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ROBERT B. BEOUGH.
MARSTON LYNCH;
HIS LIFE AND TIMES
HIS FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
HIS VICTORIES AND DEFEATS
HIS KICKS AND HALFPENCE.
A
PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY
BY
ROBERT B. BROUGH,
LATE EDITOR OE THE "WELCOME GUEST"
WITH PORTRAIT
AND A
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR
BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK, FLEET STREET.
MDCCCLX.
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
I take up to-day, the pen which has fallen from a dead
man's hand. The sadness of my task is embittered by the
consciousness that the writer whose decease I record, was
one of my oldest and dearest friends. But a few days
since, and bowing under a recent domestic bereavement of
my own, I read the affectionate tribute which a friend and
fellow-labourer had paid to the memory of one whom I
had known and esteemed for fourteen years. Yesterday,
it was poor Albert Smith. To-day it is my duty to
trace a few lines in sorrowful mention of another loss to
literature and to friendship. Their theme, alas! is
Robert Brough.
He died on the night of the twenty-sixth of June, at
his brother-in-law's house at Manchester. His dear Nurse
—his widow now—had got him so far in the hope of taking
him to North Wales. There had been little hope of him
for months; but just a feeble chance remained that the
bracing atmosphere of a mountainous country might do
Him good. His medical advisers had forbidden that he
should be taken to the sea-side. There was no use in send-
VI
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
ing him to Nice, or to Devonshire, or to the Isle of Wight.
Indeed, for months, those nearest and'dearest to him knew
that the most that could be done for him was to soothe
and cherish him to the end. There was just a little oil
left in his lamp, and it was consumed, and he died. He
had not any chronic or organic disease that I am aware of,
beyond an inherent weakness—a weakness that seemed to
waste away his muscular fibre with such slow, unerring-
regularity, that you might almost note^the progress of his
decay, day by day, for years. I knew him first in 1847.
He was a mere boy; but he was weak and ailing. He
never looked well. Each successive time I saw him until
a few weeks since he was in some degree or manner worse;
and now he is Better—for he is dead.
Robert Barnabas Brough was bomrin London in 1828;
Three brothers and three sisters, all hale and hearty, I am
glad to believe, survive him. He passed a considerable por¬
tion of his childhood and his youth in Wales and in the North
of England. His father, one of the worthiest and most
amiable of men, was engaged in some commercial pursuits;
and his sons had a plain English Education. Robert Brough
had neither Latin nor Greek; but before his thirtieth year—
he was always learning something—he had taught himself
plenty of Erench, and some German, and a little Spanish.
I am sure, poor fellow, that he had a sufficient apprecia¬
tion of the advantages of a classical education; but, as
from the age of fifteen or sixteen he had to earn his live¬
lihood by the labour of his own hands and brain, the most
he could do was to add to his stock of knowledge such
memoir of the author. vii
adjuncts as he deemed most valuable for his working
career. His taste and capacity for pictorial art was very
great, and under favourable circumstances might have been
developed into fame and fortune. He would, with that
proper artistic training he could never afford to undergo,
have become a graceful and varied artist. As it is, he
only leaves behind him a few unfinished oil-sketches and a
mass of humourous drawings. His comic pictorial efforts
will bear a very favourable comparison with those of
Thomas Hood.
I believe that, as a lad, who had to push his own way
and get his own bread, he tried half-a-dozen avocations
before he discovered his real one, Literature. He was a
merchant's clerk and a portrait painter at Manchester and
at Liverpool. He was fond of amateur acting; and he,
with his brother William, wrote plays and acted in them,
and painted the scenery, as dozens of boys have done
before. The brothers even started a little weekly satirical
paper, called the Liverpool Lion, to which Kobert Brough,
in addition to parodies and jokes, and* comic essays, con¬
tributed political and humourous cartoons, in that style of
which Mr. Leech is so great a master. It happened that
Kobert and William Brough had written a burlesque
on the " Tempest," called the " Enchanted Isle." This,
being performed at Liverpool, attracted the notice of Mr.
Benjamin Webster, then " starring " in that town. The
" Enchanted Isle " was a very boyish production, but it
was full of broad fun, and was not even deficient in very
brilliant wit. The piece was transplanted to metropolitan
viii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
soil, and performed with great success at the Adelphi
Theatre. Other managers became eager for burlesques,
and the " Brothers Brough," to Bobert's misfortune,
attained immediate popularity, and, in theatrical circles,
celebrity.
I say, for his misfortune; for he leapt at once from
provincial obscurity, raw, half-taught, and quite deficient
' • worldly experience, into a prominent position among the
wits and viveurs of a bustling time. ITe had almost
everything to learn ; but his dramatic successes made him
at once the compeer of such men as Planche, Morton,
Oxenford, Bourcicault, Beach, Albert Smith, Charles
Kenny, Shirley Brooks, and Mark Lemon, men who had
been before the public for years—who were used to its
ways, and indifferent to its seductions. He had the run
of the green-rooms and the literaiy circles, when it would
have done him much more good to have had the run of a
decent library, or even of a garret, a book-stall, or a coffee-
shop, with some back numbers of the Quarterly Review on
its shelves. Then he speedily found that Christmas and
Easter will not come a dozen times a year, and that he
could not earn a livelihood by burlesque writing, however
• handsomely those productions might be paid for. Let it
not be imagined that the managers starved him. I believe
that from Messrs. Charles Kean, Buckstone, Webster,
Keeley, and E. T. Smith, and especially from Messrs.
Bobson and Emden, he never received anything but kind
and generous treatment. But they could not be always
bringing out new pieces, and he could not be always
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
ix
inventing them. The " Brothers Brough" parted com¬
pany—as joint-authors, at least, never as affectionate
relatives—and each betook himself to the work-a-day life
of literature. He married very early in life, and has left a
widow and three young children to mourn his untime
loss.
Bobert Brough had little aptitude for the dry but
remunerative labours of the daily and weekly press. His
forte lay in humourous narrative, in light essay, in pure
joke-weaving and persiflage, in satiric, and sometimes in
pathetic, not sentimental, poetry. When he had room and
time, he was an admirable story-teller; and some of his
ballads are replete with grace and picturesque colour.
Summing up his works from memory, I can chiefly recall
his sharply satirical Songs of the Governing Classes;
his translations, or rather adaptations of Beranger's
Songs of the Empire, the Peace, and the Restora¬
tion ; his novels ox Marston lynch, and Which is
which ? or, Miles Cassidys Contract. This was the
last book he published; and the Saturday Review thought
the fact of the author being on his death-bed, too
favourable an opportunity for making" a savage onslaught
on him. It is so safe to attack a dying man! Then
he wrote a Life of Sir John Falstaff, as text for Mr.
George Cruikshank's admirable plates, illustrating the fat
knight's history. There is, also, from his pen, a capital
translation of Alphonse Karr's novel, La Eamille Alain ;
and in the Train, a magazine undertaken as a speculation
among a knot of friendly literary men, there is dispersed a
x
memoir of the author.
number of exquisite paraphrases of Victor Hugo's Odes et
Ballades. His brother, John Cargill Brough, is about to
collect the best of his poetical fragments for republication.
In Household Words, and All the Tear Bound, lie
wrote a variety of graphic essays and pictures of manners,
and notably a charming little piece of fugitive poetry,
entitled " Neighbour Nelly." He was an early and pro¬
lific contributor to the comic publications called the Man
in the Moon and Diogenes ; but I don't know what clique
interest or clique squabbles excluded him from the columns
of Punch. Eor some period, also, he officiated as Editor
of the Atlas. Eor a shorter term he held a literary
appointment with Mr. Buckstone at the Haymarket
Theatre. Eor [some months he was the Brussels corres¬
pondent of the Sunday Times ; but newspaper work, as I
have already observed, was unsuitable to his turn of
mind. His last regular engagement was with the pro¬
prietor of the Welcome Guest, as its conductor and
chief contributor. Of his productions in the Welcome
Guest my readers are the best judges. I may, however,
offer an opinion that "Doctor Johnson" is one of the
most beautiful poems that ever flowed from the pen of a
contemporary writer.
How am I to speak further—and with common for¬
titude—of my dear, dead friend ?—I, who knew him, and
loved him, and was once young and enthusiastic, and poor
and miserable, with him; who have often lagged behind
to let him win the race, and fondly hoped to see him one
day prosperous and famous; who am not worthier than
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. xi
lie, and am yet alive, the senior, and strong? If his
memory be assailed, I shall know how to rebuke and
shame the slanderers; but I had rather that his praises
came from other lips. As I write this, in the silence of
the night, I lift my eyes from the blotted sheet, and see
hanging round my room the pictures of three dear friends,
all good and tender, and true as Bob was. They are all
dead : all dead within six months. Who is the survivor
that can tell when Ms turn may come, and when a friendly
hand may be required to close Ms eyes, and turn Ms
picture to the wall ?
George Augustus Sala.
Bromptox, July 20th, 1860.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
CHAPTER I.
topographical, and discursive, but genteel
throughout.
There is situated on the north west coast of England
a very important sea-port town, which, with the reader's
gracious permission (it is as well to err on the polite side with
a new acquaintance), I shall call out of its name, and
speak of as Long-port. I have six excellent reasons for
doing so. The first is, because I choose. The other five
are equally good, but for six more reasons (which are still
better) I intend keeping them to myself.
About two miles from Longport, on the high road to
York, there stood, some few years ago, an isolated suburb
of excessive gentility, entitled Ash Grove. I speak of' it
in the past tense, because the participle " isolated" no
longer applies to it—the spirit of commercial enterprise,
supposed by writers in " Chambers' Edinburgh Journal"
to be so conducive to the happiness of this country,
having long since connected it with the town by an agree¬
able chain of factories, tan-pits, " cottage property," and a
b
2
maeston lynch.
gas-works or two—wliicli is all very civilised and satisfac¬
tory. At tlie time I speak of, none of these spirited indi¬
cations of national prosperity existed; but, in their stead,
you walked through two miles of common-place fields and
hedges—very pleasing to the eye and bracing to the
spirits, but, from a commercial point of view, most con¬
temptible.
Ash Grove consisted of a single row of houses, " semi¬
detached," and (with one tremendous exception, to be
noticed presently) as like each other as a handful of horse-
beans—(I am fond of novelty in my similes, and consider
this a striking improvement on the two peas of conven¬
tional literature). They were of modern construction—
in fact, they might be considered the pioneers or outworks
of the noble army of civilization that has, since, so suc¬
cessfully invested the territory. To say they were of
modern construction is admission of some swindle or other
in their arrangement—of some pretentions to appear what
they were not. Each house, in fact, meanly assumed to
be twice its size. This was managed by a system of reci¬
procal economy—two houses being built together in one
lawn to look like a single residence—as though each had
said to its Siamese neighbour, " You pretend to be part of
me to my friends, and I'll pretend to be part of you to
your friends." Of course nobody was taken in by it. But
this seems no objection whatever to the ingenious inven¬
tions of the great modern science of veneering.
There were nine houses in Ash Grove. Erom this state¬
ment, the reader with a mathematical turn will at once di¬
vine that there was one house that did stand by itself.
This was Numbeb Nine—the imposing exception alluded
to in a foregoing parenthesis. Of Number Nine and its
distinguished occupants (the flrst family in Ash Grove!)
we shall speak in due order. Their rank and social im¬
portance would entitle them to precedence; but as we are
fond of numerical precision, and moreover take a Bed Be-
publican delight in insulting Great People, we will begin
with Number One.
MARSTON LYNCIi.
3
Miss Crooze's seminary for young ladies. Terms forty
pounds per annum, six towels, and a spoon and fork, to
be returned to the pupil on leaving—(you are requested to
bear this in mind, as a fact significant of Miss Crooze's
superiority of character); oidy a limited number of pupils
taken; extra accomplishments by the first masters in Long-
port. Miss Crooze was the " fine woman" of the row.
She was just leaving off being young, but continued to
be handsome. In right of having lived six years as
governess in the family of one of the wealthiest ship¬
owners of Longport, who had had the good sense and
breeding to treat her as an equal, she was supposed to be¬
long to " superior" society—just as from a pair of very
thick black eyebrows, and a slight appearance of having
neglected to shave, she was supposed to be strong-minded.
In reality, her father was a highly respectable tailor, in the
county of Monmouth, and her smallest pupil (Polly Bicker-
staff) bullied her incessantly. As she was a perfect lady
by nature (if the term be not profanation applied to one of
such humble origin) and a thoroughly intelligent, accom¬
plished, and honest woman—as it was found the very
rawest material, in the shape of girl, could not remain long-
in contact with her, without in some measure catching
the humanising influence of her goodness, candour, and
refinement—Grove House Seminary flourished. The
"limited number" was always filled up by people whose
forty annual pounds might never be doubted, and the
black-haired Spanish-looking tailor's daughter went on her
quiet way and prospered—putting away money in the
honest hope that some deserving, sensible fellow might yet
be found to claim it, with herself, before the silver streaks
should utterly predominate over the raven black, and the
little lines at the corners of the large dark eyes should
deepen and widen—warning her to keep it to herself.
Number Two. Mrs. Murke—paradoxically known as
" Mrs. Murke, the old maid," so called, because she had oc¬
cupied the same house for some years, in a single capacity,
and only recently tfiken to herself a husband, which inno-
b 2
MARSTON LVNCII.
vation had made 110 difference whatever in her character
and external habits. Her most striking characteristics
were red velvet dresses, and an infinite number of bodily
ailments—rendered interminable by an iron constitution,
of which she was given to boast. Mr. Murke was nobody.
He had not so much as a red velvet waistcoat, or a tooth¬
ache, to rescue him from temporary oblivion. If you had
asked any resident in Ash Grove (and, mind you, they
were all pretty well up in their neighbours' business in
that active colony) to describe to you Mr. Murkes' age,
his personal experience, his profession, his means, in short,
anything about him, you would have received no satisfac¬
tory or delinite answer.
The responsible tenant of Number Three was Eliza
Crayner; but, in the eyes of the row, Miss Crayner had
no independent existence. The Miss Crayners—for there
were two—were looked upon as one and indivisible. They
dressed alike, moved, talked, and thought alike. The same
easterly wind tinged their virgin noses with the same
roseate hue; the same sensitiveness to bad smells—to which
they appeared perennial martyrs—caused those delicate
organs to curl in precisely the same manner. They were
on the wrongest possible side of five-and-thirty, but sus¬
tained by a hopeful faith in the endurance of some un-
reinembered attractions. They were extremely well con¬
nected ; and, in consequence thereof, had refused to " go
out" in life—that is to say, to accept comfortable situa¬
tions—preferring to starve genteelly in Ash Grove on the
proceeds of surreptitiously marketed fancy-work, recruiting
their mortified systems by periodical invasions of their
numerous good connections. Their dependencies were a
fast brother—in a genteel banking-house (salary eighty
pounds a-year—annual expenditure a hundred)—and an
obscure father in the Docks, who was kept in the back¬
ground as much as possible; but who would occasionally
assert himself (under Dock influences) by insulting the
neighbouring maid-servants, and borrowing shillings.
The Miss Crayners had also a lodger, but of him anon.
MAUSTON LYNCH.
At Number Four the Rufflestone family liad pitched its
tent. More gentility—albeit it was impossible wholly to
conceal the fact that Rufflestone was a grocer in High-
street; Longport. But Mrs. Rufflestone (whose education,
at the expense of an unknown father, of whom it had pro¬
bably been the death, had cost more than that of six of the
accomplished little ladies Marian Crooze turned out to
ornament society two or three times a-year), always spoke
of the shop as " the warehouse," or the " counting-house."
Mrs. Rufflestone was pretty and young, and remarkable,
beyond those attractions, for a habit of nursing t wins in a
low-necked yellow satin dress, with her hair in curl-papers.
Mrs. Rufflestone's mamma was a turbaned pensioner on
the establishment. Transatlantic visitors from the Docks,
invited home to cement an occasional bargain with Mr.
Rufflestone, had pronounced that lady " a caution."
With Number Five we have nothing to do, the inhabi¬
tants of that mansion being arrogant, exclusive people,
who do not recognise their neighbours, and consequently
Avill form no part of our dramatis personce. It is true that
Mr, Smuff is a Landing Surveyor, and his wife enjoys a
little independent property—privileges which might entitle
them to hold themselves aloof a little. But we can have
no patience with people who give themselves such airs, as
soup, fish, and wine to dinner every day, whether there is
company or not (a fact patent to all the inhabitants of Ash
Grove, through back stairs influence), and who consider
themselves better than their equals.
Numbers Six and Seven must be considered uplet,
but will possibly find occupants in the course of our
history.
We have so much to say about Number Eight, that we
will begin a new chapter to say it.
marston lynch.
CHAPTEE II.
terpsiciiorean and seasonable.—finally
mysterious.
Christmas eve ! It was a great day for Asli Grove.
Mrs. Merripebbles, of Number Eight, had issued cards for
a genuine, old-fashioned, English Christmas party. Every¬
body was to be there (Smuff, of course, contemptuously
excepted). There was to be a mistletoe, and the
cushion-dance, and everything in the hearty old-fashioned
style.
Mrs. Merripebbles had carried out her old-fashioned
prejudices so far as to make her old Highland servant,
Elspeth Mac Something (the clan has never been rightly
ascertained), represent the cards of invitation orally, and in
her own person. That weird official, some days back, had
been seen flying from house to house in Ash Grove, con¬
veying the thrilling tidings, after the manner of the Eiery
Cross of her own primitive people, and requesting drams
from the invited, in the most unblushing manner. Every¬
body agreed to come ; for Mrs. Merripebbles was genial
and popular, and fun was certain. All available hands
were immediately set to work on ball dresses (for the time
was short), and the sums the Miss Crayners must have
earned, furtively and by night, by lending a helping hand
(purely to oblige a friend, and on consideration that it
shall not be mentioned to a living soul) would more than
MAllSTON LYNCH.
7
account for the unwonted splendour m which those
spinsters were enabled to appear on the momentous
evening.
And who was Mrs. Merripebbles ?
Mrs. Merripebbles, reader, was the wife of Mr. Merri¬
pebbles. I will forestal your second question, and inform
you, at once, that Mr. Merripebbles was the husband of
Mrs. Merripebbles.
It was a peculiarity of Ash Grove, and probably is of
the civilisation of which such settlements are the repre¬
sentatives—that the husbands in it went for nothing.
Wives were paramount; daughters had a powerful voice
in the representation; mothers, and even sisters, were
tremendous. But a husband was a mere man to go to
business in the morning; return at a stated time (and in
a becoming condition) in the evening; and be called upon
in town on Saturday at the counting-house, to settle an
imperative claim, for which nothing on account would be
taken and no time allowed.
Mr. Merripebbles was no exception to this rule. He
was just the sort of man who could not be any exception
to any rule, if he tried.
He was a mild- mannered stockbroker, six feet high, and
weak in the back, between forty and fifty, who wore hats
much too large for him. He would have been happy and
easy-going had he not been so easily frightened. He lived
in a perpetual state of alarm at bankruptcy, cholera, and
eternal perdition. He woidd probably have gone melan¬
choly mad on one of these considerations, had not his
attention been constantly distracted from their contempla¬
tion by a more proximate object of terror in the shape of
his wife. Merripebbles loved his wife, not passionately—•
he was not strong enough for that,—but abjectly, and
reverenced her every word. Mrs. Merripebbles was
worthy of love and reverence; but if ever there was a
Tartar, she was one.
Merripebbles came home from the office, at six o'clock,
to assist in preparations for the party. He was in high
8
MA Its TON LYNCir.
glee, for tliere was a good deal of tlie child about the poor
timid old boy, and the notion of a party pleased him. He
had, moreover, hit npon a stupendous surprise for his wife
in the shape of a huge game pie, which he had brought
home on his lap in the omnibus (suffering severely from
gravy in the transit). He rang the bell cheerfully, and
thought over a little pun he intended letting off at supper-
time, if he could remember it. At that "if" he grew
despondent. Merripebbles had no memory !
Mrs. Merripebbles opened the door herself, in a high
state of flour. She was a stout, comely woman of forty,
Avith a good face, if it Avould always keep so. Hut it
changed about waywardly.
The sight of his dear, tyrannical, trouble-giving, trouble-
saving helpmate, cheered our friend (you are requested to
look on him as a friend, reader, for he is one of the best
old fellows in the world) up at once. He forgot the pun
-—immediately and for ever—and gave her a hearty kiss,
which she returned as heartily.
" Save us, Mr. Merripebbles!" she said, seeing his
bruised and greasy parcel; " what have you got there?"
" That's tellings," said her husband, with an abortive
wink.
"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Merripebbles. You surely
haven't been laying out money ?"
" My dear, 1 thought"—
"Ton thought-—-nonsense—let me see what it is. A
game pie—that must have cost you thirty shillings at
least. And pray what is to become of me and the children
if you waste your money in this manner ?"
" My dear, I thought surely at Christmas time"—
" Christmas time, indeed ! A nice time to be wasting
our little means in riot and luxury—when we ought to be
thinking of our souls, and giving what Ave can to the poor.
I knoAV Avhat you are going to say, Mr. Merripebbles ;
that the party was my planning, and none of yours : it
Avas your place to check me, Mr. .Merripebbles"—
" Surely, my dear—I see no wrong in giving our neigh-
MAttSTOH LYXCII.
0
Lours a little harmless recreation. And with regard to
expense—if you'd only got a little plainer supper and
cooked it at home"—
" Mind your own business, Mr. Merripebbles. What
money I spend is my own. I am accountable to nobody.
You are talking in this way just to exasperate me, when
you see my hands are full—not a soul to help me—and
all the blanc-mange to make."
This conversation had led the speakers into the drawing-
room, sumptuously prepared for the evening's entertain¬
ment, round which Merripebbles glanced with intense
satisfaction. A stolid, bony looking girl of fourteen, with
a puzzling face, gorgeously dressed in evening costume,
entered, and threw herself with nonchalance on a sofa.
Mrs. Merripebbles turned sharply on her.
" Aren't you ashamed of yourself, .Maud," she said,
" putting on your new satin slip and tarlatan at this time
of the evening, when the people won't be here these two
hours'?"
Maud was impassible.
" I agree with your mamma, Maud," said poor old
Merripebbles, with a certain deference in his manner
(which was not remarkable, as he showed the same to
everybody). " When you see her so fully occupied you
might make an effort to assist her "
" If Mamma wanted help, there was plenty to be bad
for money," said Miss Maud, with the most perfect in¬
difference, buttoning a difficult glove.
Mrs. Merripebbles turned back hotly on her husband—
" Mr. Merripebbles, have the kindness to interfere with
your own children. Maud can do as she likes. She is
not your child, and though she has no father, I'll let you
know—James's Church ! " (this was a favourite inter¬
jection with Mrs. Merripebbles) " I've left the sherry
bottle on the kitchen table, and that old Jezebel
Elspeth "—
Mrs. Merripebbles darted impetuously from the room,
and in a few moments was heard singing placidly to a
10
MAUSTON LYNCH.
custard-beating accompaniment. This was followed by a
breakage of crockery, and a " rowing match" with the
Gaelic Elspeth, that seemed likely to end in blows, but
was suddenly dissipated in a hearty burst of laughter, at
some undivulged kitchen pleasantry. Soon afterwards
the lady returned to the drawing-room with a beaming
countenance, kissed old Merripebbles (to his intense
delight) under the mistletoe, complimented Maud on her
choice of attire, and skipped upstairs to dress, like a stout
fairy.
" Tom mother is a most extraordinary woman," said
Merripebbles, smoothing his bald head, and looking de-
precatingly at his step-daughter (for such was Miss
Maud's relationship to him) • " sometimes I really don't
know what to make of her."
" I know what to make of her well enough," was
Maud's icy reply; " she makes herself very ridi¬
culous."
Merripebbles looked at the young censor with some¬
thing as much like indignation as he was capable of. It
sometimes occurred to him (dimly, as most things did),
that a little hard smacking occasionally would be no bad
discipline for this spoiled and self-willed young lady.
But all interference with Maud on his part was rigidly
tabooed. Maud was his wife's daughter by a dead
husband, whom that wife sometimes abused him for
speaking of as an unjust man (the strongest term Merri¬
pebbles could apply to an unmitigated scoundrel), and for
defending whom against some incredibly heinous accusa¬
tion she sometimes threatened him with separation a
mensa et thoro. Moreover, Maud Carlton was a ward in
Chancery, and a wealthy heiress. Poor Merripebbles was
the least of worldly of mortals, but his trade was in
money, and he had felt its terrors. He therefore treated
Maud with a queer awkward respect. Maud treated him
with contempt, sometimes warming into pity.
Merripebbles shifted from the dangerous ground.
"We shall have a nice party, I suppose, Maud? "
MARSTON LYNCH
11
" I'am sure I don't know."
" But Mr. Lynch is coming, isn't he, my dear ? "
" I don't see that he will make it a nice party. He's
very pompous and stupid. He'll bring Lucy, I suppose.
That's something. I like Lucy."
Miss Carlton, aged fourteen, gave out her likes and
dislikes as the edicts of an absolute monarch, which, in
some measure, she was.
"Young Mr. Tofts from Number Nine is coming. I
met him in town to-day."
"He's an awkward, long-legged boor; no girl can
dance with him if she wants to keep a skirt to her frock."
" My dear, you should not be prejudiced. He's a very
excellent, rising young man. He has got a splendid
business, and is making money "—
" I've got plenty of money," said Miss Carlton, with a
yawn. And she put her feet on the sofa, turning her back
on her step-parent, who looked ruefully, as for sympathy,
at the unsuccessful pie.
The first knock at the door came. Old Merripebbles
jumped up with delight at the sound, like a boy at a
pantomime when " the fun begins." Miss Crooze was the
first visitor; come early to see if she could do anything.
She had trudged down the road through the snow, by her¬
self, in a hood and goloshes. These, she threw off in a
business-like manner, and beamed on the empty room like
what is conventionally called a duchess, which means,
like a handsome distinguee woman, though I have seen
duchessess who do not come up to the definition. Merri¬
pebbles kissed her under the misletoe immediately,
performing a short dance of triumph by himself in the
passage, after the achievement.
Mrs. Merripebbles came down glowing with good
humour, matronly beauty, and violet satin. [Ignominious
dismissal of Merripebbles to the upper regions to change
his linen.] The guests began to arrive in quick suc¬
cession. The Miss Crayners—frostbitten but sportive—
announcing that their brother Albert couldn't arrive till
12
MA.RSTOX LYNCH.
late, as lie was dining witli some gentlemen. They had
taken the liberty of bringing Mr. Howker, the gentleman
who was staying with them (the Miss Crayners would
not plead guilty to a lodger)—they were sure Mrs. Merri-
pebbles would not mind.
Mrs. Merripebbles was delighted to see any friends of
theirs (she really was). Mr. Howker, who was short and
common-place looking, moreover, wearing pumps (even
then obsolete at Ash Grove), appeared of a comic and
familiar turn. He " hoped he saw " Mrs. Merripebbles
—which pleasantry he followed up by the more practical
one of kissing that lady under the misletoe. The two
Miss Crayners ran up stairs, screaming in terror; but
Mr. Howker (whose rent was probably all right) seemed
to entertain no idea of pursuit. He entered the ball¬
room with a pantomime bow, which was unfortunately lost
on Marian Crooze, who was looking out her quadrille
music, and upon Miss Carlton, who appeared to be asleep.
Mr. Howker -walked to the fire-place, where he looked over a
begrimed copy of verses, apparently gettingthewordsbv heart.
More knocks. Enter Mrs. Murke, in red velvet and
sciatica, with the impalpable, indefinable Murke hovering
somewhere in the rear, as her shadow. Enter Mrs. Ruffle-
stone, in pink satin and feathers, with her five sisters, all
more or less dependant on Rufflestone, and turbaned
mother. Various supernumerary guests throng the scene.
Eventually a quadrille is formed, and Miss Crooze (who
doesn't care about dancing—she has enough of teaching-
it) strikes up her own favourite set in her best manner,
which is a very good one indeed. Howker attempts to
be very prematurely funny in Cavalier Seul; but the
pumps are against him; he is frowned down, and remains
at a temporary disadvantage.
A very loud aggressive knock ! A thrill goes through
the assembly, and murmurs of " Mr. Lynch" are heard.
Mr. Lynch is a wealthy Longport merchant and banker—
Mrs. Merripebbles' distant relative. As it is known he
could buy up all Ash Grove with greater facility than any
MARS TON LYNCH.
13
settler in that district could pay for a pair of boots, he is a
character to he looked on with awe. But it is not Mr.
Lynch. It turns out to he only Mr. Tofts from Number
Nine. Mr. Tofts is a rising young solicitor, and rents
the largest house in the row. Mr. Tofts counted on a
sensation on his entry, which he would, under ordinary
circumstances, have created. But, unfortunately, Mr.
Lynch is expected, and Tofts has the humiliation of know¬
ing he is looked on in the light of a disappointment. He
stalks gloomily to a seat, and affects lassitude—having at
all events succeeded in throwing a momentary damp over
the festivities.
But Tofts's sister follows and restores liveliness. She is
stout, florid, good-looking, and rather vulgar. She is
rapturous in her manner—coming in with an evident
determination to take the room by storm. She kisses every¬
body fervently, especially the two Miss Crayners (whom
she has kept up half the preceding night to "take in" the
dress, beneath whose bondage her unwieldy form heaves
and creaks like a ship); she seems to say, " Oh! let us
enjoy ourselves without distinction of rank. Forget that
I live at Number Nine, and am a favoured mortal. I am
not proud I assure you." She seizes old Merripebbles,
gushingly, by the arm, addresses him as " a Love," and
vows she will dance the first quadrille with nobody but
him—an arrangement to which that smiling veteran sub¬
mits, as it is his custom to do under all circumstances.
At length comes a knock that cannot be mistaken. It
u Lynch this time, lie enters and all is hushed. Gre¬
gory Lynch is a hard-featured, puffed-out man of forty-five
or fifty—a type with which we have all been familiarised,
in novels and life a thousand times ; one of those men that
have been graphically described as " unable to take their
hands out of their pockets." He strode across the room
and patronised Mrs. Merripebbles with a condescending-
shake of the hand, and a noisy greeting. He nodded to
the host and said, " How are you, Merripebbles, how are
you ?" barely acknowledged young Toft's greeting (whose
14
MARSTON LYNCH.
rank on 'Change fell 50 per cent, in the estimation of all
present), glared on the company generally, and stood on
the hearth-rug defiantly, as who should say, " Dare to he
merry in my presence, and I'll sell some of you up." Mr.
Gregory Lynch next buttoned up his coat and complained
that the room was cold. He had apparently brought the
cold in with him as everybody felt chilly.
What business had a man of his description in such an
assemblage of harmless merry-makers ? The only possi¬
ble excuse for his being there was a little, quiet, slim girl
of Maud Carlton's age, who had slipped in with him, and
gone up to kiss Maud, by whose side she remained for the
rest of the evening.
Honest, impulsive Mrs. Merripebbles, who was no more
afraid of her rich relative than she would be of you,
reader, saw his depressing influence, and walked him off to
cards in the adjoining room, where he was left at the mercy
of Mrs. Kufflestone's mamma, Mrs. Murke, and a dummy
of some kind—probably Mr. Murke.
After such terrible stagnation something enlivening was
wanted. Howker, who had watched his opportunity, sat
down to the piano, and, unsolicited, burst into song. It
was a comic song after the manner of John Parry. Heaven
knows how many sleepless nights Howker had spent (after
office hours) in studying it'. At any rate, he sang it very
well. The effect was electric. Plowker's pumps and
Cavalier Seul were forgotten immediately. He became at
once master of the situation. Miss Tofts pronounced him
a " droll dear." Mrs. Merripebbles laughed till she cried.
Merripebbles (whose weak point, if he only dared give way
to it, was humour) thrust liquor into the hands of Howker,
nigh speechless with gratitude for the amusement that
vocalist had afforded him, and falteringly requested him to
sing another. Howker sang another. It was better than
the first. The two Mass Crayners looked triumphantly
around, as much as to say, " Get a gentleman like that to
stay with you if you can ?" Howker skipped blithely
from the music-stool and requested the honour of Miss
MAHSTON LYNCH.
15
Crooze's hand for the next polka—an honour which Marian,
who was never proof against good humour and the desire
to please, immediately accorded, to the unspeakable disgust
of young Tofts and Albert Crayner (recently arrived), both
of whom she had informed " she never danced."
How short-lived is human glory ! There came another
knock at the door; after which Howker became for the rest
of the evening as a thing that was not and had not been.
" Hech! mam!" cried old Elspeth, rushing into the
ball-room without apology, (a formality she never indulged
in), " There's the queerest mon speering after Mesther
Lynch. Look till him."
The queer personage alluded to had followed Elspeth to
the ball-room door. He was a handsome young man,
with a dark, intelligent face, and sharp piercing eyes—not
without a twinkle of humour, and a long, black moustache.
What was most remarkable was, that he was attired in a
complete Mexican suit, richly ornamented with tassels and
silver bells, resembling the costume of a Spanish bull¬
fighter.
" I beg your pardon," said this outlandish personage,
in the most perfect English, and gracefully removing his
slouched sombrero as Mrs. Merripebbles approached him,
" Excuse my intrusion ; but this stupid woman would not
let me state my business quietly. Mr. Gregory Lynch is
here, I believe."
" I am Mr. Gregory Lynch," said that imposing per¬
sonage, who was no more free from curiosity than the
youngest girl in the house, and had pressed forward with
the crowd.
" I am Don Sancho de Saumarez," said the stranger,
" but that is immaterial. I have just landed from
America, and have left your brother-in-law, or cousin,
Mr. Everard Lynch, who was my fellow passenger, at
your house, I fear in a dying condition."
"Brother-in-law—Everard," gasped Mr. Gregory, be¬
traying more emotion at the tidings than anybody had
thought him capable of.
16
MARSTON LYXCII.
" Yes; I learnt where you had gone, and, as I know
the town well, thought I would come and fetch you my¬
self. I have a vehicle at the door. I fear time is
precious—"
" Certainly, Mr.—a-hem—Count: I am much obliged
to you for your attention. My dear Mrs. Merripebbles,
prav keep Lucy for the night. I'm with you, sir.
The foreign gentleman was sitting on a hall chair
apparently in a state of exhaustion—
" Pardon me—I have done all I need do. I am sadly
fatigued and not well. If this lady will allow me to rest
myself a minute or two, I can get a fly at the end of the
road, and return to my hotel."
" My dear sir—" and Mr. Gregory Lynch rushed
down the lawn in the most extraordinary state of excite¬
ment. In a few minutes wheels were heard driving off at
a rapid pace.
The process of thinking was a weakness in which our
impetuous friend Mrs. Merripebbles was not accustomed
to indulge (there are not wanting misogynist philosophers
to acquit the female sex, generally, from the slightest
tendency to that failing). When she learnt that Mr.
Everard Lynch (a distant relative, whom she had never
seen) was in a dying condition, her first impulse was to
dismiss her guests and send out for sackcloth and ashes,
or their readiest substitutes. But the sudden and un¬
expected departure of Mr. Gregory Lynch—whom she
looked upon as a species of Incubus or Frankenstein
monster, incautiously invoked by herself—was such a
relief to her spirits, that she felt a necessity for a more
reckless degree of hilarity than had been yet introduced in
the course of the evening's entertainment. When, to
this, was added the presence of a titled foreigner of dis¬
tinguished manners, and in such a costume as had never
before been seen at Ash Grove—if even in Longport—she
felt at once that nothing was to be done but to begin to
spend the evening.
She accordingly took Don Sancho by the arm, as
MAKSTON LYNCH.
17
though she had known him for years, and the appearance
of a stranger in a Mexican dress was an organised portion
of her programme, and dragged him into the ball-room.
"My dear Madam," the stranger protested; "in this
ridiculous dress ?"
" Nonsense!" said Mrs. Merripebbles, " half the girls
are in love with it. You know that as well as I do."
More than half the girls, and some of the matrons, were
in love with it. Whether Don Sancho knew it as well as
his hostess remains to be seen.
Of course the entree of this unforeseen Mexican—or
whatever he was—created a powerful sensation. Mrs.
Bufflestone (whose expensive education had comprised
Spanish) fluttered up to him (her mamma exasperating the
other young ladies by circulating the announcement that,
whatever the gentleman's nation, Arabella was competent
to discourse with him; which, as the gentlemen spoke
most excellent English, seemed not unreasonable). Miss
Tofts, in a heavy whisper to the eldest Miss Crayner,.
remarked that the new coiner put her in mind of Wallack
as Massaroni, on the force of which compliment I do not
profess to enlarge. The gentlemen exchanged sneers;
young Tofts remarking in a side whisper to Albert
Crayner (whom he was not in the habit of recognising
under omnibus circumstances) that he didn't know there
had been a masquerade at " the Boyal" on that particular
evening; to which Mr. Crayner responded by a wink,
significantly buttoning the pockets of his inexpressibles
(which contained one and threepence). Howker, who was
a mere honest plebeian and buffoon, utterly incapable of
envy, hatred, or malice, planted his chair in front of the
exotic visitor and stared at him, apparently learning him
by heart, as though he were a comic song.
As soon as Don Sancho had been comfortably installed
on a sofa, and recruited with a couple of glasses of wine,
he rallied marvellously.
" Understand me," he said with the utmost bonhommie,
"had I expected to find myself in such agreeable society,
c
18
MABSTON LYNCH.
I should have taken measures to appear in a more
civilized costume. But I had worn this dress on board
ship (you can't think how comfortable it is), having been
used to it. My poor travelling companion becoming
suddenly worse on our reaching this port, I had to help
him ashore, anyhow, without time to change. Having
simply a message to deliver, I thought I might hide
myself under a big cloak, and sneak oft' to my hotel—"
" You speak very good English for a foreigner, sir," said
young Mr. Tofts, with thoroughly genteel impertinence.
" There is nothing very remarkable about that," replied
the new lion promptly, "as I was educated at Trinity
College, Dublin."
There was a frankness about this parry for which Mr.
Tofts had not been prepared. He turned away and com¬
menced a demi-semi flirtation with Mrs. Bufflestone.
Albert Crayner, flattered by the notice of Tofts, and
hoping for recognition in the nine o'clock vehicle of the
following morning, determined to follow up his advantage.
"He said in the ear of his new-found patron, but loud
enough to be heard by the whole room—
" I didn't know that Don was an Irish title."
"Do you happen to know that Donkey is occasionally
an English title, young man," said the Don sharply ; and
then, turning round to Merripebbles, whose constitutional
timidity appeared excited by the mere possibility of a row,
" I beg your pardon. This gentleman uttered a rudeness
evidently intended for my ears. As a stranger I was
bound to resent it. But I owe, not him, but you, your
lady, and guests, an explanation, of who I am. I have
given you my name. I intend staying at the York Hotel.
I am the son of a noble Mexican family, educated in
Ireland. I heartily forgive this young gentleman his ex¬
cusable rudeness to me, inasmuch as my bizarre costume,
and unceremonious appearance, unquestionably entitled
me to criticism, humorous or speculative. I trust he will
forgive my return rudeness. If not, he has my ad¬
dress."
MARSTON LYNCH.
19
The difficulty was easily settled. Mrs. Merripebbles
led Albert Crayner up to shake hands with the Don.
Albert, flattered at the bare possibility of his ever fighting
a duel, apologised fulsomely—assuring the latter that he
had meant nothing (which was what he usually meant).
The Don insisted upon Albert securing a partner for a
new dance. If he (the Don) was to be a damper on the
evening's amusement he would be off to the Tork im¬
mediately.
The Don was no damper. Quite the contrary. lie
made that evening party such an entertainment as never
was known in Ash Grove before or since. He told the
most wonderful stories of wild sports in the West. He
sang a Spanish duett with slatternly, clever Mrs. Ruffle-
stone, accompanying the performance on an old guitar—
produced from unknown recesses at Number Three—
which he strung and tuned in no time. He made the
dignified reserved Marian Crooze confess that she had
learnt the iandango, as a show dance for pet pupils on
breaking-up occasions, and prevailed on her to dance it
with him, Mrs. Rufflestone (who was a perfect genius at
every accomplishment but that of keeping her children
clean) learning the tune in three minutes, and playing it
in a manner to make Pugni or Alfred Mellon ashamed of
himself. He talked law, politics, and Exchange to Tofts
—always paying that dignified personage the compliment
of assuming that he understood the topic of conversation.
He whispered fast jokes in Albert Crayner's ear. He en¬
couraged Merripebbles in the art of joking, repeating the
mild little whispered attempts of his host aloud, and
always managing to improve them on the way. He
brought Howker out; called upon him for songs which
that vocalist had never thought of attempting, and always
helped him out with words or tune when in a difficulty.
He proposed the health of Mr. and Mrs. Merripebbles at
supper (with a touching allusion to the pie), representing
Merripebbles in such a fine-old-English-gentleman-light as
to make that stockbroker disport himself, after supper, in
c 2
20
MAKSTON LYNCH.
Sir Roger de Coverley, not to say with, arrogance, hut
with unwonted self-assertion.
Finally, on breaking up for the evening, he insisted on
Tofts, Crayner, and Howker accompanying in a fly to the
York, with a view to cigars. The position of Tofts, as
the first man in the row, would not admit of such con¬
cession. He declined, with obvious reluctance. Albert
Crayner—too glad of any new acquaintance worth boast¬
ing of—was only too happy. Howker, who was a
most unmitigated liero-worshipper, would have foEowed
Don Sancho to the world's end.
" Heiress to four thousand a-year you say—the Ettle
step-daughter? " said the Don.
" Some say six," was the reply of Crayner.
" And which of you are after her ? "
Crayner sniggered.
" 1 wouldn't have her with twenty thousand," said
honest old Howker, with a spasmodic burst; " she'E
never be the woman Miss Crooze is ! "
" Ah! " said Don Sancho de Saumarez.
" Goodness sake! Mr. Mempebbles, this has been an
awful night."
"Awful, my dear! I'm sure Mr. Howker was most
agreeable (though he does not dress like a gentleman;
his pumps were not what we might have expected), and
the stories of Don Sancho '.—what is his name ? My
memory is getting worse and worse."
" Your memory, indeed, Mr. Mempebbles; it must be
bad, to go dancing Sir Roger de Coverley, and making
Ettle jokes when poor Mr. Everard Lynch is lying on his
death bed."
"But, my dear, I never saw Mr. Everard Lynch."
" Nor I either. But I've heard of him "—and the
MARSTON LYIs:CII.
21
changeable face of Mrs. Merripebbles became sad and
compassionate—" I've heard of him after he'd married his
cousin, and her father turned them out of doors. I've
beard of him begging day after day at her brother
Gregory's door (why on earth Mr. Merripebbles you could
allow me to ask such a man to the party, I can't imagine ;
but it's just like you). I've heard of him striking
Gregory to the earth, when he was half famished, for
reviling his dead wife—Gregory's own sister! I've heard
of him—half in rags—all clever poet, painter, musician as
he was—dragging himself and his little baby boy to that
grave in St. Michael's churchyard—Get your Bible, Mr.
Merripebbles."
Merripebbles got his Bible.
" Maud Carlton, you spoiled worldling that you are;
Lucy Lynch, you little helpless puppet (God knows what
will become of you !), come to prayers. Where's that old
wretch Elspeth ?—look after the wliiskey. Let us all try
and be better. Mr. Merripebbles read a chapter—and
God forgive us ! "
There can be no harm, reader, in hoping that you have
not more on your conscience requiring Divine forgiveness
than had good warmhearted Mrs. Merripebbles, or in
stating that Merripebbles read a chapter at his wife's
bidding, devoutly and unquestioning, just as he would
have danced a hornpipe (or at all events tried it) if called
upon by the same authority, believing that all she ordered
was for the best.
" Good night, Lucy."
" Good night, Maud, dear."
" Kiss me again ; I love you, Lucy."
" I know you do, Maud; but I wish you loved more
people."
" Do you ? I don't. Besides, there are very few
people I could love, if I tried."
22
MARSTON LYNCH.
" I think there are very few people I could not love for
something or other."
"Mr. Howker, in his pumps, for instance; or that
chattering mountebank rope-dancer, with his lies and
spangles ?"
" Mr. Howker seemed very good-humoured and obliging.
But now you mention it, Maud, I didn't like the Mexican
gentleman, and I don't think that I could."
" Kiss me again, Lucy, and go to sleep."
marston lynch
CHAPTER III.
the morning after, and its events.
And now I confess to being in a dilemma as how I am
to proceed with my story. Do not crow, reader, with pre¬
mature exultation at the idea of my breaking down at the
commencement of my third chapter. I am not going to
break down at all. The story is all right—take my word
for it. I know perfectly well what is going to become of
everybody. I could explain Don Sancho de Saumarez—
at a moment's notice, if necessary—down to the nether¬
most root of his family tree. I have got the death warrant
of my villain (by the way, you don't know what he is yet)
ready made out. I know every trial and hardship my hero
and heroine (you don't know who they are either) have to
go through, and how they are to do it. I could tell you
what will be the fate of Miss Carlton's fortune, much
better than I could if that desirable possession were actu¬
ally at my disposal. The particulars of Howker's wedding
—which is not expected to come off before the very last
chapter—I have all before me, down to the very shoe¬
strings of the bridegroom!
But the question—how to make use of the immense
mass of material in my possession ? How shall I tell my
story ? Shall I be dramatic and conversational, or de¬
scriptive and analytical ? Shall I be graphic and detailed
24
MARSTON LYNCH.
like A, 01* suggestive and tantalising like B P Shall I
imitate C's short sentences, or X)'s long sermons ? Shall
I dilute my single glass of wine in a gallon of water like
E, or condense my haunch of venison into a single lozenge
like E ? I am new to the business, and wish to do my
best. I have already received abundance of good advice,
and much wholesome chastening. One great authority
accuses me of being " wilfully smart." I plead guilty to
the adverb—hoping the result may justify the adjective.
Another brands me as a cockney ;—him I at once disarm
by the confession that I was born in Little St. Thomas the
Apostle's, about five-and-twenty yards from Bow Church
steeple—so what can he expect ? A third advises me
strongly not to be funny : that gentleman had better wait
till he comes to my murder scene. A fourth (I need
hardly say in the columns of a Scotch journal) recom¬
mends me to read the novels of Sir Walter Scott before
attempting to write one myself. But I have read them !
Perhaps, after all, my best plan will be to tell my story
in my own way, if I have a way of my own; or if not, in
any body else's that lends itself to the subject. It may
occur to the reader that a still better plan wrould have been
to do so without making a fuss about it. Thanking the
reader most cordially for the suggestion, I will act upon it,
and proceed—merely premising that having taken up my
literary quarters in Ash Grove, I feel very comfortable in
that locality, and have no intention of leaving it till I feel
my credit in the neighbourhood quite exhausted.
The Row was terribly " used up" on the morning after
the party. Howker going to town by the nine o'clock 'bus
(I assure you he called it so) was a dismal sight. Had he
walked to town in the pumps—the subject of such execra¬
tion on the preceding evening—retaining the limp white
cravat and damaged shirtfrill, he could not have looked
worse. He was yellow, sir, and despondent. He had not
the courage to glance up at Miss Crooze's closely-curtained
window. Visions of reduced salary haunted him. He
doubted the solvency of his employers. He envied a
MARSTON LYNCH.
25
sportive pig wallowing in the mud of the unbuilt side of
the Grove. The blue dots of his beard were ghastly to
behold.
'Twas not much better with Albert Crayner, who, belong¬
ing to a more genteel, though less lucrative, house of
business, had an extra matutinal hour in which to recruit
himself. The ten o'clock vehicle was his means of transit.
Fortified with much hot coffee, and the delusive fallacy of
a very stiff collar (as yet " all rounders" were not) he was
enabled to enter on his daily labours with a degree of forced
and unnatural buoyancy. But it fell through in no time,
and he became an object of pity to the very messengers.
Miss Crooze breakfasted in bed. Care of the morning
school was entrusted to Miss Fansliawe, the assistant go¬
verness, also a late guest at the party, though not pre¬
viously mentioned. Miss Fanshawe being over-indulged,
like every other member of the establishment—the supe¬
rior's reputed strong mind notwithstanding—preferred
sleep in Miss Crooze's arm chair to hearing lessons. The
result was anarchy—(the arch-spirit of turbulence being
represented by Polly Bickerstaff, the " limb" of Grove
House)—to such an extent, as to call forth repeated raps
at the wall from Mrs. Murke, next door, whose dissipa¬
tion had flown to her right shoulder, and laid her up as a
permanency. The effect upon Mr. Murke is of no more
consequence than any other event in the life of that nega¬
tive personage.
