lucy might be mistaken as to her 
 son's nobility of character. She was. 
 
 " Will you come and dine with me at 
 Twickenham to-day ?'* said Lucy — Lady Les- 
 bury. 
 
 " At Twickenham ?" 
 
 "Yes. Will you think me a fool? 
 Ralph didn't. He bought the house for me, 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 309 
 
 and there it stands, furnished in its old fash- 
 ion ; and I often go down to look at the 
 roses. Ralph was never jealous of my me- 
 mory of you, sir ; he often wished you could 
 be persuaded to come and see us ; but he 
 knew your obstinate temper far too well to 
 ask you." 
 
 " Ralph Lesbury was a man of royal 
 nature," I said. " I wish I could grasp his 
 hand, and thank him for his kind remem- 
 brance of me. We shall see him again, 
 Lucy — you and I." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said. " His soul was 
 immortal. But now, will you come to 
 Twickenham ?" 
 
 "Will I not?" 
 
 " We will play at boy and girl again. 
 We will try to conjure up the old, old days. 
 Goodness me, how things have changed I 
 We were at war with Bonaparte, weren't 
 
310 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 we? Now we are only at war with each 
 other. People are beginning to travel by 
 steam, I hear. And they have yjassed a 
 Reform Bill ; but I couldn't get anybody to 
 explain what it meant." 
 
 We dined that day at the old house at 
 Twickenham. 'Twas a curious reminder of 
 m}^ youthful past. Lucy and I had some 
 stewed eels, and lamb cutlets with aspara- 
 gus, and an iced pudding, and drank cham- 
 pagne therewith, and made believe very 
 hard that we were as young as we had been 
 ere the century approached its teens. 
 We enjoyed our absurd little comedy. We 
 went out amid the abundant roses, and 
 did our best to regard them as the roses 
 of the past. The wise world would have 
 regarded us as a couple of old fools ; but 
 we had real pleasure that evening, neverthe- 
 less. When men and women are old, it is 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 311 
 
 something that they can remember their 
 youth. Happier those who can renew it. 
 
 Lucy and I had our pleasant talk in the 
 dear old rose-garden ; and I said to her, 
 over and over again, that the soul grows not 
 old. She was a girl that night, and I a 
 boy ; what were the toil and moil and wear 
 and tear of life to us ? We were voung again. 
 I was quite as much in love with Lucy the 
 widow, as I ever had been with Lucy the 
 maid. 
 
 Although loth to leave London, and Lucy 
 and Mavis, I left at last ; feeling that the 
 whirl of the metropolis wearied my brain. 
 Of Mavis I saw very little after this period, 
 for she had fallen in love with somebody 
 or other, and was enjoying the new sensa- 
 tion. I learnt before I left town that he 
 was one Charles Marchmont, a stockbroker, 
 and that Mr. Arundel Lee fully approved 
 
312 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 the match. I was the less lotli to leave 
 Lucy, because her son was coming home to 
 be nursed, having caught a low fever in 
 Rome, So I went to my den at Beau 
 Sejour, and was not sorry to shrink into my 
 shell, like a snail. 
 
 The history of the next few years is ver}^ 
 void of incident. I found myself gradually 
 feebler than of yore. I could not read, or 
 write, or walk as before. Yaddles helped 
 me ; Yaddles turned out the prince of 
 helpers ; the faithful fellow slept on a rug 
 at my chamber door, that he might be 
 ready to help me, if I were ill. What 
 could I do to requite such dog-like kind- 
 ness ? I left him a hundred a year in my 
 will, and I devoutly hope it was not too 
 much for him. 
 
 Doctor Tranter was good enough to say 
 that he thought my brain was softening. I 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 313 
 
 don't think it was. I sank gradually into a 
 kind of luxurious apathy. I passed hours 
 in meditative quietude, thinking over all I 
 had learnt from dear Doctor Roraayne, 
 An ode of Horace, a mutton-chop, and a 
 glass of port, formed my usual refreshment. 
 I began to feel very much like a tortoise. 
 But there were moments when I awoke, 
 and there came a lightning flash of power, 
 and I wrote an epigram or a sonnet. 
 
 It was, I believe, about the Spring of 
 1840 that I became of very little use to 
 myself or anyone else. My fast life had 
 told on me, and, though what I call a 
 young man, I was growing weaker daily 
 through a general decay of the faculties ; so 
 I grew more and more tortoise-like, and 
 less and less liable to surprise. Wherefore 
 I was not surprised at all when, one day. 
 Lady Lesbury appeared at my bedside, and 
 
314 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 took complete charge of me. Dear Lucy! 
 
 There is nothing that requires scientific 
 investigation so much as the severance of 
 the soul from tlie body. In a large num- 
 ber of instances it occurs suddenly, and 
 there is no time to think about it ; also, in 
 many cases it occurs in connection with 
 keen phj^^sical pain, which paralyzes thought. 
 It would be the germ of a great scientific 
 discovery if you could take a famous pro- 
 fessor (say Tyndall or Huxley), put him to 
 death by very mild and very gradual means, 
 and take down his remarks as the events 
 occurred. 
 