Whatever may have been his success as an evening's
amusement, Don Sancho de Saumarez certainly did not
bear the morning's reflection of Ash Grove generally.
Viewed through the distorting glass of jaded nerves and
deranged livers, he was seen to lamentable disadvantage.
The Miss Crayners, over their mortifying breakfast, at
which meal they presented an attenuated lank appearance,
not insuggestive of a damaged pair of stockings hung out
to dry, pronounced him unhesitatingly—an Englishman.
The force of censure could scarcely go further. Mr. Tofts
having exhausted all such minor causes of quarrel—as weak
2 fi
51AK ST ON LYNCII.
tea, tough, toast, &c.—with his sister and housekeeper,
was delighted at the opportunity of that young lady speak¬
ing favourably of the Don, to annoy her by stigmatising
him, at once, as a " play actor."
Mrs. Eufflestone's mamma—doubtless, a judge of such
matters—feared the Don would turn out to be nothing but
a clever impostor. In what important degree he had im¬
posed on Mrs. Eufflestone's mamma, the writer has no
means of ascertaining. The family breakfast of the
Merripebbles establishment was conducted in gloomy
silence. Mrs. Merripebbles was wretched and remorseful,
and she always gave the tone to the household. The
principle of repentance for having enjoyed ourselves in an
innocent manner may be looked upon as a purely English
invention.
Altogether Ash Grove was in the seediest possible con¬
dition [the editor took me to task last month about my
" slang I assured him I was only a little in advance of
my age : in a few years " seedy" will be incorporated with
the dictionary], and the reputation of Don Sancho de
Saumarez at the lowest possible ebb, when the sound of
hoofs at full gallop was heard entering the Grove. Every
head, not absolutely enveloped in a night-cap, was at the
window. To the astonishment of everybody, Don Sancho
himself, dressed, not as a Mexican, but as an English
nobleman (at all events according to the notion of that
character in Ash Grove) was seen galloping past on a
magnificent blood mare.
The sensation he had created on the previous evening
was eclipsed and forgotten. His hat, boots, gloves, whip,
saddle—everything—were faultless. He went up in the
market immediately, and stood, in the estimation of the
Eow, it is impossible to say how much per cent, higher
than ever.
He pulled up at Number Eight with a rush, and rang
the bell eagerly. Old Elspeth appeared, enjoying a pro¬
menade breakfast of bread and cold turkey, which she
seemed in no hurry whatever to finish.
MARSTON LYNCH.
27
"Now then, old lady," said the Don, sharply; "open
the gate—I'm in a hurry."
" Save us !" exclaimed the old woman, recognising the
voice, and gaping with astonishment. " If it is-na the
braw callant o' yestreen, that sang the sangs—ane o' em
Robbie Burns's, too, an' in gude Scotch—an' a' horse¬
back !"
" Come, come, let me in, will you."
The Mexican sprang from his charger, and secured the
bridle to the railings. The old woman proceeded to open
the gate, by no means hurrying herself, and making ad¬
miring comments upon the stranger's personal appearance
as she did so.
" The braw claes o' him !—the trews and the patent
shoon ! 'Deed, Sir, ye'll play the deel wi' the lasses mair
in this dress than the ither. But I aye tauldthem a' ye
were o' the recht sort."
" Well, never mind that," said the Don, with good-
humoured impatience, " I must see your master."
" Then ye'll just hae to gang back to Longport. He's
gane tilt the office. And the gloves, too !—-like the verra
snaw ! Staun up till I look at you."
"Pshaw, nonsense! Your mistress, then."
" Well, ye can see her. She's big enoo. But ye'll no
see her as she was yestreen. Ye'll hae nae smiles and
satin the day. It's a' gingham an' groanin'. And the
bonnie black coat, too ! The recht sort, sirs ! The recht
sort! but I tauld them so."
And with such marks of patronage and approval, the
old woman preceded the stranger to the house, occasionally
stopping to turn him deliberately round for inspection, and
smooth his garments, as if he were a pet animal, always
referring to her original conviction of his belonging to the
"recht sort."
Mrs. Merripebbles was lingering over her untasted meal,
in company with her daughter and the young girl who had
been addressed on the previous evening as Lucy Lynch,(when
Don Sanclio was introduced. His visit appeared to cause
28
MAKSTON LYNCH.
more surprise than pleasure to the lady of the house, whose
innate good breeding, however (is the phrase a bull or not ?),
secured hima polite reception. He was requested to be seated.
" There seems to be a fatality," said the Don, after an
interchange of salutations, in which he had singled out
Miss Carlton for marked attention, who, however, barely
returned his civility; " there seems a fatality that I should
intrude upon your family circle at the most unseasonable
time. But when you learn the business that has brought
me, you will excuse it."
" I think," said the Don, looking round, after a short
pause, " what I have to communicate had better be to you
alone. I am greatly pressed for time, and if these young
ladies will pardon me"—
" Maud and Lucy Lynch—go up to the nursery."
The two girls left the room.
" Mr. Gregory Lynch's daughter, I presume ?" the Don
inquired, catching at the name.
" No, poor thing. I wish she was. His step daughter
only. But she is very little older than his own children,
and we call her Lynch, perhaps to make her believe that
she has a father. Heaven knows she wants one ! But I
am detaining you, sir. Pray proceed with your busi¬
ness ?"
" I am the bearer of bad news. Mr. Everard Lynch
died last night!"
"Whenwe were rioting and dancing. Good heavens
forgive us !" And Mrs. Merripebbles groaned.
" That, however, is not the object of my visit, for which,
to tell you the truth, I could ill spare the time. You are
related to the family of the deceased, I believe?"
"Distantly—but no matter the degree. Yes."
" Then I have, no doubt, done right in coming here. It
appears there was a painful scene at his brother-in-law's,
when the death took place."
" How so ?"
" Why the poor man's son, young Marston Lynch, whom
you know, of course—"
MARSTON LYNCH.
29
" I have never seen him,"
" An excitable, impetuous, soft-hearted fellow; only
eighteen, or he'd know better. It seems there have been
family differences—"
" There have, indeed. I hope Gregory Lynch will be
forgiven."
" Not by my young friend Marston, certainly. I will
be as brief as I can. The father, feeling himself dying,
insisted on his being taken to his relation's house, with a
view to making peace and securing a protector for his son.
The boy opposed this strongly, but gave in to his sick
father's wishes. No sooner, however, was the breath out
of the poor man's body, than the lad—half mad, no doubt,
poor fellow !—the father and son were greatly attached to
each other—flew into a paroyxsm, declared that his father's
corpse should not remain in the house of the man who had
killed his mother."
" He did kill her! he did! he did!" said Mrs. Merri-
pebbles, sobbing convulsively.
" He was for carrying it away by main force; and I
believe he would have done so if his strength had not been
expended by long fatigue and watching. As it was, he
shut himself up with the body till daybreak, and then sent
for me."
" Why for you ?"
" I don't know ; probably because I had taken a fancy
to him on board ship, and he could think of no nearer
friend in his trouble. I was on the point of starting for
London ; my family affairs are very pressing; but I could
not, of course, resist such a summons. I found him very
much broken, but perfectly calm and firm in his determi¬
nation to remove the body immediately—to a workhouse,
he said, if necessary. I tried to reason with him, but soon
saw it would be as useless as cruel to do so in his present
state. He attributes to his uncle the death, not only of
his mother but his father, who had been driven to the un¬
settled harrassing life that ultimately killed him, by the
persecutions of his family. The kindest thing seemed to
30
MAESTON LYNCH.
me to humour him in his fancy, bad or good. I saw the
uncle. To do him justice, he seemed very much distressed
himself, and expressed every sympathy for the boy, whose
violent conduct seemed more to grieve than incense him."
" A canting hypocrite !" Mrs. Merripebbles broke in.
" However, the lad will not hear of any assistance from
that quarter. I promised to aid him in carrying out his
wishes, whatever they might be, so far as my means would
allow. I should impress upon you that there is no
stronger tie between us than that of fellow passengers,"
added the Don, with a deprecating wave of the hand at the
allusion to his own humanity.
" Then God bless you for it, whoever you are," said
Mrs. Merripebbles, drowned in tears, and her massive
frame quivering with emotion. " The boy was right; God
bless him for his truth to his parent's memory ! He was
right! It would have been desecration to leave the -poor
corpse in that house. You did well to come to me, sir;
I thank you for it. I am only a distant relation, but no
matter! The boy shall not want a mother while I live.
I have money of my own. I don't care that for what Mr.
Merripebbles says. He shall have a home here. His
poor father shall be buried from a friend's house, not from
his murderer's. I am very much obliged to you, indeed,
I will fetch them myself, the dead and the living."
And Mrs. Merripebbles rang the bell, sobbing convul¬
sively.
Elspeth appeared immediately, not even making a feint
to conceal the fact that she had been listening at the door,
and was despatched for a fly.
Don Sancho looked at his excited hostess with a queer
studious expression, in which, however, honest admiration
formed a prominent ingredient.
" My dear madam," he said, " I am glad to see that
my poor young friend—we knock up friendships at sea in
no time—has met with so kind a protectress. But my
chief object in coming to you was to suggest the smoothing
away of difficulties between him and his relation."
MARSTON LYNCH.
31
tc No : Mrs. Merripebbles would not hear of it. The lad
should not be dependent on the destroyer of his parents."
" But I fear his father has left him in a most helpless
condition."
"He shall'come here; he can assist Mr. Merripebbles
in his business. We will get him a situation."
" Then, in that case, I leave the matter in your hands,
and must really attend to my own interests, which I repeat
are very pressing; indeed, if I had not seen that blood
mare for sale in the stable of my hotel, I doubt if I could
possibly have spared the time. Only one thing remains,
for me to do."
And the Don placed in the hands of Mrs. Merripebbles
a crisp, crackling new twenty-pound note.
" It's very little," he said apologetically, " not worth
mentioning ; but I am an extravagant man, and at present
an embarrassed man. The claims on my purse are
numerous. It is all I can do for him. You are more fit
to take care of it than he is, and it may help to lighten
present expenses. He need never know where it came
from."
" God bless you again, for a true Christian," said Mrs.
Merripebbles, sobbing afresh. " But you will have your
reward."
" Pshaw, my dear madam—do not exaggerate trifles—
I must really go—if I leave my new mare tugging any
longer at your railings she'll cut her mouth to pieces.
Tut ! I had nearly forgotten."
Don Sancho stopped, as if struck by a sudden recollec¬
tion—
" In the chances of life," he began, in a tone of some
sadness, "it is more than probable that we shall never
meet again."
" Pray do not say so."
" Whether or not, I shall never forget the pleasant
welcome I received to a land I consider almost my own,
in my cordial reception by a charming family circle to
whom I was utterly unknown. Hurried as I was this
32
MAB.STON LYNCH.
morning, I wished to bring with me a slight memorial of
the stranger you. were so hind as to treat as a friend.
Permit me."
The Don produced from a small parcel some exquisite
specimens of Mexican feather work and wax figures ; also
a richly embroidered fan, on which sparkled a few jewels
of value.
" Mere toys!" slightingly he said, " and of no value
whatever ; but if you will keep these on your mantelpiece
and request your charming daughter to use the fan occa¬
sionally—merely in remembrance of a grateful bird of
passage—they are not worth thanks I assure you. By
the way, our young friend has my London address in case
I can at any time be of service to him. I promise
nothing. My own means, as I have told you, are limited;
but I have friends."
" You deserve them," sighed Mrs. Merripebbles.
"Don't be too sure of that—the mare will positively
have your railings down. My dear madam, once for all,
I wish you all health and happiness."
Mrs. Merripebbles first seized Iris hand, then kissed it;
then, unable to control the grateful emotions of her nature,
literally hugged him in her arms and kissed him on both
cheeks, blushing as she did so, and murmuring in
apology—
" I might be your mother, you know. God send that
my own boy may grow up as good and handsome—as
mindful of his fellow creatures in their misfortunes !"
Don Sancho de Saumarez tore himself away : brushed
something from his eyes with the back of his glove;
released the mare from her bondage ; and vaulted into the
saddle like an acrobat. The entire Bow was on the watch
for his re-appearance. Mrs. ftufflestone, reckless of con¬
ventionalities, rushed out at the front door in an intolera¬
ble state of deshabille, and for want of a better signal,
brandished a twin at the flying stranger in token of adieu.
The Miss Crayners peered at him through the muslin
window curtain. Elspeth, returning from the fly expedi¬
tion, hailed his appearance with a wild pas d' extase—pro-
MARSTON LYNCH.
33
bably a Highland fling or a Strathspey. The Hon threw
her a splendid gratuity, upon which she uttered a Gaelic
yell, to the temporary discomfiture of the mare. A dozen
small female noses were flattened against Miss Crooze's
schoolroom window. The Hon flew past them all, and at
the top of the road, splashed from head to foot, young
Mr. Tofts, who was waiting for the eleven o'clock
omnibus.
The horse and rider were soon out of sight. And thus
the brilliant apparition of Hon Sancho de Saumarez dis¬
appeared from the horizon of Ash Grove, leaving a reputa¬
tion behind him like that of a comet.
" Mamma," said Maud Carlton, as her parent was
getting into the fly on her impetuous errand of humanity,
" Elspeth has told me all about this business. I know
what you are going to do. You will be sorry for it."
" You heartless, spoiled creature, what do you mean ?"
" Not what you mean, Mamma"—there was an unusual
gentleness in Miss Carlton's manner. " But you give
way to your feelings and then repent it. You will make
this poor boy think there is a home for him, and in a few
days will be tired of the burden. Hon't fly out with me.
I only want to say that you have plenty of money of mine,
that you have saved for me, as you call it, out of my
allowance from the trustees—as if I should ever want it!
Pray make use of it in this matter."
Mrs. Merripebbles stared at her queer daughter with
the utmost astonishment. She said nothing, but squeezed
her in her arms, giving her a loud enthusiastic kiss.
The fly drove off. When Miss Carlton rejoined her
companion she displayed signs of moisture about the eyes,
which gave her an entirely novel and unprecedented
appearance.
D
34
marst'on lynch.
CHAPTEE IV.
short, but important, as it introduces the hero.
More excitement for Ash. Grove ! A funeral and a new
resident. Mr. Everard Lynch was buried in St. Michael's
Church, Longport, in the very grave to which he had so
often led the weeping mourner who followed him to it.
After the funeral, Marston Lynch took up his residence as
a member of the Merripebbles' family.
His grief at first ivas so violent and inconsolable as
partly to dismay and puzzle his new found friends. On
the eve of the funeral Mrs. Merripebbles had said to her
husband—
" I declare I don't know what to do with this poor lad.
I quite tremble for to-morrow. I have been thinking that
it would be better if he had some one with him nearer his
own age. He seems very affectionate and grateful for our
attention, but we are old people compared to him, and can
hardly enter into his feelings; and you know, Mr.
Merripebbles, you'H be in no state to support anybody
to-morrow—you'll be as bad as he."
Merripebbles felt it. He turned white, and quivered at
MABSTON LYNCH.
35
the idea of the trial in store for his poor old weak nerves
and sensitive nature.
" You're quite right, my dear—quite right, as you
always are," he faltered, rubbing his forehead with his
pocket handkerchief.
"If we knew some nice respectable young man we
could ask ? "
" To be sure—some nice respectable young man; there
is Mr. Tofts, he's a nice young man, and highly re¬
spectable."
"Don't be utterly ridiculous, Mr. Merripebbles. Mr.
Tofts, indeed ! A nice man to call in for sympathy. I
would as soon think of looking for it—in—your umbrella,"
said Mrs. Merripebbles, snatching at the readiest illustra-
tration of stiffness and emptiness.
" What do you say to Mr. Albert Crayner?" said Merri¬
pebbles, hopelessly, after a pause—not that he had the
slightest idea of his suggestions being adopted, but because
he felt himself called upon to say something.
" He's a fool, Mr. Merripebbles, find you are another to
think of such a thing," was the gracious response. " But
what have I been thinking of all the time. There's Mr.
Howker; to be sure,—the very man !"
" Mr. Howker—my—dear!" Merripebbles fairly gasped
with astonishment. " The very last man I should have
thought of."
" Of course, because he is the right one."
" But consider his manners and style of dress."
" Dress, indeed ! You do try my patience sometimes.
Do you think poor young Air. Lynch would derive any
consolation from being turned loose in a tailor's shop ?
Mr. Howker has got a heart in his bosom, and that's of
more importance than boots."
A little reflection convinced Merripebbles that the in¬
stinctive judgment of his wife was, as usual, right.
Accordingly Howker was invited to assist at the funeral.
He was intensely flattered at the honour so unexpectedly
thrust upon him. He came, full of importance, in the
p 2
36
MARSTON LYNCH.
newest and worse fitting suit of mourning imaginable
having obtained a holiday for the purpose.
He performed the office of consoler admirably—more
than justifying Mrs. Merripebbles' election. He was a
dull, commonplace fellow enough, of limited intellect and
attainments; but, fortunately, there are subtle powers of
perception in kind and honest natures that lie deeper than
the head. Howker appreciated the grief of his young-
charge perfectly. He was at his side, throughout the day
—never obtruding himself—never attempting jarring com¬
monplace consolations. When wanted, he was there—
when in the way, he made himself invisible. He respected
the sufferer's paroxysms, rather encouraging them to have
vent than attempting to check them. He did not insult
the orphan's sacred privilege of grief, by pretending to
equal participation in it—though his eyes were wet all the
day. What was wanted he fetched—but he pressed and
offered nothing. In a word, he fully understood the deep
and beautiful sympathy of silence.
The result of this one day's true service was, that Howker
and young Marston Lynch became fast friends. Two cha¬
racters more dissimilar could scarcely be imagined. We
have seen what Howker was, whereas Marston Lynch was
a youth of delicate organisation and poetical temperament,
with great versatility of talent in a high state of cultiva¬
tion. A good deal has been written about the " likings of
the unlike." The fact that clever people should attach
themselves to inferior natures has been considered a pheno¬
menon worthy of various explanatory theories. The
glorious democratic principle of the affections is generally
here lost sight of. Why do wise and great men love
children—or dogs ?
In the course of time young Lynch's grief began par¬
tially to wear off, and he became a great favourite with the
Bow. He was tall, tolerably good looking, and well
formed, though, as yet, somewhat angular. He was
generous, affectionate, and grateful—rather violent at
times—but placable in the extreme. He became strongly
™CH. 3,
attached to his benefactors, as indeed he had cause, for
they had treated him, since his calamity, with uniform
kindness and affection.
Some weeks had elapsed since his father's death, and
nothing had been said with respect to the young man's
prospects in life. His host and hostess forbore to allude
to the subject from motives of delicacy during his first
grief—and it was rather a perplexing feature in their
guest's character, that, however grateful for their hospi¬
tality, he took it rather as a matter of course, and as a
thing to be permanent. Once or twice his uncle, Mr.
Gregory Lynch, had made proposals to provide for him,
but these he always rejected indignantly. He said he
would prefer starving or sweeping the streets. But prac¬
tically he seemed to prefer good dinners from the Merri-
pebbles' kitchen, and scouring the library, which, for a
middle class family, was tolerably extensive. He read
incessantly, and frequently spent hours alone in his chamber
converting an immense quantity of paper into manuscript,
the nature of which he was shy of divulging. He was
fond ,of long walks, either by himself or with Howker, in
whom he had established a sort of right and property. On
Sundays, or in the lengthened spring evenings, when
business was over, his humble friend would accompany
him to his parents' grave, where he would sometimes give
way to passionate exclamations, sometimes sit in moody
silence—during which Howker would retire to a respectful
distance, and wait patiently, extinguishing the very cigar
he loved, in deference to the solemn scene.
Things were going on in this way, when it became ob¬
served that young Lynch was taking more pains than
formerly with his personal appearance. His mourning was
more carefully brushed, and the Merripebbles' washing bill
augmented fearfully. It was mooted abroad that young
Lynch was passionately enamoured of Miss Crooze—exactly
eleven years his senior.
Nevertheless, young Lynch seemed as far from doing
anything towards paying for his washing as ever. His
38
MARSTON LYNCH.
entertainers were beginning to get uneasy, and a little
irritated, when things took an unexpected turn.
A sad calamity happened in the Row. Poor little
frivolous Mrs. Pufflestone lost one of her twins, and as
nearly broke her heart over it as the demurest matron
could have done. It was felt as a common misfortune—
for, with all their little scandals and bickerings, the Ash
Grove inhabitants were a good simple-hearted race, and
there was a kind of family tie between them. Mrs.
Merripebbles, who had been sitting up all night with the
little sufferer—when all was done, entered her own house
bathed in tears.
" It's all over—all over ! " she said, " poor little tiny
mite ! poor little thing ! "
Marston Lynch was in an arm chair by the fire, reading
Byron. He put his book down. He was a soft-hearted
fellow, and he shared the general grief.
" So pretty it looks," said Mrs. Merripebbles—like a
bit of waxwork. Oh ! if there was only some one here to
take its portrait before it begins to change ! It would be
such a comfort to the poor little mother."
Marston Lynch started up—
" Do you think so ? "
" Do I think so! You wouldn't ask if you were a
mother. But it's impossible now. It's too far to send
to Longport, and I wouldn't have it done after that
beautiful look has left the little face—and it won't last—
it won't last."
" I'll do it in ten minutes," said Marston Lynch. And
lie ran upstairs, returning almost immediately with a flat
japanned box in his hand and a small strained canvass.
" Eh, dear! Mr. Marston," said his hostess in as¬
tonishment ; " Can you paint ? "
" To be sure I can."
"Why, who taught you? "
" He who taught me everything I know—that is worth
knowing," replied Marston, with a tear in his eye, " my
dear father."
marston lynch.
39
" But you have never shown us your powers—"
" It was his box," Marston said in a broken voice :
" I hadn't the heart to touch it before: but now I can be
the means of doing a service—Let us go at once."
In a few minutes our hero was in the chamber of death;
and in less than a quarter of an hour had dashed off what,
in the judgment of the simple people around him,- was a
masterly oil sketch of the little dead cherub. Certainly
he had caught the expression most happily and pleasantly.
The gratitude of the poor little mother was boundless, and
the picture remained in her possession, a treasure, that
bales of yellow satin and all the ostrich feathers of the
desert could not have purchased from her.
But here was a discovery! Marston Lynch could
paint portraits. Mrs. Merripebbles at once resolved to
turn it to a business account. All her influence in the
Bow, and elsewhere, should be employed to procure him
sitters. Marston accepted the hint that he was to do
something for his living very quietly, and expressed him¬
self ready to begin. A three-quarter portrait of Mrs.
Murke was the first commission, and a sitting was duly
appointed.
40
marston lynch.
CHAPTER V.
retrospective and possibly prosaic ; but unfor¬
tunately indispensable.
Lynch—Gregory of the name, not Marston—was a
widower. At the period of which we treat he had sus¬
tained that disconsolate character for about four years with
remarkable fortitude and propriety. A strong party of
detractors, of the sentimental way of thinking—(usually
headed by Mrs. Merripebbles : though, of course, at the
slightest indication of good feeling on the part of the
enemy, she would desert to his cause at a moment's notice)
■—were in the habit of charging him gravely, first, with
having married a sickly widow for her money ; and,
secondly, with aggravation of the unfortunate lady's suf¬
ferings by systematic ill-treatment, with a view to getting
her out of the world. That Gregory's keen business
habits and an excellent eye to investment may have in¬
fluenced him somewhat in his matrimonial speculations is
more than possible, but there is no reason to believe that
the married life of the deceased Mrs. Lynch had been more
unhappy than that of a listless commonplace woman must
always be when united to a worldlv-hearted commonplace
man, amidst the dull conventionalities of English middle
class society.
Mrs. Lynch had, as above hinted, " brought her hus-
MARSTON LYNCH.
41
band money." That familiar expression was literally
applicable to the case in point, as Mrs. Lynch never saw
much of her money again—her lord and master quietly
absorbing it with the rest of his possessions, as lawful
though inadequate tribute to his great superiority and
condescension.
The bereaved gentleman's family consisted of four in¬
tolerable children (the eldest boy at a public school), and
the step-daughter, of whom the reader has already had a
passing glimpse. Tor this young lady, no provision had
been made by her mother, who was indeed legally power¬
less of affecting, as she would have been morally incapable
of proposing, such a thing. The orphan was, therefore,
entirely dependent on her step-father, a circumstance of
which she was speedily made aware. Gregory Lynch
looked upon her as a monster of extortionate encumbrance,
and himself a model of benevolence and magnanimity, for
allowing her food, clothes, and lodging, together with the
privilege of exercising in his mansion the entire duties of
housekeeper and nursery governess, and many of those of
dressmaker and maid of all work. That. the girl was
thoroughly well housed, clothed, and fed, and supplied
with every necessity of her young existence, with the trifling
exception of affection, there can be no doubt; but the
latter article was one in which the great commercial house
of Gregory Lynch did not deal largely. And the slender
stock in the possession of the head of the firm was
" wanted for the business."
Longport was proud of Gregory Lynch. It is rather
difficult to say why, as his only remarkable achievement in
connection with that township had been to cause an im¬
mense quantity of its circulating medium to flow into his
own pockets, and stop there. But it is surely a refutation
of the common charge of want of chivalrous feeling in
commercial communities, where every body is trying to get
the better of his neighbours, that the men who do not
succeed in that desirable experiment profess the most dis-
42
MAKSTON LYNCH.
interested admiration for those who do. Probably it is on
the principle that makes a beaten man always speak in
exaggerated terms of his victor's strength and prowess.
At any rate Gregory Lynch, though not physically prepos¬
sessing was an object of admiration and reverence as he
walked the streets. " One of our Longport men, sir," strug¬
gling insolvents and half-starved clerks would say; " got
on entirely by his own exertions. Recollect him when he
kept a little peddling haberdasher's shop at the top of the
High Street. And look at him now !—one our merchant
princes, sir,"—and so on.
It is true there was usually some little romance in these
glowing narrations : but some license must be allowed to
♦ *11
the imaginative classes. It would completely have spoiled
the picture to state, that the little peddling haberdasher's
shop at the top of the High Street had done a thriving
business in the time even of Gregory Lynch's father, a nice
old gentleman, who had served his country during the last
war, with a few navy contracts for hosiery, &c.—at a time
when the present meddling spirit of prying into public
business was unknown, and enterprising speculators (with
good introductions) could really hope to turn an honest
penny at the cost of the country, by which it is well known
certain people are born to be supported. It would also
have materially weakened the Gregorian Myth to mention
that, as unexpected channels of commerce flowed into the
town, the value of household property increased at an
incredible ratio, and that the said haberdasher's shop, with
a few surrounding tenements, freehold possessions of the
Lynches, became a splendid source of income. It was
also worth forgetting that in his father's lifetime Gregory
Lynch had been a bad son (to a still worse father, it is
true), a heartless brother, an-d a coarse profligate. Should
any invidious malcontent rake up those forgotten bygones,
the staunch defenders of the Faith in Lynch had always
the answer ready—" that young men will be a little wild ;
and, after all, even in his most dissolute days, nobody can
MARSTON LYNCH.
43
deny that Gregory was always a capital man of business,
and kept an eye to the main chance," which was strictly
true, and of course compensated for all failings.
We are all of us liable to commit mistakes. Most of
us, in the opinion of certain fatalists, at some one period
of our lives, commit a grand and fatal error, the conse¬
quences of which will materially influence the remainder
of our existence. Such a calamity had happened to Mr.
Gregory Lynch in early life. He had committed—an
error; which, if discovered, (albeit actuated by that
laudable spirit for which we find him so enthusiastically
admired, the desire to better himself,) could scarcely have
been excused even by his own most ardent supporters on
the score of youthful indiscretion. But, fortunately, it had
not been discovered ; I say fortunately, because, surely, it
would have been a pity that so glorious a career should
have been injured or prevented by what his admirers would
unhesitatingly pronounced—a serious mistake, at its very
outset.
Frequent reference has been made to the family feuds
by which Gregory Lynch, and his less prosperous relations,
were divided. To explain these, a short dissertation on
the mysteries of English aristocracy will be necessary.
In mentioning the word aristocracy, do not think,
reader, I am about to meddle with the " genuine article,"
the real crane de la creme—to not one member of which
I have ever had the privilege of speaking (though there is
no telling to what honours a diligent literary career, con¬
ducted on principles of becoming deference, may not lead
me). What I wish to allude to is an indefinable spirit
that descends, as it were, like an exhalation from the
unapproachable realms above, pervading and influencing
English society down to its very dregs. Have you never
known people with no clearly ascertained grandfathers—
(not that I place any particular stress on that family
luxury : I have known people who never had grandfathers,
or at best very bad ones, attain to, and not absolutely
disgrace, the highest positions)—have you not heard such
44
MARSTON LYNCH.
people talk with complacency about the " family," and
rejoice in being a " Smith," a "Brown," a " Slogginson,"
or a " Powler," as the case may be ? Have you never
known shopkeepers—(I mean, of course, reader, in your
capacity of moral philosopher and student of character ; I
assure you it is only by such means I have ever been
brought into contact with such people) staring, as it were,
their shop-fronts out of countenance—ignoring their very
existence—and " cutting " other shopkeepers for being
"in trade !" Is it a case impossible of occurrence for a
confectioner to east his dc ughter off for ever, for bringing
disgrace on the family by marrying a baker P Can you
tell me why it is so much more respectable to be a " com¬
mission agent " than a linen-draper—a clerk at a-pound
a week, than a shopman at two ? Can you explain to me
by what Brahmin-like lex non scripta it shall be honour¬
able to sell wine, and disgraceful to sell boots or trousers
—and, as an inner question, why the sale of trousers
should involve less contamination than that of boots ?
Finally, could you ever satisfactorily account for the moral
scruples of the decayed gentlewoman in Douglas Jerrold's
story, who, though reduced tot gain a livelihood by selling
apples in the gallery of Drury-lane Theatre, had the feel¬
ings of a born lady about her, and " would die rather than
take in the cat's meat ?" And did you ever for a moment
doubt that old apple-woman to be the very type and
epitome of English humbug and pretension P
The Lynches, of High Street, Longport, the haber¬
dashery connection notwithstanding, aspired to " family "
honours. Old Lynch, in the intervals of leisure afforded
by his arduous pursuits of swindling the country, and
driving tight bargains with African captains (we are speak¬
ing of the very good old times when the nuisance of a
Man and a Brother was unknown) was accustomed to
solace himself with sight of a certain family tree, designed
on parchment, as having its root in the gastric regions of
a mail-clad Norman warrior: its latest remarkable fruit
being one Timothy Lynch, who was marginally observed
MARSTON LYNCH.
45
to have " sold ye estate." The Lynches had also a crest,
which was duly graven on the very first teaspoon the
family fortunes afforded. Of the genuineness of these
heraldic pretensions I am no judge. I do not attach the
importance to such matters that some popular writers do ;
having studied literature rather as an art per se, than as a
pendant to the noble science of coach-painting.
At any rate, when Gregory Lynch's sister fell in love
with, and married, against her father's wishes, a distant
relation, belonging to a despised and outcast branch of the
family (it is impossible to say why),—a man, moreover,
who had the additional stigma of a tendency to the fine
arts, who was clever at anything but earning a livelihood,
having, at an average, a dozen schemes per week, for
making his fortune and regenerating society,—the sort of
man, in fact, who never ought to marry at all, but who
always does marry early in life to the most unsuitable
partner that can be met with—when this unholy alliance
took place, the indignation of the family knew no bounds.
The door was shut upon the offending couple for ever.
Mr. Lynch, senior, was understood to have heaped the
most fearful imprecations on their devoted heads. Mr.
Lynch, junior, was implacable in his resentment. The
unhappy bridegroom was always spoken of as "that
scoundrel,"—" that fellow,"—" that scum," and so forth.
Every opportunity to ruin his prospects in life was taken
advantage of; and of such opportunities rich men, in a
provincial town, will find no scarcity to exercise over a
poor enemy. Mr. Lynch, senior, had never been remark¬
able for paternal tenderness, nor his son for any striking
amount of brotherly affection. The facility with which
both dismissed daughter and sister from their thoughts
(except to swear at her occasionally) may be taken as an
indication thst their rage was not excited on the principle
of the tigress bereft of her young. That their nearest
relation might die of want for anything they cared, they
proved practically—by allowing her to do so.
And yet no name or punishment in then opinion was
46
MARSTON LYNCH.
sufficiently bad for Everard Lyncli, for the crime of
•running away with a daughter of the house he had already
disgraced by being connected with, however remotely.
There was no moral objection to Everard Lynch. Lie
was a gentleman in breeding—and of far higher education
than anybody bearing his name. Mere poverty could not
have been his crime, for he had many available abilities
that, with the slightest assistance (which would have been
readily afforded to a favoured suitor,) might easily have
been employed in a profitable direction. But on the
inexplicable Brahmin-like principle of caste I have alluded
to, the marriage was considered derogatory; and the
haberdasher's family of High Street, Longport, were as
much scandalised by the union of their daughter with a
scholar and a gentleman (not the latter perhaps, according
to the code of my talented friend Gules Fitz Plush, of the
Weekly Panel aud Coachpainters' Magazine) as a ducal
house would be at the elopement of one of its female
scions with a curate.
The young wife died—a very young wife indeed—if not
absolutely from direct want, in consequence of a life of
hardship and privation she had been neither framed nor
taught to bear. The husband wandered in various parts
of the world in pursuit of divers ignis fatui of fortune.
The father's death took place soon after that of his
daughter. His end was a wretched one—aggravated by
much heartless disobedience on the part of the son he had
so cherished and trained in his own worldly image. It
was indeed said, in his latter days, that to such a pitch of
exasperation had his son's ill-concealed and impatient
cupidity for the succession wrought him, that he vowed
to leave the latter without a penny, bequeathing all his
possessions to the child of the daughter whom, in his
maudlin penitence, he was in the habit of deploring he
had so ill-treated.
However, as quarrels between the father and son were
of no unfrequent occurrence, the threat was looked on as
an idle one, which, it would seem, proved to be the case.
MABSTON LYNCH.
47
The old sinner died intestate: Gregory inherited the
already snug property; sowed his coarse wild oats ; and
proceeded to employ his wealth in the glorious manner
which won for him golden opinions from all sorts of people
—at least from all sorts of people in Longport.
48
marston lynch.
CHAPTER VI.
in which a person by the name oe brown
- honours gregory lynch with a visit.
Gregory Lynch lived in a very large, very square, very
new house, in a suburb of Longport, much more con¬
venient and aristocratic (the adjectives generally go
together) than Ash Grove, and proportionably expensive.
The mansion, which, was of a cold, moist, grey com¬
plexion, externally composed of a material strongly
resembling frozen putty, had been facetiously mentioned
in the architect's bill as a building in the Italian school,
and was as much like a Venetian or Florentine palace as
Gregory Lynch, the merchant prince, and Mayor of Long-
port in fosse, was like Lorenzo de Medici, or the Doge of
Venice.
" Huskisson Lodge," as Mr. Lynch had baptised his
residence in honour of a statesman whose manes would
scarcely feel flattered by the compliment, was rather re¬
markable for a presence of plate glass, shining mahogany,
strong boundary walls, and wire fences, coupled with an
absence of trees, flowers, comfort, and geniality, than for
anything else. And in this respect, even, it was scarcely
remarkable, being so very like its neighbours.
About ten days after the death of his kinsman, the master
MARSTON LYNCH.
49
of Huskisson Lodge came home to dinner. Gregory-
Lynch dined at home usually, not from choice, but
necessity. There were no clubs in Longport as yet, and
to dine in the taverns and restaurants of the town—good
accommodation enough for clerks and salesmen—would
be infra dig. Certainly the house of Gregory Lynch was
no particular attraction to him. Its dearest inmates were
three children of tender years, the offspring of a wife he
never particularly cared about. His housekeeper was an
overtaxed child whom he hated, as we always hate those
whom we have injured. The establishment generally he
looked upon as a mere source of expenditure, undertaken
to satisfy the exigences of society. Unless he had a
dinner party of satellites, before whom he could display
his wealth and boast of his successes, Gregory Lynch,
under his own roof, was miserable.
He was very miserable that evening, after a solitary,
ill-cooked, and pompously-served dinner. He had been
strangely depressed ever since the unexpected appearance
and death of his kinsman; so much so, as to lead to the
postponement, at his own request, of certain negotiations
for municipal honours to which he aspired. This, how¬
ever, told in his favour. Though the affections are not
usually at a high premium on the Longport Exchange,
still, when a man has performed the first essential duty in
life, that of making a fortune, it is customary to apply the
Biblical maxim of " to him that hath shall be given," in a
manner peculiar to Longport, and such like communities.
Accordingly, every note in the musical repertoire of Eame
having been repeated ad nauseam, on the trumpet of that
popular instrumentalist in " the regular way of business,"
it was a pleasant variation to find that Gregory Lynch, in
addition to his recognised merits, was a model of affect¬
ionate brothers and inconsolable relations in general.
When to this was added the knowledge that the kinsman,
whose loss the hero so much deplored, had been, when
alive, his most implacable enemy, and had injured him in
the dearest chambers of his heart, and that moreover the
E
50
MARSTON LYNCH.
dead man's son had, with, unchristian malignity and in¬
gratitude, rejected overtures of friendship from the all-
merciful Gregory, the town was fully prepared to see that
saint-like gentleman appear some fine morning on the
dome of the Exchange in wings and robes of shining
light, and vanish upward into that firmament his un¬
earthly nature so fitted him to adorn.
Gregory Lj^nch finished his dinner and a bottle of ex¬
cellent port, and wheeled his easy chair to the front of a
blazing fire. But neither wine nor fire seemed to warm or
cheer him. His dining-room was furnished to perfection—
with every contrivance for comfort that mechanical in¬
genuity could suggest. Better curtains, chairs, fire-place
screens, and door-ways, could not be invented. But it was
the corpse of Comfort with the soul absent.
A flippant, conventially-obsequious, really insolent,
female servant entered the room, and announced—
" A gentleman, Sir,—if you please !"
" I am not at home," said the master, peevishly; " I
told you so."
" I told him so, Sir; but he says he must see you."
" His name ?"
" Name of Brown, Sir; important business, he says,
Sir; more important to you than to him, Sir; so he
said, Sir."
Gregory tried to smile contemptuously, but the ex¬
pression died away from his lips, and gave way to one of
pain and indecision. He stirred the fire petulantly, and
bit his nails. Then, as if his thoughts were too op¬
pressive, he said, with a species of desperate indiffer¬
ence—
" Show him in—I will see him !"
Do you believe in presentiments, reader ? I do. And
could explain them to you on the most material grounds,
if I were writing a metaphysical treatise instead of a
story. At any rate, Gregory Lynch had a presentiment
about Brown which was not an agreeable one. He tried
to dissemble it.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
51
" Some begging-letter fellow," be muttered to himself,
when the girl had left the room. " Some schemer—some¬
body in want of sixpence, with a plan to put thousands in
my pocket. The old story, of course —the old story. I
shall soon get rid of him!"
He kept repeating this like a chorus, as if to persuade
himself that his words were the echo of his feelings; but
on the appearance of Mr. Brown he glanced up at that
visitor with a feverish eagerness of inquiry—strangely at
variance with his assumed indifference.
It took some time to see whom or what Mr. Brown was
like. In the first place he was enveloped in a shaggy,
pilot coat, almost the very worst for wear; a "wide-awake"
hat was drawn closely over his eyes, while his nose and
mouth were concealed in the numerous folds of a worsted
comforter. He carried a very thick stick; and if Mr.
Gregory Lynch had ever seen that charming domestic
drama of the "Wreck Ashore" (a rational treat which it is
more than probable his tastes .had never led him to indulge
in), he would have been strongly reminded of one or more
of the numerous truculent personages of the piratical per¬
suasion who pervade that best of all unassuming dramatic
compositions.
Gregory Lynch attempted to put on his grand reception
look, and to overawe Brown at the very threshold. But
he had evidently mistaken his man. Brown shut the
door; looked round the room as if he had bought it;
nodded to its tenant with hasty condescension; drew a
chair to the fire, threw off his hat and coat, and proceeded to
unrol himself from the comforter, like a self-acting mummy.
" Cold, isn't it?" said Mr. Brown, stopping at the third
fold to warm his hands.
Gregory Lynch, under ordinary circumstances, would
doubtless have replied, without attempting a joke (an art
in which he did not excel), that it certainly was cool. But
he was too much interested in watching the countenance,
gradually being disclosed to his gaze, to be even accidentally
facetious.
E 2
52
MARSTON LYNCH.
Brown, having thoroughly warmed his extremities,
divested himself entirely of his woollen swathing band,
which he tossed into his hat. He then wheeled sudderdy
round in his chair, striking an apparently studied attitude,
and stared at Gregory Lynch, with the evident intention
of startling and discountenancing that gentleman. He
succeeded triumphantly.
For the countenance with those keen black eyes, looking
into the very depths of whatever soul Gregory Lynch
possessed, was one that had haunted his dreams for several
nights. He had never seen the face, or one like it, but
once, and then only for a few seconds. But he had seen
it in an evil moment; its owner had come upon him like
a bird of ill-omen—a bearer of troublous tidings—and the
face and form had ever sin9e been present in visions of
impending calamity, that had weighed upon him—soaring-
above all others, like—well, for want of a better illustra¬
tion, like the demon with spreading wings, which my friend
Kenny Meadows invariably introduces into his pictures
when he is hard up for a background.
The visitor was either the brother of Don Sancho de
Saumarez, or the Don himself, sadly in want of shaving,
and disguised as a long-shore ruffian. The latter proved
to be the case.
" We are quite alone, I suppose ?" said the soi disant Mr.
Brown, poking the fire, with the air of a man who intends
changing his coal merchant on the following morning.
"We are certainly alone," replied Gregory, recovering
himself a little, and attempting to be stiffly repellant.
" But I should like to know what has procured me the
distinguished honour—"
"Tut, never mind that sort of thing." The visitor
waved his hand impatiently. " My time is precious. You
recognise me, I perceive. Only, have the kindness to call
me Brown, in case of interruptions. I have particular
reasons for concealing my real name."
" Doubtless," observed Gregory, with a grim smile.
" One reason," said the Don, sharply resenting the in-
MARSTON LYNCH.
53
tended sarcasm, " may be, that I do not consider it
altogether creditable to be seen in intimate relations with
a man like yourself."
The face of Gregory Lynch became as red as the wattles
of a turkey-cock. But the fire of his visitor's eyes ap¬
peared to exercise an almost instantaneous power of bleach¬
ing. To use an appropriate commercial image, the counte¬
nance of the Longport merchant turned from turkey red
to a very coarse specimen of calico sheeting.
The visitor seemed to feel his ascendancy, and like it.
" There !" he said cheerfully, " we have something else
to do than to bandy sarcasms. My name and position
matter little except to save time. If you perfectly under¬
stand who I am—a Mexican nobleman of English educa¬
tion—in the constant habit of travelling between the two
countries, you will at once perceive that I am liable to be
made the agent of communications (especially having a
rather troublesome reputation for a good nature) between
English residents in Mexico and their friends—or the
contrary, as the case may be."
"Proceed, sir."
" I must do so, and speedily, as my time is short.
Paul Donovan died in Yera Cruz, on the 10th of last
April. I was with him."
Gregory Lynch appeared to swallow an unseen pill of
large dimensions. He got it down, however, and resumed
his composure, only displaying symptoms of incipient
strangulation after the effort.
" And pray, sir," he faltered slowly, with a very help¬
less attempt at indifference, " Mr. Brown—or whatever
you wish to be called—in what manner can the death of
your friend—"
" I beg your pardon," the visitor interrupted with his
habitual quickness, " Your friend, if you have no objec¬
tion. He was my friend long ago, when he was a gentle¬
man and a man of honour. I need not say that was
at a period before he had known you, and become a
scoundrel."
54
JlAKSTON LYNCH.
Gregory Lynch started up fiercely, and moved towards
the bell.
" What are yon going to do ?" inquired the visitor
deliberately, taking out a cigar case.
" To have you turned out of my house."
" Pooh, nonsense ! sit down; you know you are not
going to do anything of the kind."
Mr. Brown lit a very pale-looking fragrant cigar, which
he proceeded to smoke with much enjoyment.
His prediction proved thoroughly correct. Mr. Lynch
did not ring the bell, but returned slowly to his seat,
much like a beaten hound, with a determination to bite
his chastiser at the first opportunity.
" That's better," said Don Sancho. " And now let us
come to business. I perceive you perfectly understand
the subject of that which has brought me here, though
you will be rather surprised at the turn it has taken?"
"I perfectly understand," retorted Gregory, with a
courageous effort, " that you have come upon some errand
of conspiracy or extortion."
•'Worse, my dear sir, worse," said Mr. Brown, sucking
his cigar luxuriantly. " I have come here to compound a
felony."
•'Then, in that case, I think a police-officer is the
fittest person to listen to you."
And Gregory made another feeble movement towards
the bell.
Don Sancho smoked impassably, his hands thrust into
his pocket with Yankee-like freedom. Gregory Lynch
returned to his seat again without having rung the bell.
" Now, you know perfectly well this is all nonsense,"
said the visitor, in a playful argumentative tone. " My
time is really precious, and you had much better hear
what I have to say quietly."
"True, sir, true." Gregory Lynch rubbed his hands
and tried to laugh pleasantly. " You are right. As yet
I should have but a very slender case against you: merely
obtruding on my privacy and saying rude things is no
MAilSTON LYXCII-.
55
particular crime in the eyes of the law. I thank you for
the suggestion. You shall have plenty of rope, sir. I
am perfectly prepared to hear anything you may have to
say."
" Are you quite sure?"
" Perfectly."
Don Sancho whistled a few bars of a Spanish air; paid
particular attention to the ash of his cigar; took out his
watch, which was a very handsome gold one, secured by a
massive chain; and performed a few other trivialities in
the airiest conceivable manner. Then he suddenly resumed
his basilisk air, and, looking Gregory Lynch full in the
eyes, said, in a distinct and measured tone—
" I have your father's real will in my pocket."
If the pill Mr. Gregory Lynch was supposed to have
swallowed a few minutes ago had been an ignited bomb¬
shell, and had just exploded, he could scarcely have dis¬
played stronger indications of an internal shock.
Don Sancho appeared to possess the faculty of following
up an advantage in the most dramatic manner. He rose
from his seat, and ere his host could falter out a word,
seized the latter by the arm, and continued rapidly, in a
hissing voice—
" Yes, the will, leaving all the money on which you have
built your fortune to your nephew, Marston Lynch—a will
dictated by envy, hatred, and malice, unquestionably, for
which its framer is no doubt suffering at present, but a
legal will nevertheless. Your accomplice, Donovan, drew
it up, and, as you believe, sold it you; that is the mistake
of scoundrels trusting each other. Fortunately for honest
people they are obliged to. You look surprised. What
was the price you paid your legal friend for giving you the
will to destroy ? The means to escape the country. And
what for ? To evade the consequences of a felony. WLat
was that felony ? A clever forgery. He who can forge
once can forge twice. At any rate the document which
Donovan gave you as your father's will was a forgery.
You doubt it. Would you like to look at the original ?
56
MARSTON LYNCH.
Here it is—don't try to snatch it, there's a good
fellow."
But ere the last sentence was well spoken, Mr. Gregory
Lynch had tried to snatch the document displayed before
him with something like fiendish avidity. But his head,
as it bent over the table, nearly touched the barrel of a
pistol which Don Sancho de Saumarez, with a pleasant
smile, pointed at him.
The Don replaced the document in his breast pocket,
and, with a gay laugh, snapped the pistol in the air. It
was innocent even of a cap.
" I am afraid," he remarked, dryly, " that you are
troubled with our old friend the guilty conscience. You
are frightened at an unloaded pistol, and dare not give a
man in custody who has come to threaten you in your own
house armed with murderous weapons. I wish to show
you the will to convince you that it was genuine. I per¬
ceive that you recognised it as a fac simile of that which
you destroyed, at once. We understand each other—not
perfectly, for you possibly consider me as great a rogue as
yourself. Sit still a moment, and I will convince you to
the contrary. Do you smoke ? I have no wish to treat
you as a friend, but I see your wits are rather mud¬
dled; and if you are a smoker there is nothing like a
cigar."
And the visitor tossed a cigar to his host with a gesture
of withering contempt.
Gregory Lynch responded with a coarse imprecation.
"Don't do that," said Mr. Brown, "because in my
country we don't allow such liberties, however disgraceful
the associates we condescend to mix with. Listen to me.
Donovan had preserved the real will—with a view of
extorting money from you—and serve you right! This
was fourteen years ago ; he was then thought consumptive
—you hoped he was; but a warm climate saved his life.
He turned penitent and religious, in Mexico—always hav¬
ing been a staunch Catholic—got into the hands of the
priests, as you would call it, confessed the diabolical scheme
MA.RSTON LYNCH.
57
to which he had been party, and the other one he had
planned of trading upon the secret. His dying wish was
that retribution should be made to young Lynch, if possi¬
ble. The will he had saved he delivered into the hands
of the priests—it may surprise a man of your way of think¬
ing to learn that Catholic priests can be honest men, and
honourable gentlemen, No matter! At any rate, they
are anxious to carry out the last wishes of then penitent;
which I am commissioned to enforce. I have completed
my chain of evidence. The genuineness of the will cannot
be doubted. And, unless you accede to my propositions, I
shall ring your own bell myself, and give you in custody
to that force you were so anxious to summon a while
ago."
Gregory Lynch had turned all sorts of colours during
the above harangue, which had been delivered with a
certain rapid intensity that prohibited all interruptions.
There was a pause, during which Mr. Brown smoked
like a lime-kiln.
" Sir," said Gregory at length, with a dismal attempt
at dignified self-possession; " when attacked by a robber,
it depends on the sum demanded whether I yield or not.
If I have only a few shillings about me, I give them up
cheerfully. A larger sum is worth a struggle. Your plan
appears tolerably well laid, and calculated to give me some
annoyance. May I ask the sum you require for the pre¬
cious fabrication you have there ?"
"Pardon me," said his visitor dryly. "I have not
come here to sell other men's possessions. I do not part
with this will, which is not a fabrication in the sense you
make of this word."
And Mr. Brown hummed the Cachuca to Spanish
words.
Gregory Lynch looked at him with a feeling somewhat
akin to the admiration with which the unsuccessful trades¬
men of Longport were accustomed to regard himself.
" You are a clever man, sir," he said at length.
" I know it," was the reply. " You are not."
5S
MAK3T0N LYNCH.
" Indeed!"
" No, or you would not have put yourself in my power.
Fourteen years ago you must have been at least thirty-
three, so that you had not the excuse of youth for making
an ass of yourself "
"In a word," said Gregory Lynch, desperately, " what
do you require ?"
Don Sancho waited till he had finished his tune, and
then replied deliberately—
" Two hundred pounds !"
After which he fit a fresh cigar.
" And do you really suppose I am going to give you
two hundred pounds unconditionally ?"
" I know you are." Don Sancho looked at his watch
again; " and you must do it within ten minutes, for I want
to catch the London express train. Your cheque will be
sufficient."
" I have a good mind to give you a cheque—"
" Of course you have—"
" As an experiment to see whether you will have the
hardihood to present it in the morning."
" I shall not be in Longport myself, so you will have to
make it payable to the bearer."
Gregory Lynch was a perfect object of pity in his
powerless anger.
" And pray—supposing I accede tp this demand, in
order to save what I consider more than two hundred
pounds' worth of annoyance—what guarantee have I that
you will not apply to me for more money to-morrow ?"
" None whatever. It's your own fault. You should'nt
steal wills. The ten minutes are nearly up. Take the
pen at once."
Gregory Lynch had mechanically put his hand in a
drawer, and drawn out something which he endeavoured
to conceal, as if ashamed of the action. The quick
eye of his persecutor detected a cheque-book at a
glance.
"Pshaw !" said Gregory, throwing down the pen that
MABSTON LYNCH.
59
he had unconsciously taken up. " This is mere folly—
madness."
" I have no doubt but it will end in that; but it is your
own fault. Look sharp."
" If I refuse."
" You can't. However, understand me thoroughly. I
am determined that Marston Lynch shall come to his own.
Having the secret in my possession, I sought out the
father and son. I found them in New York, and em¬
barked with them in England as an accidental fellow-pas¬
senger. I soon discovered that they were not the people
to be trusted with the management of their own interests.
You, with your superior wealth and coolness, would have
got the better of them. I kept my own counsel. Marston
Lynch, whom I am proud to call my friend, is a man
whom the world will hear of yet. It would not suit my
purpose to quarrel with him—certainly not in the interest
of a man like you. It would be easy for you to make resti¬
tution to him, though the comparatively small inheritance
of which you have robbed him has mounted up to some¬
thing by this time—the houses in High Street that were
left to him, are, I know, very valuable property—but if he
were aware of the secret, in his present feelings towards
you, he would move heaven and earth (I should tell you
he has influential friends to back him) to ruin you—a pro¬
cess to which I should not have the slightest objection,
only that as I know what English law is—in the meantime
he might ruin himself. And, in the meantime also, as I
want money for present exigences, I see no more harm in
extorting it from you than in skinning a tiger."
" If I refuse," said Gregory Lynch again.
"You will have caused me an expensive journey, much
loss of time, and considerable derangement of my plans ;
liberties I allow nobody to take with me with impunity."
Gregory Lynch had written a cheque, apparently in a
dreamy state of undecided muddle; but he clutched it
reluctantly in his hand.
Don Sancho snatched it from him. Gregory Lynch
60
MARSTON LYNCH.
started up instinctively as if to dispute the possession.
The Don held it out to him airily, between his finger and
thumb, saying quietly—
" I took it from you because you had drawn it out for
me, and I am in a hurry. If you wish to take it back,
here it is. We are not both thieves."
Gregory Lynch sank heavily in his easy chair, uttering
a savage curse."
" Keep it and be ," he muttered—" only mind,
don't let me see your face again. Right or wrong, I fancy
it wont be difficult to make a case against you."
"You will see me again, I hope frequently," replied
Don Sancho, buttoning up the cheque in his breast pocket,
" though the pleasure will certainly not be on my side.
Stay, I want something more."
" Take care," said Gregory, hoarsely, " you have tried
my patience already—"
" I am glad of it. I want the whole of this sum for
my own use. But as it is really and truly Marston
Lynch's money, and as I know he must want money him¬
self, I should not feel comfortable in using it, unless I
knew his wants were provided for. Send him a cheque
for fifty pounds to-morrow. Mind, I rely upon you. My
time is up."
Mr. Brown was by this time re-enveloped in his pilot
coat, wideawake, and comforter, and was moving towards
the door.
" Stay," cried Gregory Lynch, throwing off the last
feint of independence, and with almost abject submission ;
" Marston Lynch will have no assistance from me—he
would not accept it."
" True," replied Don Sancho, stopping. " I forgot that.
Give me the cheque; I'll see that he gets it. Look
sharp."
Lynch obeyed, not merely submissively, but almost
gratefully. Mr. Brown pocketed the second cheque, re¬
kindled his cigar, and darted to the door. There he
stopped again.
MARSTON LYNCH.
61
"To set your mind at ease," he said—using his mes¬
meric power to its utmost extent—" I may as well tell you,
that I shall want you to do me a service that will cost you
nothing, but will more than compensate for any trouble
I may have taken in saving you from the hulks or treadmill.
It is my intention that Marston Lynch, you, and myself
shall all be gainers by this little opportunity—you being
the only one of the three not deserving it. Pleasant
dreams to you."
Mr. Brown was gone. He seemed to clear the staircase
at a jump. The street door slammed, and a vehicle was
heard dashing down the road at a brealc-neck rate. Mr.
Brown's cab had evidently been waiting.
There were folding-doors in Mr. Lynch's dining-room,
leading to a smaller apartment, with which there was no
outer communication. Scarcely had Mr. Brown departed,
when a gentle tap was heard against the folding doors.
Gregory Lynch started up as if he had been shot—with
which, believing it, in my inexperience, to be a good
tantalising melodramatic incident, I shall take the liberty
of concluding the chapter.
62
marston lynch.
CHAPTER VII.
which is so short that it is doubtful whether
or not the publisher will pay for it.
"Hooray! Howker! here's a game," cried Marston
Lynch, dancing round the easel on which stood the rapidly
progressing portrait of Mrs. Murke, and waving an
opened letter in his hand; " here's a lark !"
" Brayvo! our side," said Howker, from the neigh¬
bouring sofa, applauding with his, by no means, recently
washed palms, "what's up?"
It was certainly well for Howker, that he possessed
considerable moral and social excellencies, otherwise his
toleration to a refined nature would have been difficult.
All his personal friends were either "gents," "parties,"
or, in very familiar cases, " coves." He had faith in
blue satin stocks and Literary and Scientific Institutions.
An act of good breeding he was wont to define as " the
genteel thing." He was a patron of cheap tailors and
still cheaper tobacconists. The odour of his Cubas was
unendurable. Of his baneful tendency to pumps and
shirt frills, on full dress occasions, too much has already
been said. His favourite poet was Doctor Mackay.
"What's up?" he repeated, breathing volcanic clouds
MARSTON LYNCH.
63
from his execrable Cuba, to the lasting detriment of the
Merripebbles' curtains.
"What's up?" said Marston Lynch, fairly crowing
with joy. " Why, I'm up —up in the stirrups. Here's a
letter from that brick, Don Sancho de Saumarez, enclosing
a twenty pound note."
" Iiooroar ! for him!" said Howker, with an enthu¬
siastic leap.
" Listen to the letter :—' Dear Marston, my affairs are
more flourishing than I expected to find them. I enclose
you a twenty pound note, as a loan for which I shall exact
exorbitant interest. So you'd better begin saving up at
once.' Isn't that prime, Howker ? ' Take care of it, and
only make use of it to lighten the expenses to which your
kind friend, Mrs. Merripebbles, is put on your account.'
Of course she shall have it all. ' Stick to work at literature
and the fine arts (don't believe anybody who tells you you
can't succeed at both at once), and, remember, you have
always a friend who hopes great things from you in—
Yours affectionately, S. de Saumarez.'
"'P.S.—Kind regards to Mrs. M. and her charming
daughter for whom I have just dispatched a packet of songs
(newly published) of my own writing. Ask her to sing
them. Bather cool, isn't it, for a "furriner" like me to
presume to write songs in the English language, and get
paid for them ? However, don't be jealous.' "
" There, Howker, old boy, isn't he a brick ?"
" I always said he was the most stunning party I ever
met with," said Howker, rapturously.
" Yes, Howker, but you needn't call a gentleman a
' stunning party,' you know.
" Then what do you call the same gentleman a 'brick'
for?" said Howker, rather warmly.
" That was in fun,"
" And suppose I choose to call him a ' stunning party'
in fun or in earnest, what then ? I maintain he is one,
such being my sentiments."
Howker was possibly not aware that there is an
aristocracy in slang, as in all things else.
64
marston lynch.
CHAPTER VIII.
which, conscientiously speaking, ought to iiaye
been the end op chapter the sixth.
Gregory Lynch, having started up, as if he had been
shot, as already stated, flew to the folding doors and
opened them.
Poor little Lucy Wareing, his step-daughter, stood cow¬
ering before him, white with cold and apprehension.
" What the were yon doing then?" Gregory asked
fiercely.
" Don't be angry, papa," said the girl, shrinking as if
from a blow (let us do Gregory the justice to state that he
had never given her one in his life.) " I'm very sorry;
but there was a fire in that room before you came home—
I was very tired—I've been sitting up a great deal since
Eranky has been ill—and—I didn't hear you come in—
you only waked me with your talking—I am very sorry—
I know I ought to have been up-stairs to give Erank his
medicine—but—''
" But you preferred to stop there eavesdropping?"
" No, papa!" the girl answered with a slight flush, her
indignation for a moment getting the better of her consti¬
tutional timidity. " I did not, indeed; but I did not like
to disturb you till you were alone."
MARSTON LYNCH.
65
Was it possible that she had indeed slept over the critical
moment and heard nothing of consequence? The idea of
anybody being within hearing of a conversation to his dis¬
paragement, and not caring to listen to it from interested
motives, never occurred to Mr. Lynch as a possibility.
" But you must have heard something of what passed
between me and the person who has just left?"
" No, indeed, papa; I would not have dared."
" You are not telling me a lie? You'll rue it if you are.
Come, speak out."
" Indeed, papa, I am not; pray do not hold me so."
Her step-father had clutched her roughly by the arm. " I
did not hear a word, indeed, indeed."
Gregory was fain to release her arm. But he was far
from satisfied.
" Of course you saw who it was?" he inquired, watch¬
ing her narrowly, after a pause.
" No, papa, how could I? the doors were shut."
The keyhole had suggested itself to Gregory Lynch as
the obvious and natural means of observation under the cir¬
cumstances; but he did not think proper to mention it.
" At least, you recognised the voice?"
" No, papa—that is, I thought—though I must have
been mistaken—I thought it was like—"
" Whose?"
" The—the foreign gentleman we met at Mrs. Mem-
pebbles'."
" You were wrong; it was not he."
One of the few scriptural precepts, or examples, Mr. Lynch
had ever cared to lay much to heart was one which he had
adapted and amplified after his own particular manner. He
was accustomed to say, not in his haste, but at his most
deliberate leisure, that all men, including women and chil¬
dren, were liars. People of this way of thinking are usually
baffled when you tell them, unexpectedly, what they know
to be the truth. Gregory Lynch was baffled by the inge¬
nuousness of his step-daughter; and felt highly incensed at
her for taking so great a liberty with him.
F
66
MARSTON LYNCH.
He continued liis cross-examination :—
" Do you mean to tell me you did not hear any single
sentence or word of importance—the name, for instance, of
any particular person?"
" Yes, papa, I thought I heard Marston's name, and no
doubt it was that made me think of the Mexican gentle¬
man "
" What about Marston?"
" Not a word, papa, that I could understand." The
girl's face, though still pale and fearful, was perfectly open
and candid.
" If she is deceiving me," thought Gregory, " she is
more artful than I gave her credit for, and will require some
management."
The appearance of innocence itself was always a very
suspicious circumstance to Mr. Gregory Lynch. He looked
upon it as a sign of good acting. However, he had no
alternative for the present, hut to assume and believe in the
truth of the girl's story—supposing only that she had been
asleep.
"I see you are mistaken altogether. The person is a
man who has given me some annoyance lately, and I
wished to know if you had ever seen him hanging about
the place before. I should have been glad if you had
listened—accidentally overheard, I mean, what passed be¬
tween us."
" I am sony I did not, papa. May I go now ?"
" Yes."
" Good night, papa."
The girl was tripping out of the room like a happy
fawn, with a marvellously brightened countenance. The
one great aim of this poor child's life was, to avoid, or,
once in it, to escape from, the presence of her step-father.
And hers was one of those unfortunate faces that can dis¬
semble no emotions. Finding herself free to go, after this
terrible encounter, her delight was boundless. And she
showed it.
But Gregory could only read in her expression signs of
makston lynch.
67
exultation at having successfully dupedhim, an achievement,
as he considered it, of such difficulty and magnitude that
the feelings of anybody having accomplished it would be
naturally uncontrollable. He started up from the chair
into which he had fallen, and seized the girl by the arm
more rudely than before.
She uttered a suppressed scream, and turned deadly
pale. " The very picture of detected guilt," thought the
virtuous Gregory.
Much nonsense has been written about the boldness of
innocence. Unless gifted with excellent nerves and muscles,
favourable opportunity, and at all events an equal adver¬
sary, Innocence is possibly the greatest coward living.
At any rate it is certain that Miss Wareing both looked
and felt guilty. It is equally so that her confusion was
heightened by her utter ignorance of the crime which she
supposed she must have committed.
" You have been telling me lies, Miss," said Gregory
Lynch.
" Indeed, papa, I have not," the child persisted, but al¬
most inaudibly.
Mr. Lynch was not free from a certain abstract respect
for the liar who sticks to it, regarding that character as a
worthy adversary to cope -with. Still he was fond of rapid
and decisive victories. A prolonged siege exasperated him
beyond all hope of mercy for the garrison.
" Come, come, young madam," he said, his grasp tight¬
ening on the slight arm, till the frail figure of the girl
shook to and fro like a leaf in the wind, with the quiverings
of his uncontrollable excitement; "no tricks with me.
We'll see which is the strongest. Out with the whole
story. No getting hold of my secrets for other people's
ears. No fine stories against me, to back up lies about
your ill-treatment here. Out with it all—every word;
and if you conceal or prevaricate a syllable, you will wish
you had been dead rather
He stopped suddenly ; for the fight weight had increased
in his grasp. The girl was fainting with terror.
f 3
68
MAESTON LYNCH.
She was a very obstinate girl, certainly.
He threw rather than placed her on a convenient sofa.
He was rather glad she had stopped him. He had been oil
the eve of committing himself.
He attempted some not very gentle means at restora¬
tion. The girl rallied a little. He must alter his
tactics.
" There, Lucy, I did'nt mean to frighten you; but I
have had my temper tried to-night. You know I detest
falsehood. I wished particularly, as I have told you, that
you should have overheard what occurred between me and
• , the man who has just left. I thought you had
done so and Avas annoyed at Avhat seemed a sort of—in
short, want of candour—and so forth. But you heard
nothing ?"
"Nothing," the girl protested; but in the clumsiest
and most faltering manner.
" I am sorry for it. Go up-stairs."
The little nervous face was bright again, and the little
feet tripped briskly, a second time, to the door.
" Stay !"
She stopped on the threshold, pale and more guilty-
looking than ever.
" While Frank is ill, said Gregory, with a sorry simula¬
tion of paternal tenderness for his measle-struck offspring,
" I don't wish you to leave the house, nor yet to receive
any visitors,—the people of Ashgrove especially."
" Yery well, papa."
Lucy's countenance fell visibly.
" She is disappointed," said Gregory to himself. " The
minx has heard everything, and counted on that quarter
for making it useful. Lock and key must be put in force.
And hark ye," he added aloud, with a cowering look;
" not a word of Avhat you have heard to-night, or what
you have not heard to living soul."
" Good night, papa,"
Lucy's feet were heard pattering up-stairs in the dis¬
tance. She had escaped the dreaded Presence alive, which
MABSTON LYNCH.
69
was all she cared about. At the second story, she was
heard singing like an uncaged bird.
Gregory Lynch holding the handle of the parlour-door
in his hand, followed her with eyes and ears in the upper
darkness. He was probably ignorant of the dramatic story
of Cromwell and the page, and a regret that he had omitted
to poniard Lucy in her sleep may never have occurred to
him. But, if he had possessed a little more imagination
than he did, his feelings at the moment might have shaped
themselves into a wish that the bannisters would give way
at the fourth landing, and the eldest born of his late wife be
dashed to atoms on the marble pavement at the entrance
hall to Huskisson Lodge.
„ You see what sins the dangerous faculty of imagination
will lead us to ! Gregory Lynch was spared so unholy a
wish; still he felt somewhat annoyed at the idea of his
step-daughter going to sleep comfortably in a small room
at the top of his own house, and waking in the morning
alive, and in the fullest possession of her faculties.
Unless we act upon the cruel belief that people deserve
to be punished for their misdeeds, Gregory Lynch was an
object of pity. As I wish the interest of this story rather
to depend on the development of character than on
dramatic surprises (I may be allowed to speak of the
attempt, ere the failure of the deed shall have utterly con¬
founded me), I may as well state in the coldest matter of-
fact manner, that Gregory had committed the offence, the
mere accusation of which we have already seen cost him
two hundred and fifty pounds. Quarrelling with a vicious
old father, who had threatened to deprive him of what he
had been taught to believe his just inheritance—as much
as though slave-ships bad been feudal castles, and hosiery
contracts, lands allotted by William the Conqueror—he
had taken precautions to secure his birthright—that was
all. True, those precautions had been exceptional, and
even illegal. But he had taken them as a stern duty,
much as he would have provided a feather-bed with which
70
MAKSTON LYNCH.
to smother his lamented parent, had that patriarch beett
attacked with hydrophobia.
He had succeeded, and, as it were, earned his victory
solely by the exercise of his own courage and ingenuity.
He had prevented a despised and outcast branch of his
family from usurping his own possessions. These posses¬
sions had consequently seemed more than ever his, as by
right of conquest.
And now, after years of impunity, as he was just reach¬
ing the height of his ambition (such ambition as he was
capable of entertaining), he was upset and degraded by a
concatenation of accidents. A man who - might be an
Irish rope-dancer for anything he knew had been to
Mexico, and met with another man who had physically
promised to die of consumption a dozen years ago. A
boy, who also had no right to be alive, had suddenly
appeared as a resident in the same town, burning with
vicious animosity towards him. A prying eavesdropping
child had most probably overheard a conversation that
might damn him.
It is no proof of any monstrosity of character in Gregory
Lynch that remorse had little to do with the agony by
which he was rent, as he sat alone in his wretched splendid
apartment biting his nails and groaning. He had com-
nitted, it is true, a legal felony; but the moral enormity
of the act, according to the code of his education, was, as
we have seen, trivial. Moreover, it was long ago ; and
I think we may come to the conclusion, reader, that of all
earthly creditors, Conscience is the one whose little account
itTsAhe easiest to "square," with a little time to do it in.
In the fortunately improbable event of either of us
murdering our mutual friend Jones from motives of
personal antipathy, or an eye to the reversion of his little
property, there is no doubt that the remainder of our
respective lives would be particularly uncomfortable. But
the name of the spectre haunting us would not be J ones—
it Avould go by the appellation of Calcraft.
Tear of indefinable consequences, then, was the para-
MARSTON LYNCH.
71
mount feeling that agitated Mr. Gregory Lynch. Next to
that, resentment at the idea of his having been possibly
duped, with the certainty that he had been insulted and
humiliated. This Irish-Mexican adventurer, as he loved
to consider his late tormentor, had taken him by storm—
had made him commit himself—worse than all, had got
money out of him, a calamity which, had he been more his
•own master at the moment, might have been prevented.
But, bitter as was the present, there was the vague
future. These three—man, boy, and girl—what was the
extent of their power over him?
Hating them all three most cordially, Mr. Gregory
Lynch, in his perplexity, drank another bottle of old port,
and went to bed.
72
marston lynch.
CHAPTEE IX.
progress.
Mrs. Murke's portrait was a triumphant success. Not
only was the likeness pronounced striking by the entire
Eow; but, further, the picture found favour in the eyes of
the fair original, on two distinct grounds. First, the hue
and texture of the red velvet she loved had been depicted
"with rare fidelity. Secondly, a tinge of gentle melancholy
the artist had thrown into the expression, reminded her
forcibly of how she had looked after her last memorable
attack of neuralgia. Mrs. Murke regarded her illnesses
as great events to be recorded in history, like battles ; and
was fond of possessing tangible trophies or memorials of
their occurrence. Looking on the famous attack of
neuralgia as the Great Fire of London of her existence
(she was wont to say there was very little left of her after
it)—Marston Lynch's portrait may be considered as its
appropriate Monument.
A portrait mania immediately set in in Ash Grove, the
inhabitants of which were organised much on the principle
of Panurge's sheep. Where any one led, the rest followed.
A novelty of any kind generally went through the Row,
like measles or influenza. The fortunate Marston found
himself inundated with commissions, and prospects of
MARSTON LYNCH.
73
what to him seemed boundless wealth were opened to
him. First, the grateful Buffiestones, anxious to make
some return for the priceless little treasure with which our
hero had solaced them in their troubles, set him to work
on a family group of great magnitude (the turban of Mrs.
Bufflestone's mamma towering over all in the middle dis¬
tance), at a good remunerative price. The progress of
this was so satisfactory as to induce young Mr. Tofts,
who was a keen man of business, and knew all about the
fluctuations pf markets, to command a life-size portrait of
his sister, ere the rising artist's price should be augmented.
The young lady having cost her brother a good deal lately
in satins and jewellery, for the proper maintenance of his
state, that gentleman thought it no bad economy to make
use of those splendours for the embellishment, by their
pictorial representation, of his newly-furnished dining-
room. During the sittings for the last-named subject,
Miss Tofts made hot love to our hero, and talked to him
about Tennyson. But not only was the painter's heart
elsewhere—the young lady's H's were defective. So
Marston passed safely through the perilous ordeal.
Mrs. Merripebbles herself—honestly proud of the
success of her protege—repeatedly commissioned him to
make stupendous groups, at exorbitant prices, of herself
and family ; but, usually, on a rise in the price of potatoes,
or the advent of a school-bill, countermanded them on the
following day, with much groaning on the subject of
earthly vanities, and the duty of retrenchment generally.
Bumours of our hero's attachment to Miss Crooze, the
handsome, though no longer girlish, schoolmistress of
Number One, have already reached the reader. A brief
scene will give an insight into that matter.
Marston was at work on a picture in the Merripebbles'
breakfast parlour. (He had coolly appropriated that apart¬
ment as his atelier, and was impervious to hints as to the
smell of oils and the injurious effects of trampled pigments
on carpets of Brussels manufacture.) Miss Crooze looked
in, just to see how he was getting on. Somehow, iMiss
74
MARSTON LYNCH.
Crooze had been very fond of looting in—to see how he
was getting on—of late, between school hours.
Having criticised the work in hand rather severely—(it
must be remembered that Miss Crooze was a " fine
woman," and bound to be severe in virtue thereof)—she
inquired casually of our hero what he would charge for
painting a portrait of herself.
" Of you !" cried Marston, rapturously, starting from
his seat and throwing his palette with the paint down¬
wards on a damask covered chair. "Of you) Oh! if I
could have dared to ask—"
" Dared ! what nonsense !" said Miss Crooze, redden¬
ing visibly, but trying to be cool and " superior." " Ask
what you like—I only want to see if I can afford it."
"You misunderstand me," said Marston, "wilfully
(which was the case). If you would let me attempt those
features-—do you suppose I would accept payment?"
Miss Crooze thought he would be very foolish indeed
if he did not. And, endeavouring to restore the conversa¬
tion to its original business footing, resumed—-
" Come, tell me your lowest price; I can't afford much,
you know; but I should like to send a copy of my face,
before it gets quite unlike what it used to be, to—"
"To whom?" Marston asked fiercely, grasping his
maulstick.
" To one who loves me very much," answered Marian,
coquettishly. She couldn't resist it, though she felt she
was doing wrong.
Marston Lynch threw away his maulstick, and sank
heavily in his chair.
"Never!" he cried theatrically; "I would rather cut
my right hand off."
He clutched his palette and brushes again, and pro¬
ceeded to make such a mess of Miss Tofts' countenance as
cost him days to rectify.
Marian approached him gently and laid her beautiful
white, but alas ! perceptibly wrinkled hand on his shoulder.
Marston quivered beneath the touch, and, unable to con-
MATtSTON LYNCH.
75
troul himself, seized the hand in his own and covered it
•with kisses—sobbing convulsively.
" You foolish boy," said Marian, looking at him sadly,
but compassionately—(was the compassion all for him ?)—
"Do you know how old I am ?"
" No !" exclaimed Marston, with energy; " and I don't
want to. Love is of no age; and I love you. You know
it, and have known it for weeks and weeks."
"For weeks and weeks," said the sad sweet voice.
" And do you not know that in weeks and weeks, very few
•of them too, I shall be—"
She bit her lip savagely to arrest the self-condemning
word. Why, after all, should it be uttered ? and yet she
felt ashamed of the reticence.
But what did Marston care for the flight of time?
Bemember he was barely eighteen! His thoughts were
far otherwise engaged.
" Let me know the worst," he implored with tears in his
eyes. " If there is no hope, tell me. For whom did you
want the portrait ?"
What woman, with an honest love offered to her—
however impossible its acceptance—can reject the flower
without indulging in a whiff of its perfume ? What
woman, though she might not afford to buy diamonds,
can pass a jeweller's shop window ?
"Not for a lover," she answered, with a re-assuring
smile; "do not be afraid of that. Only for my poor old.
father."
And in truth it was the thought of the honest old
tailor in Monmouthshire had suggested the proposition,
•coupled perhaps with an unconfessed inclination for sitting
occasionally alone in the society of that ridiculous,
romantic, amusing, warm-hearted boy-painter.
" Your father," cried our hero, brightening up, and
seizing the lady's hand once more. " Oh, let me do it!
Let me, as a gift not to you, but to him ; let me, by send¬
ing him a poor reminder of that face that he must love
76
MARSTON LYNCH.
so, earn some claim to his regard, that I may at least
have an advocate in him who "
" Tut! let go my hand. Here's Mrs. Merripebbles."
Marston attacked the portrait again with ruinous effect
as that lady entered the room.
*' I've been asking Mr. Marston what he will paint my
portrait for," said Marian, perfectly self-possessed, and in
her coldest manner, " to send to my father; but I cannot
get him to name the price."
" Price! " cried Mrs. Merripebbles, who was generous
by fits and starts with the services of other people as with
her own. " "Why nothing to be sure. Eh, dear! Paint¬
ing such a handsome face as yours will bring him troops
of customers; and who knows but a handsome portrait,
painted in his best manner, will bring you a husband ? "
Mrs. Merripebbles laughed heartily for several minutes.
She was in excellent spirits that day, having just received
her dividends.
Einally, it was agreed that Marston should paint Miss
Crooze's portrait for a nominal price, the lady steadily re¬
fusing his gratuitous services.
Marian withdrew; the coolness of the "fine woman"
being sorely tried by the burning, glances of her boy-lover.
Who shall say but that poor schoolmistress, with her
thirty years just knelling, with her splendid form wither¬
ing, and her warm heart wasting, as she stood in her
lonely room, counting the silver streaks in her raven hair,
dwelling with exaggeration upon each poor charm that
remained to her, striving against hope to strike a balance
in favour of love against time; recalling all the old tales
she had read of perennial beauties preserving their love¬
liness through generations of suitors, and reconciling
these to other tales of poets and men of genius becoming
prematurely old, and clinging for support but to tender¬
ness and devotion; bitterly wondering that half a dozen
paltry years either way should be a barrier between her
and a happiness she would have deserved; but feeling in
her sad, worldly, thirty years' knowledge, that the barrier
MA.RSTOM LYNCH.
77
was there—impassable as Charon's ferry—who shall say
but that she was as legitimate an object of the holiest
compassion as the heroine of any soul's tragedy that ever
was written ? Who shall say that her petulant snappings
and bickerings when she returned to her dreary day work,
after that one brief glimpse of a Paradise unattainable,
were more contemptible than the ravings of the tragedy
queen in her dungeon ?
Marston Lynch's connexion increased rapidly—and the
breakfast-parlour was getting into such a mess that it be¬
came absolutely neoessary to give him notice to quit.
And here a little digressive explanation of our hero's
character and antecedents becomes necessary. He was a
plant of the tendril species. Though he had not known a
settled home since his infancy,, the most precious elements
of domesticity had been furnished him in the care and
friendship of his father from whom he had never been
separated except by death. He was not at all self-reliant.
The very talents his parent had so sedulously cultivated
in him he had never known the value of. At the time
we are treating of, he had not yet got over his astonish¬
ment at finding he could turn one of his accomplishments
to profitable account. Everything he had previously at¬
tempted had been under the guidance and correction of
his father, and had appeared to him more that father's
work than his own. This was the astonishment of the
child first walking alone.
After the sad blow that had deprived him of his dearly-
loved guide and companion, he had gratefully accepted the
friends into whose hands fate had thrown him, as the
legitimate successors to his father's care of him.
He had become deeply attached to them, and with good
reason. The new home, with its unforeseen affections
and pleasant associations, had done much to throw his
great sorrow into the background. He could no more
bear to contemplate the leaving that home than he could
have borne, three months ago, to look forward to the
death of his father.
78
MARSTON LYNCH.
Though careless and unexperienced in the minor matters
that make up life, it must not be supposed that Marston
Lynch underrated the real substantial kindness of his
hosts towards him. On the contrary, he exaggerated it
immensely; and, in the riches of his imagination, planned
tremendous schemes for their fortune and happiness.
Nor was he behind-hand in the practical gratitude of the
present. Every farthing he had received, from any source,
he would have poured into the lap of his benefactress,
whose persistent refusal of any recompense whatever only
served to heap up a compound interest of affection and
reverence on the original debt of obligation.
Accordingly, it will be understood, that when Mrs.
Merripebbles, one morning, in her kindest manner, sug¬
gested to Marston that now he was making such progress
in his profession, it would be advisable for him to remove
to more commodious quarters, where he might pursue his
studies with less restraint, his countenance fell visibly,
and tears stood in his eyes (tears, by the way, on the
shortest provocation formed one of Marston's besetting
failings through life).
His hostess saw his distress, and understood it. She
took him kindly by the hand and did what she had never
done before—kissed him.
" My poor boy," she said, smoothing his hair like a
child's, " don't think we wish to get rid of you. God
help me! it would be like losing one of my own. But,
you must remember, you are quite a man now, and will
soon be a famous one, I hope. You will be better thrown
a little on your own resources, than getting stupid among
a lot of girls and old women. You needn't leave the
neighbourhood ! The Miss Crayners have two beautiful
rooms to let, that will just suit you, for a very small rent.
You will be with your friend, Mr. Howker, and can see
us whenever you please, with the knowledge that you are
your own master."
Marston brightened up immediately. This compromise
gave things an unexpected turn. There was something
MARSTON LYNCH.
7 9
glorious in tlie prospect of living in his own establishment
—being free to come and go whenever he pleased—and
yet not absolutely driven to rely upon those habits of self-
dependence which well, which he never managed to
acquire in the whole course of his life !
That evening Marston Lynch was Howker's fellow-
lodger, on which occasion, as in assertion of his newlv-
attained independence, he ignited his first pipe, under the
tuition and guidance of his more experienced friend. He
has never been wholly free from the smell of tobacco
since.
Miss Crooze's portrait, viewed as a likeness, was a
failure; but as a dazzling representation of the most
angelic beauty in the first flush of youth, a marvellous
triumph. It must be recorded here that Marston Lynch
remained madly in love with the mature original for the
space of nearly five calendar months.
80
marston lynch,
CHAPTER X.
a water party on the wynde.
Summer came. And though Longport is the second,
or third, or fourth, or fifth, I don't know which, town in
the kingdom, containing the census knows how many
thousand inhabitants, and with a yearly tonnage of
shipping that the Messrs. Chambers of Edinburgh only can
calulate, nevertheless, summer in Longport is a very
different sort of thing to what Londoners may imagine it.
True, there are reeking courts and foul alleys in Longport,
where the sun never penetrates, on an almost metropolitan
scale—a fact that would seem to entitle the town to the
high rank of civilisation it claims for itself. But the sun¬
shine and the meadows are not so many dreary miles away:
and there is the glorious river Wynde, washing the quays
of the town, not with the refuse of some dozen miles of
sewerage, but bringing bright green salt water from the
neighbouring ocean and fresh invigorating sea breezes.
It is a fine thing for Longport, that proximity to the
ocean. I don't mean from the Chambers' point of view,
as a mere convenience for commerce—whose steamer
funnels somewhat interfere with my view of the case. (I
am not of that school of philosophy that believes rivers to
have been created for the purpose of feeding navigable
MA It ST ON LYNCH.
81
canals.) 1 mean it is a fine thing in the opportunities it
affords tlie pent-up townsman for an occasional, even if
unconscious, communion with nature. Howker could
sniff the sea breeze through the counting-house window
behind which he was imprisoned daily from nine to six.
I have seen a sea-gull fly right over the top of High-street,
and all but perch on the roof of what had been Mr. Lynch's
outfitting establishment.
There is no such stream for water parties as the Wynde.
The bounteous river accommodates all tastes. If you are
a yachting man, and feel inclined to rough it a little, half
an hour's sail with a light breeze down the river brings
you fairly into the ocean. If you wish for a romantic
dreamy excursion in still water between wooded shores
that cast deep reflections, you have scarcely passed the im¬
mense line of docks and warehouses, up the river, when a
ibend in the stream brings you among snug country seats,
rich farm lands, and white cottages, with undulating back¬
grounds, and more than one ivied church and ruined abbey
peeping from among the foliage.
Then, down the river, on either side towards the sea
are scattered miniature Margates and Hamsgates, with
then bright spruce hotels, neat rows of houses, and trim
bathing-machines. And up the river towards the country,
you find old village inns in shady nooks, with their mar¬
vellous larders, and their wainscoted dining-rooms over¬
looking the quiet river, and their thickly-wooded shrub¬
beries and pleasure gardens. It was no bad idea, that of
building a town on the Wynde.
One dazzling morning in June, the Wynde looked at its
veiy best. A thousand noble ships leaving the port with,
n favourable breeze almost brought you round to the
Chambers' way of thinking, and made you believe that
commerce was something more than a necessary evil, a
means for administering to our wants; and was really and
truly a positive good in itself. The little fierce busy
steamers were darting to and from the various river
suburbs like* water-insects. Parties of pleasure were
G
82
MARSTON LYNCH.
getting under weigh in crafts of every build, mocking the
toilers on the quays with merry notes of music. A light
river mist silvered over, without concealing, the distant
landscape, while it softened down the more ignoble details
of the town. The gulls appeared to think the entire scene
got up expressly for their amusement—and were in a frantic
state of exuberance.
A merry party of holiday makers were just embarking
in a kind of sailing boat, laden with mighty preparations
for a picnic. They were all, the master of the boat ex¬
cepted, old friends. First, Mr. and Mrs. Merripebbles, the
latter radiant and boisterous, the former smiling but ap¬
prehensive, and with a general tendency to get in the way.
Secondly, Miss Crooze, with her pet spaniel, Charley,
object of undying hatred and jealousy to Marston Lynch.
Thirdly, Marston himself, having doffed his mourning for
the nonce, and attired in a nautical suit of ineffable cox¬
combry. Fourthly, Howker (favoured with a holiday),
in a hideous parody of the same. Fifthly, Miss Tofts.
Sixthly, Miss Maud Carlton, and
Lucy Wareing.
Had Gregory Lynch, then, relaxed in his suspicious
severity ? He had been compelled to. Mrs. Merripebbles,
detecting a tendency on his part to coerce and confine the
girl, had besieged him hotly—charging him with divers
impossible enormities—and representing his character
generally in the most monstrous lights. Gregory, feeling
his position rather weak at present, was not inclined to
challenge battle on any score with so redoubtable an ad¬
versary. And as he had no absolute proof that the girl
was dangerous to him—and even if he had, was without
means of preventing her from some day divulging all she
knew, dungeons and fetters not forming part of the economy
of Huskisson Lodge, he was fain to assign her to her old
associates, trusting to her general dread of his anger to
keep silence, supposing she had anything to conceal. He
meditated getting rid of her to a distance at an early
period, as soon as he could fix upon an appropriate desti-
3IAEST0N LYNCH.
83
nation. In the meantime, she led much her old life—
coldness and drudgery at home, unmingled happiness when
her only friends fetched her out into the world's sunshine.
It is needless to say that, being the unwitting means of
adding to her step-father's perplexities, she was hated by
that gentleman more than ever.
As the two young ladies we have just mentioned to¬
gether will each exercise a material influence over the
future life of Marston Lynch, let us give a glance at their
relations towards him at the present juncture.
He liked them both very well—as he liked most people
when he knew them. He hated Gregory Lynch only in
the abstract—much as he hated the villains in romances.
And let us remark, by the way, that for all he knew of his
relation's conduct, his hatred would have been most un¬
just if it had. been altogether real; but there was a good
deal of youthful affection in it—a good deal of the desire to
oppose" a ' big wig." Had Gregory had time to prepare
his plans; had he chosen the proper moment to conciliate
his nephew he might easily have converted him into a
partisan, whose faith not all the schemes, assertions, or
proofs of Don Sancho de Saumarez could have shaken.
To return to the two girls — Marston himself always
spoke of them as the " two girls." He considered them
mere children, as indeed so they were, but he forgot that
he was a child also. He patronised them immensely, as
was becoming in the desponding lover of Marian Crooze.
In Lucy he took an especial interest; instituting himself, as
it were, her champion by verbal protest against the oppres¬
sion, real and imagined, of her detested step-father. And
as Lucy was timid and loving and clinging by nature, she
felt grateful for this doughty championship of rights she
was at a loss to comprehend, and only wished he would
not threaten such terrible visitations on the head of the
individual whom she never remembered having done hei
any particular harm. And Marston Lynch thought her
a very nice little girl indeed for liking him.
Miss Carlton's nature was not at all timid or clinging.
G 2
84
MAUSTOK LYNCH.
With regard to the loving—we will see about that by-and-
by. She was a very cool young lady, accustomed to do
exactly as she pleased. It pleased her to like Marston
Lynch very well indeed. It was not of the least conse¬
quence to her that he treated her as a child, patronised
her insultingly, ordered her out of the room when he
wished to be alone, and fell in love with grown up women
before her eyes. She allowed him to take all those liber¬
ties, as she would have allowed a pet lap-dog to tear her
best dress in pieces. She thought him very good, very
clever, and very handsome. And she had been early
taught that whatever she saw that was rare and precious
might be hers for the asking.
Those who remember what they were at eighteen, need
scarcely be told that Marston Lynch never connected a
thought of love with either of those girls. Once when
that worldly scoundrel Howker had hinted that it would
be no bad plan for his friend to secure the affections
(" stick up to" was his phrase) of so wealthy a heiress as
Miss Carlton, Marston threatened to quarrel with him out¬
right and for ever, charging him with a base design of
weaning his, Marston's, affections from Miss Crooze, from
interested motives.
(It was perfectly true that Howker was in love with
Miss Crooze. But he had no need of such scheming. He
was verging on thirty himself, and knew that the passion of
his young friend would not last him long. So he waited,
like a coffee-room philosopher who knows that the evening
paper must be disengaged in ten minutes.)
Both the girls were in their sixteenth year. Lucy, frail
and delicate, had already formed into something like a little
fairy woman. Maud, on the contrary, was long, strong,
and bony—with nothing attractive about her but a
splendid head of dark hah and eyes to match. They were
certainly beautiful. But for the rest she was a problem.
And now the pleasure boat has tacked twice across the
river and is making, with a side wind, for Milwood Abbey
where the picnic is to be held.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
85
The festivities, it should be stated, are at the expense of
Marston Lynch, who has just received the money for his
original picture—sold from the Longport Exhibition.
Now, why has Marian Crooze decked herself out in this
manner? Why is her appearance so youthful, and her
dress so becoming ? Why is it that the silver streaks in
her black hair have disappeared and in their place the sun¬
light, as it plays on the glossy bands, is obstructed by
coarse blotches of some rough greasy material? She
knows it is of no use. She knows that if her boy-lover
were to make that proposal she has had so much trouble
in staving off for weeks, she would not accept him. She
would die rather than bring misery on his head, to pur¬
chase a few brief months of delusive happiness that she
herself would give up all for—let the waking from the
dream be what it might. And yet there she is, dressed
like a girl—much more attractive than any girl present—
and driving Marston Lynch to despair by her disdainful
coquetry.
All I can say is, if any one of my readers grudges her
so trifling a consolation I have no wish to cultivate that
reader's acquaintance.
They have reached Milwood Abbey. The boat is
moored to a tree, and they disembark there. Eriends are
there to meet them: Mr. Tofts, prominent among the
number, with a surprise prepared, in the shape of cases of
champagne and a band of music. (Tofts has an eye upon
Miss Carlton, who sees through him with the keenness of
five-and-forty, and despises him accordingly.)
Dinner is served in the ruins. Tof'ts has brought some
friends of his—landed proprietors—with whom to overawe
the assembly. The landed proprietor's family have brought
a friend with them—a captain of cavalry—with whom to
overawe Tofts. The cavalry captain, in order to show the
extreme goodness of his breeding, cuts his friends, the
landed proprietors (whose proprietary ship is on a very
limited scale, or it would, doubtless, have been otherwise);
and attaches himself for the rest of the day to Miss Crooze
86
MARSTON LYNCH.
whom he considers the only handsome woman present,
albeit somewhat passee, and whose acquirements enable
him to display his knowledge of the French language,
which it may be parenthetically added, is limited. Marian
flirts designedly with the cavalry captain, with whom she
is secretly disgusted. She is also secretly disgusted with
herself, but she can't help it. It is so much pleasanter to
see Marston pacing up and down the thicket—glaring
like a tiger, ready to spring out on the cavalry officer—
than to point him to her grey hairs, show him her [wrinkles,
awaken him from his dream, and never know what it is to
be loved again!
The day passed as all days will do. There had been
much mirth, but Marston had not tasted it. He had
deeply meditated on the question of duelling, and came to
the conclusion that under some circumstances it was justi¬
fiable.
They were to return as they came, in the boat. Tofts
remained where he was, being on a visit to his friends, the
landed proprietors. The cavalry officer had particular
business in Longport, and would feel grateful for a
lift in the boat. Miss Crooze made room for him at her
side.
Oh, how Marston longed for a storm and a shipwreck,
in which all the rest of the company might be providen¬
tially saved, with the exception of his heart's idol, whose
salvation was to rest between him and the cavalry officer !
Which would come off best ?
No such calamity occurred, however, though our hero's
desperation managed to bring about something nearly as
disastrous.
The evening was beautiful, and there were yet two clear
hours of daylight. It was agreed that they should drift
down past the the city, with the ebbing tide, and leave the
boat at one of the suburban watering-places alluded to
(where the cavalry officer had proposed supper), returning
home by one of the steamers.
They had already passed the city, and were in the broad
MAKSTON LYNCH.
87
mouth of the river. The tide was ebbing rapidly, and
Marian was flirting with the cavalry officer horribly.
A fresh breeze sprang up, necessitating some adjustment
of the sail, when the agreeable discovery was made that the
boatman was drunk. The cavalry officer looked alarmed.
He was no coward; but neither was he a sailor, and he
doubted whether he was in the hands of any one who might
be worthy of the name.
" I say, by Jove," he said, " do you think we're affright
here ? Hadn't we better go back ?"
Marston laughed sardonically.
" Don't be afraid, sir," he said. " There are people
here who can take care of you."
" I am obliged to you for the assurance, young gentle¬
man," said the officer, with more dignity and propriety
of expression than he had yet shown; " but I was think¬
ing of lives more precious than my own, that have no
right to be trusted in inexperienced hands."
" All lives here, sir, are precious," said Marston, bom¬
bastically ; " but the most precious is fortunately in safer
hands than yours. Fear nothing, madam," he added
grandly to Miss Crooze, who immediately burst out laugh¬
ing, as did also tbe cavalry officer.
"Upon my soul," said the latter, "you are a most
amusing young fellow. Only don't put our respective
courage to the test by upsetting the boat with your move¬
ments."
Marston was in an agony of jealousy and—fear, that he
was going to cry !
" Sit down, Marston; there's a good boy," said Marian
maliciously; " and if you want to sit by me, here, nurse
Charley."
And she flopped her spaniel down in Marston's lap.
"Yes, nurse Charley," said the cavalry officer, laughing
immensely. " You'll find it capital amusement, by Jove !
soothing to the feelings. Eh, halloa!"
Marston Lynch, purple with rage, had started up and
hurled the spaniel overboard.
88
MARSTON LYNCH.
"Prove your courage," said lie fiercely to tlie soldier,
" and rescue tlie otlier pet puppy."
The dog was endeavouring to paddle against the tide,
which was too strong for him. Marian screamed and
•wrung her hands; she had lost one whose love, at all
events, would have lasted with his life. The captain looked
exceedingly blank.
Marston's heart smote him. He had sacrificed a poor,
affectionate dog, for a paltry point—for an epigram in a
passion. He was an excellent swimmer. Pie threw off
his jacket and hat, and leapt into the water.
1 will do Marston Lynch the justice to say that
he did this, not with any view to effect an after credit,
but solely from a remorseful sense of justice to the
dog.
The spaniel, after having been whirled round and round
in several ineffectual attempts to battle with the tide, had
given himself up to the stream, to which his light, buoyant
form scarcely offered the slightest resistance, and was
already far in the distance. Marston Lynch, though, as I
have said, a good swimmer, and with the tide in his favour,
was of a bony frame, and moreover encumbered by his
clothes. It was an exertion to him to keep afloat, as he
was not physically strong. The dog receded from him
rapidly; but he swam on unconscious of the swiftness
with which he was being borne from the boat, and not
noticing that the shores were widening on each side of
him.
The excitement in the boat was intense. If ever the
whole embarkation had been in danger, it was now. In
vain Howker and the soldier implored them not to lean so
much on one side. They could think of nothing but
Marston and his safety. Poor Marian Crooze, with her
elbows resting on the gunwale, and clutching her white
cheeks with her finger-nails till the blood came, looked
fifty years old, as she glared despairingly at the receding
speck which just indicated that the head of Marston Lynch
was above water. Such wind as there was, was against
MARSTON LYNCH.
89
them, and the boat by no means kept pace with the current.
The cavalry officer, prompt, like all his class, in real
danger, seized a long disused oar, and applied himself to
rowing with all his might. Howker, with a blank face,
promptly imitated his example. They worked stoutly, but
they were clumsy oarsmen. They could not gain on the
swimmer, who, however, in his turn, had gained on the
dog. Finding himself in a side current, where the waters
ran less violently, the latter had instinctively turned again,
struggling once more with the tide. Marston Lynch swam
rapidly towards him, and, to the delight of the passengers
in the boat, was seen to clutch the animal, and turn to
swim back.
The fact is, a swimmer with the tide is like a man in a
balloon, whose ignorance of the space he traverses, or the
rate he flys at, is so strikingly described by my friend,
Henry Mayhew, in the second chapter of the " Great
World of London." Marston, who scarcely thought he
had swam more than a score yards or so from his friends,
was scarcely perceptible to them. The fact of his having
recovered the dog they ascertained more from his action
than by anything that was visible of the latter.
To return was no such easy task. The wind had fresh¬
ened dead against the tide, and the hull of the sailing boat
being of ancient build, offered a great body of resistance.
The swimmer, evidently attempting to gain the boat, was
as obviously receding from it. The suspense was agonising.
The women crowded over the larboard side nearly upsetting
the boat. Lucy Wareing, her sensitive nerves strung to
their utmost pitch of intensity, had leapt with one foot on
to the gunwale, supporting herself with one hand by a stay,
where the wind swayed her light form to and fro like a
pennon.
Suddenly they were startled even from their absorbing
contemplations by a voice that none recognised, proceeding
from the centre of the boat above all their heads, exclaim¬
ing with intense distinctness—
" I will make the fortune of any who will save him. 1
90
MARSTON LYNCH.
will give any of you hundreds—thousands—if you will save
him. Save him, you cowards !"
The last sentence was uttered in a perfect shriek. All
looked up. Maud Carlton had mounted on a bulkhead
leading to the closet that served as a cabin, and was stand¬
ing upright clutching the mast feverishly, her bonnet
blown back, her long black hair streaming behind her, and
her splendid black eyes looking twice their size. She had
grown suddenly noble and beautiful, and stood there facing
the wind like a young Pythoness.
" Save him," she screamed, " there's not a hair on his
head that isn't worth all your lives, and twenty thousand
of mine. Pull your oars—row away—row away, men, like
devils ! Ho! Marston, keep up, boy; swim quietly—
not too fast; keep up, and we'll catch you."
She roared the latter words through her hands with the
lungs of a stentor, and catching the wind "with the judg¬
ment of an old sailor. She then leapt down, and in less
time than a sentence can be written had seized every avail¬
able floating thing on deck—kegs, planks, and what not,
and thrown them overboard with what seemed supernatural
strength—always throwing them to the spot whence it
seemed most likely they would float in the swimmer's
direction.
This done, she clutched Marian Crooze by the wrist with
a jerk, looked fiercely in the blank despairing face of the
governess, and said, between her teeth, in a voice that was
almost fiendish, " If he is lost through you, your lapdog,
and your nonsense, I'll be hanged for your murder.
Mind !"
She then strode to the helm, and thrusting the muddled
and scared boatman away, seized the tiller and held it
firmly to keep the boat in its present course.
Miss Carlton had never been on the water before in her
life, except on a river steamboat, and you could not have
taught her the simplest rule in navigation in twenty years
of schooling.
All I have described occurred in a very few seconds.
MARSTON LYNCH.
91
Howker and the soldier rowed manfully. Maud Carlton
held the tiller, with both hands, rigid to its place. The
breeze lulled a little. Marston Lynch, apparently stout of
heart as ever, was rapidly nearing the boat, when a dozen
screams announced a fresh calamity.
92
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XI.
in "which the author, after considerable labour,
succeeds in fishing his hero out of the water.
Marston Lynch having been left in the water for the
space of thirty-one days, common humanity would suggest
an immediate attention to his case. Nevertheless, as he
jumped overboard of his own free will—and certainly
wanted cooling at the time—I think the hydropathic course
of treatment to which he so voluntarily submitted his case
should have the amplest opportunities for testing its advan¬
tages. In my opinion, Marston Lynch thoroughly deserved
a ducking. I intend keeping him in the water as long as
is consistent with his personal safety, as a warning to him
for the future.
Besides, the reader must be burning to know whence
proceeded the screams that so abruptly broke the conclud¬
ing stillness of my last chapter. As I detest keeping people
in suspense, it behoves me to neglect everything in order to
satisfy the reader's laudable curiosity on that head. If,
therefore, he will accompany me (with his proverbial gentle¬
ness, of course) about two miles further down the river,
and allow me to introduce him to some new acquaintances
—to half-an-hour of whose conversation it will be necessary
for him to listen, patiently—he will receive the information
he requires, almost immediately,
Just when Charley, in houndish unconsciousness of the
MAItSTON LINCH.
93
perils of the deep awaiting him, was enjoying the last few
moments of comfort on his mistress's lap, a small pleasure
yacht, of elegant modern build, and fitted up in the most
luxurious manner, entered the mouth of the Wynde, sail¬
ing beautifully before the breeze, with her head due for
Longport.
There were five people on board. Two of these were
the boat's crew, a man and a boy, of whom no description
is necessary. The remaining three were the owner of the
vessel and two gentlemen, his guests, who were lounging
on deck in the lazy enjoyment of exquisite champagne and.
faultless Havannahs; at the same time, drinking and in¬
haling the yet more exhilarating and soothing influences of
the sea breeze and summer evening.
The yacht was named the " hay aw ay," and its owner
was named Biglow T. Miles, Esq. Is it necessary to add
that he was an American gentleman? Why is it that all
American gentlemen have full grown Christian and sur¬
names, with one or more budding sprouts, as it were, of
nomenclature, in the shape of initials between them? I
cannot tell; but such is certainly the case. Is it that the
secondary names of American gentlemen generally are bad
ones, that the owners would rather not bring forward to
the light of public scrutiny? Or is it that the national
habit of time-saving impels the citizens of the great Re¬
public to get over the ground in speaking of themselves,
as in other matters, as rapidly as possible ? It has been
this moment suggested to me that Americans are not the
only gentlemen marked by the peculiarity in question; and
that even I myself have a mysterious initial in the very
heart of my nominative system, which I am shy of explain¬
ing. But nothing could be in worse taste than to call upon
a satirist to look at home before abusing his neighbours.
All American gentlemen are not necessarily ugly, cada¬
verous likenesses of an ill-omened bird of prey, such as the
comic artists of this country love to depict them. Neither
are they all such swindlers, liars, and garrulous boasters,
as the British comic writer generally finds it desirable to
94
MABSTON LYNCH.
consider them, for the purposes of " copy." Biglow T.
Miles, Esquire, was a good-looking gentleman of thirty,
with a face rather plump than otherwise. His eyes were
merry and honest, describing when fully opened (as they
usually were) two nearly perfect circles. He had a mag¬
nificent flowing beard, which he loved to caress. So far
from being a boaster or blagueur, he rarely opened his
mouth, except to speak in monosyllables; and though some¬
thing of a humorist and a great deal of an observer, was shy
and modest to a fault. To counterbalance these un-national
characteristics, it must be stated that he was purely ortho¬
dox in the matters of very tall shiny hats of the sugar-loaf
pattern; of uncomfortable length of limb, necessitating the
most indescribable postures ; and of unbridled indulgence
in the transatlantic practices of chewing tobacco, and
"whittling." At the period of Mr. Miles's introduction
to the reader, the gunwale of the Eayaway was undulated
by various " scoopings," the unwritten log of many coast¬
ing voyages. But surely, in a free country, a man may be
allowed to whittle his own pleasure boat!
Mr. Biglow T. Miles was the son of a wealthy Georgian
planter. He had come to Europe to make the grand tour.
Binding himself very comfortable at Longport, the place of
his landing—on account of the society, or the hotel, or the
whiskey—he had remained there for two years, paying his
bill every morning, and always intending to start for the
Mediterranean on the following Monday. He had pur¬
chased the Eayaway, as a matter of incidental accommoda¬
tion, just as he would have bought a clean collar to go out
to dinner in.
The Eayaway was now returning from an excursion out
seaward, the object of which had been to witness the trial
of a new American steamer, constructed upon some novel
principle. Mr. Miles cared nothing whatever about me¬
chanical science or the interests of commerce, but happen¬
ing to meet with two acquaintances who did, and were
interested in the pending experiment, had volunteered the
advantages of his yacht and society.
MAE. ST ON LYNCH.
95
His two friends were Longport merchants. Two words
will depict one of them—Gregory Lynch. The other was
a short square jolly personage, whom I may also spare
myself the trouble of describing, in detail, by a very simple
process: he bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Kobert
Keeley. I wish I could always express a pleasant meaning
by an image so agreeably familiar to the entire British
community.
The latter gentleman, who possibly had a respectable
business-like surname on the door-plate of his counting-
house, but who, in circles of intimacy, appeared to be
known only as " Billy," was the jester of the party, and in
right of that office, pretty well monopolised the conversa¬
tion. Gregory Lynch was grimly taciturn. The American
seemed to consider Billy in the light of a choice quid, to
be enjoyed in silence.
The conversation had turned upon the art of swim¬
ming ; that is to say Billy had commenced talking on
that subject.
"Swim!" said Billy, in peroration of a voluble harangue,
of which the text had been his own marvellous achieve¬
ments in the art of natation. " I'd swim right from here
to America, only no boat could keep up with me, and I
should founder for want of provisions. Come ! for a fair
wager—I'll swim either of you two to the Nortli Light and
back, and carry the other on my shoulders. It's only two
miles. Don't both speak at once."
Both gentlemen declined having connexion with the
wager on either of the proposed conditions.
" I forgot—you've both said you never leaYned to swim,"
Billy rattled on. " I see how it is—Gregory never thought
it worth his while, knowing he wasn't bom to be drowned.
(You know you'll come to a bad end, Gregory—don't you,
old boy ?) As for Longfellow, here, there's no water on
the face of the earth deep enough to go over his head. I
never believed in the sea-serpent till I made his acquaint¬
ance, since when nothing in the matter of length and scali-
ness would surprise me coming from an American source.
96
MARSTON LYNCII.
How long did it take you to wade over from New lork,
Furlongs ?"
(The personal length of the American was an inex¬
haustible source of pleasantry to the facetious Billy, who
never wearied of ringing the changes on his friend's sug¬
gestive surname.)
" It wasn't done wading, Billy," said the States-man,
with a roguish twinkle of the eye.
Oh ! I daresay ; you'd persuade us you came over by
steamer, as if there was a funnel long enough for you to
stand upright in ! How, then ?
"I jumped it," said Mr. Miles, stolidly, "trumping"
Billy with his own weapons.
" Good again ! One for the Seven-Leagued Interest.
Why don't you laugh, Gregory ? Have you been com¬
mitting any crimes, more than usually, in the way of busi¬
ness lately ?"
Gregory forced a laugh, and, as if considering that his
want of sociability required some apology, said he had not
been well lately, in corroboration of which statement he
attempted to get up a cough. *
" I'm sorry to hear that," said Billy, shaking his head
with mock gravity. " Yery bad symptoms, indeed ! It's
a case of what we used to call tussis cliurcJtyardiensis, when
I was trying to like to be a doctor. You're booked, my
dear friend, and had better apply yourself to serious reading
at once."
Billy was one of those truly British wags whose point
(Tappui of humour consists of raillery on the most ghastly
and alarming subjects. This is a purely Anglo-Saxon
quality, and may be considered a specimen of what
Kingsley calls " the slow humorous cruelty of the
Teuton."
" It's conscience that's pulling him down. I shouldn't
like to have what he's got on his mind—should you, Tall¬
boys ? But then you havn't got a mind, so you can't
answer. By the way, Gregory, didn't I hear a fellow
pitching into you the other night ?"
MARSTON LYNCH.
97
" Possibly," Gregory observed, with a smile of in¬
difference.
" Yes; at a party—up Ash Grove way. You caught it,
Sir, I can tell you. Grand-Trunk-Extension here never
gave it a nigger half so viciously. It was a nephew of
yours—painter or something of that sort. I presume,
from the way in which he spoke of you, you had the
care of his happy childhood, and embezzled his pocket-
money."
Billy said this in his airiest manner, and, as he meant
nothing whatever by his words, had no thought of observ¬
ing their effect on the countenance of Gregory Lynch.
The effect itself, though but momentary, was certainly dis¬
agreeable.
" He is a foolish lad who has taken a crotchet into his
head against me," Gregory remarked, casually. " His
father and I had some differences in early life. I have no
animosity against the boy. He is very young—and I am
glad to hear he is making his way so well."
" Now, Pecksniff, drop it," said Billy. " If you begin
to be civil to anybody, you must be contemplating murder
at least. Eoolisli lad ! I like that. Because he doesn't
like you. If I was a painter, with an eye for the beauti¬
ful, and so forth, I'd have your blood for bringing
the Ugly into the family! Hi! parasols in a boat!
Here, Longman, Bees, and Company, chuck us the
glass."
And the volatile Billy, who, though verging on five-and-
forty, and of respectable corpulence, nevertheless considered
himself a lady-killer and connoisseur of the sex—applied
himself to the scrutiny of a distant sail, signalised by the
attractions he had alluded to.
" Why, there's old Merripebbles, the stockbroker, and
his fat wife," said Billy, with a ship's telescope at his eye;
" and a lot of girls. Eh? There seems to be something
the matter. By Jove! there's a man overboard—
look!"
In the direction where the speaker's finger pointed,
H
98
MAKSTON LYNCH,
about half way between the yaclit and the distant boat, a
dark spot was seen, indicating a human head.
" He's all right," said Billy, with the air of a judge ;
" he's a swimmer. The tide is against him, and the boat
seems to be under the management of a deputation from
the worshipful Company of Merchant Tailors. But he'll
do. No funk about that fellow. I wonder who it is?
By the Lord Harry, Gregory ! it's the very boy we've been
talking of—your nephew. I'd know his head if it was
cut off."
Gregory Lynch snatched the telescope from the speaker,
white as the sail, and trembling from head to foot. A
glance satisfied him as to the swimmer's identity.
" You're right," he said, almost inaudibly. " Is there
any danger ?"
" Not a ha'porth, old boy," Billy answered kindly, with
a possible misapprehension of his friend's emotion. " Don't
alarm yourself; he's making straight for the boat, and the
tide's with her. That-'s right, Longitude. We may as
well be near him in case of accident."
The American, with ready presence of mind, had altered
the yacht's course, at the first detection of the accident.
They were now making as straight in the direction of the
swimmer as a side wind permitted.
" He'll do—he'll do !" said Billy, in a state of consider¬
able excitement; " they'll catch him, thanks to the tide,
and none of those infernal crab-catchers, who are doing
their best to drown him. Yah! you fishfags—there's a
stroke ! He's all right now, Gregory, old fellow; don't
alarm yourself. If I hadn't felt sure of my man I should
have been overboard to help him long ago."
Billy was not boasting idly. He was a perfect dolphin,
or Triton of the deep—as many of our northern coast gen¬
tlemen fortunately are—and was as brave as a lion.
The distance between the two boats was materially
diminished. The movements of Marston Lynch were
watched from the deck of each with equal interest. The
three yachtsmen seemed perfectly assured of his safety,
MAKSTON LYNCH.
99
when the screams from the sailing boat, whose explanation
we have been so long in arriving at, broke through the
evening stillness.
" What now ?" cried the American, leaping to his feet.
A dark object like a mass of drapery floated swiftly from
the sailing boat, gliding past the nearly exausted swimmer,
and growing smaller every second. Marston Lynch was
seen to turn and follow it.
" A girl overboard !" said Billy, in a low despairing-
voice, dropping his telescope after a brief scrutiny. " Curse
them, they ruin everything. Look, Gregory—I can't."
Gregory took the glass again, holding it in his quivering
hand with the greatest difficulty. He saw the face of his
step-daughter, Lucy Wareing, sink and re-appear three dis¬
tinct times. A fourth time it disappeared for several
seconds. Marston Lynch disappeared at the same time,
but was seen again with the apparently lifeless form of the
girl on one arm. At the same moment a minute speck was
seen to float away from him with the tide. This was the
unhappy Charley, abandoned after so much risk to the
mercy of the elements.
The reader will remember the perilous position in which
Lucy was last described on the edge of the sailing boat.
In her nervous eagerness to watch Marston's move¬
ments—forgetful of all other considerations—she had lost
her slight balance, at the most critical moment, and fallen
into the water.
" He's got her," Billy cried, with all his enthusiasm re¬
vived ; "he's a trump, and shall have a medal for it..
Hard a-starboard, Longshanks! we're making dead for
them, now. The yacht will catch them quicker than I
could. D—n the fellow ! he doesn't see us. This way,
ahoy ! Turn!—this way !"
Billy's stentorian voice succeeded in making itself heard
Marston Lynch, encumbered by his new burden, turned in.
the direction of the yacht, towards which, though further
off than his own boat, the current of the tide made it much
easier for him to swim.
II 2
100
MARSTON LYNCH.
The gill's clothes, which had kept her afloat at first,
were now saturated with water. She was a dead weight
on the arm of her preserver. The swimmer's face that
Gregory Lynch was watching so intently through the no
longer needed glass, was one of intense despair. Marston
Lynch, within a few yards of the yacht, was sinking from
sheer exhaustion, but no thought of relinquishing his
jsacred charge seemed to occur to him.
Two of the three beings whose existence had made life
almost insupportable to Gregory Lynch, were on the point
of perishing before his eyes—one in the other's arms!
The excitement of the crisis drove him almost mad.
The warm-hearted American had cast off his hat and
coat. Billy stopped him as he was about to leap overboard.
" What are you at, you fool ?" he said, rapidly—" You
can't swim a stroke. Don't you see we're coming straight
upon them. Steady, my lad. Keep up ! By G— he's
past us : it's time now."
Billy leaped upon the bulwark, and had already com¬
menced a plunge forward, when Gregory Lynch struck him
a violent blow on the forehead, that sent him reeling back
on the deck, and finally toppling down into the shallow
hold of the vessel.
Scared and terrified by the mad act to which his desperate
excitement had impelled him, Gregory Lynch fainted.
*
When he recovered his senses he found the yacht filled
/,'ith people. The sailing-boat was alongside. Marston
Lynch had been saved by a life-buoy, thrown out by the
American, and brought on board with his precious charge,
by the assistance of the sailing-master and his boy, both
expert swimmers. Marston was on deck exhausted, but
conscious. The women were applying restoratives to
Lucy in the cabin, ably assisted by Howker and the
cavalry officer—Biglow T. Miles, Esquire, producing
every conceivable necessary from incredible lockers, and
making himself generally useful.
MARSTON LYNCH.
101
Gregory, whose first emotion had been the dread of
meeting human eyes, was astonished to find himself the
object of much solicitation. He was the centre of a sym¬
pathising circle, of which Billy, with a deep cut on his
forehead, his face and shirt-front saturated with blood
(which he appeared to consider of no moment whatever),
was the . most conspicuous member—holding forth elo¬
quently to the rest of the company on the recent mishaps.
- "You see," he heard Billy say, "the poor fellow didn't
know what he was about. I'd no idea he was so tender¬
hearted. Mad as a March hare, I give you my word:
Longman, old boy, you saw him knock me head over heels
to prevent my jumping overheard, just because I'd done
the same thing to you. But then, I could swim and you
couldn't; and then, when he thought he'd done wrong,
fainted slap ! Hi! he's coming to. Holloa! Gregory,
old brick, it's all right! Both safe as the bank."
" Thank God!" said Gregory, shuddering,
" Oh, I dare say," said Billy, glad to return to his face¬
tious principles, when he found all danger over. " That
won't do. We've just been saying how obvious it was
that you wanted your nephew and step-daughter to be
drowned in order to inherit their property. Hi! what's
the row ? Gregory, old boy, I was only joking. He's
fainted again. I'm d—d if I ever make another joke as
long as I live."
Gregory had fainted again.
The yacht put in at the nearest landing-place on the
Longport side of the river. All available conveyances
were chartered for the transport of the sufferers to their
various homes. Marston Lynch was conveyed to his lodg¬
ings in a fly, under the auspices of Howker and Miss
Crooze, who on this occasion defied conventionalities, and
wept all the way. She, moreover, rendered herself un¬
sightly by despoiling herself of all outward garments—
such as mantle and victorine, in favour of the patient—
which acts of self-devotion only served to pile up the
admiration of Howker on the principle of compound in-
102
MARSTON I/YNCH.
terest. Gregory LyncTi was taken to his own house, his
especial driver being- exhorted to the greatest care by Mrs.
Merripebbles, who thenceforth boasted of her wealthy
kinsman as a model of sensibility and affection for at least
six weeks. Lucy Wareing remained at the nearest hotel,
in charge of Miss Carlton and her mother.
" Billy !" said Biglow T. Miles, Esquire, to his friend,
as they walked leisurely towards the York Hotel, with a
view to the nocturnal cigar, after the fatigues of the day.
" Holloa!"
" You didn't ought to have said that to Lynch."
"What?"
" About his wanting to drown the young 'uns, to come
into their property."
" Well, but hang it, a joke's a joke."
"Now and again it is, perhaps; but sometimes it
ain't."
"What do you mean?"
" WeE, I mean this : that nothing's a joke, so long as
it's true. And by the living Hookey, that was j or there's
no snakes /"
" By Jove !" exclaimed BiEy, whistling and looking
more Eke Bobert Keeley than ever.
Two days afterwards Charley was brought home by a
speculative fisherman, who considered five shillings and a
remarkably large glass of rum ample recompense for saving
a life whose imperilment had nearly cost the sacrifice of two
interesting human creatures, and the premature termina¬
tion of a startling history. As we may not have occasion
to aUude to our four-footed friend again, it may as weU be
stated that a four miles' swim had done him a world of
good, and was probably the means of fortifying his consti¬
tution for the incredible longevity to which he has already
attained.
marston lynch.
103
CHAPTER XII.
marston lynch to don sancho de saumarez, care
OF mons. jules lagrange, soho square, london.
Longport, June 22nd, 18—.
My dear Sir,—And yet I don't half like " dear Sir,"
though I have tried] every other form of address. " My
dear Don" was too off-hand. Not only did " My dear
Sancho" appear too familiar, but, saving your presence, I
can only bring myself to believe Sancho to be a real name
away from Don Quixote. Such are English prejudices
that no advantage of travel can remove! " My dear Sau¬
marez," was too manly for a cub like me. I had a shy at
" My dear Eriend," but that put me in mind of a corres¬
pondence I used to conduct for the poor dear governor
(about one of his inventions that were to roast larks in the
air, and connect this planet with the moon—bless his
dreamy old memory !) with some Pennsylvanian Quakers
in the paper trade ; and the memory of those gentlemen
was " a caution." I think if you had a decent English
name I could venture to call you by it. But in the mean¬
time I am obliged to fall back upon the conventional
" Sir." Do suggest a means for its abolition in your next,
as it makes me very uncomfortable.
We have had terrible doings here since you last heard of
me. Moving accidents by flood and field; I might almost
say, battle and murder, and sudden death. In the first
place I should tell you, the Merripebbles tribe has struck
its tents. Sloped, sir! Yamosed, bag and baggage, and
104
MAIISTON LYNCH.
are off to Florence. Old Merripebbles received sudden
orders from the commander-in-chief to sell his business
and cut. Wasn't he glad, rather! Won't he be jolly,
pottering about Italy, eating grapes, making little puns on
the shopkeepers' signs, and tourists' vocabularies, and
groaning over the enormities of the Catholic religion ?
But I should have told you the cause of their sudden
exodus. However dreadfully out of order, I must do so
now. And yet I scarcely know how. It implies the
necessity of a terribly long story, of which I am the hero ;
a bond fide hero, I assure you ; rescuing young ladies from
death; inspiring tender passions in impracticable quarters,
and I don't know what all. I am trying to laugh over the
matter; but I confess it is with forced merriment. I am
awfully frightened of boring you ; but, as you have shown
such an unmistakeable interest in my welfare, and requested
me to keep you informed on all my movements-—at the risk
of being tiresome—I must tell you of what has recently
happened.
[Here follows a lengthy account of so much of the inci¬
dents detailed in the last two chapters, with their apparent
causes and consequences, as came within our hero's im¬
mediate observation. A few pardonable reservations are
made on the subject of Miss Crooze and Charley; nor do
we find the slightest allusion to the cavalry officer. Still,
the material facts are stated from the writer's point of
view, much in the order in which they have been already
placed before the reader. In the good old times the
chronicler would have been permitted to avail himself of
this document in externa; which, being written with all
the grandiloquent fluency of a young gentleman just begin¬
ning to feel his crowquills, might possibly have proved
the reverse of uninteresting. But in the present day, time
and printed space are precious; and the said chronicler
must content himself with the extraction of such fragments
as are absolutely indispensable to the development of the
MAKSTON LYNCH.
105
narrative—(a necessity to be lamented, as the letter would
have filled the number admirably). The chronicler may
be allowed to state that Miss Crooze is only once alluded
to by name, and that, casually and in terms of humorous
disparagement—a fact that may be taken as indicative of
some change in our hero's wayward affections.]
*****
Well, would you believe it P because that queer girl
Maud—(I don't suppose you remember her, or if you do
it does not matter, as she gets too long for her frocks
every day, and can't be a bit like what you do remember)
—because she happened to be the only person on board
with any presence of mind, and didn't want to see me
drowned if it could be helped, old Mother M. must take it
into her head that there " was something between us," as
the maid-servants say. A likely story ! However, the
old girl called on me in the morning—as I thought, na¬
turally enough, to inquire what sort of a night I had had
after the perils and the dangers they were all past. Not a
bit of it ! She had come to bid me good-bye, with any
amount of solemn you please. They were off to Florence.
The dear old lady minced matters no more than usual.
After Maud's conduct of the preceding day she said it was
impossible for them to remain in Longport as long as I
was in it. There could be no mistaking Maud's feelings
towards me. (Feelings in a pinafore ! How romantic !)
She wished me well, and wouldn't for worlds injure my
promising prospects ; but I must be aware that I was no
fit match, &c., &c. Did you ever hear such bosh ! How¬
ever, it isn't a very pleasant thing to be suspected of
harbouring mercenaiy designs on a school-girl's fortune, is
it ? I protested, with what I suppose was " becoming in¬
dignation"—said I had no intention, and so forth; in
short, to clinch the matter, I let her into the secret of a
predilection in another quarter. (As that has come to
quite a timely end, I needn't bore you, or humiliate my¬
self, with the particulars.) She shook her head, and said
106
5IARSTON LYNCH*
she knew all about that—(liow, it puzzles me to guess, as
I never mentioned it to a soul)—but that I was very
young at present, and would soon know my own interests
better. I offered to go to London, or Manchester, or
Timbuctoo, if she liked ; but she would hear of nothing of
the kind. All their plans were made up. They were to
leave the country. Maud, contrary to all expectations,
had consented to the arrangement, and it was advisable to
take the young lady while in the humour. What a
desponding condition my white muslin, bread-and-butter
adorer must be in, eh ? However, I musn't speak ill of
her. I certainly owe her one, for acting as an amateur
Grace Darling in my behalf. They say she swore like a
trooper, threatened to brain people with marlin-spikes
and what not. Bather alarming symptons, don't you
think so ? Howker (whom I have mentioned to you—■
one of the best fellows in the world, though a bit
of a pleb) said she put him in mind of Joan of Arc, and
he'd have followed her through fire or water. Howker is
loose in his history, and I suspect the salt-water associa¬
tions led him to confound Joan with Noah's Ark. With
all becoming gratitude to Joan for her exertions, it strikes
me that the Darby whom Bate may have in store for her
had better prepare himself for some rough weather. It is
very certain that my name is not Darby.
Well, we saw the last of them yesterday. Though I
had been forbidden the house, I couldn't resist the tempta¬
tion of rushing out to say good-bye, as the last fly drove
up the lane. The old girl cried and kissed me, and told
me I ought to hate her for being a wicked, mercenary,
worldly, unchristian wretch, and that she had a good mind
to turn back and unpack everything, and that I might-
console myself with the knowledge that Maud would be
miserable for life, and grow up a bad heartless woman.
What a rum source of consolation ! And what a rum old
girl she is ! Still, I am not ashamed to confess that I felt
very much inclined to commit suicide, when I saw the last
of her darling old broad shoulders disappearing round the
5LARST0N LYNCH.
107
corner of the York Boad I don't care how long yon may
laugh, but I tell you candidly, I cried for three-quarters
of an hour.
I hope you are not quite asleep, as I have not yet come
to the real purport of my letter. That has reference to
the man whom, as you know, I hate with what Mrs. M.
would call unchristian malignity. I don't care what you
have said, or may say ; I am like the poet who
" in a golden age was born,
With golden skies above,
Born to the hate of Hate, the scorn of Scorn,
The love of Love."
I don't think this is a very golden age, and I have never
noticed any particularly golden phenomena in the skies of
my native Longport. But if there is anything in this age,
or under those skies, more particularly hateful and scornful
than anything else, it is my respectable Uncle, Gregory
Lynch. He is a bad man—worse than you will believe,
or than I could have dreaded. I am not speaking now
from mere temper: the thing has become too grave.
I am convinced that what his friend (can such men have
friends ?) said in jest, was founded upon truth. I am cer¬
tain, not only from his conduct on this occasion, but from
other evidences, that he has robbed or injured that poor
child—in such a way as to make her very existence a
burden and a reproach to him. There can be no doubt
that he tried to prevent my saving her life! Is it not
horrible to think that she is absolutely dependent on him ?
If, as I suspect, he is in possession of property lawfully
hers (most likely descending from her mother, whom he
tyrannised over and killed), is her life safe in his hands ?
Who would, care to know what had become of her ?
What being would have the courage to prefer a grave
charge against so wealthy and worshipful a personage ? T
only know one—that is, I think I know bim—if it be
possible to work out the difficult problem of " Know
thyself." I have not forgotten that to Gregory Lynch I
108
MARSTON LYNCH.
owe the great blank of my life; that my mother died too
early for me to preserve her memory. This may make me
a rancorous adversary: at any rate, it will make me a
dangerous one. I will watch him closely, and if I find
that this poor child, whose life I have been the providen¬
tial means of saving at the risk of my own, and for whose
happiness I feel, strangely enough, to have become
thereby responsible—(I suppose whatever is worth saving
is worth guarding) ; if I find he has accomplished or
meditates the slightest wrong against her, let him beware !
I stuck to her in the water as long as I felt there was life
in either of us. I intend continuing the process on earth.
I am a bit of a fatalist, and whatever influences criminally-
acquired wealth may bring to bear against me, I think it
has been proved that I was not born to be drowned by
Gregory Lynch.
They have elected the fellow a town councillor. He is
about to be made a country magistrate—(on the strength
of landed property—whose, I wonder?) I was almost
self-persuaded to get out an ironical poster at his election,
recommending people to vote for Lynch, " the model
brother and hush and." I would have done it, but for the
sacredness of the souvenir. As it is I have done some¬
thing. When I heard of his appointment to the bench
(the idea of such a man sitting in judgment 011 criminals !)
I knocked off some verses headed " Midas," and signed
" Apollo." Cool to call myself Apollo, wasn't it ? But
it helped out my notion. I took the ground that Midas
was made a judge after he had displayed a power of turn¬
ing everything into gold, and for that reason only, and
that it was utterly vain on the part of Apollo (meaning the
bard) to invest him with asses' ears. Nobody could see
them for the dazzle of his surrounding gold. The thing
wasn't very good, of course; but I think you'd like it, if
only for its ferocity. Well, I sent it to the Longport Flail
(a paper opposed to G. L. in politics : you will receive a
copy with this). Would you believe it, sir ? They not
only inserted it, but I had a complimentary note from the
marston lymcii.
109
editor, pointing out two or three more subjects I might
treat in the same stinging manner. Of course I did them
immediately. I wish that sort of thing would pay; for,
really, a man might be doing something better than paint¬
ing stockbrokers' clerks' wives at three pound ten a head
—and not doing them creditably. By the way, have you
ever thought over any of those dramatic notions I told you
of on board? 1 daresay you have forgotten all about
them. Still I should like to do something in that line, if
a judge like yourself would give me any encouragement as
to my chances.
And now (having bothered you beyond the licence even
of your friendship), I will spare you.
Believe me, my dear Don Saumarez (I don't like that
compromise either),
Yours, with the sincerest gratitude for all favours,
Marston Lynch.
Answer to the Above.
Long's Hotel, London, June 25, 1856.
My dear Marston,—Llonneur aux braves ! A few days
ago I should have said Que vivan los bravos ! but as you
will see presently, I have found it necessaiy to change my
mother tongue. As you couldn't manage to be familiar
with me under a Spanish name, try what you can do with
a French one. To explain : I am rather under a cloud at
present, and wish to observe a sort of partial incog., for
family reasons. Consider the eccentric individual now ad¬
dressing you as going by the name of Eugene Delorges.
It is a pseudonym I adopted a few years ago in this
country (though one to which I am partially entitled by
maternal descent: we date from the Delorges, and quarter
the but never mind that rubbish), when I took up,
for amusement, with some literary pursuits which I am
110
MAKSTON LYNCH.
momentarily compelled to resume for profit. This neces¬
sity, however, will soon blow over, and I shall never have
the incentive to become a great author (if I had the power)
that will, no doubt, soon make you one.
Go a-head! in whatever you feel to be your vocation.
Don't leave Longport at present. Ton will find it (don't
let your youth feel insulted) a good nursery ground.
Pitch into Uncle Gregory if you think it good practice—
though I dare say he is not half so bad a fellow as I like
you for considering him. I know what very young blood
is—remember I am verging on the detestable thirty—and
should despise you for tolerating any wrong, real or
fancied. However, knowing the world, I don't mind ad¬
mitting that it is just possible there may be some little
screw loose between him and the pretty step-daughter,
such as your ardent sympathies may have imagined. If
so—as I believe I can form a more correct judgment of
the motives of your knight-errantry than yourself—(know¬
ing that impetuous young gentlemen do not usually fish
attractive young ladies out of the water without after con¬
sequences)—I should be very glad, for your sake, to see it
set right. However, let us act with caution. Let me
have the names of Mr. Lynch's two friends of the yacht.
I know a good many Americans in Longport—perhaps
the one. If G. has smuggled a little of his step-daughter's
money, he can easily be persuaded to make it good under
proper representations, especially in favour of the young
lady's future husband, that future husband being a gentle¬
man with a turn for satirical journalism. In the meantime
I am sorry for the departure of the Ash Grove family.
You have hinted that they were Miss Lucy's best friends,
and made things agreeable to her. I am afraid if that
young lady should be placed in an unusual pining con¬
dition, she will have such claims on your sympathies as
will preclude all possibility of attention to Literature and
the Fine Arts. It is true you will be able to paint
Marianas in the Moated Grange—and write touching
poems on the subject of Captivity. The great advantage
makston lynch.
Ill
of Art is, that the painter can pay his debts by a picture
of the interior of the Queen's Bench; and the author can
renovate his constitution with the price of an amusing
work on bile.
I am off to the Continent for a fe\y days. It is post
time, and I must conclude. Address to me here. All
letters will be forwarded to me. Always your friend and
admirer, S. De Satjmaeez ;
(or, for the present,)
Eugene Delokges.
(Whichever you please, my pretty little dear; only put
the latter on the outside of your letters.)
112
mar st on lynch.
CHAPTEE XIII.
in which the lady of shalott yields, to tempta¬
tion and looks out of window.
A few days after the memorable Avater party, Marston
made a morning call on the object of his affections. Miss
Crooze had been summoned to Longport on business; and
our hero Avas hospitably and fascinatingly received by Miss
Eanshawe, the assistant governess, in her superior's
absence. Marston had never seen Miss Panshawe before,
except at church, Avhere her somewhat arduous duties of
whipper-in to a dozen very little girls, perversely inattentive
to the more abstruse questions of theology, placed her
rather at a disadvantage during sermon time. He was now
greatly struck by her eyes and conversation. The former
Avere blue and capacious, the latter was sprightly. Her
remarks upon middle-aged spinsters generally, and those
in a scholastic position especially, betrayed great knowledge
of the Avorld. She was very lively upon black cosmet'uiue,
and a toilette institution knoAvn as " the Tweezers," in a
manner which Marston, as an embryo satirist, Avas bound
to appreciate. There Avas also a vein of sentiment about
Miss Panshawe to soften any acerbity that might be per¬
ceptible in her more purely intellectual phase. Her eye¬
lashes, which Avere very long and silky, quivered and
glistened as she spoke of young girls in living prisons,
without friends or protectors, and at the mercy of jealous
elders. She alluded feelingly to an adored mother and an
MAKSTON LYNCH.
113
estranged brother, with an excusable glance at certain
departed family splendours. She was resigned though,
and would be even happy in her present position, if she
could only meet with common appreciation; nay, the
absence of misrepresentation alone would satisfy her.
Finally she brightened up suddenly, and expressed her
conviction that Mr. Lynch must think her very stupid.
For what had he to do with her grievances ? After all,
Miss Crooze was one of the best creatures in the world—
having her tempers, no doubt; but it became the young
to be tolerant of such feelings. She (Miss Fanshawe) had
tried to please—she would admit, from interested motives,
as Heaven knew, she wanted a friend sorely enough.
Perhaps there was a want of natural sympathy. It was
very kind of Mr. Lynch to sit and talk to her. She never
spoke to a soul but children and menials.
Marston Lynch fell in love "with Miss Fanshawe, and
out of it with Miss Crooze. He was very much ashamed
of himself—his habitual condition through life; but he
could'nt help it—another of his prevailing weaknesses.
His chief aim during this juncture of his existence being to
keep out of the way of Miss Crooze, whom he felt he had
wronged deeply ; there were natural difficulties in the way
of his seeing much of that lady's subordinate, his new idol.
Accordingly, things had not gone very far between them,
when our hero was pulverized by the discovery that a
wealthy Australian Sexagenarian (of convict origin), who
had come to England for a wife, with only a week to
secure one in, had signallized Miss Fanshawe in church
one Sunday, proposed to her on the following day, married
her on the Wednesday, and embarked with her for Mel¬
bourne on the Saturday.
From the outset of these events, it was observed that
Miss Crooze abruptly neglected her toilet. She complained
openly of rheumatism, and wore ungainly head-dresses of
knitted fabric. Several complaints were lodged, by
scholars, of increased snappishness in the lady's temper,
rapidly becoming unbearable.
i
114
MAKSTOX LYNCH.
All of which signs were patiently and with satisfaction
noted by Howker, as indications that his long-coveted
matrimonial prize was depreciating in market value, and
gradually coming -within the reach of his humble means.
It was a bad day for the Lady of Shalott when that
abominably dashing Sir Lancelot came swaggering and
jingling past her window. She couldn'nt help looking out
at him—the fellow was so confoundedly attractive ! She
knew well, that to fulfil her destiny, she ought to have sat
still in her chamber, weaving his image as reflected in her
magic mirror on her magic tapestry—just as though he
were a mere abbot on an ambling pad, or an apple-woman
in a red cloak. She knew that if she once attempted to
look out into the actual world, her mirror would crack
from side to side—and that her weaving occupation would
be gone for ever,—that nothing would be left to her but
to launch her boat with the stream, to sail down to
Camelott, never reaching it alive—and die on the way
singing feebly—earning nothing but an off-hand prayer for
her soul from the object of her futile martyrdom.
Is the above too mystic and unintelligible ? Very
possibly. I should like to have as many readers as
Tennyson. I know I have not; but still, there must be a
considerable number who read even me, who know nothing
whatever of him. There are more people who own high-
mettled chargers, than who habitually travel by the three
o'clock Whitechapel omnibus. What then ? Have I any
right to insult and mystify such as are good enough to
travel by my little twopenny halfpenny conveyance, by
talking to them about the speed and paces of a
Tennyson
I am afraid I am not getting the wheels of my vehicle
out of the mud of mystification alluded to, very rapidly.
MARSTOX LYXCH.
115
On the contrary, I feel them sinking deeper and deeper
every moment. Besides, you know as well as I do that
secretly, and in my heart, I don't think Whitechapel of
myself at all. And why should I be so absurd as to con¬
sider it bad taste on your part, to read my—well, let us
say, amusing productions ? You know I believe to the
contrary. We are both clever fellows, that is the long and
short of it; and if you don't care about reading Tennyson,
it may possibly be that you have another favourite author
rather absorbing to the attention, and whose style, if less
pretentious and florid, may possess certain minor attrac¬
tions which
[Here the reader interrupts with an indignant cry of
"Now then, stupid!" The writer, overwhelmed with
confusion, is made to feel that he has escaped from the
frying-pan without successfully reaching the hob. He again
changes his tactics.]
In that beautiful poem, then, reader, with which we
have both been so long familiar, which may have been in¬
tended by the author (our mutual favourite) for nothing
more than an exquisitely simple fairy tale, an ingenious
friend of mine, years ago, pointed out a symbolic meaning,
that might possibly astonish the bard himself. That friend
(who being an Artist and a Poet himself has a right to be
heard on such a subject)—that friend represented the Lady
of Shalott as the type of the artist's nature and vocation.
She was doomed to a solitary and laborious life—but oh!
a life of endless charms and consolations if faithfully per¬
severed in. She was to sit with her back to the window,
and never turn round, under the penalty of a fearful curse.
But she was provided with a wondrous mirror that reflected
all passing behind her—that was the Artist's mind—her
privilege. She had to weave the sights of the world, she
was not compelled or permitted to mix with, on a magic
web—that was the Artist's canvas or writing desk—her
giound of task-work. To neglect her task, was to forfeit
her privilege. She grew "half sick of shadows," in her
solitude. One shadow more dazzling than the rest crossed
i 2
116
MAE.STON LYNCH.
her mirror. She could not help but glance out on the
reality. The glance was destruction.
She made three paces through the room,
She left the web—she left the room—
She saw the water lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelott.
Out flew the web, and floated wide,
The mirror crack'd from side to side,
" The curse is come upon me," cried
The lady of Shalott.
Have I explained my friend's meaning, and has it helped
to a tardy comprehension of my own ? Has it made you
feel a sad foreboding, that my poor weak, sensitive easy
shuttlecock of a hero—has been already dazzled by a vision
of .passing glory—inducing him to turn his glance from
the life of peaceful contemplation and glorious labour in
which we have seen him embarked ? He has got impatient
with his artist web-work. He is sick of trying to paint
shadows, and not succeeding to his satisfaction. The
Lancelot that has lured him from his study is Literature—
not the Literature which is Art and Peace—but that which
is Turbulence and Action. He has been pleased with the
success of his miserable little newspaper philippics. He
has been patted on the head and praised for clever bits of
satire on subjects for which, in Ids heart, he cares nothing.
He has begun to criticise pictures in a Longport Journal.
Pie is trenchantly severe on better painters than himself.
His eyes are precociously opened to the faults of his own
works. Unfortunately, the habit of fault-finding is not
the best groundwork for self-improvement. His own easel
is despised and neglected, not without secret and shameful
yearnings after the good path he has quitted. He has
become a clever critic. He is " Young Lynch," the Long-
port Prodigy. He is to astonish the Londoners one day
with his slashing manner. He persuades himself that he
is pleased with the prospect. It is strange, though, that
at his age, and with his gentle nature and simple training,
MARSTON LYNCH.
117
lie should jump so readily at the distractions of admiring
" society,"—none of it society that he secretly cares about.
He goes to vapid soirees and even riotous tavern assem¬
blies, where he shines immensely, it is true. He takes no
quiet walks with Howker now. He is as unwilling to be
left alone with that mute counsellor as with his other de¬
serted friend, the paint box—which has not been dusted
for a fortnight. He has in fact—
" Look'd down to Camelottj"
in his progress towards which tumultuous city it now
becomes our duty to follow him.
118
marstgn lynch.
CHAPTER XIV.
in which tijibe 11 is provided for erecting the
longport "whipping post."
Marston was rushing down to the Longport Flail
office, in a great hurry with some " copy," being a sting¬
ing article on the then Mayor of the town, with whose
person and character the -writer was wholly unacquainted;
but the "facts" and line of treatment had been furnished
by his editor. One of our hero's greatest claims to the
honours of periodical literature, was the rapidity with
which he could express himself with verve and originality
on any given text. I will do him the justice to state that
he never in his life (which became a sad one, with many
grinding temptations) wrote a line against his honest con¬
victions. But he was, unfortunately—especially at the
early period we now treat of—a terrible weathercock in
the matter of opinion. He was easily swayed by kind¬
ness, and, as he was a sadly vain fellow, flattery was
always a kindness to him. So he got flattered dread¬
fully.
As he was hurrying past the corner of the York Hotel,
his head-long career was unceremoniously arrested by a far
from gentle rap on the crown of his hat, administered by
an unmistakeable walking-stick.
Marston turned round angrily—he was keenly resentful
MAB.STON LYNCH.
119
of insult by nature—and witnessed a very remarkable
sight.
Seated on a round and commodiously-surfaced stone
post, was a very long gentleman with his very long legs
curled ingeniously round the extempore throne, so as to
preserve a somewhat difficult equilibrium. A very shiny
hat was held on the extreme back of his head by the exer¬
cise of less explicable prehensile powers of muscle. Ac¬
cording to the received laws of gravity it ought to have
been rolling in the gutter; but it held on persistently.
The gentleman was smoking an overgrown cigar, and
"whittling" an expensive walking-stick.
lYe presume the reader has already recognised the
sketch. The original was no other than Biglow T. Miles,
Esquire, enjoying his fourth cigar on his favourite post, on
to which he was accustomed to climb, not without personal
risk, every morning after breakfast, remaining there (wind
and weather permitting) during the great portion of the
forenoon. The attractions of this particular post, as an
easy and eccentric point of observation of coming and
going life in Longport, were suppose to constitute by no
means the feeblest tie that bound Mr. Miles to that city.
Certain it is, he was faithful to it. Even the cutting
strictures of the Longport boy population (and the Long-
port boys " chaff" exceedingly well for a provincial town)
failed to shake his constancy. It is true that halfpence
were no object to him, and black mail may have had some¬
thing to do with the impunity he enjoyed.
"Holloa!" said Biglow; having arrested our hero's
attention in the unceremonious manner described.
"Holloa!" Marston replied, mollified in an instant.
He did not recognise the speaker, but the good-humoured
face of the American assured him at once of friendly in¬
tentions. The precarious position of the latter, moreover,
was ample excuse for his not risking any hasty attempt at
the ordinary means of salutation.
Having secured his man, Mr. Miles proceeded to unwind
himself, and descend from his elevation. He then deli-
1-20
MABSTON LYNCH.
berately shoved a cigar, companion to the gigantic spe¬
cimen he was smoking, into Marston's month, and shook
hands warmly with him, inquiring how he found himself.
"Beally," said Marston, awkwardly; "you have the
advantage—"
" Ah! I forgot—River, you know—ducking business—"
This lucid explanation was sufficient. Marston recog¬
nised the hospitable owner of the yacht "Tayaway;"
apologised and shook hands again.
Mr. Miles, with deep satisfaction, then looked at him all
over in silence for a few seconds. This investigation con¬
cluded, he propounded the following question:—
" Going to paint?"
Marston replied, that he should probably do so in the
course of the day.
" Then come on, now."
Mr. Miles started off in the direction of' a back street.
Our hero followed wonderingly. Thoughts of commis¬
sions from a wealthy patron revived his affection for the
deserted paint-box.
Mr. Miles led the way to the bar of a neighbouring
tavern; when they had entered, he laconically requested
Marston to "name his colour."
The hero of these pages then understood that " to paint"
in the Miles vocabulary, meant to restore and fortify the
inner man with alcoholic stimulus.
He accordingly named his " colour."
His colour was a veiy mild one then. I believe he
named " sherry and cloves," or some similar nauseous
compound, such as humane publicans appear to keep on
their shelves for the purpose of frightening away—by the
infliction of severe bilious attacks—very young gentlemen
from a too early acquaintance with the mysteries of their
unhallowed shrines. Marston too rapidly learned the use
of much stronger colours to be found on the same palette !
Biglow T. Miles, to follow out his own metaphor, was
an experienced artist, accustomed to the most corrosive
pigments, which (as he probably would have expressed it
MAltSTON LYNCH.
121
himself), he was in the habit of "laying on thick," with
an utter scorn of that feeble diluent medicine, water. He
made known his chromatic wants on this occasion by the
monosyllable " Scotch."
A very large glass had been filled with neat whiskey ere
he had spoken, and placed before him as a matter of course.
Mr. Miles, equally as a matter of course, returned it
empty, in a second, to be refilled; and, as a third matter
of course, emptied it again.
Having fortified himself with this second coating, as it
were, Mr. Miles leaned his back against the metal counter
of the bar, supporting himself by his elbows (doubled up
as if he had been pinioned), and slid his legs as far for¬
ward as possible on the floor, as if ambitious of reposing
their extremities on the opposite window till—some four
yards distant. In this comfortable attitude he felt pre¬
pared for conversation, and even took the initiative by in¬
quiring—
" Well, how's things ?"
Marston replied, that things were unusually flourishing;
and, a little flushed with the sherry and cloves (though he
seldom wanted such incentive to loosen the floodgates of
his speech and confidence at the first comer's bidding),
launched into a glowing narration of his recent successes.
He informed his entertainer that he was beginning to make
a position in literature—that was to say, a position for a
young man; specified certain articles that had won praise
from stern editors of many years' standing; finally, he
requested Mr. Miles' attention to the article he was just
taking down to the office, which he read with fine inflex¬
ions of the voice and exuberant gestures, from beginning
to end. Mr. Miles applauded, and considered it a fitting-
occasion for another " Scotch", in which he pledged our
hero's future suceess. Marston was delighted. I am
afraid, if nobody else had been there, he would have read
the article to the barmaid !
Marston took another sherry and cloves (if, indeed, it was
not noyeau: I will not be sure: he was very ill the next
122
MARSTON LYNCH.
day, at any rate), and became more talkative. He thanked
Mr. Miles in a neat speech for that gentleman's exertions
in saving his life, and subsequent hospitality to himself and
friends, which told so severely on the long American's
modesty, that another coating of Scotch became indispens¬
able.
This disposed of, he picked himself up (at the great risk
of dislocating his shoulders), and looking down on our hero
•—-much like a good-natured crane at a frog, whom he had
determined to spare and make a friend of for the future—
addressed to him the inquiring monosyllable—
" Dine?"
" How do you mean—? "
" To-day."
Marston admitted that he intended performing the inte¬
resting operation alluded to in the course of the twenty-four
hours,
" Now ? "
Well; the day was certainly getting on, and our hero
felt something like an appetite. But he had first to leave
his copy at the printing-office.
" That all?"
" All."
" Then come on."
Biglow T. Miles, Esquire, strode out of the bar as he
had entered it, Marston Lynch following. They rounded
the comer and ascended the massive steps of the York
Hotel, which, as everybody who has visited Longport
knows, is a much handsomer building than Buckingham
Palace. Marston noticed, as they mounted, certain light
brown stains on the otherwise spotless stones, arranged
with no contemptible eye to artistic pattern, which he was
at no great loss to attribute to the morning exertions of his
new friend. Mr. Miles had, in fact reinforced himself with
a new quid on leaving the bar, and was observed to give
the mosaic a few finishing touches as he passed.
Marston knew that this was not the way to the printing-
office, and that his copy ought to have been in half-an-hour
MAKSTON LYXCH.
123
ago. I think I have already indicated, as a salient point
in his character, that " he couldn't help it! "
When they had reached the splendidly-paved and gilded
entrance hall, Mr. Miles, signalling an attendant with a
motion of the forefinger, uttered the brief command of
" Boots," and led the way upstairs to his private sitting-
room.
Thither the boots followed them, and was commissioned
by the American to convey Marston's manuscript to its
destination, greatly to the author's relief. He felt he
would never have taken it himself. The waiter was then
summoned—the best-dressed and most gentlemanly man,
Marston thought, he had ever seen in his life. Mr. Miles
ejaculated,—
" Dinner."
" Tor yourself only, Sir, or does the gentleman dine
with you ? "
" Two."
" Very good, Sir—may I ask if you have any selection
to make P "
" Everything—-first chop—and lots."
" Thank you, Sir. Immediately, I presume ? "
" Now."
" You shall be attended to, Sir."
The waiter seemed not only gentlemanly, but necro¬
mantic. He was back in a few seconds, superintending
the laying of the cloth by a numerous staff of under waiters
—who seemed like well-paid curates obeying the paternal
instructions of a firm but considerate dean. This seemed
to occupy no time whatever : and the freshest and hottest
of soup was served immediately. The other courses fol¬
lowed in succession as rapid as wras necessary—the gentle¬
manly waiter pervading all the arrangements, like a bland
chaplain whose blessing was practically efficacious.
It was the first real diner de luxe Marston had ever
partaken of. He had long been accustomed to ease and
plenty, amongst comfortable middle class people ; but this
excess of splendour and indifference to cost was something
124
M.VIiSTOX LYNCII.
entirely novel to him. lie was not a glutton; and I
believe be was more charmed by the lights, the ornaments
of the room, the lavish plate, the beautiful glass, and
above all by the flattering homage of well-organised anti¬
cipation of his every want, than by the endless variety of
meats and wines he partook of. Certain it is that he Avas
charmed and intoxicated (I don't mean the latter in its
literal sense; though, of course, that came on also, in the
course of the evening.) There was moreover the im¬
mense charm of the kindness and real good breeding of his
host; the very awkward eccentricities of whose external
manner obviously arose from an impossibility, in his
nature, of affection of any sort. Had Marston been feasted
with double splendour, by an ostentatious parvenu (such a
one, for instance, as he loved to represent his uncle Gre¬
gory), or had he felt that he had merely been retained for
the purpose of amusing a blase millionaire—a kind of
motive which your clever felloAVS are too apt to set down
any civility Avith which you may treat them—he would
have felt uneasy and resentful. As it was he could not
help feeling enraptured Afrith the splendid hospitality of the
self-indulgent good-natured American—who was so obvi¬
ously incapable of insulting or humiliating even a waiter !
Not the least enjoyment of the evening was in the fact
that our hero was allowed to have all the talk to himself.
He liked that immensely, I can tell you. And when a feAV
choice vintages had been wasted on him (not on Biglow
though, by no means) his glibness was unbounded. He
told his host more about his past life than I could have
told you, up to the present time, if I had every page of
the " Train" to myself from the first line of the first num¬
ber (a condition which might have interfered materially
with the sale of this now tolerably prosperous publication).
He let out all about Miss Crooze—nay more, all about
Miss Fanshawe, which case Avas more trying of revieAV
from its recency. He gave a funny—but, it must be ad¬
mitted, complimentary—sketch of Howker, as a humor¬
ous type of English middle-class character, curious to the
MARSTON LYNCH.
125
Transatlantic student. He recited many hundred verses of
his composition—Biglow T. Miles paying homage to each
ode by a copious libation. He was intensely proud of his
acquaintance with Don Sancho de Saumarez, more espe¬
cially on a hint that his host was slightly acquainted, and,
as it appeared, not unfavourably, with that patrician. He
was, of course, bitter on the subject of Gregory, in whose
side, he intended to be a thorn of Satirical Literature; as
soon as the oppressor in question should achieve such
municipal dignity as would make him worth assailing.
What he wanted, though, to effect this, and other purposes
of similar patriotic moment, was an organ to himself.
Editors were prejudiced and identified with parties. He
wanted a weekly sheet where he could, as he expressed it,
" kick up his heels"—where he could write honest satire
(which he could illustrate himself with caricatures on wood,
bv the way) pitch into humbug generally. But, however,
it required capital.
At this juncture, Mr. Biglow T. Miles got from his
chair, or rather from his three chairs, for he had been
sitting on one with each heel supported by another, and
rung the bell.
" What's the matter ?" Marston inquired, stopping with
a rather vacant stare. He had advanced to that after-
dinner stage, when it is not advisable to interrupt the
fluency of narration. Becovery of the thread in such cases
becomes troublesome.
" All right," was Biglow's reply; " go-a-head."
Marston found some difficulty in going a head. The
instantaneous entrance of the gentlemanly waiter, did away
with the necessity of his doing so.
The gentlemanly waiter, who, although it was getting
late in the evening, appeared newly-dressed and combed,
—probably his carriage was at the door, to take him to an
aristocratic party,—waited respectfully, but not abjectly,
for instructions.
" I want some more Pomard," said Biglow, " and a
printer."
128
MAUSTON LYNCH.
" And—I beg your pardon, Sir ?"
" A printer."
" Certainly, Sir ; a master printer, or a journeyman ?"
" A master."
" Very good, Sir" (if the Emperor of all the Russias
nad been called for, it is doubtful if the gentlemanly waiter
would have been surprised by, or wholly unprepared to
meet, the order). "I am afraid at this time of the even¬
ing it will be difficult to meet with one. They mostly live
out of the town."
" Send, and look."
" Of course, I shall do so, Sir. No doubt some of them
will be detained at their offices by night-work. I will
make proper inquiries. Pomard, I think you said,
Sir?"
The gentlemanly waiter sent up the Pomard immedi¬
ately, and the master printer soon after. Possibly he had
a bin of master printers in his cellar, and merely assumed
difficulty of supply, as an excuse for overcharging for the
luxury. However, the master printer was introduced and
supplied with Pomard.
I will not describe the master printer this month. My
friend William M'Connell gave you his portrait last month
—and it was excellent; his shirt-frill and protuberant
stomach were to the life. He was represented seated
opposite to Messrs. Lynch and Miles, waiting to know
what important business had induced them to send for him
at that unwonted hour.
Perhaps some of my readers (I don't mean you prover¬
bially gentle one) will remember a foot-note that explained
the premature appearance of the engraving alluded to—
which they will only be too eager to bring into court against
me. They will suspect that I had not then written the
chapter which was assumed to be only standing over for
want of room. Upon my word I had. But, as a warn¬
ing to printers and editors, if they should presume to keep
iny copy standing over this month, I have put the concern
to unheard-of expense in writing the chapter over again.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
127
I have so amplified, the result of Marston Lynch's encoun¬
ter with Miles, that I am obliged to leave off on the very
threshold of the subject of that picture. If they keep me
" standing over" a second time, I shall re-write it again,
at ten times the length. So, reader, if ever you want to
get over that particular incident in my story, you had better
write letters to the editor, imploring him to give my copy
that consideration as to time and space to which it is fairly
entitled.
[P.S. I hope you are not sorry that I altered the chapter
at all—on the hypothesis that it might have been better,
because shorter, as it stood.]
128
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XV.
in "which the longport whipping-post is esta¬
blished, and the natives begin to catch it
smartly.
The master printer showed himself a man of keen
business habits, by finishing his magnum of pomard before
speaking a word, thus securing an actual good while in his
power, lest the business in hand should prove of a nature
calculated to place matters on a less amicable footing.
" Well, gentlemen," he inquired, (setting his glass down
to be immediately refilled by the hospitable Biglow), " and
in what particular direction can I have the honour of
serving you ?"
Possibly his long intimacy with books had inspired the
master printer with an ambition to talk like one. At any
rate he did so on all occasions to the best of his imitative
ability.
Biglow came to the point at once, and said, " We want
to start a paper."
"A paper—good!" The master printer frowned
thoughtfully, and held his head on one side, after the
manner of a grave bird.
" Daily or weekly?"
"Weekly, I suppose—eh, Marston?"
" Weekly, of course."
" Weekly—good! A daily experiment in this town
would have brought you to the verge of ruin in a fortnight,
MAESTON LYNCH.
129
gentlemen. I give you my word of honour. It has been
tried—twice. Take my advice, gentlemen, and make it
weekly."
The master printer said this benignly—with the air of
one giving philanthropic counsel at considerable sacrifice
of his own interests.
" But," he added, after a pause, looking up from a briet
consultation with his second glass of pomard; "the
market's full even there, gentlemen. It is my duty, as
one intimate with the question in all its bearings, to warn
you that the market is full."
Marston observed that the proposed undertaking would
not be likely to clash with any existing interests.
" Just what I was about to do myself the honour to
observe," said the master printer, with a graceful bow.
" With new capital and enterprise—with new blood, if I
may be allowed the expression, gentlemen—with principles
in accordance with the requirements of the age we live in,
—a weekly journal might not only command innumerable
fresh channels, but" (the master printer's warmth caused
him not only to break down a little in his peroration,
but to forget his exordium)—" you might beat the whole
blessed lot out of the field in no time !"
Marston explained. The new enterprise was not in¬
tended to be a newspaper, but a satirical journal.
The master printer looked rather sorry. He had
possibly been indulging in visions of printing expenses—
considerably narrowed in their prospective circle by this
elucidation. However, he gulped down his disappointment
with some pomard, and looked up sideways again.
" A satirical journal ? Good ! There is unquestionably
room for a satirical journal in this metropolis of northern
commerce, if I may be allowed the expression. But,
gentlemen," he continued, with a second burst of candour,
" it has been tried before."
" Indeed ?" Marston inquired.
"It is my duty to tell you that the experiment has been
tried before—on two occasions. There was the Longport
K
130
MARSTON LYNCH.
Quiz and Figaro in Longport—both failures; I lost by
Figaro myself, considerably."
" But," Marston asked, " were not the papers you speak
of (without offence to you—I did not know you had been
connected with either) of a low and scurrilous character,
depending on slanderous exposures of private life, rather
than on the castigation of public vices ? Were they not
conducted on principles of black mail or extortion from
obscure, timid people, afraid of having their names brought
before the public in connection with some ridiculous or
disgusting charge ?"
The printer had waved his hand to and fro with a
smiling countenance while Marston was speaking, in sign
of anticipatory acquiescence.
" The gentleman has been kind enough to express my
very thoughts, to frustrate, if I may be allowed the ex¬
pression, my very words," he said sweetly, as if making
Marston a present of those valuable articles in the most
handsome manner. Pre—cisely—that was exactly where
it was. Scurrilous and low were the words. Extortion
and blaclc-mail were the principles, as the gentleman very
justly, and with great propriety, shows. Such things, for
instance, as 'It is not true that young Mr. Jenks the
counter-jumper at Manchester House, was seen kissing the
carrotty-headed milliner of Elizabeth-street, over the garden
railings, at two o'clock in the morning.' That was not
satire, you know. And, ' Things to be admired ! Widow
Jones's little green bottle, with the greasy cork, in the
comer cupboard. Young Snobbins's patent leathers, that
creak to be paid for.' You can't call that sort of thing
castigating public vices, gentlemen." The speaker con¬
cluded, looking round with a triumphant air, " I defy
anybody. It's impossible." And the master printer settled
the matter with a most conclusive pinch of snuff.
" Of course we should avoid anything of that descrip¬
tion," Marston said.
" Of course," acquiesced the printer, paddling the air as
before; " and that's where you would hit them. You
MARSTON LYNCH.
131
would take entirely new ground. You would give them
something quite different to what they have been ac¬
customed to—"
" If they've been accustomed to anything like what my
young friend here can give them—-I'll eat them without
salt," Biglow broke in, warmly, his enthusiastic partisan¬
ship lending him unusual volubility.
" I don't in the least doubt it, Sir," the printer assented,
with one of his best bows. " The gentleman's powers are
perhaps not wholly unknown to me. Young Mr. Lynch,
I believe ?"
" My name is Lynch," said Marston, with a confused
bow.
" You are known, Sir—well known in this town. Hon¬
ourably, moreover. And now I see clearly with whom I
have to deal; if a satirical paper can be started, ensured
of a supply of such writing as young Mr. Lynch can give
us" (Marston, in his confusion, drained Biglow's glass of
neat brandy in mistake for his own wine, and nearly choked
himself with coughing), " why the thing is safe, Sir.
Safe!"
The master printer looked round fiercely in remote
corners of the room, as if in search of concealed disputants,
to be annihilated on the spot.
" And pictures—don't forget that," said Biglow ; "that
will be something new to them."
" Pictures ? Do you mean to tell me the work will be
illustrated ?"
" In first chop style."
" Ah ! if that could be done ?—why, it's going with
greased wheels. But excuse me, gentlemen"—and the
speaker assumed the air of one about to propound a poser
—" Excuse me, gentlemen; where's your talent ?"
"PIere," roared Biglow, slapping his protege on the
back with a force that made the glasses dance on the
table.
" Bless my soul, you don't mean that young Mr.
Lynch "
K 2
132
MARSTON LYNCII.
" Hasn't his match with the pencil," said the American,
who took our hero's artistic powers for granted, on the
latter's own representations.
Marston modestly explained that he was an artist by
education; that he had some little practice in drawing on
wood in America ; and that if an engraver could be found
in the town capable of doing justice to his drawings, he
had little doubt of making a weekly caricature on some
local subject of the "week—a by no means unattractive
feature in the proposed periodical.
The printer shut up and pocketed his snuff-box, with
the air of a man who has nothing more to say. He smiled
an apology for helping himself to another glass of pomard,
which he eyed against the light enjoyingly for some seconds.
"Thompson's your man," at last he said, briefly.
" Who is Thompson ?"
" A wood-engraver from London—a pupil of Ebenezer
Landells—not a bad guarantee, gentlemen. Now the
question is, when can he have the first drawing ? Thomp¬
son requires time to do an artist justice, and a good start
is everything."
" You are satisfied with our prospects of stability ?"
Marston faltered.
" Yah !" said the disinterested printer (Marston thought
him so) with a testy movement of the head—" Am I satis¬
fied with the stability of the Pier Head ? You will do me
the justice to admit, gentlemen, that I carefully mentioned
every obstacle in your way. I'm sure anything that could
be done in the way of cold water I did it. You can't say
I encouraged you. I am not a sanguine man by nature—
and when you first mentioned the speculation, I confess I
didn't see it. Not one atom, gentlemen. But now you
bring such an array of convincing arguments—now I hear
what it is to be like—gentlemen, I haven't been five-and-
twenty years feeling the pulse of this town without know¬
ing a little of its constitution. It will hit them, Sir—safe
as the Bank—safe as the bank of young Mr. Lynch's
respected uncle."
MAUSTON LYNCH.
133
The printer treated young Mr. Lynch with one of his
best bows. He was evidently under the not uncommon
impression that to address people in the third person
singular, is a very subtle delicacy in the art of conversation.
We are possibly indebted to the chronicles of Parliamentary
eloquence for this nuisance, in company with many others
of a more serious calibre.
" Don't call him my respected uncle," said Marston,
petulantly ; " I don't respect him, for one."
"You don't!" cried the printer, whom the pomard was
gradually warming into a state of naive joviality,—" True,
I remember—Judge Midas, in the Mail—devilish good it
was, too. Then, in that case, I don't mind confessing
myself that I hate the beast." v
The two friends laughed heartily.
" He's a bad lot, Sir," the printer went on; " opposed
to all rational improvements in the town, and might have
got me some of the Council printing to do, as easy as look.
But he'd see me hanged first."
A fresh burst of laughter greeted this candid confession,
in which the printer joined, helping himself to the last
half glass of pomard, and putting his legs on a chair—as
if he lived there.
" Well, old boy," said Biglow, tossing a cigar case to
his new acquaintance ; " and what's the figure to be ?"
All the faculties of the man of business were aroused in
an instant. The printer took out a note book—and,
though his cigar rolled about in his mouth unmanageably,
his hold on the pencil was firm, and his eye keenly awake.
" I suppose we'd say crown size?"
" Certainly," said Marston, who had acquired some
knowledge (a very slight one) of printing-house techni¬
calities.
" Twelve, or sixteen pages ?"
" Twelve." Our hero had a London model-publication
before him.
" And we'd go to press with not more than two thou¬
sand—to begin with ?"
184
MARSTON LYNCH.
The two gentlemen, who had not the means of forming
the slightest opinion on the subject, agreed, gravely, that
it would be preposterous to think of more as a commence¬
ment. They would have given the same opinion had
the proposition been for five hundred, or for twenty
thousand.
The printer made a few brief calculations on a leaf of
his note book which he handed to Biglow—his instinct
readily pointing out to him which was the capitalist.
Biglow barely glanced at the amount, which he saw
would be by no means ruinous, even without the slightest
prospect of returns, and acceded to it without inspecting
the details. He referred the contractor to Marston for all
instructions, contenting himself with a general command
to " get on a-head."
The printer's attempts to conceal his exultation Avere
deplorably futile. He had possibly satisfied himself
as to Mr. Miles's position and solvency beforehand,
as he asked no impertinent questions on the delicate
subject.
" A moment," he said, Avith a radiant air, poising his
note book in one hand and beating time with his pencil in
the other ; "let us not forget, gentlemen, this is a matter
of speculation. I am as much interested in its success as
either of you. It isn't often business matters are com¬
menced so agreeably, and I hope for continuance of
present understanding." (A bow.) " You, gentlemen,
invest respectively your money and talents." (Another.)
" I, also, should like my little risk in the matter, if you
will permit me. Perhaps young Mr. Lynch will be good
enough to answer me a few questions ?"
Young Mr. Lynch assented by a movement of the
hand.
The printer commenced a course of interrogation after
the manner of electors badgering a candidate on the
hustings.
" May I ask if young Mr. Lynch is prepared to take
the popular side on the Paving and Lighting Question ?"
MARSTON LYNCH.
135
" Certainly," replied Marston, who had no idea what
the question meant.
" All right," said Biglow, who was dozing, and had not
been listening.
" Good." The printer made a note and continued:
" Is young Mr. Lynch disposed to support the new street
from Petersham Square down to St. Martin's Docks; or
—if I may be allowed the expression—to pitch into it ?"
" Well, really," Marston began, " I have given so little
attention to the matter—"
"You know it's an infernal shame ! and they oughtn't
to do it," suggested the printer, quickly.
" Send it to blazes, Marston !" said Biglow, with an
incipient hiccup.
" Good !" and the printer made another note, appa¬
rently satisfied with the capitalist's instructions, and
continued—
" Will young Mr. Lynch go in for the more extended
representation of tradesmen in the Town Council,—at
present monopolised by the merchants ?"
" Decidedly," replied the Editor.
" All right," said the Capitalist.
The printer put up his pencil and pocketed his note
book.
" In that case, gentlemen," he said (" a little brandy-
and-water with your permission, as the wine is out—wish¬
ing you good health and every success), if such views are
to be adopted, so convinced am I of the brilliant future
before us, and so anxious to respond to the gentlemanly
manner in which I have been met (gentlemen, towards you
again) that though I have put down my estimates at the
lowest figure—still, till the paper has quite reached paying
point—gentlemen, I'll knock off the machining /"
Neither Marston Lynch nor his patron had looked at
the item of machining, or had the slightest conception of
its probable importance. But they had arrived at that
stage of the evening when statistics are superseded by
emotions. There was something so intensely magnanimous
136
MARSTON LYNCH.
in the printer's manner of conceding the boon (whatever it
might have been), that they at once looked upon him in
the light of a benefactor. They rose simultaneously;
grasped him each by a hand, and promoted him to the
rank of friend on the spot.
Biglow T. Miles, Esquire; Marston Lynch, his friend
of half a day's standing ; and the printer, his other friend,
of scarcely an hour's acquaintance, made a convivial night
of it.
In the above manner was the foundation laid for the
once famous weekly journal, still possibly remembered in
the vicinity of its birth; to which it was decided that
same evening, after much incoherent discussion, the name
of the Longport Whipping Post should be given. All
preliminaries were recapitulated and settled in the coolness
of the following day. Biglow was to be held responsible
for all expenses (the celebrated item of machining provi¬
sionally excepted, which our friends were a little dis¬
appointed to find by no means heavy); Marston, for all
contributions, illustrations, and general management. The
American, whose generosity never stopped at half mea¬
sures, insisted on paying our hero a weekly sum for his
trouble, till the sale of the paper should yield compensatory
profits. After this, the property was to be made over to
the young Editor as a present.
It need scarcely be stated that, to the easy-going Vir¬
ginian Sybarite, the speculation was of no more import¬
ance than his yacht or his horse; the mere freak of a
moment to be abandoned at another. It was a pleasure to
him to feed the hobby of a clever and interesting lad
who had been thrown in his path ; and Biglow had never
been trained to deny himself any pleasures he took a fancy
for. Fortunately he was one of those rare egotists, whose
selfishness embraces a very large circle of the human family :
his favourite indulgence (and the one he spent most money
upon) was in affording pleasure to others.
With Marston Lynch the case was different. He looked
upon the new field so unexpectedly opened to his exertions
MAESTON LYNCH.
137
as a rare chance in life—which very possibly it was. He
entered upon his duties with a feeling of trembling respon¬
sibility. He was at first utterly daunted by the task be¬
fore him. Who was he ? What right had he to claim
the public attention ? Above all, where could he find
enough to say to fill the dreary waste of blank paper that
stared him in the face ? He soon got over all this. At
first, when he had written a slashing prospectus and drawn
a fantastic title-page, he felt completely aground. For
two or three days he could only manage to send to the
printer's some laboured paragraphs, which he was horrified
to discover occupied in type scarcely any space at all. But
the practical habits of his new friend Prebble (so was the
printer called) speedily rallied him. That business-like
individual sent boys to him for " copy," with brief notes
saying so many columns must be in by such a time, also
suggesting subjects for treatment, in an off-hand matter-
of-course manner. These communications all breathed
such confidence in our hero as an established literary
power, that his very pride urged him to respond in a be¬
coming manner. As he covered slip after slip of paper, he
felt alarmed at his own growing power, not of writing
brilliantly (Marston, at a much later period of his life, has
been heard to say that he never had any opinion of his own
writings till he had completely forgotten them : then, he
would occasionally find, in turning over old pages, snatches
that rather surprised him by their goodness, and the dis¬
covery that they were his own), but of working himself
into a state of excitement on utterly uninteresting subjects.
This facility of forcing sympathy or indignation where they
had not previously existed, shook his faith in writers that
had gone before him. It was his first step towards cynic¬
ism. But the exigences of the press and the delights of
production soon absorbed all other considerations. The
young writer saw a goodly printed sheet filled almost ex¬
clusively with his own compositions. By the time he had
spelt, over and over again, every line, he was firmly con-
188
MARSTON LYNCH.
vinced that each word had been dictated from the depths
of his heart's sincerity.
The early days of the Whipping Post were by no means
the least happy of our hero's existence. He had a snug
little room to himself in the neighbourhood of the printing
office—fitted up at the expense of his patron with the most
orthodox editorial appurtenances. These were a source of
long enduring delight; and here he was treated with
supreme respect by all comers. Hither Mr. Prebble, who
was of a chirpy and sanguine disposition, would come
several times a day in high spirits, which he imparted to our
busy hero, by glowing accounts of the sensation they were
already creating, and loud encomiums on the excellence of
the copy as it was rapidly sent in. The furniture soon be¬
gan to show signs of repeated visits from Biglow with his
unsparing knife. (The carpet had been thoughtfully
selected of a warm Cavendish tint, and therefore preserved
its colour.) The Virginian, indeed, spent the greater part
of his time in the Editor's room, which he kept plentifully
stocked with luxurious provisions. His long form was
soon favourably known in the neighbouring bar parlour,
where the most unexceptionable " Scotch" was kept in un¬
failing supply. Biglow was much taken by the mysteries
of the printing-office, where he was idolised in return, and
where a growing tendency on the part of the operatives to
join incorporated temperance societies had seemed unac¬
countably checked with his advent, and was certainly
followed by a most decided reaction. He was always at
hand, with his imperturbable good temper, exhaustless
generosity, and, above all, unchanging approbation, to
encourage Marston in his labours.
Nearly the whole of the work fell on our hero's shoul¬
ders. Numberless provincial talents had been pointed out
to him as likely to render him valuable assistance. These
certainly had been profuse enough in their offers and
experiments. Prebble knew, at least, a dozen fellows of
unsurpassable smartness. Ilowker volunteered the collec-
MABSTON LYNCH.
139
tive services of tlie entire composition class of the Literary
and Scientific Institution to which he belonged—who pub¬
lished (for presentation) a miscellany,, selected from the
Society's album, once a year, to the admiration of a hun¬
dred tea tables. All these aspirants would have given
their ears to appear in genuine print; and it pained Mars-
ton sadly to refuse their contributions insertion. But they
were, for the most part, sad trash; he was true to his
artistic instincts, in the fastidious balance of which they
were found so terribly wanting. He fell back on his own
resources, and made two or three dozen bitter enemies to
begin with. He received some little assistance from a
very unexpected source—from no less a personage than
Biglow himself. The worthy Yirginian had not one spark
of vanity or ambition of any kind in his whole composition.
But he was a bit of a humourist, and frequently struck
out in conversation queer scraps of American character and
observation, which Marston eagerly seized and committed
to paper—by no means to the detriment of the number
in progress. Prebble was useful, too, but rather embar¬
rassing. As a red-hot local politician he was invaluable ;
but for his guiding counsel, Marston (who was a mere
puppet in his hands in this department) would never have
had an opinion to express on matters relating to the Body
Corporate of Longport, whose proceedings he .secretly
loathed. But as an ambitious wag Prebble was trouble¬
some. He would bring suggestions purporting to be
facetious, that made the perspiration stand, in cold beads
on our hero's forehead, in his futile endeavours to discover
their point. Sometimes the ambitious printer would hit
on a tolerable joke, which Marston was only too delighted
to please him by inserting. But his general doom was
the waste-paper basket. Prebble was a philosopher, how¬
ever. He consoled his wounded vanity by a reflection that
all men of genius were " cranky," and was too magnani¬
mous to let his blighted hopes abate one jot his admiration
for our hero's character and abilities, which was boundless
140
MARSTON LYNCH.
and genuine—and continued so throughout their queer
acquaintance.
The first number of the Whipping Post made a decided
sensation. Its most prominent attraction was a page-size
caricature, consisting of a group of local magnates (who
had been pointed out by the patriot Prebble as the sort of
men to be held up to loathing and ignominy), in convict
attire, and with their legs chained together. The subject
was entitled, " Waiting for the Whip." Marston had
been very happy in most of the likenesses, and the en¬
graver had done him full justice. The appearance of a
tolerably executed wood-cut, embodying a subject of local
satire, was certainly a novelty in a provincial town. It is
needless to say that, prominent among the group of male¬
factors, the artist had represented his own uncle—a very
monster of ludicrous deformity. Gregory also cut an im¬
portant—of course not favourable—figure in the text.
Marston had been regretting that the number would have
to make its appearance, and his detested relative be let off
with no more severe punishment than one or two insignifi¬
cant paragraphs—which he considered by no means adequat e
to the culprit's deserts. But just on the eve of publication,
he was informed that a column was still wanting. His
topics and invention were tolerably exhausted. He took
up an unopened newspaper, just arrived, and glanced over
the report of a Town Council Meeting on the previous day
—in search of any name or subject on which to hang either
pun or parody. He saw the name of Gregory Lynch, and
was interested in a moment. Gregory's evil genius—or
perhaps Marston's good one—had prompted the former to
oppose a municipal grant for some proposed Public Baths
and Washhouses, on the score of necessary economies. This
was .enough for our impetuous hero. His uncle had dared
to oppose a sanitary measure of the highest public neces¬
sity ; he seized a pen, and the printer's devil had to wait
a very short time indeed for the following tremendous
effusion:—
MAKSTON LYNCH.
141
LYNCH LAW.
A GEEGOHIAN CHANT.
(The Honourable Member for the Tape*-street Ward loquitur.)
Your worship, sirs ! upon my word
I'm floor'd, astonish'd, puzzled, vex'd, too;
What, talk of cleanliness! —absurd!
Do, pray, reflect, on what it's next to.
What, scrub the people's greasy polls
Cooling their brains—to think they've souls ?
Of tell-tale water grant supplies
To wash the dust from out their eyes ?
Combs are lost on mangy cubs,
Soon you'll change your cry, I hope :
Burn the mangles ! smash the tubs!
Down with water! no more soap !
Bethink ye of the dire effect
Of cleansing all the population :
They'll hold each polish'd nose erect
Sniffing ideas above their station.
Will folks, who spotless garments don,
Among the mud be trampled on ?
Besides clean hands would make them shirk
For us, their share of dirty work.
Combs are lost on mangy cubs,
Soon you'll change your cry I hope:
Burn the mangles ! smash the tubs!
Down with water! no more soap!
Why, sirs, when this good town was young,
Think you that any present magnate
Had left the mud from whence he sprung,
Had he not let the waters stagnate ?
Who, with a clean and healthy home,
To plough the seas for us would roam ?
Who'd steal us slaves, save slaves for pay,
Body and soul as dark as they ?
Combs are lost on mangy cubs,
Soon you'll change your cry, I hope:
Burn the mangles! smash the tubs!
Down with water ! no more soap!
* Gregory Lynch represented the Cape-street Ward in the
Longport Council Chamber. The term substituted was meant
in galling allusion to his former occupation.
142
MARSTON LYNCH.
A limpid draught from well or brook
Awakens thirst for cooling knowledge :
A snowy shirt suggests a hook ;
From washing-tubs they'll want a college.
These unborn wants to satisfy,
For time and wages more they'll cry :
Our giant fortunes put to route,
The universe will be wash'd out!
Combs are lost on mangy cubs,
Soon you'll change your cry I hcpe :
Burn the mangles ! smash the tubs !
Down with water ! no more soap !
In addition to the above magnificent tirade levelled at
his uncle's conservatism (Marston was quite mistaken by
the way : Gregory was a moderate liberal in politics—his
opposition to the washing question was a mere matter of
temporary expediency), our hero dashed off the following
" stinging" paragraphs, which he instructed the printer to
distribute in various parts of the number:—
"The Great Water 'Party.'—The objections of the Hon¬
ourable Haberdasher for Tape-street, to the oroposed Hydraulic
Improvements are easily understood. He cannot bear the idea
of any pump spouting hut himself."
"A Remark in ' Ercies Vein.'—A wealthy councillor (the
origin of whose fortune may not he so Black as it is painted) has
expressed a determination to crush the Public Baths and Wash-
houses scheme, which (in his inimitable playful manner) he
speaks of as the .Hydro-headed monster."
" Quite a new View oe it.—It appears we are wrong to
assume that the distinguished opponent of public cleanliness is
at all actuated by a spirit of malevolence towards the lower
orders. He says what he has done is entire'y for their good.
Scrubbing cannot be beneficial to them, as he remembers having
once received a good towelling himself, and he didn't like it
at all."
And then tbe required column was complete.
The first number realised a bona fide sale of fifteen hun¬
dred. Prebble was in ecstacies. He declared that he had
never known anything within such a close shave of paying
expenses in his life.
marston lynch. 143
CHAPTER XVI.
mb. gregory lynch sees company.
Mr. Biglow T. Miles's favourite post—I do not allude
to the Longport Whipping Post, but to its proprietor's
daily seat in front of the York Hotel—was found by that
gentleman most convenient for purposes of study. It was
not only his social observatory, but his reading room also.
It amounted to a positive calamity when a wet day com¬
pelled him to digest his Times in the coffee-room, instead
of on the eminence he loved.
The sky was cloudless on the morning of the Whipping
Post's first appearance. Biglow, cheered by the favour¬
able omen, had brought his honorary copy (printed on fine
paper, and sent by special messenger to await his rising,
on the breakfast table) uncut into the open air, in order to
enjoy it thoroughly. He had mounted his throne, round
which his legs seemed to entwine like ships' cables, with¬
out reference to conventional anatomy, and was soon
luxuriating deeply in the new sensation of contemplating a
work of literature in the production of which he had been
himself concerned.
The mere smell of the wet ink and paper had afforded
him unmixed satisfaction for some time. This beginning
to pall a little, he betook himself to cutting the leaves
slowly, and regarding each page separately as a mere
144
MARSTON LYNCII.
artistic effect of light and shade. He tried numerous
devices of folding and opening. He looked at the paper,
as a whole, from various points of view,—at arm's length,
with his eyes half closed, with his head nearly upside
down. He inspected the wood-cuts minutely: he was
much impressed by the ingenious process of " cross-
hatching." The result of all these experiments was a
conviction that the Whipping Post was a publication
calculated to inspire admiration and envy, and one without
which no gentleman's' library could possibly be complete.
The literature—of which he had read every word in the
proofs—he reserved as a bonne bouclie. Having exhausted
all external attractions, he commenced deliberately with a
tailor's advertisement at the top of the title page (which
struck him as being rather well written), and proceeded to
go straight through the work without missing a line. He
had got to the second page and was beginning to feel
rather literary than otherwise at the discovery of one of
his own "notions," felicitously dressed up by Marston,
when a pleasant voice, close to his ear, was heard saying,
" Mr. Miles, from Virginia, I think ? "
" All right," said Biglow, fairly toppling off his perch
in his astonishment at a challenge that reminded him of
his distant home.
When he had recovered his legs, and a portion of his
composure, he found himself confronted by an elegantly
formed and dressed man, of the middle height, whose ap¬
pearance, at the first glance, was extremely youthful, but
at a second, considerably less so. His face was eminently
handsome, and ornamented by a graceful jet-black
moustache. The black was obviously not genuine. At
the first glance you would have thought it the device of a
vain youth aspiring precociously to the honours of man¬
hood. At the second, you wondered whether it might not
be necessitated by an obtrusive and possibly premature
grey hair or so. The stranger's clothes were faultless as
to fit and material, though of apparently studied plainness.
The one or two unobtrusive articles of jewellery he wore
marston lynch.
145
were evidently of great value. Altogether, the man's
aspect was refined and prepossessing.
" I know your face, but I don't remember you," said
Biglow, always blunt in speech, but courteous in manner.
" And yet I have not forgotten a very delightful
evening I spent in your society, some four years ago, in
New York."
"By Jove, yes," said the American, shaking hands
warmly, " dinner with those jolly fellows of the theatre.
I'm delighted to see you, and—-hang me if I can remem¬
ber your name now."
" The name I then bore is not worth the trouble," said
the stranger, with a frank smile, "as it was not my own.
I was simple making an ass of myself as an amateur actor,
and had the grace to spare my family a little. Permit me
to introduce myself by a name which, I trust, I am no
longer doing anything to make ridiculous."
And the stranger, from a handsome filagree case, pre¬
sented a very thin enamelled card, on which was engraved
in the Trench manner, without any titular prefix, simply
the name—
" Sancho de Saumarez,"
surmounted by a crest.
" To be sure," said Biglow; " I remember now. Don
Saumarez, I think ? "
" That is my name when I am at home, as the Irish¬
man says," answered our old acquaintance, laughing.
" I find the distinction rather a nuisance in this country,
and have ceased to make use of it—except," he added
with some dignity, " in event of my claim to it being dis¬
puted. Have you any particular business to occupy you
this morning ? "
Biglow's round eyes became like an owl's with astonish¬
ment. His countenance broke slowly into an expansive
grin. The idea of his- being occupied by particular
business at any time was a much better joke than any in
the Longport Whipping Post.
l
146
MARSTON LYNCH.
He replied that he' was a perfectly idle man, as usual.
" Then, will you walk ? "
The Mexican offered his arm, which Biglow accepted,
instinctively turning in the direction of his favourite bar
round the corner. He considered this happy meeting
with a gentleman of whose social qualities he had such
pleasant recollections, an historical event, to be celebrated
in the choicest colours of his own favourite school of
painting.
The elegant Don Sancho expressed not the slightest as¬
tonishment or uneasiness at being led into the obscure
tavern. He, moreover, took kindly to his paint, knocking
off, to the admiration of his entertainer, a small glass of
fiery whiskey, in sporting phrase, without turning a hair.
He was a gentleman of cosmopolitan accomplishments.
" A very fair glass of whiskey," he said, with a frown
and smack of a connoisseur; " but vastly inferior to our
jpulque."
" What's that ?" asked Biglow eagerly, pricking up his
ears at the suggestion of an untried drink.
" A Mexican spirit, distilled from the prickly pear.
That diluted with half Scotch whiskey, would make a fair
glass of grog."
Biglow meditated a moment on the propriety of at once
abandoning his long-deferred trip to the Mediterranean,
and taking the first ship to - Mexico. He sighed, and
thinking it best to cling to present good, proposed a
seeond glass of Scotch.
"No," said Saumarez decisively; " it's against my
principle to drink in the morningand then he added,
quickly divining that an admission of systematic tempe-
perance would lower him in his companion's estimation,
" it's a ruinous plan, depend upon it. It quite spoils you
for the evening."
Biglow admitted that there might be something in that.
But not being of so calculating a disposition himself, and
never having found his evening's amusement at all inter¬
fered with by his morning's refection, took a hasty nip
MARSTON LYNCH.
14?
by himself and followed his newly-found friend into the
street.
The Mexican took his arm, and they walked in the
direction of the business part of the town.
"You may think our meeting of this morning an acci¬
dent," said the former after a short silence : "it was
not so."
" No ?"
" I learnt you were here from mutual friends. In the
first place—
" Marston, I suppose. He told me he knew you."
" From Marston, precisely, whose handiwork I see you
have got hold of there—very smart and clever it is too,
full of boyish ferocity, but none the worse for that. By
the way, he is deeply indebted to you; few lads meet with
such a friend to start them in life. However, I also have
my ambition to serve him in my quiet way. It is in his
interest I am now taking you this pleasant-walk."
" Glad to hear it," said honest Biglow. " How ?"
The reader has already had some inkling of Don Sancho's
penchant for sudden " effects" of conversation. On the
present occasion, he looked his companion full in the face
for some seconds, in silence, and then said slowly—
" I want you to come on 'Change with me, and shake
hands with Gregory Lynch."
The Virginian withdrew his arm, and stopped, with a
look of displeasure.
" I know your objections," pursued the other; "and
you are wrong. Till that day on the river" (Biglow
started), " you were Gregory Lynch's frequent guest, and
as frequently his host. Since then you have avoided
him in a most marked manner, your motive for doing
so being a suspicion too horrible to be lightly enter¬
tained."
" Who told you of this ?" asked the astonished Vir¬
ginian ; " I never mentioned"—
" No matter; let it suffice that I know it—and you
admit it. You believe that in preventing your friend from
L 2
148
MAKSTON LYNCH.
saving' his nephew and step-daughter, he was conscious of
what he was doiug?"
" He gave Billy a back-hander with the aim of a prize¬
fighter, and the face of a devil," added Bigiow with a
shudder.
" I am aware of it. Marston has got hold of the whole
story—not from you, I am convinced—and takes exactly
your view of it. It terrified me at first, I admit. But, as
a friend of the family, I have taken some pains to sift the
matter, and I am convinced you are both wrong. In the
first place, consider the effects of a panic on one wholly un¬
used to physical dangers. I lately saw a man come out of
a burning house, into which he had rushed to save his own
child, with something enveloped in a shawl which he
guarded like a demon. It turned out to be an empty salt
box. I could multiply cases by hundreds. A drowning
man will not only catch at a straw—he will push away a
plank from him to get hold of it. The next question is
one of motive. Why should Gregory wish for the death
of either of the young people ? There seems no question
of inheritance at stake. The girl's mother's property he
sacked legally as her husband. With regard to Marston,
the old man (Gregory's father) died: intestate. Nearly all
his property was freehold: the son. inherited. Such little
personal property as there was, was duly divided-—and
Marston's share duly wasted by his weak visionary of a
father. Remember, if you are doing the man an injustice,
it. is a most fearful one."
" True : I fancied I had' kept all this to myself, but you
have so completely taken me off my guard"—
Don Sancho smiled a smile of satisfaction. Perhaps the
taking people off their guard was an art he had studied,
and he was flattered by the compliment of successi
" Understand me," he resumed, " I am no bosom friend
of Gregory Lynch. God forbid, there should be any sym¬
pathy between me and such a man. I am forced into a
hollow business, connexion with him, which takes the out¬
side forms of friendship. But if I despised him more
MARSTON LYNCH.
149
than-1 do, I would take some pains to clear him or any
other man of the fearful suspicion you have attached to
him, or—which I should like as well—to bring the suspi¬
cion to a certainty. But I believe and hope it is ground¬
less. It is on Marston's account, however, I would seek
to bring you into contact with him. You are greatly
respected in this town for your social qualities, and, it
must be added, for your wealth. You are known to be
the lad's great friend, and your continued coolness towards
his uncle would widen the breach between them, perhaps
irreparably. I do think of my poor young friend's future.
I am not a sentimental man(Don Sancho whipped
something away from his eyelash as if he was ashamed of
it, and his voice dropped a little), " but I love the boy as a
brother. I think I see in him promise—of what I might
have been myself: pshaw!—that's not the question. He
will make his way in the world—with friends—not other¬
wise. You are a mere bird of passage : here to-day, gone
to-morrow. So am I. Besides, I have not your means—
at present, at all events. Left to his own resources, with
his rich uncle for an enemy (which Marston is doing
his best to make him), what is to become of the poor
fellow?"
" You're a devilish good fellow yourself," said Biglow,
a little confused in his reasoning, but willing to sink every
consideration iuhis desire for Marston's welfare. " Gome
along."
"You will meet Gregory as if nothing had happened?"
" If he likes."
" Why he can hardly be aware of your repugnance, :as
yet, at all events. My object was to nip it in the bud.
Certainly, he can not attribute it to its real motive, unless,
indeed,"—the Don gave a slight .shudder,—" but I will not
think it possible. Do not let me, however, persuade you
to do anything against your convictions."
" All right," said Biglow, urging him on uneasily.
" Let's go."
" If you adhere to your suspicions, in God's name do
150
MARSTON LYNCH.
not let me shake them; on the contrary, if you believe
there is justice to be done, let me rather assist you to do
it. Or if you think I have penetrated into your thoughts
unjustifiably, I give you my honour that what has passed
between us shall be sacred."
" Go a-head," said Biglow.
They walked towards the Exchange. Don Sancho
changed the conversation, and spoke pleasantly on various
general subjects. Biglow was ill at ease. The noise of
deep surging water buzzed in his ears as he went along,
and a wan despairing face in the agonies of death, side by
side with another, that death seemed already to have
kissed, accompanied him like attendant phantoms.
The Exchange flags of Longport form a very pleasant
lounging sort of promenade in the fine sunny weather;
and if you think the Longport merchants men of too grave
and business-like a character to enjoy its advantages
thoroughly, you were never more mistaken in your life.
They have a good deal of fun there, I assure you. It is
true they do not possess the inestimable privilege of closed
doors, enjoyed by their neighbours of the Stock Exchange,
whose practical hilarity, I am informed on good authority,
does not even stop short at Leap-Frog and Follow-my-
Leader. Nevertheless, the merchants aftd brokers, ship or
cotton (any of whom would discharge a clerk for whistling
in business hours), have their little practical jokes and
friendly interchanges of banter, which no amount of public
scrutiny can wholly deprive them of. Above all, they are
careful not to overwork themselves : knowing their import¬
ance as the main props and stays of a commercial country,
they make a point of confining their own exertions to a
little talk among themselves in the early part of the day,
leaving to underlings (regularly paid for the purpose) the
care of working out all laborious details—the unimportant
one of spending the money excepted. This prevents too
great a wear and tear of their valuable constitutions, and
is the means of preserving them to the community, for
which we can never be sufficiently thankful.
MARSTON LYNCH.
151
The only drawback, in fact, to the pastoral delights of
the Exchange flags (the gloom shed by an occasional
bankruptcy excepted) is rather an undue preponderance of
leisure. The merchant princes—like many other terrestrial
potentates— sometimes find it rather difficult to get through
the morning. Biscuits, sherry, and the daily and weekly
papers are of some slight assistance; but these diversions
are limited. It will therefore, be believed that the advent
of any new source of amusement is hailed by the assembled
elders of commerce with all the rapture of innocent hearts
—not to say of schoolboys. This was a principle
thoroughly understood by those astute observers, in all
communities, the news-boys; a strong detachment of which
sagacious order, within ten minutes of the first issue of the
Longport Whipping Post, made its appearance with large
unopened bundles of that infant publication, which were
readily disposed of..
The merchants were delighted—especially those who
were not satirised in the journal, and whose friends were.
Gregory Lynch's appearance on 'Change was the signal for
a shout of exultation; that is to say, among such of his
confreres as were rich enough to take that liberty: the
poorer merchants bowed respectfully and made way for
him, retiring to obscure corners to gloat over the para¬
graphs in his disfavour among themselves. The remorseless
Billy, who with a foreknowledge of the impending fun had
come early on purpose, singled out his victim at once. He
seized Gregory by the button-hole, and held him captive
while he read aloud, in mock heroic tones, and interspersed
with marginal remarks in his own uncompromising style,
Marston's most withering phillipics. A select audience of
Longport magnates formed a circle round the pair, and
contemplated the slow torture of their friend with un¬
bounded rapture. One venerable old gentleman, with a
very purple face (reputed to be worth a million or two),
was obliged to give vent to the exuberance of his delight
in a series of short standing jumps, with his hands thrust
deep in the pockets of his inexpressibles.
152
MARSTON LYNCH.
Gregory bore it pretty patiently. He appeared pre¬
occupied and uncomfortable, but from some more remote
cause. Latterly he had been greatly complimented on his
improved looks and •spirits. Things had, in fact, gone
smoothly with him. His speculations had succeeded. He
had heard nothing more of Don Sancho, and had begun to
hope there was some hitch in that gentleman's case against
him. With regard to the river adventure—a slight refer¬
ence to what has been already said on Gregory's substitute
for a conscience will satisfy the reader that he soon felt
easy on that score. Finding his conduct attended by no
after inconveniences, he readily persuaded himself that he
had acted unintentionally—that he had lost his presence of
mind, and so forth. In a short time he would probably
succeed in believing that he had lent valuable assistance to
the sufferers rather than otherwise. The only thing that
served to keep any uneasiness alive on this head was the
unmistakeable coolness of Biglow, which he was at no loss
to attribute to its right cause. But he knew the American
was a discreet man, and not given to babble. Moreover,
he would doubtless soon leave the country. The volatile
Billy, upon whom all impressions were evanescent, had
rapidly forgotten his friend's dark suspicions, and treated
Lynch as formerly. Altogether Gregory had been easier
in his mind than for months past.
This morning, though, there was a decided change in
him. He was pale and absent. He scarcely heard the
wondrous facetiae, quoted or improvised by Billy, that
elicited such peals of laughter around him. He began to
be fatigued, not by the remarks of his satirist, or their
commentator, but by being held to one spot. His ear was
mechanically following the chorus of Marston's metrical
onslaught—which Billy had adapted to a chaunt of his
own invention, and was declaiming vigprously—when he
felt the touch of a light whip-handle on his shoulder.
He turned round and beheld Don Sancho de Saumarez,
his handsome face radiant with friendship, hanging amicably
on the arm of Biglow Miles.
MARSTON LYNCH.
153
" How do you do ? " said the former, rapidly thrusting
out his hand, which a slight compression of the brows
over the keen authoritative black eyes commanded Gregory
to accept amicably.
Gregory obeyed, wondering why he did so.
" My friend Miles, it seems, you are already acquainted
with," said Saumarez in his blandest tones, at the same
time wringing Lynch's hand significantly.
The ground seemed to reel under the unfortunate mer¬
chant. A friendship between those two—what could it
bode ? He found himself shaking hands with Miles, and
uttering words without coherency.
A new surprise was in store for him, and not him alone.
Billy looked up from his paper, in which he had been
pointing out a choice morsel to the purple-faced old mil-
lionnaire.
Holloa! Longshanks!" he cried; " and Saumarez
with you. Why everybody seems to know everybody
else ! How are you both ?"
Billy shook hands with them both heartily.
Gregory Lynch and Biglow were equally astonished at
this new intimacy.
"I fancy my acquaintance with my friend Miles is of
longer date than any of yours," said Don Sancho. " Lynch
—a word with you. I have just come from Genoa, and
brought you a message from our friends, the Merripebbles.
Gentlemen, excuse us a moment."
And he led the bewildered Gregory to a short distance
from the group, with gestures of the most easy intimacy.
" I'm not afraid to trust myself with you, you see," he
began ; " as we are not on the river, I am not frightened.
You received my note ? "
" I received a bit of tomfool theatrical mystery, signed
by somebody, saying I should see him to-day," the mer¬
chant growled.
" You knew perfectly well it was from me. It was signed
with my name, Sancho de Saumarez—a name it recom¬
mended you to speak of with respect on all occasions.
154
MAltSTON LYNCH.
Don't forget that. You see that man who accompanies
me ? "
" Well?"
"You know him. He is a man of integrity and honour,
tilings you don't value; but also a man of wealth, a thing
you do. He has shunned you lately. You know why."
" I don't understand—"
" You do. Don't let us enter into particulars; it is not
a nice subject. I have acted in your interest to-day,
and induced him to give up his suspicions for the pre¬
sent."
" Whatever this gibberish may mean," said Gregory,
with a clumsy sneer, " it seems you've changed your
tactics."
" Fortunately for you. It suits my purpose to be in
concert with you. I am not in raptures with the honour,
but you may thank your stars. You have a dinner party
to-night ?"
" What the—" Gregory began.
" I'll join it. Miles can be persuaded to accompany
me. His accepting your hospitality after the occurrence
might weaken his evidence, if called for. There ! don't
turn all colours in that manner. Eemember where you
are, and the - people who are looking at you. My dear
Miles," and the speaker wheeled his victim suddenly
round, so as to confront the group they had recently left,
pitching his voice, as he did so, in a loud key, "our friend
Lynch wants us to dine with him to-day. Can you ?"
If ever Gregory Lynch had been impressed with the
awful majesty of Impudence, he was at that moment.
" Do, Bigfellow !" Billy struck in ; " I'm going for
one. We'll take sixteen copies of the Whipping Post with
us, and chaff Gregory till he's blue in the face. He
doesn't look a good colour now, but he hasn't half had it
yet."
Biglow stammered out an acceptance of the invitation,
not very cordially.
" Then it's a bargain," said Don Sancho, briskly.
MARSTON LYNCH.
155
" Gregory, good-bye for the present. Come Miles, we idle
dogs have no right to trespass on these busy bees in honey
time. My fellow was to have been here with the cart five
minutes ago. Oh, there he is. Hi ! What time, Gregory?
Six ?"
Gregory nodded helplessly from the remote realms of
dream-land into which the events of the last few minutes
had whirled him.
A handsome dog-cart drew up to the nearest kerb stone
in charge of a faultless tiger of the latest metropolitan
pattern. Saumarez waving an airy adieu to the mercantile
group hurried Biglow (as much astonished as any one) to
a seat in the vehicle; leapt on to the box, touched the
horse (a gigantic grey) with the whip ; and tooled down
the High-street at a spanking rate, to the wonder and ad¬
miration of Longport generally.
" Who's that fellow, Gregory " asked the merchant.
" I—I don't know—that is, he's a young man of a
very good Mexican family I believe—a friend of Merri-
pebbles, the stock-broker."
If the prevailing ambition of Don Sancho de Saumarez
were really to take people off their guard, he may be con¬
sidered on this occasion to have killed several birds by one
very decisive stone.
We will not follow Gregory Lynch through the laby¬
rinth of new perplexities that beset him. Let it suffice,
that he felt more prostrate than ever before the influence of
his mysterious persecutor. The cause of this was a mad¬
dening reflection that if the alleged proof of his early guilt,
in the possession of the latter were genuine (which he
had vainly tried to doubt) the facts of his conduct on the
memorable occasion of the water party, would form a
damning auxiliary in their establishment before a court of
justice. On the whole, he was relieved by the discovery
that the Mexican had some apparent motive for conciliat¬
ing him. ■
Six o'clock arrived, and -with it, at the customary inter¬
vals, the dinner guests of Huskisson Lodge. Billy was
156
MARSTON LYNCH.
among the first, with rather more white neck-tie than was
necessary, but resplendent of jewellery, and with the gene¬
ral bearing of two-and-twenty. Our old acquaintance,
Mr. Tofts, was of the invited. It was his first admission
to the mysteries of the Gregorian table—consequently, a
day to be marked with a white stone in the merchant-
prince-let's calendar. Tofts was a very fair specimen of
Young Longport—where, as in other social latitudes, the
rising generation is happily an improvement on its fore¬
runner.
Old Longport cared for making money exclusively.
Longport the younger inherits all his father's taste for that
agreeable pursuit, and is quite as clever at it. But he has
dawning perceptions of a distinction between means and
ends, denied to his predecessor. He worships the family
idol—money—with equal, but more enlightened devotion.
He is not content with secret homage to the shrine—he
accepts the Deity's blessings, and enjoys them openly. Old
Longport was a sordid anchorite, given to fasting and cas-
tigation. Young Longport is a jovial priest, in purple and
fine linen, with his Gothic abbey amid rich pastures, with
a goodly refectory, and costly illuminated missals. Mr.
Tofts, while emancipating himself " by his own unaided
exertions," as the pleasant fiction has it (I should like to
see the phenomenon who really succeeded in life by such
means), with surprising rapidity from a very obscure busi¬
ness position, had also made praiseworthy efforts to qualify
himself for an influential station that seemed so readily
within his grasp. He had read a good deal (rather on the
" cramming system, it is true), and never omitted the
opportunity of a week's holiday to dash over as
many thousand miles of Continential Bailway as might
be practicable. He had more than a smattering of the
principal modern languages, and could pass respectable
muster in any general conversation on the arts and litera¬
ture. Altogether—bating a little supercilious pomposity
—Mr. Tofts was a very presentable sort of person. No
truer index to his growing importance in the public esteem
MARSTON LYNCH.
157
could be given then his recognition by Gregory Lynch as
an intimate.
The remaining guests, our old acquaintances excepted,
were wealthy nonentities —shrewd, clever fellows enough,
in their own sphere, but mere ciphers out of it. Biglow
and Don Sancho were the last to arrive. The former was
a little bit flushed—(they had been feting the printers in
honour of number one, to the utter subversion of all dis¬
cipline)—but a florid waistcoat, such as could not have
bloomed on this cold side of the Atlantic, served to tone
down the tints of his countenance. His companion was
in faultless dinner costume, and in the highest imaginable
spirits.
Don Sancho was the life and soul of the evening. The
churlish mistrust invariably evinced by Englishmen of the
wealthy classes towards a stranger-—especially one who
lays himself out to be entertaining—was soon overcome
in the assembly by his easy manners, inexhaustible flow of
conversation, and, above all, by his chameleon powers of
adapting himself to surrounding circumstances. He talked
Exchange, stock and scrip, to the, merchants, with sur¬
prising mastery of his subject. He explained fluctuations
of money markets in brief historical essays, and picturesque
glances at existing states of society. If a proposed foreign
railway or mining company were alluded to, he had either
travelled over the country, and could illustrate its resour¬
ces from his own experience—(generally in the form of
exciting adventure, often telling humorously against him¬
self)—or he could impart information on the subject, de¬
rived from other sources, that invariably proved of a nature
most agreeable to-his interlocutors. He entered warmly
into all their dry, utilitarian topics, to which he gave an
artistic and almost poetic colouring that surprised and flat¬
tered his hearers.. He was moreover patient of interrup¬
tion and contradiction; and. possessed the subtle art of
feigning to receive enlightenment, while in reality dis¬
pensing it.
The merchants listened with almost childish attention to
158
MARSTON LYNCH.
the accomplished traveller and viveur, to whom so many
unknown worlds, as well as their own narrow one, seemed
familiar. He, in reality, monopolised the conversation
without appearing to do so, He was prompt to discover
the hobby of each convive, and which he took care to trot
out gently now and then—never failing to give the animal
an encouraging pat on the shoulder. He put words into
the mouth of the speechless, and helped to deliver the diffi¬
dent. To Mr. Tofts he was especially attentive, and he
had his reward. His encouragement of that gentleman
was the means of affording him (Don Sancho) an oppor¬
tunity of establishing himself in the estimation of his
hearers in a less equivocal position than he had previously
occupied.
Mr. Tofts had been to London recently, and discoursed
of theatres. Mr. Tofts knew French tolerably well, so he
preferred discoursing of the St. James's. He even went
so far (incited by Don Sancho) as to attempt an imitation
of a celebrated Parisian comedian, at that time delighting
the Londoners, in a tolerably sparkling vaudeville.
Toft's imitation was pronounced faultless by the mer¬
chants who were not judges, and by the stranger who was
one.
" But you must pardon me for saying," said the latter,
" not that it is of the slightest consequence—that the last
passage was incorrectly given—so much in fact as to
destroy the writer's meaning.
" I think not,"a nswered Tofts, modestly. " I have the
book at home. I read it only last week."
" Then," retorted the Mexican, with a chuckle, " you
have possibly the advantage over me, for I only wrote it
last year"
The amusing stranger was evidently believed to be
joking. He, as evidently, enjoyed the impression.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Tofts, with good-humoured in¬
credulity. " Have I the honour of addressing M. Eugene
Delorges?"
" My name is Sancho Eugene Delorges Morcartz de
MARSTON LYNCH.
Saumarez," answered the other. " I am descended by my
mother's side from a noble French family and a very
ancient Irish one. Only, in my capacity of French vaude-
villiste, I do not think proper to display my polyglot
nomenclature in its integrity."
A brief explanation convinced the assembly that the
speaker was in reality a French litterateur of some honour¬
able standing.
"I see the name of a Vicomte Eugene Eelorges at the
head of several French Joint Stock Companies," observed
an old speculator. "Any relation?"
" I am the person," said the Don quietly.
This created an immense sensation—not, however, wholly
favourable at first. It was rapidly cleared up.
" I think," said the object of interest, in a tone of
relishing jocularity, " I can see at the corner of my friend
Toft's mouth an incipient sneer intended for my Vicomte-
ship. I hope it will not be necessary for me to explain
that' Vicomte' in France means the son of a Count. My
father is the Conde Balthazar Lope de Saumarez in the old
Castilian nobility. I fell in love with an actress once, who
persuaded me to take a Parisian theatre. I did so in the
title I have since borne, and by which I am not unfavour¬
ably known in Paris. It is supposed to have some in¬
fluence in a prospectus. There is not the least disguise as
to the nature of my claim to it."
After this, the hero's reputation was fully established—
more especially when it became known, on the assertion of
several grave authorities present, that certain of the specu¬
lations of which the Vicomte Eugene was a director, were
in a thriving condition. It transpired further, that the
versatile stranger had (under another name) written two or
three successful novels in English. Wary capitalists, who
had hitherto held aloof from the wiles of his conversation,
now took wine with him approvingly.
Gregory Lynch experienced a wonderful feeling of relief,
without being able to account for it, at the discovery that
160
MABSTON LYNCH.
his former persecutor was a man of apparent respectability
and position.
The night wore away and the guests began to depart.
Don Sancho received and accepted numerous invitations to
envied mansions. As the last knot was dispersing, he
said to the host, in his airiest tones—
"Gregory, old boy; I think I'll sleep here to-night.
You and I have business to talk over. Tell them to make
me up a bed somewhere."
Gregory gave the required instructious with the best
grace imaginable.
Biglow Miles and Billy walked to Longport together.
The former had been silent throughout the evening from
combined causes. Billy with his facetioe had been thrown
in the shade by the voluble stranger. Billy didn't like it.
" I say, Long," he asked pettishly, when they were in
the open ah; " who is that gassy chap, Saumarez ?"
" Why, I thought he was a friend of yours?"
" Never saw him till the other night. He came with
an introduction about some share business. It was after
office hours, and he apologised for following me to my
rooms. There were a lot of us there, very jolly—and he
seemed very jolly, so we asked him to stop, and he made
himself at home like winking. But don't you know all
about him?"
" I only knew he was a devilish good actor about four
years ago in New York."
"Actor, eh ! that was his game, was it? What line?"
"Everything," was the complacent reply. "There's a
late house open. Let's go in and paint."
And so the two friends went into the late house, and
painted.
Perhaps ere they had quite concluded the operation, the
subject of their late discourse was bringing to a- close an
amicable conversation with his hospitable entertainer in
that very room where we have already seen them tete-a-tete
under more hostile circumstances.
MAESTON LYNCH.
161
" Well," said Don Sancho de Saumarez, " this is better
than cutting each other's throats, isn't it ?"
" Tah! I see your move plain enough now, at all
events," Mr. Lynch replied, in an amiable growl; " there's
four thousand a-year to be won."
" My dear Lynch, you mercantile people think of
nothing but money. The money, though very good in its
way, is nothing to the accompanying treasure. You'll
write the letter ?"
" Write it yourself—I'll sign it."
" Copy it will be better. And now, show me my
room."
" How about the devotion to your dear young friend ?"
asked Lynch, with a surly grin.
" My dear Lynch, you ought to be a sufficient judge of
character to have perceived that if any man happen to stand
in my way, I am not the likely person to move. How
very fortunate for you that I am no longer riding in your
direction. Here are the candles."
162
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XYII.
in which mr. gregory lynch does a very
foolish thing for his time of life.
Don Sancho Eugene Delorges Moriarty de Saumarez
—or, as lie in his modesty chose to be styled—Mr.
Saumarez, remained in Longport for the space of several
weeks, and did there achieve much profit and popularity.
As the honoured guest of Gregory Lynch, he was, in virtue
of that position, provided with a passport to every door
that was particularly well worth knocking at. His social
qualities made him a favourite wherever he went. As
nothing could be discovered to his prejudice—on the con¬
trary, as upon close and severe investigation he was proved
to be really the man he represented himself, namely, the
clever author and speculator whom the world knew favour¬
ably under the various names, his claims to which he so
good humouredly explained on all requisite occasions-—
Longport felt rather flattered by his countenance than
otherwise. Moreover, unlike most amusing people, he
appeared in no want of money. Nay, he set his admirers
perfectly at their ease on that very ticklish score, by show¬
ing a great aptitude for making it. As a recognised
amateur on 'Change—a sort of honorary member—he
struck "in" with a few lucky speculations, displaying the
greatest sagacity in his manner of " staking," and coming
MARSTON LYNCH.
163
off on all occasions a winner. A self-feeding lion was
decidedly a novelty, and one to be encouraged.
Mr. Saumarez, however, was too good a judge to out¬
live a reputation. In the height of his popularity—(which
coincided with the depth of winter)—he declared himself
" bored " with a northern climate—and the monotonous
excitements of a mercantile community. He was off to
Genoa one fine morning, tarrying with him the regrets of
a hundred desolate circles, and some very good names to
add to his prospectuses. He carried something else with
him which will be mentioned hereafter.
Mr. Saumarez decidedly left his mark behind him. One
achievement of his alone would be sufficient to immortalise
him in the annals of Longport. He provided Mr. Gregory
Lynch with a wife.
The fact was not so generally known as from the mag¬
nitude of its importance it deserved to be. Even the
favoured Gregory himself never fully recognised the pecu¬
liar influence to which he owed his enviable happiness.
Neither did the bride (of whom anon). Nevertheless, but
for the diplomacy of Mr. Saumarez, the tremendously
interesting event would never have come off.
It happened in this wise.—
One morning, after a brilliant soiree, at which Mr.
Saumarez had been the central lion, reflecting honour upon
Mr. Gregory Lynch as his keeper—(Gregory had grown
almost fond of his former bugbear, whom he looked upon
as a man who had possessed the power to drive a hard
bargain with him, but who had been so good as to let him
off cheap and not press for payment)—the merchant and
his now formally established guest were at breakfast. The
latter inquired, in a pleasant argumentative tone,—•
" Lynch, why the devil don't you get married ?"
" Married ! Good heavens ! I never thought of such
a thing."
" More fool you."
" my
" Why ! Because you can never achieve the position
M 2
164!
JMAliSTON IjIJSUJI.
you aspire to unless you do. You have no home. Inviting
people here is worse than taking them to an hotel—because
they are worse served. You have no connections—not
even a family to show. You keep your children in the
back-ground as if you were ashamed of them."
" They are very young."
" Just so; but unless you have somebody to bring them
forward, what are you to do with them when they grow
up ? The female head of your family appears to be a girl
whom you do not particularly care about."
Gregory looked as if he didn't.
" At present you can only look upon them—I mean
jour children—in the light of poor relations—mere drags
upon you, to be provided for some day. Now, if you made
an alliance with one of the great mercantile houses (you
merchant princes are like other princes; your game is to
identify yourselves with the imperial familes), all these
young folks would become desirable investments—a source
of profit and honour to the parent stock. My dear fellow,
I haven't lived among the petty German courts for
nothing."
" Well, really, I may have thought of such a thing; but
considerations of my time of life—"
" My dear fellow, you are not fifty—-and since I have
seen fit to relieve your mind from some little oppressive
matters, you positively look ten years younger. You are
really not an ill-looking man."
Gregory Lynch pulled up his shirt collar, and squinted
at the chimney-glass.
" What would you advise me to do ?"
"Marry Miss Cragstone."
" Miss Cragstone ?"
Gregory fell back in his arm-chair, apparently over¬
whelmed by a too daring proposition.
Mr. Saumarez continued—
" Why not ? She's in love with you. Don't laugh :
of course I don't mean that—the idea of her being in love
with anybody is rather too absurd. But I know this—■
MATtSTON TjYNOH.
165
I've had a great deal of conversation with her lately, and
I am convinced that if you choose to throw the handker-
ehief to her, stiff as she looks, she'll bend her back to pick
it up."
Gregory got up and paced the room backwards and
forwards—rubbing his forehead the while. Here was a
matter to be thought of.
The great mercantile firm of Cragstone Brothers was to
that of Gregory Linch and Co. much as the houses of
Guelph, Hapsburgh, and Bomanoff respectively may be con¬
sidered to the family of Cobourg. Where Gregory Lynch
commanded hundreds, the Brothers Cragstone played with
thousands. Where Gregory Lynch owned streets, the
Brothers Cragstone built towns. They had steamers to
his fishing smacks: fleets to his squadrons. Hats that
were only touched to Gregory Lynch, flew off in the mud
before the Brothers Cragstone.
Amongst their other valuable possessions the Brothers
Cragstone owned a sister—a mature spinster of six and
thirty, who, to do her justice, looked considerably younger.
The Sister Cragstone was remarkably handsome—as far as
concerned the moulding of her flesh, the texture and
quantity of her hair, and the colour of her skin; but into¬
lerably repulsive-looking, if an unmistakeable expression
of arrogance, selfishness, and supercilious conceit be taken
into account. An immense opinion of her own import¬
ance to the world, both from her intrinsic merits, and by
reflection as a member of the great house of Cragstone,
had led her to devote the energies of her thirty-six years
exclusively to the laudable duty of taking care of herself;
in which task of devotion—the lady not being troubled
with any of those weak-minded considerations for other
people, which occasionally, in some of us, distract the
attention—her vigilance had never relaxed a moment. She
was amply repaid for her trouble by the preservation of a
smooth skin and an erect carriage, at a time of life when
the faces of silly sentimental people are usually a little
furrowed and their backs slightly bowed.
166
MAK.STON LYNCH.
Suitors had sought Miss Cragstone's hand, of course,
and knights on their bended knee, with vows that no
maiden heart, &c., &c. But Miss Cragstone was Miss
Cragstone still. The awe-struck people in the social
regions below vdiispered that the lady was hard to please.
But this was only true in one sense. Miss Cragstone was,
perhaps, not so hard to be pleased, as she found it hard to
please the most desirable sort of admirers, Miss Cragstone's
style of fascination being rather too much in the "queenly,"
siyle as it is sometimes styled, but as it really means, in the
excessively disagreeable line. She had cultivated the very
distinguished faculty of contempt—with a view to inspiring
the world with a due sense of her own exalted position
above it—so successfully, that the world, at all events the
eligible male portion of it, was afraid to approach her. She
had persevered for years in insulting, " cutting," patronis¬
ing, sneering, and turning her handsome nose up at the
world in the most consistent manner, and yet that perverse
male portion alluded to, instead of falling at her imperial
feet like dutiful subjects, persisted in running away like
slaves frightened of the whip. So Miss Cragstone at six
and thirty was Miss Cragstone still.
It must not be supposed, however, that Miss Cragstone
was a desponding spinster. Quite the contrary. Her
opinion of her own value was unalatcd. She considered
that any one she might condescend to marry—in the unac¬
countably delayed event of the right man presenting him¬
self—would be as highly favoured as ever. Still peculiar
reasons existed why Miss Cragstone should come down a
little in the matrimonial terms should occasion offer. The
Brothers Cragstone, whom she had long lorded it over with
the rest of their contemptible species, were now married
men with growing families. Somehow or other, Miss
Cragstone's power and sway over their respective mansions
was not what it used to be. Certain conspirators, in the
shape of wives, may have had some influence in this altered
state of affairs. At any rate, Miss Cragstone's queenly
edicts began to be met with something like open rebellion
MARSTON LYNCH.
167
—even to threats of despotism. There was no hint as yet
of reducing the supplies—let the Brothers Cragstone be¬
ware how they attempt anything of the kind ! Carriages,
dresses, and retinue were hers at command, as formerly,
and the royal privilege of inspiring terror whenever she
made her appearance, was still hers unimpaired. But
she felt that her empire was divided, and she longed for
a kingdom of her own, over which to reign in undisputed
majesty.
So that when the diplomatic ambassador from the Court
of Lynch, His Excellency Don Sancho, &c., Saumarez (at
first acting without instructions from his Court), opened
the delicate mission with which he had been charged—by
himself, Her Majesty, Sybil the Eirst, Queen of all the
Cragstones, was quite ready to listen to his negotiations.
Gregory Lynch was past the heyday of youth, it is true;
but that promised submission to the prerogative. He was
a little vulgar:—he would be the more awed by refinement
and superiority. He was of low origin : well! well! the
founder of the House of Cragstone, himself had forged
his own sceptre. Finally, Gregory Lynch was comfortably
rich—and as that vexatious eligible man seemed still
detained somewhere or another, and would not come—-
why the proposed alliance was a matter for considera¬
tion.
We will not piy into the hallowed secrets of diplomacy,
to ascertain by what delicate means the wily ambassador
brought his mission to a successful close. We will not
divulge the imperceptible course of insinuations by which,
vhe Longport Beatrice was first led to look upon her
unconscious Benedick in the light of a pining Cymon,
softened and humanized by the influence of an Iphigenia
he feared to approach. We will respect the veil that
hangs over the numerous subtle devices employed to bring
the eventually stricken Gregory (to descend for once to
non-diplomatic language) " up to the scratch," suffice it
that, in the month of January, the exciting news spread
through the length and breadth of Longport, that His
168
MARSTON LYNCH.
Mercantile Highness, Prince Gregory, was about to
marry into the Commercial-Royal Family of Cragstone.
The preliminaries of the alliance being duly settled, His
Excellency Hon Sancho de Saumarez went on his Genoese
way rejoicing—with what reason may, in the fulness of
time, transpire.
The Brothers Cragstone came down very handsomely
in the matter of dowry, so much so in fact, and with such
barely decent alacrity, as almost to lead to a belief that
they were only too glad to get rid of their splendid sisterly
encumbrance at any price. This implied insult, however,
to his bride elect, was one that Gregory could afford to
pocket. He was thoroughly satisfied with the idea of
completing the furniture of his magnificent house with a
magnificent wife—who moreover paid a considerable
portion of her own expenses in advance.
Miss Cragstone visited Huskisson Lodge previous to
her marriage, with a view to appraising the premises,
stock, and fixtures, before finally concluding the bargain
which should make her their possessor. The decision was
favourable. The live stock—I beg their pardon, the
children—she looked upon as an encumbrance to the
estate—but the counterbalancing advantages decided her
on putting up with them as a temporary inconvenience, to
be disposed of on some future occasion. Miss Wareing
she regarded as a trifling blemish on the fair prospect-—so
easy of removal at any time as to be unworthy of con¬
sideration.
The wedding was, of course, very splendid. The elder
Brother Cragstone, always celebrated for his liberal princi¬
ples, outdid himself in the gushing abandon of generosity
with which he gave his sister away at church. The
happy pair departed, per North-Western Railway, for
London, en route for the North of Italy. The event was
chronicled in the Longport serious papers in the following
terms:—
"Married.—On Saturday, the 10th inst., at St. Ann's
Church, Gregory Lynch, Esq., of Huskisson Lodge, near Long-
MAItSTON LYNCH.
icy
port, to Sybil Anne, only daughter of the late Jehosaphafc
Cragstone, Esq., of this town, and of Freestone Park,
Flintshire."
The comic journal of Longport, i.e., the Whipping Post
(which had seriously astonished the natives by its pre¬
ternatural longevity) briefly alluded to the occurrence as
follows:—
" Matrimonial.—We understand from the public prints that
the Honourable Member for Tape Street has entered the holy
state of matrimony. We trust that he had previously taken the
precaution of obtaining a divorce—from his opinions, to which
he was so notoriously wedded."
It is possible that the talented and precocious young-
editor of the publication just quoted regretted being
restrained by the canons of good taste from expressing-
himself more strongly on the subject.
170
marston lynch.
CHAPTEE XYIII.
in which mr. marston lynch does a very
foolish thing for his time of life.
Whatever may have been the amount of bliss en¬
joyed by Mr. Gregory Lynch and his gracious bride during
the earliest stage of their wedded career, there was one
person, at all events, to whom their honeymoon brought
days of unclouded happiness. This was Lucy Wareing.
I have already attempted to display the little lady to you
as a delicate, sensitive creature, to whose nature kindness
and happiness were as indispensable as light and warmth to
the flower. (We laugh at those jolly trite old similes
when we are not in want of them, but are very happy
to fall back upon them on an emergency notwithstanding.)
She Avas happy now to be left alone in the big house, and.
grateful to those who had been so kind as to leave her
there. I have said alone, for her only companions were
little children (Avliom, by the way, as they will take no very
active part in my history, I have not thought necessary to
particularise), and uncongenial domestics. But the tiny
children loved her for her care of them; and the strong,
independent servants pitied her for her uncomplaining
loneliness. She had nothing to fear—and what a novel
treat that was! There ivas no terrible latchkey to the
door to send her heart into her mouth with its relentless
heavy sounds. There were no heavy footsteps—as of
MARSTON LYNCH.
171
seven-leaugued boots—to make her count the stairs as they
ascended late at night, and make her feel an evpr-recurring
wonder that they should stop at the landing beneath her,
instead of mounting upwards until they trampled her to
destruction. The haughty lady who had visited her two
or three times—frightening her out of her wits on each oc¬
casion—had been so good as to go abroad for six weeks.
What a good haughty lady ! Six weeks ! It was an eter¬
nity. And the little incQnsistent body frisked merrily about
the house with no more foresight, reader, than you and I
display when we enjoy good dinners and invest money in
the funds, with the full knowledge that in fifty years, at
the outside, the worms will be enjoying and investing in
us. It should be mentioned, in extenuation of the young-
lady's blind enjoyment of present good, that, though
brought up in Longport, the advantages of a business ed¬
ucation had been denied to her, and she knew no better
than to apply practically the maxim of a somewhat obsolete
guide, with whose teachings she had some acquaintance,
and who has left his opinion on record, that " sufficient
for the day is the evil thereof."
I am afraid though, when I come to look the truth fully
in the face, it will have to be admitted that Miss Wareing's
happiness during this pleasant period, was not entirely
attributable to the negative causes I have mentioned. I
am not sure whether at the time I speak of, those Paving
and Lighting People, upon whose conduct Mr. Prebble,
the printer, entertains such very strong opinions one way
or another, had or had not opened a new street in the
suburbs of Longport, rendering it a short cut from Ash Grove
to the centre of the town, by passing Pluskisson Lodge.
I think something of the kind must have occurred; other¬
wise it would be an inexplicable circumstance that, from
the first day of Gregory Lynch's departure, a young gen¬
tleman whose way to the haunts of business had previously
lain by a route at least three quarters of a mile distant,
began to pass the house regularly every morning.
The young gentleman was rather well-looking, and de-
172
MARSTON LYNCH.
cidedly "Yell-grown. Though he could not be more than
twenty years of age, he had displayed a highly successful
moustache of respectable dimensions, though I fear, if
the truth could be ascertained, not so black as it was
painted. He moreover had the appearance of having
bloomed into a splendid freshness of attire—with the
violets and crocuses.
There was nothing remarkable in the fact that Miss
Wareing should have noticed this young gentleman on his
first appearance—inasmuch as she passed the greater part
of her mornings working like a bee, and singing like a
bird (the latter only when the weather was fine, and Mr.
Gregory Lynch absent) at her little top window, which
looked on the public road. There was nothing out of the
way in the young gentleman's waving his hat to her with
gracious familiarity, or in returning his salute with a bright
smile and many noddings of her golden curls. It was per¬
fectly within the range of ordinary circumstances that these
proceedings should be repeated on the following morning.
But I confess it looks a little like design on the part of
somebody, that, on the third morning, the young gentle¬
man, ere he had reached the house by two or three
hundred yards, should, on suddenly turning a corner meet
Miss Wareing in the act of taking her two youngest
charges out for a walk. But it should be remembered that
the winter had been so severe and long, and the spring
had set in with such unwonted loveliness, that it was im¬
possible to stay in doors! It is moreover well known
that young people cannot possibly have too much fresh
air.
Miss Wareing advanced towards the young gentleman—-
without betraying the slightest confusion at the encounter
(she knew she had come out purposely to seek it, and was
not clever at pretences) beyond a rosy blush that covered
her bright face all over—and extended her hand to him.
He took it, and held it, rather as if he liked it than
otherwise.
" Well, Marston."
MARSTON LYNCH.
173
" Well, Lucy."
" I thouglit I should meet yom"
"And you came on purpose?"
" Yes, indeed—" the large, honest, blue, eyes completed
the sentence as plainly as eyes could speak, with—" what
else should I be here for?"
" And so I did," said Marston, with a laugh; " hew
capitally candid we both are, and what a deal of trouble it
saves! Dear little Lucy, I thought I should never see
you again."
" I did'nt."
"No?"
" No. Everything is so pleasant just now with me.
The weather is so lovely ; the house is so—so quiet; I am
so well. I-—I don' know why, but I thought I should
see you."
" Does seeing me complete the happiness, then, Lucy ?"
"Yes."
Oh! that terrible fascination of innocent candour!
What a power it exercises! If those designing young
ladies whom I hear of as existing in the world (but whom
I have always considered as fabulous creations) could only
imitate it, what much greater damage would they achieve
than by their affectations of maidenly reserve and shyness !
But I suppose it must be inimitable, or they would surely
ave a try of it.
Marston was fairly disconcerted by the looks of undis¬
guised admiration with which this little maiden regarded
him, and by the evident happiness in his society, which she
never dreamt of concealing.
He took her hand again, and held it in his own a little
longer than before. She let it lie there in perfect
security.
" W hy, Lucy, what a little woman you have grown !"
" A very little woman!" said Lucy, with a smile
that proved her a very pretty little woman, at all events.
" Are you in a hurry to get home ?"
" Oh no ! There is nobody at home now to—to find
m
MARSTON LYNCH.
fault with me; and the children have only just come out.
I can walk till they are tired—if I may walk with you."
" Should you like to walk with me, Lucy ?"
" Very much indeed, if you will let me."
And the young lady accepted the arm that was offered
her, with a merry laugh, and skipped along like a fawn by
the owner's side.
Marston led one of the children by his disengaged hand
—Lucy by the other. In this order they walked towards
the town, Miss Wareing manifesting a decided inclination
to burst into song by the way, wholly regardless of the
mightily respectable tract of country they were traversing.
" And so you are really happy, Lucy ?"
" I am very happy indeed—to-day."
And Miss Wareing, in her happiness, picked an early
spring flower that was obtruding through the railings of a
most respectable garden, thereby displaying a lamentable
ignorance of the rights of property.
" And yet Saumarez told me you were treated with more
harshness than ever."
A slight cloud darkened Lucy's sunny face, as she
replied—
"I am sure he was very wrong. I wish people would
not take so much trouble about me—that is, I don't mean
all people. All I want is to be let alone—no, I don't
mean that—I don't exactly know what I do mean. But
I have been left to myself a good deal lately; and I have
been very happy. It is not fair to blame papa—I mean
Mr. Lynch—for not caring much about me, and finding
me in the way, as I dare say I am. But he's gone to
Italy, Italy, Italy—" Miss Wareing's words were beginning
to set themselves to joyous music—" and so—Look at that
dear funny old lady in the large bonnet."
Miss Wareing burst into a silvery laugh at the sight of
an unconscious elderly female, ornamented as she had
described, calmly walking on the other side of the way.
The exuberance of spirits was contagious. Marston
felt that she could scarcely contain herself for the happiness
MARSTON LYNCH.
175
she derived from his presence—a happiness he could not
help reflecting. What a terrible enslaver is that discovery
that we can minister to the happiness of another being !
We will not follow these young people any further in
their walk—which was of very brief duration, for on an
admission from Marston that he had business to attend to
(an admission he immediately repented having made) Lucy
would on no account hear of her delaying him a moment
longer. They parted, with a mutual promise to meet on
the following day. Lucy, with a beaming countenance,
stood watching the departing form of her late companion
as long as he was in sight. Whenever he looked back, as
he did many times, she waved her hand joyously. When
he had wholly disappeared, she gazed for several seconds
at the comer of the distant street that had concealed him
from her view. Then she turned briskly round to attend
to her young charges. The smallest of those two indivi¬
duals looked a little fatigued. She whipped him up in her
arms, covered him with kisses, dispelled the last trace of
displeasure on his countenance, by a nursery pleasantly of
some kind, and incited his maturer companion to a brisk
trot homeward. The grim household gods of Huskisson
Lodge were startled throughout the day by such echoing
melodies as they had never before listened to.
Marston Lynch and Lucy Wareing met and walked
together on the following day, and on many following days,
under similar circumstances. Each day Lucy looked
happier, healthier, and more beautiful. Was Marston in
love with Lucy ? He did not know. He frequently asked
himself the question, but always schemed so to answer
himself contemptuously in the negative. And yet, why
was he so fond of seeking her society—always taking pains
to set off his person and conversation to the best advantage
for the occasion ? The answer to this was obvious. The
rule of the girl's life was oppression and isolation ; kindness
and sympathy were its exceptions. He had saved her hie,
and she was, of course, grateful to him. He was kinder
to her than anybody else was; and it must be admitted
176
MARSTON LYNCH.
(without the slightest vanity, of course,) that his intellectual
attainments were vastly superior to anything" she was likely
to he brought in contact with. It was natural that she
should take a pleasure in his society. And as the poor
child had such few pleasures, it would be downright bar¬
barity to deny her this one.
Oh, Marston Lynch, my young friend! Believe me
this kind of sophistry is dangerous—veiy dangerous indeed.
Especially for a not very strong young gentleman,
just commencing to hobble through life with no better
crutch than Literature!
Was Lucy in love with Marston ? She never thought
of asking herself the question at all. I fear this lady was
not at all of a reflective or calculating disposition, but
rather of the emotional order. The weather was beautiful;
and Marston was handsome, and good, and kind, and
clever; and the walks were lovely. Miss Wareing enjoyed
the happy time with all her soul, like I am afraid I
must fall back upon my old friends the flowers and the
sun for a simile.
At length a new element of joy was added to the delight¬
ful walks—one of extended freedom. Before the departure of
the newly-married couple it had been arranged that the
olive branches of the Huskisson Lodge nursery grounds
should be transplanted for a short time to the domain of
one of the Brothers Cragstone—an arrangement originat-
with the family of the latter, as a graceful attention to
their new relation. Accordingly, towards the third quarter
of the honeymoon (I fear Gregory Lynch, roaming from
flower to flower with his majestic Queen Bee, had left all
the honey in the hive at home to be sipped by that little
busy-buzzzing Lucy), the young folks were fetched away
in a carriage by their new aunt—a good-natured, simple-
hearted woman, though she did live in a castle, and could
never induce people to keep their hats on or their backs
straight in her presence. The kind lady would gladly
have included Lucy (of whose existence she had never
even heard) in her live cargo; but that demure little
MARSTON LYNCH.
177
person was seized with a sudden and invincible spirit of
subordination. She had received no instructions to leave
the house, and could on no account think of acting without
orders in so important a matter. The good woman, after
kissing her, patting her downy cheeks, admiring her golden
curls, and loading her with compliments and presents (all
of which Miss Wareing accepted without the least surprise,
as natural accessories to the happy season her kind fate
had provided for her), drove away without her, and Lucy
was left literally the mistress of the situation, with her
actions unfettered, and the big house all to herself. She
scampered up and down the echoing staircases, and frisked
in and out of the deserted rooms like an insane mouse.
There were no limits to the walks now—nor was any
subterfuge necessary for their being undertaken. Marston
came openly to fetch Lucy, who took his arm at the gate
in the most unblushing manner. Our hero, by the way,
never could be prevailed upon, absolutely, to enter Gregory
Lynch's house; the ringing of that gentleman's bell he
considered a species of pollution. The female servants—
wholly occupied with their own happiness, and that of
certain captive butchers, bakers, and policemen—were not
spies to be dreaded; and the circumstance that there were
neighbours with eyes in their heads was as indifferent to
Lucy as the possibility of the moon being inhabited.
They were very delightful walks those—all tenderness,
love, and confidence—though without a word of what is
usually called love-making being interchanged. The chief
topic of conversation was always Marston, his achievements
and prospects—a topic, you may believe, he was never
weary of discussing, nor his companion of listening to.
During those days the editorship of the Longport Whip¬
ping Post was conducted in the most slovenly manner.
The numbers were got up anyhow. Formerly despised and
rejected contributors, (amongst them the writer of these
pages), were lifted into the seventieth heaven of delirious
happiness, by seeing their communications inserted by the
basketfull, without excision or modification. The circula-
N
178
MAESTON LYNCH.
tion fell off deplorably, and the countenance of Prebble
was sorrowful to behold.
And where was the spirited proprietor—the enterprising
Biglow—that he suffered such neglect of his interests? I
have forgotten—or rather have not had an opportunity to
state. But with the approach of winter that speculator
had found his favourite post no longer tenable. It was
always either damp or clammy with rain, coated with ice
like a tall twelfth-cake, or nightcapped with a pyramid of
snow. It was impossible to sit down upon it. Moreover,
the public house round the corner had changed hands in
favour of a degenerate landlord, under whose regime the
quality of the " Scotch" deteriorated shamefully. One
disgustingly wet morning, Biglow paid his bill at the
York, according to his daily custom, ordered a fly, and
started at last for the Mediterranean, leaving Marston the
copyright of the Whipping Post (then on the verge of
" paying-point)," as a present—with a moderate balance
at his banker's, to wind up or carry on the concern as he
might choose. Marston would have adopted the former
course—for he was getting rather tired of provincial fame,
and burned for a wider field (to which en passant, he had
been encouraged by several successes in the metropolitan
periodicals); but the enthusiastic Prebble, whose faith in
the vitality of the paper was unaccountable, offered to take
it off our hero's hands, retaining him as editor at a reduced
salary. So the Whipping Post lingered on, with Marston
Lynch as its presiding spirit.
I have said that Miss Wareing was not of a calculating
or far-seeing disposition. Nevertheless, to make use of
my tiresome old flowers once more (this shall be the last
time, I give you my honour), I believe there are some
specimens which close up their leaves and droop instinc¬
tively at the approach of bad weather, long before the
clcuds have shown themselves. The happy time was all
but over. A letter had been received announcing that
Mr. Lynch and his bride would be home on the following
day. The two—lovers shall I call them, or what ?-—went
MARSTON LYNCH.
179
out for their last walk. Lucy's face was not half so bright
as it had been; the eyelids quivered, and she was quite
pale.
Still there was one fine day, and one long walk before
her,—and there was Marston by her side, as handsome
and as kind as ever. To-morrow was a very long way off,
after all.
They had neither of them dared to speak of their ap¬
proaching separation. Marston talked about himself and
his brilliant prospects with unusual volubility—a volubility,
in fact, that seemed almost forced. In the midst of a
glowing prospectus of some tremendous literary under¬
taking that was to storm the two hemispheres, Lucy inter¬
rupted him, looking him full in the face, and speaking,
almost for the first time of herself, said—
" Marston, do you think I am clever ?"
" Clever! why upon my word, Lucy, I have never
thought of it. You are very good, and very pretty."
" Yes, I know—at least, I did not mean that, but do
you think there is anything I could do to earn money—
so as not to be one bit a tax or burden upon—any body
that cared for me ?"
"Well I really don't know, Lucy."
" Nor I, but I want to know—I have no idea how much
cleverness it requires. There are a great many things I
can do—quite well, indeed."
She said this with an earnestness that made her com¬
panion smile.
" Indeed, Lucy, and what are they?"
" Oh, nothing like what you can do, of course. I
could never write beautiful poetry and stories,—I could
never write anything, for I cannot even speak so as to
express what I mean. I can draw, though—?'
" You can draw very prettily, Lucy."
" Yes—that's all; and I am afraid that isn't enough.
But I can play the piano better than any one I know—
except Mrs. Kufilestone. I play much better than Maud,
or Miss Crooze herself."
N 9
180
MAItSTON LYNCH.
"Well, Lucy?"
" What I want to know is—do not people live by
teaching such things—and live very well ?"
" Not very well, I am afraid, Lucy. It is a life of
drudgery and anxiety at best."
" Then that would never do—it would make me cross
and weary, and perhaps ailing. It would spoil my
looks—"
"You vain little puss !"
" Indeed I am not. But I should like always to look
pleasant, and healthy, and cheering—and to have so much
time to improve myself and make me fit " She
stopped and turned slightly red—adding immediately,—
"Tell me, Marston, do you think I could act on the
stage ?"
" On the stage, Lucy! Good heavens!"
" I have often thought I could. I have been to the
theatre two or three times with Mrs. Merripebbles, and 1
have seen girls who were not a bit cleverer or"—she added
with slight hesitation,—" prettier than myself, very much
praised and admired for what I think I could do better.
Do not they earn a great deal of money—and live very
comfortably ?"
"Far from it, Lucy. The majority of them do not
earn enough to maintain them in respectability—a state
which they have frequently too many temptations to quit.
In order to attain anything like competence and position,
you would have to go through many years of poverty, toil,
and insult—through many scenes of misery and vice."
" Vice ?': Lucy shuddered.
" Yes; you would be brought into contact with people
whose conduct and principles would first shock, and ulti¬
mately deaden your pure and sensitive nature. At best,
you would have such a struggle to maintain your own
interests that you would become calculating and selfish."
" Enough, Marston—I see it would never do. Never."
" But what are you thinking of, Lucy ?" Marston in¬
quired with forced gaiety. " Surely you do not propose
MARSTON LYNCH.
181
to leave your step-father's roof, and commence life on your
own account?"
" My own account! Oh ! No—I mean when I think
of such a thing it would be impossible. But go on talk¬
ing about yourself, Marston."
Marston could no longer talk about himself. That self
seemed no longer to have an independent existence. He
mused over the girl's artless questions. He knew that
they referred to a dim vision of passing her life with him
—supposing it could be proved she could do so without
being a burden to him—as well as if she had put her wild
dreams (as she considered them) into words. He had
vainly endeavoured to repress the feeling that she was as
necessary to his existence as he to hers. He thought of
the coming morrow, and foresaw his loneliness. But
though a bold swimmer and a fearless satirist, Marston
Lynch, in some matters, was "a coward, and a most
devout coward—religious in't." Young as he was, he
knew himself and his own helplessness of character. He
shuddered at the terrible responsibility of another being's
welfare.
But here was this graceful, spiritual, little lady hanging
lovingly on his arm—and Gregory Lynch would be home
to-morrow !
They were at some distance from the house, but walking
without any fixed destination.
Marston broke a long silence :—
" Which way shall we walk, Lucy ?"
" Whichever way you please."
" Remember, this is the last walk we can take
together."
Lucy's eyeballs started; the muscles of her face
quivered painfully; and the little gloved hand trembled
violently on Marston's arm.
" Let lis make the best of our time and make it a very
long walk."
" Oh ! a very long one."
" Have you no choice of roads ?"
182
MABSTON LYNCH.
" Well, Marston, if you wisli me to say, there is one
walk I have often thought of asking you to take me."
"And that is "
■ " To go and see the river."
" The river ! Ah, Lucy, you love the river, then ?"
" Yes, Marston."
"Did you always love the river so much?"
" No, Marston, not till "
A choking sound checked Miss Warning's utterance.
Streams of tears were rolling down her cheeks from her
strained blue eyes.
" Not till it was so good as to throw you into my arms,
dear Lucy, Marston said tenderly. He was on the point
of adding—" arms that you shall never leave, my darling,"
but his cowardly angel stepped in, and imposed silence.
" Come, then, let us walk to the river."
And towards the river they walked, closer to each other
than they had ever walked before.
Though much earlier in the year, it was just such another
day as that of the memorable water party. The sky was
as blue, the gulls were as busy, and the river looked as
sparkling and as lovely.
The young couple stood on the town pier, their eyes, by
common consent, directed towards the spot where their
perilous adventure had taken place. Then the two pairs
of eyes turned round and met. The little gloved hand
pressed more heavily on the arm ; the little form nestled
more tenderly and beseechingly to the beloved side, as if
imploring not to be driven away from it.
Marston's cowardly angel showed symptoms of dozing.
A little noisy, angry, steamer was snorting and kicking
in the water, impatient to get away from a shore with
which it appeared on the worst terms imaginable. The
destination of the boat was B , the suburban bathing
place on the other side of the Wynde, towards which our
friends had been sailing, as will be remembered, with
supper intentions, at the time of the famous accident.
The stock of passengers was complete, and the moment
MABSTON LYNCH.
183
for departure had arrived. Marston put his foot on the
plank of communication with the shore, just as a man was
about to remove it, and looked round at Lucy.
" Shall we— ?" was all he said.
" Oh, yes!" was the eager response; and the two
young people, perfectly understanding each other's mean¬
ing, went on board the irascible little steamer, which,
being immediately released from the detested shore, and
having no furthur cause for complaint, went on its way in
the best temper imaginable.
A quarter of an hour's steaming brought them to the
scene of their former perils. The two stood gazing at the
water with hearts too full for words.
Marston felt obliged to say something, so he said,
playfully, " Jump in again, Lucy; I am sadly out of
practice with my swimming."
Lucy clung to him with a look of terror.
" Oh! no, no !" she said quickly. " Do not jest upon
it. Though I love to think of it—to think how brave and
strong you were—yet it frightens me when I think how
nearly you were sacrificed in saving my little worthless
life."
" I didn't think it worthless, Lucy, you may depend, or
I should never have taken so much trouble to pre-
^serve it."
Lucy did not appear to heed the remark, but continued,
as if to herself—
" Nearly sinking—all but drowned, they said you were
—and yet would not let go of me—a senseless dead weight
that was dragging you down. While "—She stopped, and
changing her musing tone to one of earnestness, said,
" Oh, Marston ! you ought to love Maud much better
than me."
" I am very sorry to hear it, Lucy, for indeed I do not.
But may I ask why ?"
" Because when I was endangering your life—a helpless
encumbrance fettering your movements—Maud was work¬
ing like a giant or a horse to save you. How I have loved
184
marston lynch.
Maud for that. How I wish I was strong and resolute—
and rich, like her."
" You would not be half so loveable as you are, being
weak, and timid, and penniless, my Lucy."
The steamer reached its destination, and oar two young
friends landed with the rest of the passengers. The little
watering-place was a pretty toy village (they tell me it is
quite a large town now), with a beautiful beach, and
backed by a pleasant landscape. The day, as I have said,
was remarkably fine for the time of year; and the two
young people walked about the beach and the fields, not
till they were tired—that undesirable consummation was a
long way off—but till one of them was hungry. Yes,
unromantic as the admission may be, it was getting late in
the afternoon, and Marston Lynch most decidedly wanted
his dinner.
He proposed that they should al fresco in the pleasure-
gardens of the little sea-side hotel. Lucy, who would have
walked all day without once thinking of such a thing as
food, was delighted at the proposition. She would at any
time have given up her dinners for a moment's glimpse of
Marston; but a dinner with Marston ! She had never
thought so much of eating in her life before.
Accordingly a dinner they had, and a very nice dinner
too—materially as well as by its higher associations. But
for the near and rapid approach of that dreadful cloud,
to-morrow, Lucy's happiness would have been perfect.
After dinner they had more country walks, and then tea
at the hotel. The happy time was all but over. The sun
began to set on the last day of their freedom. There was
now no blinking the fact, that those two dismal homes
must be returned to. They resolved to prolong their day's
enjoyment to the last possible moment, and only to return
to Longport by the last steamer, which left a little after
dark.
I remember when I resided at Longport (or rather when
I was in a place of business there ; for, like the heroine of
the touching Westminster legend, I had my dwelling " on
MARSTON LYNCH.
185
the other side of the water)", and used to waste an im¬
mense quantity of my employer's time and paper in writing
contributions to the Longport Whipping Post, some of
which Mr. Lynch (whom I looked up to with considerable
awe) was so good as to insert; there was one subject
which I made peculiarly my own, and on my treatment of
which the talented young editor was pleased to compliment
me in the most handsome manner. This subject was the
river steamers—upon which, I no doubt, wrote with con¬
siderable feeling—as they were a source of unending
nuisance to me. There were opposition companies, whose
amiable object seemed to be, not so much to enrich them¬
selves as to ruin their opponents. From threepenny fares
they got down to twopenny; from twopenny to penny
ones. With this unreasonable cheapness came a more than
corresponding amount of nastiness. The boats were bad,
the machinery worse; the crews ill-paid, and consequently
incompetent. The result was scrapes and accidents innu¬
merable. I was constantly getting in trouble at the office
through the want of punctuality in the boats ; and as I
was by no means remarkable for that valuable business
quality myself, I considered their assistance superfluous.
It is true that the medal had its reverse. If I happened
to be too late through my own laziness, I could always
throw the blame on the broad shoulders of the steamboat
companies.
The boat that was bearing Lucy Wareing and Marston
Lynch towards Longport made a sudden stoppage when
about half way on her journey. The shattered old ma¬
chinery had become seriously affected in some vital part,
and could make no further exertions. The boat drifted
with the tide down nearly to the mouth of the river, when
it was found necessary to cast anchor on a mud-bank.
The passengers had the pleasure of waiting on board for
about four hours, till assistance could be procured.
In consequence of this vexatious accident, before
Marston Lynch and his fair companion reached the vicinity
of Huskisson Lodge it was nearly two o'clock in the
186
MARSTON LYNCH.
morning, which all right-minded readers will agree with
me in pronouncing a very pretty time of night for a young
lady to be out of doors with no companion but a young
gentleman.
It had come on to rain violently, and no conveyance
being obtainable, Lucy's thin garments were soon wet
through. Marston hurried her homewards as rapidly as
possible. The wind and rain allowed them little time for
conversation. They deferred their adieuxs till the follow¬
ing morning. The married pair were not expected till
late in the day; they 'would have one last opportunity of
meeting, however brief, and then—Well, what then ?
They turned the corner of a street that brought them
full in sight of Huskisson Lodge.
Both started back in horror. There were lights in all
the windows. The sound of bustling feet and the move¬
ment of heavy packages was heard, also that of voices in
angry altercation.
The dreadful truth flashed upon them at once. The
master and mistress of the house had returned home, pre¬
maturely, during them absence.
What was to be done ?
A moment's reflection convinced Marston that there
was but one course he could pursue. That was to restore
the girl to her guardians and explain honourably the
causes of her absence and its protraction. Conquering
his repugnance to a meeting with his uncle, and endea¬
vouring to re-assure the half-fainting Lucy by such
consolations as he could think of, he approached the
house and knocked boldly at the door.
It was opened in a second by Gregory Lynch himself—
his countenance distorted with anger and other less
obvious emotions.
Lucy's absence had been discovered. The secret of its
origin had been wormed out of the servants. Mr. and
Mrs. Lynch had commenced their domestic career of a
" housewarming "of a most exciting nature on the
subject.
MARSTON LYNCH.
187
" I have brought this young lady home," said Marston
quickly, before his uncle had time to speak. " However
imacceptable my presence may be, you must listen to my
explanation—"
" Mr. Lynch, shut that door," said an imperious voice
from the dining room.
Mr. Lynch held the handle, and looked undecided.
Marston pursued—
" You shall hear me—and I insist you will not visit on
her head, an offence for which I alone am to blame—"
" Mr. Lynch, do you hear me," said the voice in a
louder key.
" My dear—at any rate let us hear "
The speech was cut short by the appearance in the
passage of Mrs. Lynch herself—who burst from the
dining room—her face the very incarnation of rage 'and
cruelty.
" I have told you I would not be insulted in my own
house, on the first day of my coming to it," she said in a
choking voice. " How dare you pollute this place with
your presence ? Leave the house, you abandoned hussey."
And with the vulgar spite of an infuriated fish-fag,
rather than the dignity of an offended matron, the magni¬
ficent Sybil, thrust Lucy Wareing rudely through the
door. Marston descended a step to save her from falling.
The door was immediately slammed in their faces.
I trust the reader will allow that I have got my hero
into a very pretty situation.
What was to be done ? Marston's horror and indigna¬
tion at the barbarity he had just witnessed were forgotten
in his perplexity as to what provision he should make for
his helpless charge.
He was not long deciding.
" Come, Lucy," he said, after a painful silence, as he
clasped the -sobbing girl comfortingly to his breast, " dry
your tears, my darling. This is a sad adventure, but we
may both live to bless it. There is something more than
chance in this. Providence seems to have designed me to
188
MAllSTON LVNCH.
watch over and protect yon. Do not regret the home you
have lost—I will make a better one for you that you shall
never leave. Lucy, you must be my dear darling little
wife."
She burst from his embrace with a wild cry, and
exclaimed frantically—
" No, Marston, no ! It must not be—not this way—
not forced and driven upon you like this. If it had come
at another time, and of your own free will, it would have
made me happier than ever living girl deserved to be.
No, it shall not be—let me go, Marston—it is cruel to
hold me when you know how weak I am—let me go and
never, never see me again."
She struggled violently to get away from him; he
detained her with gentle force.
" Lucy, my darling, be calm. I say it shall be, and
was meant to be. I already feel humbly thankful for the
accident that has previously brought this about. With¬
out it, I confess, my selfish fears—no, not selfish, for
they were fears that I should not be able to make you
happy."
" Oh, Marston ! "
"Well, they are at an end now, so never mind them
I feel more strong and hopeful at this moment than I
ever did before. You have made me feel like a man,
Lucy. I have a man's duties, and a man's strength
before me. They shall all be devoted to making my dear
little woman proud and happy."
She gently placed her arms about his neck, and pressed
her streaming face to his heart. She could only sob and
exclaim—" It is too much—it is not real! " several times
in succession.
" It is not half enough, my Lucy, and it is as real as
your love," said Marston. " I shall always look back to
this pouring night as the bright morning of my exist¬
ence."
But the pouring night was only bright morning in a
figurative sense. Materially speaking, it was a subject for
MARSTON LYNCH.
189
serious consideration. "Where could Lucy be disposed of
for the night ? Marston thought of his own landladies;
but the acerbity of the spinsters Crayners disposition was
encouraging for so delicate an occasion. Pshaw ! what
was Marston thinking of? There was Miss Crooze, to be
sure. The thing was settled at once.
It was a good mile and-a-half's walk to Ash Grove—
and the Tain continued with unabated violence. But
never was the brightest moonlight promenade more
fraught with bliss to two young lovers. Marston was
astonished at his own serenity of mind and approval of the
step he had taken. Lucy's heart was too full to speak,
except in broken interjections.
But as they neared their destination, she grew calm and
thoughtful, and said in a sweet self-possessed voice—
" Marston, before we part for the night, you must pro¬
mise me one thing faithfully."
" Willingly my darling—and that is ? "
" That if to-morrow " Lucy checked a convulsive
sob, and preserved her composure—though she spoke with
embarrassed slowness—"that if to-morrow you should
repent of what has occurred to-night, you shall tell me
so—"
" And if I should do so, Lucy ? "
" I dare not think of it—but, come what will, it must
be done—or I should find it out, without you telling me,
and you shall be free as if nothing had ever happened."
" It's a very safe promise, Lucy, as I should never have
to redeem it."
" Oh! Marston, are you sure ? " her voice gave way
completely. " Can you be happy with me ? Am I good
enough? Can I make myself so ? I will try so hard. I
will make myself so light a weight"—
" That I shall be able to swim through life with you in
my arms as easily as through the river. Eh, Lucy ? "
" Marston, I have been thinking of that all the way."
" Of what? "
" Of the river. It seems as if I was born to be a
190
MARSTON LYNCH.
helpless burden to yon, to impede your movements, to
retard your progress."
" Becollect, Miss Wareing, if you please," said Marston,
gaily, " that I am an excellent swimmer, and that it was
anxiety on my account caused you to tumble into the water.
Here we are at Miss Crooze's."
There was a light in the sitting-room, for Marian was a
late reader. Marston rang the bell.
After some delay, and an inquiry from the voice of
Miss Crooze as to the nature of her untimely visitors, the
door was opened and Marian appeared, candle in hand, in
the most unsightly of fireside costumes.
She gazed at the dripping pair with speechless astonish¬
ment.
" Miss Crooze,—Marian," said Marston, in a low im¬
ploring voice. " This is my dear little wife, who is turned
out this bitter night without a home. Give her one for
to-night, for our old friendship's sake."
Marian started back angrily. Her dark eyes flashed,
and she clutched the frightened girl by the wrist in no
very gentle manner. Then, suddenly relenting at the sight
of the pitiful little figure that was shrinking from her,
lifted Lucy in her strong arms as she would have lifted an
infant, kissed her tenderly, and carried her to her warm
fire-side, like a careful mother.
About a fortnight afterwards the following paragraph
appeared in the Longport journals :—
"Mabeied.—On Monday, the 14th inst., Marston Lynch,
Esq., of Ash Grove, Longport, to Lucy, only daughter of the
late Peregrine Wareing, Esq., of Manchester."
marston lynch.
191
CHAPTER XIX.
satjmarez made easy.
There is a little matter pending between me and the
reader, which I am aware has been allowed to " stand
over " a great deal too long. This is a lucid and unequi¬
vocal explanation of Don Sancho de Saumarez. As I am
about to leave Longport—taking with me as many mem¬
bers of my little pen and ink family as I can conveniently
accommodate—and as I wish to do so respectably, carrying
a good name with me to my future sphere of action, it be¬
hoves me to consider well what out-standing claims there
are against me, that they may be met, if possible.
In a very early chapter, as one or two inveterate readers
may remember, I issued a sort of manifesto as to my inten¬
tions in the conduct of this narrative. I repudiated any
design of exciting interest either by suspended mystery or
melodramatic surprise. I declared that my purpose was
at once to lay bare my characters to the best of my ability,
and let them plead by their own consistent words and
actions for the reader's sympathy or aversion. As an author
who has not wholly succeeded in carrying out his original
intention, I believe I shall not quite stand alone by a mil¬
lion or so of clever people who have gone before me. Still,
I have endeavoured to adhere to mine—and cannot better
prove my sincerity than by promptly remedying my short-
192
MARSTON LYNCH.
comings in this respect, when I am conscious of them—
which, by the way, reader, you may take as a tine moral
example worthy of imitation in most things. You are,
moreover, perfectly welcome to it, and are requested not to
thank me; as any thing of the kind would make me
uncomfortable.
I feel that, with regard to Don Sancho, I have kept up
a mystery wholly irreconcileable with my professions. And
yet I think I can give myself the paradoxical consolation
of having done it very badly. The other day I caught a
very true Briton of my acquaintance, whose glory it is to
despise everything foreign, making use of a Trench expres¬
sion. I taxed him immediately with the disgraceful Use-
patriotism. He was not a bit abashed. " Yes, my boy,"
he replied triumphantly, "I did speak Trench for once. I
own it. But I flatter myself I pronounced it so that no
Frenchman could have understood what I meant! " Just
so, I flatter myself, that though I have wilfully mystified
you as to who and what Don Sancho really was, I have, in
spite of myself, shown you occasional glimpses of his cha¬
racter that must have let you into the real state of the case.
The last paragraph is intolerably conceited. How do I
know I am able artist enough to make you understand that
I have drawn a particular species of quadruped, without
writing under it—" This is a horse." I see I had better
tell you all I know about Don Sancho de Saumarez imme¬
diately.
I will begin by avowing that his title was no more Don
and his name no more Sancho, than yours or mine. That
is one of the few statements that can be made of him with
anything like positive certainty. What his real name and
origin may have been is a problem not altogether easy of
solution. He had been known, at different times, by a
score of titles—to any one of which, on occasion, he could
establish a claim—by some ingeniously built theory, the
vraisemblance of which baffled even those who had listened
to, and believed in, a contradictory one on the previous
day.
MARSTON LYNCH.
193
I have admitted, then, to start with, that he was an in¬
veterate liar. He certainly was : and he had carried the
art to such perfection that his inventions could rarely be
detected from the truth. He was like a well counterfeited
coin, that may excite your suspicions, but which rings so
well and appears so nearly of the right weight and impres¬
sion that you are fain to take it, in spite of your instinctive
repugnance. Stripped of the many specious coatings of
romance, with which, from time to time, he had embellished
it, his naked history may be accepted as something closely
resembling the following:—
He was the son of an Irish adventurer and a Spanish
dancer. Let not my thin-skinned readers on the other side
of St. George's Channel take umbrage at the former epithet,
nor at what is to follow. Ireland from an early date has
been prolific in adventurers—in the most invidious sense
of the term—a circumstance no more discreditable to the
Irish character than the abundance of pickpockets in London
is to the English. The thing is easily explained. Ireland
is virtually a conquered country, with a race of Helots.
The holders of the land are "gentlemen" (a word for which
I confess to an early and deeply-rooted abhorrence). All
their descendants, and consequently their hangers-on and
imitators, must be gentlemen too. Work is as discreditable
to the Irish "man of family" as to the Inca of Peru, or
the Carolinian planter. But, unfortunately, to illustrate
my meaning by a vulgar image, the sow has not always
sufficient teats for the litter, and the little pigs must be fed.
Hence the tribe of social free-lances and fortune hunters
that we have been typified in the O'Triggers and Mulli-
ginns of modern literature—types of which every patriot¬
ically-minded Irishman must admit, while deploring, the
truth.
The father of the young man whose career I am about
to sketch was the cadet son of a reckless and impoverished
Irish family. Thrown on his own resources at an early
age, he commenced life with the idee jixe of leaping sud¬
denly into the false position he believed his birthright. In
o
194
MARSTON LYNCH.
the pursuit of this aim he wasted talents and energies
which, properly applied, must have secured him an honour¬
able position in any community. He was unlucky in his
speculations. Heiresses refused to be carried off, and
bubble companies would burst with fatal persistency. The
rapidity of his moral descent may be conceived. The un¬
scrupulous speculator became the professional gamester—
the gamester was shortly recognised as the cheat. Ruined
in means and reputation, but still with a dogged belief in
his right to live at the expense of others, he found himself
reduced, at the middle time of life, to the wretched expe¬
dient of marrying a popular dancer of more than question¬
able reputation—whose earnings he fleeced, and at whose
irregularities he winked. The dancer bore a son (whose
resemblance to her husband excited some astonishment),
subject of the present remarks.
Like Marston Lynch, Sancho de Saumarez (I will adhere
. to the name for the sake of simplicity) was the heir to
considerable talents and accomplishments. But—less for¬
tunate than our hero in this respect—he had not the
, advantage of receiving them with a favourable moral bias.
As I shall have to display him performing many base and
discreditable actions, I would have this duly considered in
his extenuation. He had been reared in an atmosphere of
pretension and dishonesty. He had been taught to con¬
sider talents only as a means for taking advantage of the
world. The human virtues were only valuable for the in¬
terest they would bring in. Temperance was to be encou¬
raged, that the head might be kept cool. Good breeding,
and the cultivation of the external elegancies, were good
for the obtaining of false credit. Profuseness and hospi¬
tality were preliminary steps to fleecing. Education was
an investment that would bring in returns in a thousand
different ways. " Knowledge is power"—was a maxim
to be accepted in a very different sense to that intended by
•.Bacon.
The quick-witted lad learned his iniquitous lesson only
too readily. At the age of nineteen he was left to his own
MARSTON LYNCH
195
resources. His mother, the dancer—worn out by a life of
vice and ill-treatment—had entirely lost the charms which
ensured her popularity—and made her a desirable invest¬
ment to her calculating husband. The latter had thrown
her off like an old garment, and attached himself to a more
youthful and profitable vocalist—the wife of another man.
The wretched woman—never at any time of a strong mind
—and having long had all self-respect beaten out of her—
died at an early age, a confirmed drunkard—only rescued
from starvation by the fruits of her son's first ventures as
a chevalier d'industrie on his own account. It is a good
trait in his character, that to the last he had never aban¬
doned a parent, to whose tenderness he had never been
much indebted, and for whose character he could not but
feel the utmost contempt. •
Le the reader imagine a youth of nineteen, of premature
physical development, with a keen relish of life, having
travelled half over the world in the company of black-legs
and swindlers from his cradle (for the father, while using
his wife's earnings as a reserve, had never neglected his
own calling as professional gamester)—with a knowledge
of almost every European language, and a ready faculty of
self-adaptation to any circumstances—moreover, never
having had a single moral principle instilled into his
nature : imagine, I say, such a personage thrown loose
upon London, and consider whether or not he was in a
position of danger to himself and society.
His first experiment would seem at. a glance to have
been of a character to encourage him in an honourable
career. He wrote a novel that achieved a brilliant though
ephemeral success: This was followed by'another, with
equally fortunate results. A third succeeded, that was a
deplorable failure. It was soon discovered that the two
first were, respectively, barefaced thefts from the French
and German. This, however, was a matter interesting
only to the critics. The public were amused, that was
sufficient. In the third adventure it is probable that the
writer had rashly trusted to his own resources.
196
MARSTON LYNCH.
Still, supposing the young Bohemian to have really pos¬
sessed original talents of a character to ensure him a legi¬
timate position in literature, it is doubtful whether success
so obtained would have satisfied him. The thing was too
straightforward. His gigantic organ of secretiveness re¬
quired exercise of a more artful and involved character.
The only kind of literary triumph he thoroughly rejoiced
in was such as having successfully frustrated another man's
idea, having mystified the world by the forging of another
man's style, or having borrowed a plot, character, or ex¬
pression, from an obscure source, and kept detection at
bay. The organ of veneration was almost absent from his
head; but there were two literary names that he held in
something nearly approaching to reverence. These were
Chatterton and Daniel De Foe, whom he respected, not as
able writers, but as gigantic hoaxers. The literary swin¬
dles of Mr. Edgar Poe had not yet reached this country,
or a third idol might have graced the shrine.
The young gentleman, in fact, was something like the
enthusiastic pickpocket recently examined by Mr. Henry
May hew, who declared that, "if he had two thousand
a-year he wouldn't give up stealing." No honour or profit
was, in his estimation, worth having, unless obtained
by some ingenious chicanery. It is not to be supposed
that such propensities would remain long satisfied with
venial tricks upon the reading and publishing world. His
name soon got mixed up with graver deceptions, and, at a
very early age, he was a marked man in London, with a
fly-blown reputation.
Still his youth, talents, and many excellent qualities
secured him a very long impunity. He was tolerated even
by men of irreproachable lives—folly aware of his moral
shortcomings. He was, indeed, an excellent companion,
faultlessly good-tempered, and without a grain of malice
in his composition.
One day a popular author, more celebrated for his
bonhommie than for any particular delicacy of taste, said to
him—
MARSTON LYNCH.
197
" I say, you, whatever you call yourself to-day, I won¬
der, amongst all your schemes, you have never thought of
the dodge of turning honest. You are a devilish pleasant
fellow, but we can't recognise you, you are such a thunder¬
ing rogue. Why don't you drop it, and become one of
us ?"
" I am fond of antitheses," was the well-earned reply.
Another popular author, more celebrated for his im¬
mense opinion of his own influence than for the possession
of any other quality, publicly announced his intention of
taking the young scapegrace in hand, with a view to his
immediate reformation. He invited him to dinner, and
cruelly monopolised the conversation during and after the
feast, by the enunciation of moral principles of the " round
hand copy" school. The young man wept tears of contri¬
tion, and promised speedy amendment. His self-satisfied
mentor boasted prodigiously of the convert his eloquent
preaching had secured to morals and society.
The next day the strenuous exertions of his most influ¬
ential well-wishers had to be employed in order to save the
hopeful neophyte from criminal prosecution, on a most dis¬
creditable bill transaction.
But there was one active principle in the nature of the
man I treat of, even more absorbing than the fondness for
plotting and intrigue. It was vanity—of the most insa¬
tiable description. This passion may have been the means
of saving him the commission of many of the graver
offences—to which mere calculation would possibly have
led him—as he would at any time forego interest or honour
for the sake of a moment's effect. It even led him to per¬
form many meritorious actions; as the desire to appear
good—whatever its basis—inevitably must do. He would
give his last guinea to a road-side beggar for a moment's
reputation as a millionaire!
Still the gratification of the latter passion often went
hand in hand with his worst propensities. Alone—without
witnesses—he was humane enough to save a drowning fly,
or, what requires more self-denial, to assist a prostrate
198
MAUSTON LYNCH.
friend ; bnthe was capable of murdering his brother if he
could think of any coup de theatre that would make his
execution go off with unusual eclat. He was, physically,
a great coward; and, as I have indicated, had not a par¬
ticle of vindictiveness in his composition. Nevertheless,
he had fought a duel with imperturbable sang froid-—
nearly killing an adversary for whom,. secretly, he had the
strongest personal regard.
Some months before the opening of our narrative—find¬
ing his great strongholds, London and Paris, a little too
hot to hold him—he had emigrated to America, at the
head of an operatic speculation. As he was an admirable,
clear-headed man of business, he easily made this tell to
his profit. Prom the United States he proceeded to
Spanish America—every inch of which ground he had
gone over in Iris youth with his unprincipled parents.
Having disbanded his troupe in Mexico (not leaving them
in the lurch, for be it understood he was incapable of deli¬
berate cruelty or mere avarice, and his earnings on this
occasion enabled him to behave munificently to all in his
employ), he was proceeding northward to create a sensation
in New York, with exaggerated accounts of his newly-
acquired wealth (in reality but a few hundreds), and a
bran new romance as to his personal history, when he met,
by accident, in Yera Cruz,- Gregory Lynch's wretched
heart-broken accomplice—Donovan. Strange to say, the
account given by our ingenious friend, , while temporarily
rejoicing in the name of Brown, of his relations,with this
person, was founded on actual truth. They had been
really schoolfellows; and the ppor, contrite, spiritless
wretch, unexpectedly cheered in his last moments by the
presence of a man he had known, and not undeservedly
loved as a boy—had relieved his aching heart by a confes¬
sion of his guilt, in the forlorn, hope that tardy justice
might be done to those he had injured. Saumarez took
the most careful notes of the case, and promised the dying
man his wishes should be attended to. "When he had fol¬
lowed the poor outcast to his grave—not without having.
MARSTON LYNCH.
19.9
previously surrounded his sick-bed with every comfort that
money or kindness could procure—he at once started for
New York, with the determination of applying the know-
ledge he had obtained to his own advantage. He rapidly
conceived a plot, the intricacy of which excited all the ar¬
dour of his intriguing nature. He had received, a hint of
the presence of Martin Lynch and his father in New York.
His first idea was to associate himself with their interests,
and sell his secret to them at the expense of Gregory. He
found them starting for England, the father evidently in a
dying state. He took a passage in the same ship, and pro¬
ceeded rapidly to study the character of the pair. He soon
discovered that no satisfactory results were to be expected
from them. He resolved to keep his own counsel—and
make his secret valuable by intimidating Gregory.
During the passage homeward he became sincerely
attached to Marston Lynch. He resolved, secretly, that
our hero should derive some benefit from the plot he
had concocted—provided his own interests were not inter¬
fered with
Don Sancho de Saumarez was very attentive to Mr.
Everard Lynch during the passage—equally from a desire
to possess himself of every detail of the family history, and
from genuine humanity of disposition. His bonhommie
and knowledge of the world, as has been seen, rapidly .en¬
deared him to Marston. Perhaps the daily association
with such an ingenuous nature as that of our hero, made
Don Sancho de Saumarez a better man during that fort¬
night than he had ever been before, or ever became after¬
wards. It is a pity those American liners cross over so
rapidly ! Who knows but if the voyage had endured a few
weeks longer, the unconscious teachings of the younger
man would have sunk deeply into the corrupted heart of
his worldly companion, and Don Sancho de Saumarez
might have landed in England a reformed being. Who
knows? I am. sure I do not. It were a pity that the
marvellous developments of steam navigation should be re¬
tarded for the mere reserve of one human soul from vice.
200
MARSTON LYNCH.
Besides, if Don Sancho de Sanmarez had been cured of
being a scamp before the opening of our first chapter,
what would have become of this delightful history ?
Obviously, whatever is, including Mr. Pope's philosophy,
is right!
And now, whatever it may cost me, I am about to tear
off the last scrap of romantic gold lace that made Don
Sancho de Saumarez a picturesque personage. Hence¬
forth, he must be utterly commonplace. He put on that
Mexican dress in which he was first introduced to the
reader, solely because he knew he had to call at a house
where there was an evening party. His pretending to feel
faint in the lobby was pure humbug. He had never felt
better in his life ; but he had made up his mind to be in¬
vited to spend the evening. The blood mare which made
such havoc of the turf and female hearts of Ash Grove on
the following morning he had simply hired: he never rode
her a second time. The twenty-pound note he gave Mrs.
Merripebbles was, at least, ten pounds more than he could
comfortably afford. There was not the least necessity for
him to disguise his person or to call himself Brown on the
occasion of his visit to Gregory Lynch. But he could be
nothing if not melodramatic.
It is true that in establishing for himself a reputation for
high breeding and munificence in Ash Grove he had an
ulterior design. Prom the first hint of Miss Carlton's for¬
tune, he had smelt out another plot worthy the engagement
of his faculties. An heiress of such importance, surrounded
by mere bourgeois, he thought would become an easy prey.
But it was against his principle to win her by easy means.
He resolved to marry her one day; but the prize was not
worth having unless obtained over surmounted difficulties :
if none of sufficient magnitude occurred, he would make
them. Hence his desire to attach Marston Lynch to Lucy,
at the first hint of Maud's partiality for our hero ; hence
his willingness to waive his power ever Gregory, for the
sake of that gentleman's countenance and valuable intro¬
duction ; hence his furtherance of Gregory's marriage with
MAESTON LYNCH.
201
a narrow-minded, spiteful woman, who would be sure, by
her ill-treatment, to throw Lucy into the arms of the chi¬
valrous and warm-hearted Marston—a result that circum¬
stances brought about more rapidly than the self-styled
hidalgo could have anticipated.
Do you understand Don Sancho now, reader ? I hope
you do. As I have hinted, I shall have to show him to
you in the performance of many discreditable actions. But
for my sake do not think too harshly of him. If, when I
shall have done with him, it should turn out that you
regard him in a wholly detestable hght, I shall have dealt
unjustly with him. Bear with him and me, as I intend to
go on abusing, despising, and liking him immensely, to the
end of all these agreeable chapters.
02
maeston lynch.
CHAPTER XX.
the geeat meteopolis:
About four months after Marston Lynch's marriage—
a period which happened to coincide with the height of
the London season—a heavily laden cab drove up to the
Bedford Hotel, Covent Garden; a very sensible thing for
a cab to do at any time, supposing such vehicles to take
the slightest interest in the welfare and comfort of their
passengers.
The usual crowd of waiters and satellites were at the
door immediately—a vista of spruce chamber-maids lining
the entrance-hall, pleasantly terminating in a distant view
of the landlady's own smiling countenance. Ere the
majestic head waiter had well touched the handle of the
cab door, and prepared the muscles of his body for his
courtly bow, the door on the other side of the vehicle was
burst open from within, and a tall handsome young lady,
in elegant travelling neglige, leapt out into the road, with
supreme indifference to the orange skins and cabbage stalks
which .are indigenous to every inch of Covent Garden soil
not absolutely protected by foot pavement.
She swept pass the somewhat awe-stricken officials with
most perfect nonchalance, and was heard ordering a private
room in a tone of voice that seemed to imply habits of
undisputed command. She was soon seen tearing up the
hotel staircase—hotly in chase of a flying chamber-maid—
MARST0N LYNCH.
203
at a rate of speed that would have made the action of
less gracefully adjusted limbs in the highest degree un¬
dignified.
" Where is that girl off to ?" said a female voice from the
cab. And the dusty and travel-stained countenance of
Mrs. Merripebbles peered through the open door, after the
retreating form of her impetuous daughter—with an expres¬
sion strongly resembling that of an anxious hen, whose
brood of ducklings has taken for the first time to the
water. " Do go and look after her, Mr. Merripebbles.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself—a man of your age
to have no more controul over such a mere child!"
Our meek old friend merely shrugged his shoulders. It
was rather a difficult task, as he was somewhat too long in
the back to sit comfortably in any earthly cab, and was,
moreover, fairly built up in bandboxes and carpet bags.
His better half alighted, and darted in pursuit of Miss
Carlton. The head waiter and his assistants, by a series
of Layard-like exertions, succeeded in unearthing the ex-
stockbroker from the various strata of luggage in which
he had been embedded.
He straightened himself on the pavement with some
difficulty—smiling like an amiable serpent who had
been frozen and was grateful for the approach of warm
weather.
But then came a terrible revulsion of teeling. His wife
had left him to settle with the cabman ! How ever was he
to get through it ?
Of course, the driver was the most truculent of his
species. Such men always, instinctively, get hold of the
mildest fares.
Merripebbles, in fear and trembling, requested the ter¬
rible man to name his price. It should be stated that
those were the days of eightpenny mileage—for the name
of Fitzroy had not yet earned the execration of cabmanity
and that the vehicle had come no greater distance than
from the South Eastern Railway Station.
" Well; the fare's six bob," said the driver cruelly,
204
MAKSTON LYNCH.
and with a perfectly demoniac expression of counte¬
nance.
(Why do cabmen always speak of " the fare" with such
a mixture of spitefulness and contempt, as if they con¬
sidered it a mere drop in the ocean of their merited remu¬
neration ?)
Merripebbles almost shrank into his boots. He groped
in his trowsers pocket and clutched nervously at what he
felt to be eightt shillings. If he only dared offer so con¬
temptible a sum!
The cabman leant forward on his box, clutching the whip
threateningly—as if he had half a mind to give Mr. Mer¬
ripebbles a thrashing—-and added in a more uncompromis¬
ing tone of voice than before
" And there's two women and all that blessed dollop of
luggage."
Our old friend looked remorsefully at the carpet bags, and
felt somehow as if he had committed an offence against
society in getting married. He added another shilling to
the handful, aud proffered the combined amount with a
quivering hand.
The cab was out of sight in a second.
Merripebbles feared that he had acted meanly—the man
had evidently driven off in disgust, -with all the honest
pride of outraged poverty ; and he was, perhaps, the father
of a large family! Still, Merripebbles was glad to be re¬
lieved of the terrible presence. On the whole, he felt
supremely happy. He had been dragged away from
Chamounix at a moment's notice. He liked that above
all things. His wife and step-daughter had been so kind
as to bring him to London, and were going to take him
to the play that very evening.
He was pleased beyond measure. Having made a point
of looking after the housing of the luggage, he stood in the
portico of the Bedford Hotel, gazing at the cabbages with
an aspect of waggish benignity. He felt in a frame of
mind for enjoying life. He rushed over the way, and
purchased a pennyworth of cherries, which he enjoyed
MARSTON LYNCH.
205
under the piazzas with a relishing sense of dissipa¬
tion.
Not for long, though. He was soon fetched by a waiter.
" The lady" wanted to see him immediately.
Mrs. Merripebbles was seated in a private sitting-room,
Marius-like, among the bandboxes and portmanteaus. Her
husband nearly choked himself with a cheirystone, and
smashed the remainder of his purchase by sitting down on
his coat pocket, where he had hurriedly concealed it. He
suffered from moisture and " clamminess" of the pocket
for days, not daring to divulge the source of his un¬
easiness.
"Well, Mr. Merripebbles, and pray where have you
been ?"
" My dear, I have been seeing after the things."
Merripebbles blushed, and felt himself the most hardened
of liars.
" Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Merripebbles ! The things
have been brought in this hour (they had barely been
twenty minutes in London): I see you are determined to
drive me mad. After having brought me goodness knows
how many miles to go to a theatre, and then leaving me at
the mercy of goodness knows who."
Merripebbles thought of the cabman. He felt that he
had, at least, undergone his share of the perils of the
voyage. He was hurt; but, of course, did not say so.
" My dear," he said, in his usual deprecating manner,
" you are a little flurried by your journey. Perhaps a cup
of tea will set you right. I am sure, when you are more
yourself, you will give your own common-sense a little
play."
" I know what you mean, Mr. Merripebbles, and it s
just like you. You were going to throw the blame on me
for coming all the way from Chamounix to see Mr. Marston's
new piece—as if I cared for such vanities. Lord save us,
what would the Keverend Mr. Birch say ? But you know
very well that if we hadn't come Maud would have come
without us."
206
MARSTON LYNCH.
" Then, my love—with all respect—don't you think we
did quite right in coming with her ?"
" Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Merripebbles: you encourage
that girl in all her wilfulness and vanities. If she wanted
to marry a sweep you woidd be ready to give her away
to-morrow—dressed up as a Jack in the green, if she
ordered you."
Merripebbles could not gainsay this humiliating hypo¬
thesis. His wife continued, in a sort of ill-tempered
soliloquy—
" Upon my word I sometimes wish all newspapers were
burnt, and their writers with them. Just because a stray
copy of the Sunday Times happens to reach us, in a place
where we were living an orderly and pious life, saying that
this new play by young Mr. Lynch, of Longport, is ex¬
pected ' to create such a sensation at the Cork-street
Theatre. I know what you mean, Mr. Merripebbles, by
your smiling, you are glad we came. You are like a
baby—"
" My dear, I am pleased to think of our young friend
being likely to succeed so well in the walk of life he has
chosen. In spite of the Eeverend Mr. Birch—who is a
very able man—I do not see that there is anything in
dramatic amusements—"
"You are simply delighted that you are going to the
Theatre. That is all."
" My dear, if you wish it, I will stay where I am."
" Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Merripebbles, I would lay a
wager you haven't even thought of getting a box : perhaps
you would like myself and daughter to sit in the front row
of the gallery ?"
Merripebbles felt himself absolutely " cornered" in the
discussion. He fell back upon his old remedy of rubbing
his head and staring at nothing.
A waiter entered the room, and placed an envelope with
a large seal on the table.
"Private box—Mr. Sams's," was his laconic expla¬
nation.
MAESTON LYNCH.
207
" Who is Mr. Sams ?" inquired Mrs. Merripebbles.
The Avaiter stared. Not to know who Mr. Sams was—
within a circuit of a hundred miles or so about any of the
London theatres—was a condition of mental darkness which
no Covent Garden waiter could wholly appreciate.
However, it was not in his engagement to be astonished
at any eccentricity that the privileged locataires of the
Bedford might indulge in. So he controlled his feelings,
and said meekly—
"Number One, St. James's-street—Library, and Opera
boxes."
" But how does he come to know us ? I'm sure it's
very kind of him—but I don't even know the name."
Now the waiter saw his way clearly.
"Young lady—Number Twelve—sent for hairdresser,
and Private Box, Cork-street Theatre—first thing. Hair¬
dresser up stairs, now. Only private box left—large let,
this evening. Mr. Sams's compliments—three .guineas.
Coming!"
Exit waiter, precipitately.
Mrs. Merripebbles groaned.
" Three guineas ! Well, to be sure, I shall expect the
roof to fall in upon us for such sinful extravagance. It's
enough to keep half-a-dozen poor families for a week!
And only to think how moderate the boxes were at Milan
and Genoa."
" I must say it is very extravagant on the part of Maud.
We might just as well have gone to the public boxes."
" I dare say, Mr. Merripebbles, to be crowded among
linendrapers and shoemakers. Lord forgive me for
despising people in a humbler condition than ourselves !
But you needn't be afraid. If Maud is extravagant, it is
with her own money, and she has never been indebted to
you for a farthing. There, I beg your pardon, Mr. Merri¬
pebbles. You needn't fly out. Because I happen to be
■flurried and worried by a stupid wicked expensive journey,
you needn't make that an excuse for reminding me of my
failings, which I see you were going to. It would be
208
MARSTON LYNCH.
much, more manly of you to get out my black satin dress
and white mantle, which you know I've laid on the top of the
oilskin trunk, as well as I can tell you. Oh, here is Maud."
Maud Carlton had entered the room—splendidly and
becomingly dressed in evening costume. She had grown
more beautiful than I care about attempting to describe.
Perhaps the reader will be kind enough to save me the
trouble by remembering the rough sketch I gave of the
girl, and filling it up with all the richness of womanly
form and colour which his fertile imagination is capable of
conceiving. He will scarcely imagine a more lovely,
thoroughly-bred looking woman than Miss Carlton ap¬
peared as she entered that private sitting-room in Mrs.
Warner's Bedford Hotel.
She carried in her hand a splendid bouquet, composed
of flowers appropriate to her personality—magnificent in
their simplicity—simple in their magnificence !
Mrs. Merripebbles at once forgot her ill-hufiaour in
excusable maternal pride. But she recovered it at the
sight of the bouquet.
" Goodness sake. Maud—where have you been getting
those splendid flowers ?"
" At the proper place, I suppose. I sent out for a
bouquet, and they sent me several to choose from. But
are you not ready yet ?"
" Ready! Why we haven't been three minutes in the
house yet." (Merripebbles thought wonderingly of that
hour he had been accused of wasting.) " I haven't even
had time to order a cup of tea, for which I am dying—as
you know perfectly well, Mr. Merripebbles."
" Then I shall be compelled to go without you," said
Miss Carlton, with the most perfect calmness, as she pro¬
ceeded to ring the bell.
" Go without us, indeed. You bad, improper girl.
Mr. Merripebbles—perhaps if you will ask one of the
menials of the house to show me a little attention, I may
stand a chance of having my black satin and white mantle
looked out."
M.ARSTON LYNCH.
209
By about five minutes to seven our three friends were
comfortably installed in a commodious private box on the
grand tier of the Cork Street Theatre. My readers know
as well as I do that there is no such theatre in London—
nor ever has been. But let it be remembered that I am a
dramatic author by profession; and if I were to specify
the particular theatre I mean by its real title, the manager
would probably consider himself satirised, and refuse my
next five-act tragedy. I am aware it may be urged that I
run the risk of offending all the managers in London, by
leaving it an open question, as each will most probably
consider that I mean his identical establishment. But to
this I can give no more satisfactory answer, than that it
can't be helped!
And now, reader, lest the abrupt Bear-and-Tiddle-like
termination of this chapter should give offence, I will
behave towards you with greater candour than ever yet
was displayed by mortal author : I will let you into the
real state of the case which prevents my continuing at
present. If, when you have learnt it, you shall harbour
animosity towards me, your reputation for humanity is
done for. The fact is, reader (upon my word and honour!)
I have got the tooth-ache, and a dentist in human form
awaits me in the breakfast parlour.
210
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XXI.
in "which marston lynch gets called before
the curtain.
There is a street at the back of Burlington Gardens,
Piccadilly, known as Cork-street, Most of my metro¬
politan readers will be aware that there is no such thing
as a theatre in Cork-street, or within a circle of half of a
mile round it. I have, therefore, chosen to name the par¬
ticular temple of Thespis (that I believe, is the orthodox
expression) at which Marston Lynch made his debut as a
dramatic author—the Cork-street Theatre. My brother
members of the Society of British Piece-makers will fully
appreciate my reasons.
It was close upon seven o'clock, and Cork-street was in
a tolerable state of commotion—particularly in the vicinity
of the free list entrance to the theatre. That stern and
uncompromising section of the British audience—the
holders of orders—had assembled in large numbers at an
early hour, and were already clamouring and disputing for
their rights with their accustomed truculency. Nor were
the more profitable doors (from a managerial point of
view) without their numerous besiegers. Eor it was the
first night of a new piece, by a new author, from which
and from whom great things were expected.
It should be borne in mind that I am speaking of four-
MARSTON LYNCH.
211
teen years ago, when the London theatre was still an
institution to be believed in. Probably, because there
was yet a lingering tradition among good actors that it
was much better policy for half a dozen of them to hang
together, than to disseminate themselves over the country,
that each might possess a theatre (and some supernumera¬
ries) to himself. The Cork-street Theatre, at the period I
speak of, was more conservative in this respect than any
of its neighbours, numbering in its corps dramatique, no
less than eight people, of both sexes, whom the public
cared to see open their mouths and exercise their limbs.
So that whever a reasonable majority of these eight people
could be induced to act in unison, the public felt some
interest as to the result of their combined exertions, and
came to look at them.
All those eight people are still alive and flourishing.
But one of them persists in playing Spartacus and Claude
Melnotte at the Great National Morning Herald Theatre,
Houndsditch. The second is the only recognised Othello
on the stage; but he has a weakness in favour of two
hundred pounds a-night (with a stipulation of a bad Iago)
which prevents his services being very frequently sought
after. The third is the leading comedian at the Temple
Bar Theatre, where he has it all his own way, being
privileged, by the terms of his engagement, to refuse all
farces—not containing a steam-boat scene wherein he can
introduce his celebrated sea-sick business into an inverted
umbrella. The fourth (an excellent Grandfather White¬
head) has been driven to California, in search of an
audience capable of appreciating his performance of Romeo
to his fat scorbutic wife's Juliet. The fifth left the stage
in disgust on finding himself "put into" Sir Oliver
Surface—a wilful insult to a man who had delighted the
public as Charles for two-and-forty years. The sixth has
a theatre of her own, as well as a house in May-Fair, a
Brougham and four horses : the theatre is not supposed to
be a profitable concern; but the lavish outlay in the matter
of new pieces and costumes, fitted to the fair lessee by the
212
MARST0N LYNCH.
most skilful artists, continues unabated. The - ventli
rules paramount at the Mark Lane Theatre, wlie^ 3 she
does exactly as she pleases, to the chronic exasperation of
the manager's wife. The eighth is disengaged; is only
thirty-seven with the appearance of twenty-live; is a
splendid woman, and a perfect genius ; and is, moreover,
willing and able, for a moderate salary, to play anything
from Tilly Sloicboy to Lady Macbeth. But there is no
theatre for her to play in, and no actors to support her.
The Cork-street Theatre was shut up about eight, and
pulled down about six years ago. Its manager passed
Basinghall-street triumphantly last week as a tallow mer¬
chant. It was his fifth time of asking.
The theatre was filling rapidly, and the relentless crowd
at the free list entrance were becoming unmanageable.
It is a curious fact that the possession of a gratuitous
admission to a theatre should invariably sour the sweetest
temper, and convert mildness into ferocity. The ticlcet-
of-leave man (as the holder of an order is now facetiously
termed in box-keeping circles) always insist on the best
place, the most slavish attention, and is infinitely more
hard to please with the performances than the quiet,
unassuming person who pays his money cheerfully to be
amused. The ticket-of-leave man begins by looking upon
the manager—to whose theatre, and by whose politeness,
he is gratuitously admitted—as his chief enemy and
oppressor. If he comes in good time he complains of the
tyranny of being kept waiting. If he comes too late, and
his order is refused admission (as he has been plainly told
in writing that it will be, if presented after a certain time)
he brands his arch-opponent as a thief and swindler,
decoying people to the theatre under false pretences—the
real object being to make them pay money for their
evening's amusement—an imposition which the ticket-of-
leave man revolts at, and, as a rule, will not submit to.
If he finds, the theatre full of people who have paid for
theit places—none of whom the officials will turn out to
make room for him—he considers himself robbed, and
3IARST0N LYNCH.
213
meditates legal redress. He has been known to knock
down box-keepers. If he is in the habit of visiting the
theatre frequently (of course on his usual terms) he resents
the constant repetition of a popular performance as a
personal inqury. It is the business of that scoundrel the
manager to .provide him with variety. This being denied
him, he has the ever present revenge of talking loud
during the representation—and, if pushed to extremes, of
hissing.
On this particular evening the ticket-of-leave man was
exasperated beyond the usual bounds. Certainly he was
rather hardly dealt with ; but with his usual mad bull im¬
petuosity, he butted his indignation at the wrong people.
Crowds of orders had been already admitted. All the
best seats in the boxes were tilled. It had been found
necessary to return money to several people, for whom no
reasonable accommodation could be arranged. Instruc¬
tions arrived that no further orders were to be admitted.
A howl, as of baffled wolves with a barn door slammed
in their faces greeted the announcement.
" This is infamous—a robbery—an imposition," said a
perspiring greengrocer, brandishing a piece of paper (which
he had received from a lodging-house landlady who owed
him for vegetables; who had obtained it from a lodger
who owed her for rent; to whom it had been given by the
proprietor of a struggling journal who owed him for copy;
who had accepted it from an actor who owed him for a
puff; who had begged it from the author who owed him
for nothing). "A pretty sort of thing for an order to be
refused before seven o'clock. A nice way to make a new
piece succeed. My order is the author's own name. Here
it is, signed ' M. Lynch.' "
" I am very sorry," said the official, with perfect calm.
" But Mr. Lynch has exceeded the usual author's pri¬
vilege, and has given more orders than he was entitled
to."
(So he had ! Was it not just like him, reader?)
" Oh, I dare say," said one.
214
MARSTON LYNCH.
" A pretty excuse," said another.
" To get our money."
" Swindle!"
" Robbery!"
" I shall write to the Times."
" I shall pay to the pit, and if the new piece doesn't
get hiss'd—it won't be my fault."
"I have orders," said the box-keeper, "to pass any
one into the pit who wishes it."
" The pit! you insolent scoundrel!" said the green¬
grocer, who had a corpulent wife on his arm. " And do
you suppose ladies are going to sit in your filthy pit ?"
" Make way there !" said a stalwart, elderly personage,
with a black moustache, and an Irish brogue, both of un-
matchable ferocity. " I'm for the press. They'll have to
let me in. Two for the Penny Cane."
" I am sorry I cannot admit you," said the box-keeper.
" What—the Irishman fairly shuddered with aston¬
ishment at the audacity; " you refuse the Cane's orders ?"
" Very seldom, sir," said a quiet, middle-aged gentle¬
man in a resplendent over-coat, who was standing in front
of the check-taker's wicket. " But sometimes we are
compelled to limit our civilities to the editor's friends."
" Civilities! May be you think it's a favour you're
granting. Do you think I come here for pleasure ?"
" If not, for what else ?"
" I am to write a notice."
" Mr. Brown, I believe, does that for your paper, and
he came in five minutes ago with his own personal
admission."
"What the devil is Mr. Brown to me? I belong to
the Press—I show you my credentials—and, you mean to
say, you refuse me admission ?"
" Certainly."
" Then I shall complain to your manager."
" You had better," said the man in the dazzling coat,
with an unmoved countenance.
" No impertinence, sir. I shall send up my card, and,
MARSTON LYNCH.
215
if I find he supports you in your insolence—let him look
out "
And the Irish gentleman strode away, looking pistols
and shillelahs. Some humane bystanders felt that it
would be a charity to warn the manager of the terrible
doom so obviously in store for him. Had they heard the
Irish gentleman's observation, as he took the arm of a dis¬
appointed friend, they would probably have felt relieved.
The observation was as follows:—
" If the spalpeens ever get another advertisement out of
me for their trumpery penny-rag—I'll eat all the hair-dye
and pomatum in the shop."
Two well-dressed young men elbowed their way through
the crowd towards the wicket of entrance. One of them,
who was very tall, and spoke with a slight provincial
accent, presented a card to the check-taker, with some
embarrassment, as if not altogether sure as to the dignity
of the proceeding, and said—
" I have just received this from the gentleman whose
name you see there. If it is not available for to night—
my friend and I will take two stalls—or a private box."
The check-taker passed the card to the quiet gentleman
in the dazzling coat, who looked at it through a massive
gold eye-glass.
"Ha! S. de Saumarez!" he said. "I didn't know
he was in town. Shall we see him this evening ?"
" He left us just now to go round by the stage-door,"
said the gentleman who had presented the card.
" So—I'm glad of that," said he of the coat. " Saumarez
brings luck. I augur a good success from his coming.
But I'm sure I don't know what to do with you two
gentlemen "
The two gentlemen looked as if they did not at all know
what to do with themselves.
" I couldn't give you stalls for love or money," con¬
tinued the other. " The dress circle is full. And I can't
think of putting friends of my friend Saumarez into the
upper boxes."
216
MAKSTON LYNCH:
The friends of his friend evidently wondered very much
what was to be their destination, and who their friend's
friend was.
" You would be deafened in the orchestra, and have
your brains knocked out behind the scenes. I am afraid,
gentlemen, you will have to put up with my private box.
My name is Toplin."
Mr. Tods, of Longpoi't, and his young friend, when
they had recovered from the startling effects of this double
denouement—bowed reverential homage to the well-known
London Manager. Mr. Toplin wrote plays himself occa¬
sionally, and wrote them pretty well. Either from habit
of dramatic composition or to keep himself in practice, he
generally managed to mix up a little mystery and suspicion
in the most trivial incidents in his life. Keenly relishing
the astonishment of the two young provincials at the over¬
whelming honour he had thrust upon them, he motioned
them to follow a key-bearing official.
They had to pass the stall entrance when a gentleman
was just presenting vouchers for himself and a lady.
" Mr. Tofts, I hope to see you," said the gentleman, in
a familiar voice—" Why, all Longport's here—the town
must be empty."
" Good evening, Mr. Howker. Excuse me, I am rather
in a hurry. Bless my soul, Miss Crooze! Who would
have thought of seeing you here, and "
Mr. Tofts was probably going to add, " and with—such
a companion." Fortunately, the sentence was not com¬
pleted.
Marian blushed a little, and stated that she had come
to London to see a sick friend; and Mr. Howker having
come up with some more gentlemen to see Marston's piece,
had been so kind as to call and offered to conduct her to
the theatre—adding, that of course, she shared the com¬
mon anxiety of Marston's friends as to his success.
"Bather," said Howker, "There were fifteen of us
from the Literary and Scientific came up by the Mail Ex¬
press last night. Prebble's in the pit with a dozen more.
marston lynch.
217
nine printers came up by the Parliamentary thts morning.
They've vowed to take in six men each to the gallery, and
murder anybody who hisses."
" Indeed—I am glad to hear it—I am sure I wish every
success. My friend and I are going to look at the piece
from the Manager's Box! Good evening.
Mr. Tofts and his friend followed their conduetor.
The Manager had been standing by, during the brief
encounter of our old acquaintances. He looked at his
watch. It was two minutes past seven. The overture
had commenced. Mr. Toplin returned to the free list office
to indulge in his favourite amusement of watching the
agonies of the baffled Ticket-of-leave men who came too
late. Do not judge harshly of him. Every hand that
ever clutched an order he knew to be against him. Why
should theatrical managers, of all classes in the world, be
exempt from human weaknesses? As he stood gazing
from a secure eminence at the sea of wrathful combinations
below him, with much of the cruel serenity, with which
Nero may be supposed to have looked down from the im¬
perial box in the amphitheatre, when tigers were making
good sport with the Christians,, Mr. Toplin thus solilo¬
quised—
"There's something in this young fellow. Eriends
flock to see his piece from all parts of the world. I just
watched a box full, who have evidently come all the way
from Italy on purpose. That shows a strong power of
getting hold of people's affections. I tell him to confine
himself to about twenty orders for the first night, and he
sends in something like a hundred and fifty people.
There's impetuosity, daring ' epanchement de coeur, elan,'
(Mr. Toplin was so proud of his French, that he even
thought in it) about that. If this thing of his succeeds
to night, I'll set him to work on a passion piece for Miss
Melton."
The Cork-street Manager piqued himself (not without
some reason) upon the astuteness of his perceptions ; but
more especially upon a power of building up theories
218
MAHSTON LYNCH.
upon the most trivial data. He was accustomed to judge
people's characters from the colour of their hair, the shape
of their nails, their manner of sneezing, their pronouncia-
tion of certain diphthongs. Upon this perilous ex pede
Hermlem principle of reasoning, he would, build his most
serious engagements. It is needless to say that it led him
frequently into the wildest mistakes, just as an astrono-
nomical calculation, if you happen to be the sixtieth part
of an inch wrong in setting your instrument, you may
find yourself a billion or so miles from the truth in your
result.
The Manager's Box was very splendid, and luxuriously
comfortable. Mr. Tofts felt that the dignified thing would
be to lean back behind the curtain as if he was used to it;
but the temptation to show himself under such enviable
circumstances was too strong. Under the pretence of
pointing out to his young friend (the inexperienced son of
a wealthy cotton-broker, whom Tofts had bfought up to
London to astonish with, and bear witness to his own
knowledge of town life) the beauties of the house and the
celebrities assembled within it, Mr. Tofts leaned conspicu¬
ously forward.
"Do you see those two very young-looking men in the
box opposite, with such very grey hair and such black
moustaches, that make them look like two Mousquetaires
of the Regency ? One is Oxenford, the other Stirling
Coyne. That little fierce-looking man, with the large
light eyes, is Jerrold; that bull-headed-looking man, in
the buttoned-up coat, is Captain Marryat. Rather a dull-
looking fellow to wright such smart novels, eh?"
" Who's that sickly-looking man talking to him ?"
" Hood," said Mr. Tofts, fearlessly. He had never
seen Hood in his life, but he was determined that his gal¬
lery of celebrities should be well stocked.
" There's a gentleman nodding to you opposite."
" Ha! that's Albert Smith, one of the writers on
' Punch.' I met him at a party last season."
Mr. Tofts nodded violently ; but it turned out that the
MARSTON LYNCH.
219
gentleman alluded to was nodding to some ladies in the
next box. This created a feeling of awkwardness.
" There's a fellow in the pit nodding to you, Tofts, and
no mistake."
So there was. The fellow had, moreover, a case bottle
in his hand, from which he expressed, by the most exube¬
rant pantomime, that he drank to the health of Mr. Tofts
and to the success of the new piece.
Mr. Tofts drew in his head abruptly,
" Who is he, Tofts ?"
" A printer fellow in Longport, who does my cards and
circulars for me—that is, he did do them; but he gets no
more work from me. D—n his vulgar familiarity !"
Don Sancho de Saumarez entered the box with his
usual briskness, and his usual air of mysterious import¬
ance.
" It's all right," he said; " I've been round to all the
clubs and all the newspapers. Everybody is here worth
securing for a first night. I've introduced Marston to all
the men worth knowing. The tiling's quite safe. I've
been slapping all the actors on the back. They all like
their parts, and mean to go in and win. Mrs. Swann is
in love with Marston, especially since I have told her he is
recently married to a pretty girl; and it all depends upon
her. There! they're ringing up; I must be off!"
Exit Don Sancho as he came, leaving Mr. Tofts and
his friend with a vague impression that a brilliant success
is about to come off, entirely and solely attributable to
the diplomacy of Don Sancho de Saumarez. The audi¬
ence settle themselves in their places and the curtain
goes up.
I am not going to 'describe Marston Lynch's play, which
was deservedly successful for one entire season, and has
since been as deservedly forgotten. It was a fresh piece
of writing containing some excellent points and situations,
but marvellously loose in construction. We of the present
fastidious generation that expect so much and get so little
in the matter of dramatic art, are not to consider our aunts
220
MAftSTON LYNCH.
and uncles fools for tolerating such pieces as they did. ^ It
should be borne in mind that their most indifferent points
were garnished in those days with sauces such as we have
no idea of. Who could conceive a shambling two-act farce,
turning upon a sorry practical joke, and necessitating
about twenty changes of scene, supported, in the present
day by Bobson, Murray, the Keeleys, Buckstone, Wigan,
Mrs. Charles Matthews, Mrs. Stirling, and Miss Woolgar
(I beg her pardon—Mrs. Alfred Mellon) ? Yet in the
much-despised, but oh ! how much regretted, old theatrical
times, such combinations have been built upon the most
wretched foundations. Mundens, Knights, Emerys, John¬
stons, .Jordans, Orgers, Glovers, have united to give the
cachet of popularity to productions that a Surrey manager
of the present day would not purchase at the rate of five
shillings an act.
Marston Lynch's play had the great merit of affording
half a dozen popular favourites the opportunity of display¬
ing themselves in constant juxta-position with one another
in parts that suited them. When the company became
disbanded, the play was worth nothing. But on its first
production it was. triumphantly successful. The active
partisanship of such people as Mr. Tofts in the manager's
box, Mr. Howker in the stalls, Mr. Prebble in the pit, and
the nine printers with him, fifty-four friends in the gallery,
may in some manner account for the unusual enthusiasm
displayed on the occasion.
At the conclusion of the piece there was a vociferous
call for the author.
Our hero made his first appearance on any stage, led on
by Mr. Toplin, the manager, and Mrs. Swann, who had
played the heroine. He needed some such experienced
support to prevent him from walking through the footlights
into the drum, for he seemed more dead than alive. As
he neared the centre of the stage (which he afterwards
declared he believed, at the time, to be at least ten miles
across), a splendid bouquet struck him on the cheek. It
had been hurled at him with vigorous precision of aim, by
MARSTON LYNCH.
221
a handsome young lady in a private box, who by her
hearty and unconcealed enthusiasm, had distracted a good
deal of the public attention during the performance. Mr.
Toplin picked up the bouquet and handed it to Mrs.
Swann, who with her celebrated giggle and toss of neck,
insisted on Marston's acceptance of the favour. Marston
dropped the bouquet three times. These proceedings
elicited a round of applause (which Mrs. Swann appro¬
priated) and much general merriment. The young lady
who had thrown the bouquet seemed nevertheless to con¬
sider it a very good and hondfide transaction.
About half an hour after the conclusion of the piece,
Marston Lynch came out of the Manager's private room,
with, a confused idea that he was walking on his hands,
having left his head at home, and with a cheque for a
hundred and fifty pounds somewhere in his boots. The
matter-of fact presence of Don Sancho de Saumarez, with
Mrs. Swann on his arm—a very Grolconda of diamonds,
and a perfect Siberia of furs—recalled our bewildered hero
to something like a consciousness of natural life.
" Come on," said Saumaurez, sharply, " we're waiting
for you. Oh, I forgot. Sir Frederick Manderville—Mr.
Lynch."
Marston bowed to a resplendent mass of fine linen and
whiskers—that bowed in return.
" We're going to sup at Sir Frederick's," said Saumarez,
" and he insists on your coming with us."
Mrs. Swann endorsed the invitation with one of her
most melting looks.
" I am very sorry," Marston stammered, " I really
cannot—I am wanted, at home—."
"Will your mother whip you ?"
" No. But my wife will miss me—she was too ill to
come to the theatre this evening : it is cruel keeping her
in suspense so long."
" Pshaw ! she's in bed along ago. If not, half-an-hour
either way can't make much difference."
" Saumarez! you are a horror," said Mrs.. Swann,
222
MARSTON LYNCH.
raising all the battery of her eyes upon Marston. " I
couldn't retard such a deliciously interesting meeting by
a single moment for worlds. Go home, sir 1 You don't
deserve to have a brilliant success or a pretty wife. I am
sure she is pretty."
" She is," said Marston, " and very good."
" There, do go home to her at once, if you ever wish
me to speak to you again, or I shall believe you are as bad
as the rest."
Mrs. Swann's eyes said " Come," as plainly as eyes
could speak; and hers were very speaking eyes.
They had reached the street—a Brougham was waiting
with the door open.
" Jump in," said Saumarez, " we can all four squeeze in
for a short distance."
" But," Marston protested faintly.
" Don't be an ass—you needn't stay long, you know."
"Well, if I thought you wouldn't press me."
" There, you needn't get quite so close to Mrs. Swann.
We're not so crowded as all that comes to. Jermin Street,
Eh, Sir Frederick ?
" Yes—drive home."
" Don't touch me, or speak to me, or come near me,''
said Mrs. Swann, in anything but a pittiless tone of voice.
" I declare you are all monsters alike—old and young."
At about four o'clock on the following morning a
Hansom cab stopped at a house in Cecil-street, Strand, at
the parlour window of which, dimly shown by a flickering
light inside, the shadow of a little ringletted head was seen
anxiously pressed against the glass. As the cab stopped
the shadow disappeared, and, in an instant, the street-door
flew open, and Lucy Lynch appeared, shivering with cold
and terror.
The cabman was assisting Marston out of the vehicle.
" What is it," said Lucy, in a choking sickened voice,
" Is he hurt ?"
MARSTON LYNCH.
223
" Hurt, bless you, no, ma'am," said the driver. " Only
a little bit cut."
" Cut! Where ?' said the unsophisticated little wife,
clutching her staggering husband in her arms, and
manipulating his head and face with nervous rapidity.
" Had a drop too much, ma'am—that's all," the
humane cabman explained. "He won't hurt. My fare's
paid. Good night, ma'am."
Lucy half carried our hero (?) into the sitting-room,
where he fell groaning in an easy chair.
" What is it, Marston : tell me ?"
" Get me a razor and let me cut my throat," was the
modest request of her husband.
" Don't talk like that—I have been very lonely and
very frightened, but now I see you safe I don't mind it.
Tell me, your piece ? "
" Greatest success of the season," hiccupped the drunken
scribe, suddenly forgetting his remorse. " Called before
the curtain—complimented by everybody—a hundred and
fifty pounds. What's o'clock? "
" I don't know, but it's rather late."
" And you have been shivering here in the cold, while
I—. Don't undress me—I am a degraded wretch, not
worthy to be touched by such hands as yours."
" I am only loosening your collar, darling. Tell me
one thing, Marston: in the middle of your triumph to¬
night—for I can see you have had a real one—did you
once think of me ?—or if you did, otherwise than as a
burden and a stumbling-block in your path ? "
" I thought of you all the time as an angel, and myself
as a heartless demon, so help me Heaven 1" Marston
blurted out, with more truth than distinctness.
" Don't think like that—that would make me tiresome
to you in the long run. Neglect me whenever you please
—1 don't call this neglect to-night—this is nothing;
only love me—love me always."
' Marston burst into a calf-like howl, and buried his face
in his wife's bosom.
224
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" Don't cry—I can't bear tliat; for after all, it is on
my account. And yon know I was never to cause you a
pang or a remorse, mucli less a tear. But unless you
help me in that, as in other things, I can do nothing.
There, go to sleep so; and, in the morning, tell me all
about the play and the actors."
Marston howled himself to sleep, muttering incohe¬
rently, at intervals, such remarks as " Infernal scoundrel! '
" Hundred and fifty pounds !" " Called at eleven o'clock!"
" Sir Frederick !" " Miscreant!" " Angel!" &c., &c.
Lucy sat up all night, watching her graceless spouse as
he lay snorting and writhing in the large arm-chair;
propping up his head; covering him with warm clothes;
bathing his forehead, and listening to his breathing; keep¬
ing herself awake by frequently kissing the unconscious
drunkard, and dwelling on his many virtues.
MARSTON LYNCH.
225
CHAPTER XXII.
MARSTON LYNCH AWAKENS ONE MORNING TO FIND
HIMSELF FAMOUS BUT POORLY.
As dayliglit began to show itself—which it does in Lon¬
don in a palpable form, like the Egyptian darkness—
assuming a thick puddingy consistency, (suggesting the
possibility of its being eaten with a spoon if it seem not
too unwholesome); and as the round of a new day's trou¬
bles commenced their ill-omened ramble, from West to
East, along the neighbouring strand—a fresh terror seized
upon the little shivering wife whom we left studying the
edifying spectacle of a man of genius reduced considerably
below the moral and intellectual level of a hog. The
people of the house ! What if they should come and find
him there in that condition ere she should be able to rouse
him ? The prospective shame was too horrible not to sug¬
gest its own remedy. The little woman decided, with the
promptness of despair, that if Marston would not be
roused, he must be carried, dragged, pushed, shoved, or
bundled to bed, and that she must do it.
Housed, Marston decidedly would not be. Lucy tried a
forlorn hope of shakes, kisses, and exhortations ; and then
bravely confronted the inevitable but apparently super¬
human task before her.
An inebriated literary gentleman, doubled up in an easy
chair, showing no signs of human vitality, save stertorous
breathing, and an occasional symptom of requiring the use
of a wash-hand basin, is certainly not an heroic sight. I
am afraid, as a subject, the tableau would be rejected by
Q
226
MARSTON LYNCH.
the judges in such matters, as utterly beneath the dignity
of classic art. Yet, in my humble opinion, the group of
that small woman, whose arms do not seem strong enough
to nurse a fat baby, calmly measuring with her eyes those
six feet of deadly drunken humanity, with no purpose
visible in her countenance but the resolute one of getting
the degrading bundle to bed, and out of the way of shame
—contains in it the true elements of the sublime. Any
sculptor of my acquaintance is welcome to the suggestion.
Lucy took a rapid but comprehensive glance of the field
of battle ; reviewed the state of her own forces; decided on
her plan of attack, and went boldly into action.
Fortunately, their bed-room was on the ground floor, at
the back of the sitting room. The easy chair containing
the deboshed poet, was at about three yards from the door
of communication. The bed was at about the same dis¬
tance on the other side. First of all, Lucy threw the door
wide open. Then she " turned down" the bed, carefully
clearing the intervening floor of all obstacles. This
achieved, she returned on tiptoe (for there must be no
noise) to the fallen hero, whom she deliberately proceeded
to try to lift. Marston moved about as much as Saint
Paul's would have done if she had blown against the walls
of that edifice with a pair of toy bellows. With a clearness
of inductive reasoning, which would not have discredited
Mahomet, she decided that if Marston could not be got
out of the chair, the chair must go with him. The neces¬
sity for Marston being forced to go to bed proverbial wis¬
dom had long since decided for her. It was evident that
the bed would not come to him.
Mrs. Marston Lynch lifted up the carpet, that the
castors of the easy chair might roll more easily. She
summoned all her strength for a grand push. The chair
moved at least eighteen inches; but it made a noise on the
bare boards. This would never do. Mrs. Lynch carefully
laid down the carpet again, and commenced pushing once
more. The chair moved at a much slower rate, but, this
MARSTON LYNCH.
227
time, quite noiselessly. About thirty successive pushes
were enough to bring the chair and its senseless burden to
the bed side.
Then our indomitable little friend flew back to the sitting
room, and removed every trace of disorder with the skill
and rapidity of a story-book fairy. She closed the door
noiselessly; bolted it inside, and courageously faced the
minor difficulty of getting Marston into bed.
On entering upon this task she again reminds us of the
nursery tales. But this time, instead of the benevolent and
all-skilful fairy, she appears in the character of the witch's
victim—commanded to make a rope of sand, to fetch water
in a broken pitcher, or to catch a salmon in a net of cob¬
webs.
Was the princess in the fairy tale ever daunted by the
apparent impossibility of the task set for her to do ? Do
we not always see her set forth, pitcher in hand, to the
work, with evident faith that some good power will inter¬
vene to make the crazy vessel watertight ? Does she not
quietly spin the cobwebs into threads, and sit down to
knit it into meshes with a sad but trusting heart—never
doubting but that some good-natured salmon will allow
himself to be caught by the flimsy device.
Lucy had brought her husband to the edge of the bed.
She divested him of such clothing as she could manage
(men's hard waistcoat buttons "were terrible trying to her
little fingers). She bathed his temples with Eau-de-
Cologne ; of course kissed him several times—as if that
would do any good!—and waited patiently till the un¬
wieldy ship she had undertaken to convey to the harbour
of Bed should, by some process of lurching or tacking,
facilitate her exertions.
The wished-for occasion arrived; Marston suddenly
started up and howled dismally. Exhausted by the brief
paroxysm, he fell, with at least half his weight, on the bed.
The artful Lucy had watched her opportunity. Even her
little arms had sufficient power of leverage to hoist the
remainder of the inanimate mass into a horizontal posture.
Q 2
228
MAItSTON LYNCII.
The task was achieved. Lucy was half dead—but what
of that ? Her husband was in bed—and tucked in, nobody
but herself being a whit the wiser.
Mistress Lucy Lynch looked very wan by the now broad
daylight, and very fragile—aye, and alas ! very ill. But
she slipped off her pretty gossamer robes with marvellous
rapidity, and, with a radiant face, accompanying her move¬
ments by the sotto voce humming of a pleasant tune—which
was then poprdar, and to which words had been written
by Marston Lynch Esq., she flopped on her knees, remain¬
ing in that position, I regret to say, but a very short time
—and was soon nestling by the side of the unconscious
sot, who was life, and death, and earth, and heaven to
her. And Mrs. Lynch slept soundly and happily for the
space of six hours. Merely waking every ten minutes
to assure herself that her drunken darling was not
suffocated.
At the expiration of the time mentioned, Mistress Lucy
was awakened by a violent ringing at the street door bell;
and as she hurried on her clothes with a dreadful sense of
late hours and dissipation, for which she alone was to blame,
she heard a well-known voice in the sitting-room humming
cheerful melodies. With a few magic touches she succeeded
in investing herself with all the orthodox graces of a
morning beauty. Except, alas ! the essential one of bloom
on the cheeks—and hastened to give Sancho de Saumarez
a cordial welcome.
Lucy liked Saumarez, a weakness that was shared by
most men and women who had ever spoken to him. If,
in the strongly perceptive, womanly side of her character,
she felt that he was not a man to be trusted, yet, in her
more child-like aud predominate phase, she was never
proof against his exhaustless bonhommie and superficial
kindliness. He was just the sort of visitor she would have
liked to receive first on this trying morning. She knew
him for the kind messenger who would never come charged
with any but comfortable tidings. In the absence of those
he would stop away.
MARSTON LYNCH.
329
Saumarez looked really what is vulgarly called " a sight
for sore eyes." He was attired in the choicest of morning
costume. His moustache was a prodigy of blackness, his
cheeks a miracle of the closest shaving; his linen, of
course, was faultless. He appeared full of life, health,
and spirits.
He was sitting in an easy chair, half buried in newspapers
which he had brought with him.
Lucy divined the truth at once. These were the day's
papers, containing critiques upon Marston's piece. They
were favourable. Otherwise the couleur de rose philoso¬
pher would never have marred his pleasant reputation by
bringing them.
Saumarez leaped up from his chair on Lucy's entrance,
and commenced acting a lively scene in the genre of low
comedy.
hirst of all he hid his face in his hat, as if ashamed to
meet public scrutiny. He then ran into the corner with
his face to the wall, heaving his shoulders as with contrite
sobbing. Then he looked round furtively between his
fingers, and turned back to the wall—howling as in the
deadliest terror, and kicking out his left leg spasmodically
in true clown fashion.
Lucy laughed heartily.
Saumarez turned briskly at the sound, and made a
grimace expressive of rapturous relief. Then he shook his
head in the style of a harlequin, feeling it carefully with
his hand, as if doubtful of its being still on his
shoulders.
" Why, it isn't snapped off, I declare," he said. " It's
what I fully expected. But I suppose I'm to catch it in
some other fashion. Please to give it me at once, and get
it over. Only be merciful, because I didn't go to do it.
And remember I have a wife and sixteen small children
to support—eight of them twins under the age of six
months."
Don Sancho affected to weep, using his forefinger as a
handkerchief.
230
MARSTON LYNCH.
Lucy, highly amused and cheered by his tomfoolery—as
he intended her to be—held out her hand.
Saumarez put his hands in his pockets, drawing himself
up with comic dignity.
" No ! I won't have it. It's flat hypocrisy. I am the
' husband's friend.' I was spoken of not ten minutes ago
as ' that Saumarez'—probably as ' that wretch Saumarez.'
It is true that that Saumarez doesn't produce a successful
comedy twice a week, and doesn't experience the minor
pleasure of seeing a friend produce one every night. And
on such an occasion if that Saumarez did happen to get
drunk and disorderly, and drag his friend into the vortex-r-
but never mind! I came here on purpose to be pitched
into. Tou are requested to lay it on mildly, and
with the smallest possible quantity of brine in the
pickle."
"Was the piece very successful, then?"
" The greatest success for years, my dear Mrs. Lynch,"
answered Saumarez, with momentary seriousness ; " and,
indeed, you ought to be very highly congratulated. But
I have brought you all the newspapers. They will tell
you what the world thinks of your husband. I suppose he
is not out of bed yet?"
" Oh dear, no."
" Ah! there's the difference between old and young
sinners,, you see. I was up at seven—and if you'd seen
me last night—well, no matter. Forgive us our sins, say I."
" I only hope he may not be seriously ill," said Lucy,
in a quivering voice.
" I beg your pardon. 111? If that is his idea we'll
soon put a stop to it."
Saumarez seized the poker and tongs and entered the
bedroom, making an insufferable charivari as he shouted,
" Hi! Marston ! Thieves ! Murder ! Fire ! You're
wanted at Court! Here's the police ! i'
Marston opened his eyes with a dismal expression of
terror; moaned, " Oh Lord, what's that ? Let me alone
and went to sleep again.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
231
" Do you think I had better send for a doctor ? " Lucy
asked, tremulously.
" Send for a doctor? Send for a white elephant."
" Here, Monsieur le Malade ! you're to put your feet in
gruel, and swallow a mustard poultice immediately."
" Please to let me alone," was again murmured from the
blankets
" Oh, indeed ! Did you ever happen to taste cold pig,
my friend ? If not you will soon become acquainted with
that savouiy viand. Stop, I'll try another method, as the
cookery books say. Hey! Marston! (very loud in the
sleeper's ear) the Times says you've stolen your plot from
Beaumont and Fletcher."
Marston jumped up in bed and stared round him ludi¬
crously.
" I thought that would do it. Here, drink your soda
water, you drunken rascal" (Lucy had brought in a bottle
of that refreshing fluid with her. I am afraid its being-
kept on the premises and her knowledge of its utility is a
bad sign), "and then try and swallow some breakfast. I
found your bloaters cold on the table, so I put 'em down
to the fire."
Marston took the soda water with a hand that rocked to
and fro, and put the glass with some difficulty to his lips.
The liquid disappeared like a drop of water on a heated bar.
Marston remarked that he felt his head coming in half.
" Naturally enough: walking across the stage with the
glare of the footlights before you, and deafening applause
on all sides of you, is enough to give any one a headache.
Eh, Mrs. Lucy ? "
" Did Marston do that?" Lucy inquired, with pleasure,
opening her eyes.
" All that—aye, more; had a bouquet thrown him."
" How I should like to have been there."
" Well, but first for the Yarmouth bloaters. What ho!
the castors. Let there be mustard galore, and cayenne
shall be hot in the mouth. Does Mrs. Lynch imagine that
because she is virtuous there shall be no more—thingamy
232
MARS TON LYNCH.
and what's-a-name ? Give me the fakements. I have a
receipt for a patent sauce, which I intend publishing in
shilling bottles, called La Sauce du Matin Apres, or Morn¬
ing After Sauce. I have drawn up an advertisement,
headed, ' No more hot coppers !' and ' Do you bruise
your wives yet ? ' I hope he was too drunk to use the
poker when he came home, Mrs. L? You may see me
making it, if you like, only don't blow the secret. Dor
none is genuine unless signed by me, Elizabeth Lazenby.
What a jolly table Elizabeth must keep. I wish she'd
marry me, and leave me all her pickles."
.Rattling on in this manner, Saumarez ransacked Lucy's
little cheffonier of every savoury condiment he could lay his
hands on, and proceeded to mix his invaluable preparation,
with much mock solemnity. He pronounced cabalistic
words over the salt; he took out his watch, and appeared
absorbed in counting the seconds which the mustard was
dissolving in the vinegar. He affected despair when he
found he had put the catsup in first, instead of the ancho¬
vies, and threatened to commit suicide, a la Vatel, by
falbng on a table-spoon.
Marston watched him through the open door, laughing
and moaning alternately. Lucy had entirely forgotten hex-
fatigues and misgivings; the lively visitor had, as it were,
cleared the moral atmosphere for her. She felt inexpres¬
sibly grateful to him for making so light of what she had
feared was an irremediable dishonour.
When Saumarez had put the finishing touch to his cu¬
linary operations, he twisted up a newspaper into the form
of a cook's nightcap, which he gravely put on his head; he
stuck the corners of another into his waistcoat pockets for
an apron. Lucy was in ecstacies, Marston roared, and
begged him to desist, for pity's sake.
The amateur chef de cuisine ai-ranged his breakfast deli¬
cacies on a waiter, and marched into the bed-room with it,
falling upon one knee as he presented the repast,
" What a fool you are, Saumarez. How you have made
my head ache."
MARSTON LYNCH.
233
" Ah.! that's a part of my treatment—homoeopathic
you know. Pitch into the military gentleman from Yar¬
mouth. How is he ? "
" Prime."
" Can you eat him ? "
" Two of him."
" Ah, but one's a dose. You did not think you could
eat five minutes ago, did you?"
" I turned sick at the very idea."
" It's the effect of my magic sauce, which I learnt the
secret of from the Chalder Arabs of the Great St. Ber-'
nard, in Madagascar. Eat gently—not so much at a time,
and I'll facilitate digestion by the fumes of incense. Eirst
of all, I will read you the opinion of my night-cap on your
last night's production. You shall then hear what my
apron has to say on the same subject."
" To be sure. What was that you said about the Times?
I was scarcely awake."
"You were not awake at all my friend, and not likely to
be, if I hadn't let off a roaring, splitting lie in your ears.
Mrs. Lucy, I will trouble you for the rest of the papers.
Thank you. You are now requested to draw near and
listen to the words of wisdom—wisdom so wise, that
it is able to digest and publish its oracle between the
hours of one and three in the morning. We will be¬
gin with the Times. Silence in the galleries, if you
please."
Marston suspended his breakfast, and Lucy held her
breath. Saumarez began to read.
Marston's ears tingled with astonished delight, as he
listened to a rapid and masterly analysis of his play,
illustrated by happily chosen extracts, and interspersed by
most flattering eulogies. A resume of the author's past
career was given, and from it good auguries were drawn
as to his future. The piece and its writer were unequivo¬
cally pronounced valuable acquisitions to the London
stage. Then followed remarks upon the actors, who
were praised and counselled with what seemed admirable
234
MARSTON LYNCH.
justness of discernment. Some strictures upon minor
blemishes in the work followed, which Marston felt to be
as encouraging as the praise. There was a joyous tone of
animal spirits about the whole, as though it were the work
of an enthusiastic kindly nature delighted with an oppor¬
tunity of awarding praise with sincerity.
Marston fell back upon his pillow somewhat overcome.
Lucy clutched the sheet from the hands of the reader, and
made some demonstration of kissing it. Kepressing this
impulse, she retired to a corner, to read the notice with
her own eyes.
There was a silence for some seconds.
"Well?"
"Well! It is too well. I never expected such praise
from such a source. But is it not too good to be
sincere ? "
" I would stake my life on its sincerity. Whenever
tells you clearly what a piece is about, who were the
actors in it, and what they played, and finishes up by
declaring the thing worthily successful, you may depend
upon it he means what he says. 's weak point is
that he cannot bear to abuse people. Perhaps he knows
that the power he wields is terrible, and is timid of using
it against the weak, being of a merciful disposition. When
he has a bad piece to criticise, he says nothing about it
except its title, but amuses you with some pleasant
anecdote of Edmund Kean or Aristophanes—quite draw¬
ing you off the unpleasant scent of a failure. He has
been very much abused for not praising bad things; but
I never knew him abuse a good one. On the contrary, he
relishes a spark of genius like a glass of good wine; and a
blaze of it like a bottle. He is a very strong man with a
very big fist. He scorns to knock a little fellow down
with it; and nothing pleases him so much as the chance
of exercising his muscular palm, by vigorously slapping a
Titan on the shoulder."
" I wish I was a Titan ! "
"You are a pitiful hearted one. There! kiss your
HARSTON LYNCH.
tlisli of butter, and be quiet, while I read to you from the
Morning Appetiser."
The Appetiser's notice consisted of a resume of the new
piece as conscientiously and lucidly written as that of the
Times. This was followed by a statement that the pro¬
duction had been rapturously received by a crowded and
enthusiastic audience, and might be considered established
as a genuine and enduring success. This much declared,
the writer proceeded to state, in a very straightforward
way, and giving his reasons, that he had not liked the
piece at all himself, and had left the theatre wondering by
what stimulants the unmistakable delight of the audience
had been excited.
" That sounds fair enough.," said Marston ; "though it
is decidedly not complimentary."
" Why not ? There is an artistic and detailed exposi¬
tion of your piece. Anybody can understand what it is
like from reading the article, followed by a faithful record
of its approval by the public. Having fulfilled this im¬
portant duty, the writer proceeds to give his own inde¬
pendent opinion. Why should he be bullied into liking
your piece by the bravos of fifteen hundred people ? This
man does his work more honestly than any of the
theatrical so-called critics I know of. He knows that his
primary business is that of a reporter. If the public had
hissed your piece and he had liked it, he would have been
equally faithful."
"Well he seems a good sort of fellow—I'm sorry he
didn't like it. That's all."
" You needn't be. He is a man without humour, full
of lonhommie, animal spirits, and kindliness, a capital
scholar and logician, but utterly deficient in that Other
Half of the Intellect which Carlyle considers necessary to
make a perfect man. For him, Moliere, Hood, and Eabe-
lais are mere buffoons and scoffers. He has written
admirably on Shakspeare. But he only tacks the master
on his heroic side. The glorious " carpenter's scenes" of
clowns, fools, and topers, I believe he would like to cut
out altogether. It sti-ikes me he must have framed some-
236
MARSTON LYNCH.
where in his study that passage in Milton's preface, wherein
the respectable John asserts his patronising approval of
tragedy as a means of poetical expression, provided it be
not degraded by the admixture of " comick stuff." And
now we will proceed to the Illustrious Woodcutter"
" But the Woodcutter is a weekly paper."
" There you see the advantage of producing a piece on
a Thursday. You get noticed in the weeklies. I have
bought all the country editions. Listen to the voice of
the Woodman:—
" On Thursday night was produced at the Cork-street Theatre,
a comedy in three acts, entitled * * * which will add new
lustre to Mr. Toplin's already brilliant managerial campaign.
Nothing could exceed the splendour and magnificence of the
dresses and appointments which indeed surpasses all the former
efforts of Mr. Toplin's management; the plot of the piece is as
follows
The author whose services Mr. Toplin has been so fortunate to
secure for the literary execution of this work is Mr. Marston
Lynch, a young gentleman from the North of England, of whom
we predict great things if he will only continue to write for this
admirably conducted theatre, the well chosen company of which
seems so curiously adapted to the interpretation of his inspira¬
tions. The actors were wonderfully fitted with their parts, an
additional proof—if any were needed—of the managerial skill
by which the theatre is swayed. Mr. Toplin could not have
found a better representation of the gloomy baronet than Mr.
, whose delivery of the well written speech at the end
of the second act convinces us that he possesses capabilities of a
very high order for the interpretation of the poetical drama.
We advise Mr. Toplin to think of this. The piece was tho¬
roughly successful, and on the fall of the curtain, in answer to
an enthusiastic call, the young author was led on to the stage
by Mr. Toplin himself, a grateful tribute on the part of the es¬
tablished favourite to the merit of the inexperienced neophyte ?'
" There's a good deal of Mr. Toplin in that. But I
suppose it is well meant. Who wrote it ?"
" Old Slimey. And the turn of the notice is a safe in¬
dication that he has sent in a five-act tragedy in blank
verse, which Toplin has not yet opened. As soon as
Toplin has opened it—and sent it back as he of cornse will
— Slimey will begin abusing the Cork-street Theatre and
MARSTON LYNCH.
237
everybody connected therewith, and continue to do so till
he has another manuscript nearly ready. Then he will
begin to soften down in his tone, and, by the time the fifth
act is stitched together, will be as civil as he is now. Slimey
manages to write about three unactable tragedies per
annum, and the tide of his favourable criticism ebbs and
flows accordingly."
" Poor old boy
" Poor old boy as much as you please. I can sympa¬
thise with the incapable as well as anybody. But Slimey's
meanness is not confined to mere crawling. He has a little
sly bottle of venom that he can uncork to oblige his patrons
when occasion serves. He is a poor apothecary if you
please, but he will sell his poison to Tybalt, for purposes
of assassination, as readily as to Borneo for those of suicide.
The other day two pieces were produced at different
theatres, founded on the same subject. One was by Slimey's
editor ; the other by an outsider. That by Slimey's editor
was bad and was damned. The other was successful, and
is filling the theatre after a run of a hundred and odd
nights. Well, simply to toady his patron, Slimey wrote, a
notice, that, for him, was really ingenious! in which he
compared the two pieces and excused wrhat he pretended
was a common failure, on the score of bad selection in their
mutual subject. You left off reading with an impression
that Slimey's master (who was named at full length, with
a beautiful and comprehensive digest of his past and pos¬
sible-past literary achievements) must have written the
more successful piece of the two, and that the nameless
■writer was answerable for the imbecilities of the noto¬
riously damned one."
" You are veiy severe," said Marston.
" I think it a beautiful notice," said Lucy.
" Oh! that's the case, is it ? Then I see the patient
has had enough soothing medicine, and is quite prepared
to submit to the actual cautery. Look out! Here's the
Asincenm coming. Gar la plume du corbeau /"
And Don Sancho opened the terrible publication alluded
233
MARSTON LYNCH.
to, with an explosive pop in Marston's face, as if it were a
piece of ordnance.
" Well," said the latter, " I'm not dead yet. Let us
hear what Peter McGrawler has to say."
" Peter McGrawler, young man," said the visitor, with
mock gravity, " as you ought to know, was dethroned
years ago, and accepted office under Government as the
public executioner. But Peter, though he unquestionably
had his failings, was a perfect Julius Caesar compared with
the crowd of nameless pretenders—slaves, eunuchs, and
barbarians—who have disputed his empire in these days of
the Auinceum's Decline and Pall. The threadbare purple,
at present, hangs, in a looped and windowed condition, on
the shoulders of an ignoble Dacian, named Hayporth
Dibbs."
" Hayporth Dibbs. Good Heavens !"
" The good Heavens have not interfered in the business,
you may depend; but for some wise purpose have chosen
to shut their eyes to its transaction. Come! what have
you done to offend Hayporth ?"
" To offend him—I don't know. But surely you don't
mean to say that it's that fellow from Longport ?"
" Hayport is of Longport origin. Apres ?"
" But he is an ass !"
" Then you ought to have kept away from his hands.
But he is'nt quite an ass, or he could not have raised him¬
self from nothing to be, in a few months, the editor of the
Asinceum, which is not too much of a something I grant you."
"But how on earth, man—You must be joking! It
seems only the other day that this fellow was barely How-
ker's equal at the Essay and Discussion Meetings of the
Longport Institute—the standing joke and butt of all
newspaper offices, for his persistent determination to ap¬
pear in print on the slightest pretence, and the sorry figure
he cut there when allowed to show himself. He has not
the brains to write a police report with sufficient clearness,
to make you understand which was the magistrate and
which the prisoner."
MAKSTON LYNCH.
239
" Perliaps not. But he has sufficient impudence to edit
the Asinceum, and would have to command the Channel
Meet if he could get the chance—which chance he would
get if it were to be had for asking for. The other day,
indeed ! No doubt it seemed only the other day to several
noble Bomans, that the long-legged Maximin had been the
fellow-blackguard and perhaps the butt of gladiators and
footracers in the Chersonese. But he was the Emperor of
Borne for all that—lopping off their heads, stealing their
virgins, and confiscating their goods, with all the exube¬
rant zest of a parvenu in power—just such as Hayporth
himself loves to exercise. It is true there are these diffe¬
rences between Maximin and Hayporth—that the former
was a big man. In these respects the parallel is striking.
Maximin attracted the attention of a Boman Emperor in
a provincial tour, by his indomitable strength and patience
in keeping up with the imperial chariot during a drive of
Lord knows how many miles. By a similar feat of en¬
durance the raw-boned, bare-legged, ' gillie wet foot' of a
northern manufacturing town—whom we now see entrusted
with power, for life and death, over the reputations of the
greatest writers of the day—managed to plod himself into
notice. A literary magnate, who is a wit and nothing else
(but to be a wit is something)—who only lives by breath¬
ing toadyism—went down to Longport for change of his
peculiar vital air. He presided at soirees, at grave lec¬
tures. He was flattered, and fooled to the top of his bent.
Hayporth Dibbs—then the mere outsider of the loca
press—the Triton amongst Mechanics' Institute minnows
that you knew him—having carefully tucked up his cordu¬
roys, prepared himself for a run, to accompany the
triumphal car as long as it was in motion. Hayporth's
wind was of the longest. He succeeded in forcing himself
upon the great man's notice by the intolerable loudness of
his shouts. To drop my Boman metaphor, and take up
another, he fastened himself upon the unprotected Lion,
during the latter's stay in the North, and would not be
shaken off. The Lion was annoyed perhaps. But with
240
MAKSTON LYNCH.
the tenacity of the flea, Hayporth combined tlie usefulness
of the Jackal—so he was tolerated. The Lion returned to
London, and on reaching his residence found Hayporth
waiting for him on the doorstep (I have changed my meta¬
phor again), Avagging his tail, and with his head crouched
abjectly betAveen his fore paws. Such a very devoted cur
could not be kicked into the street. The great man ad¬
mitted the faithful animal to his already Avell-stocked
kennel; and, finding that the creature could eat toads, fed
him bountifully. Hayporth has since worn the great
man's collar, and has indeed displayed all those qualities
Avhich we agree to consider noble in the dog, but Avhich we
call cur-like in the man. He is devoted to his master's
interests. He is always ready to fawn upon that master's
friends. He Avill even submit to being kicked or cuffed
by the amis de la maison—nay, by the very grooms and
shoe-blacks attached to the premises. But he Avill snap
fiercely at strangers—would Avorry any man he was set on
to attack by his proprietor. He is very jealous of other
dogs, whom he will maltreat ruthlessly if they happen to
be his inferiors in size and weight. Cats, rats, rabbits,
and such minor animals he loves to destroy, in the very
wantonness of his natural ferocity. He is a very Avell-bred
dog, and waits prettily for all the bones and crumbs that
fall from his master's table. Amongst other things he has
' begged,' sitting up on his hind legs, for the editorship of
the Asinceum, and they have thrown it to him."
" A very iEsopian apologue. But surely to be abused
by such a man is no discredit ?"
"Avast heaving ! There you have a beautiful illustra¬
tion of our glorious anonymous system. It is not Hay¬
porth Dibbs, the ex-counter jumper, Avho abuses you, but
the powerful Asinceum—a time-honoured literary tribunal,
before whose edicts Scotfs, Byrons, Thackerays, and
Dickenses have trembled. If, indeed, the public knew
Avho was the High Priest of the Oracle, and of what mate¬
rials his assistant clergy are composed—gangling school¬
boys, 'discarded, unjust serving-men, younger sons of
MARSTON LYNCH.
241
younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers tradefallen'
—then, indeed, the days of the Asinaum, and all such
phantoms, would be numbered. But as it is—you had
better read his article."
Marston did as he was requested, biting his lips and
changing all sorts of colours during the process.
" It is very severe," he said, throwing the paper down,
when he had finished. "Very unkind, as I feel, in its
intention; and yet I am bound to admit that it is
thoroughly just."
" Just! How do you mean ?"
" All the faults he has mentioned are those of which I
have been miserably conscious—only unable to remedy."
" Then the next time you want a joint of meat I advise
you to send an experienced carrion crow to market for
you. You may rely upon the morsels of his selection
being in a genuine ' gamey condition.' But answer my
starting question. Apart from the indelible injury of
being a cleverer fellow than himself what have you done to
annoy Hayporth?"
" Lord forgive me. I'm afraid I have—"
"What?"
" Chaffed him in the Whipping Post."
" I thought as much. Take my word for it—to turn
the fable of Cadmus topsy turvy—you will find every
letter you have ever sown in that lively young publication
spring up in the form of dragon's teeth, that will beset
your path through life. But I have now got you into
proper training for the day's exertions. Get up and dress;
I want you to come out with me on a mission."
Saumarez retired to the parlour. Marston was soon
dressed to perfection. You see, he had such a skilful and
devoted little valet-de-chambre.
Lucy handed her husband his hat and gloves with such
a wistful look, which he immediately translated into "How
I should like to go out with you !"
He kissed her, assuring her that he was was going out
on business—the business of Saumarez. Lucy said,
R
242
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" Never mind, slie was very well at home. Could
Marston give her any money?"
Money! How thoughtless of him. to be sure. Of
course he could, any amount of it. But he had only
Toplin's unchanged check.
"Got any money, Sauinarez?"
" Heaps ! What do you want ?"
" Something for this little spendthrift to go shopping
with. What's that? A ten pounder. That'll do.
I'll give it you when you get out. There, Puss,
Don't say I never gave you anything. You may spend it
Good