 In some such way I died, without re- 
 marks. There were days when my poor 
 old worn-out brain woke up again, and 
 Lucy and I had quite pleasant little flirta- 
 tions. She entirely understood me at this 
 period, and knew the vanity of my attempt- 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 315 
 
 ing what was beyond me, and wisely ad- 
 vised me to leave the general inquiry un- 
 prosecuted. " If a man can't die quietly in 
 the country, I've no patience with him," 
 was the remark made by an unromantic 
 maid-servant. Lucy and I made merry 
 over this utterance of hers, wondering how 
 she would fret when should come the time 
 for her to shuffle off this mortal coil, and 
 pass into the Infinite Presence. 
 
 It was for me a happy thing indeed that 
 the only lady I had ever loved could sit by 
 my bedside at this crisis. There was no 
 malady possible, Lucy being present. It 
 would have been ridiculous to feel illness 
 while her keen eyes looked at me — while 
 her merry laughter cheered me. She was 
 a splash of sunlight on the world, leaving 
 warmth and beauty wherever she passed. 
 
 Still, though clara luce refulsit, she could 
 
316 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 not bring one immortality. I think the 
 thing might be done if a man were taken 
 young enough ; but 1 liad lived far too fast 
 to be a worthy theme for experiment. I 
 began to wish for a change of venue. There 
 is no knowing what the future may be, I 
 thought. It would be confoundedly hard 
 if I did not get a better innings than on the 
 present occasion. I began to regard myself 
 from the point of view of the spectator ah 
 extra, and to wonder what would happen to 
 the corpus vile, when the spirit took its 
 flight. 
 
 There is great difficulty in severing what 
 I discerned and actually knew at the time, 
 from what I learnt in long succeeding years. 
 This is certain — Lucy was with me to the 
 last. Gradually I grew weaker and weaker, 
 less and less caring for the actual world, 
 more and more ready to enter another 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 317 
 
 world, which I had never dreaded. It had 
 always been my belief God did not create you 
 to be afraid of Him ; that opinion has grown 
 to certainty during my unparalleled career. 
 What He desires from His creatures is faith 
 and love. 
 
 Faith and love waxed stronger in me as 
 material force waxed weaker. I seemed to 
 see the world across the inevitable river of 
 death. I felt a happy relief in a nobler and 
 less mutilated future. It is quite impossible 
 for me to make intelligible to my readers 
 the joyous certainty that came upon me. I 
 tried very hard at the time to explain it to 
 Lucy, but could not raise energy enough to 
 find the necessary words. I was passive, 
 awaiting the touch of the Death-angel's 
 releasino; wand. 
 
 I can remember the sweet Summer even- 
 ing, with windows wide open, at Beau 
 
318 TRANSMIGRATION. 
 
 Sejour, and exquisite music of bird and 
 brook. I can remember the sunlight stream- 
 ing aslant into my room. I can remember 
 Lucy by my bedside — yes, the very same 
 Lucy for whom roses were wont to grow, 
 and nightingales to sing. I can remember 
 how she talked of the past as she held my 
 attenuate hand in hers, how she called back 
 the irrecoverable days, the happy hours of 
 evenglome, the time when we were to be 
 one for ever. I can remember the doctor. 
 Tranter, who sagely said, 
 
 " Lady Lesbury, you will make yourself 
 ill if you wait upon our patient so carefully. 
 It really is not necessary." 
 
 Lucy said nothing, but held my hand in 
 hers. 
 
 I can remember a lawyer coming, to know 
 if I would add codicils to my will ; but I 
 had left the bulk of my property to Lucy 
 
TRANSMIGRATION. 319 
 
 and a nice little settlement to Mavis, and 
 was quite satisfied. I can remember the 
 Rector of Redborougb coming to administer 
 my final communion, when I amazed him 
 by quoting an ancient hymn of the Church 
 that haunted my worn-out memory — 
 
 " Surgit Christus e sepulcro, 
 Solo Deitatis fulcro 
 Nixus, dum humauitas 
 Superat miserias, 
 Ut nos surgeremus rei 
 In humilitate Dei ; 
 Nobis est victoria." 
 
 Ay, as I lay there, gradually severing 
 soul from body, gradually moving forward 
 to solve the ofreat secret, the words Nobis 
 
 o 
 
 est victoria sounded through my heart like 
 the triumphant call of a bugle. 
 
 I died ! When I died, Lucy held my 
 hand, while it grew colder and colder, 
 sitting silently by my bedside. When the 
 servants came upstairs, to see if anything 
 
320 TKANSMTGRATION. 
 
 was needed, they found me dead. They 
 found Lucy dead also. Her sweet pure 
 loving spirit had taken flight with mine. 
 
 " Nobis est victoria." 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
 ^^^ 
 
5A 3 VL 
 -09494 
 • 25 ST 
 
sl^slMfe 
 
 .^M "yvS-iJ? -^7^ ->L^. \. 
 
jT..: * ■ 
 
 r ^ 
 
 S^-'-i^'^, 
 
 ,>■*, 
 
 h *^ 
 
 iiipiaiT«*f*i*« ** 
 
 «/:lT 
 
 ^>* 
 
 K'tv^- - 
 
 ) 
 
 '^•f: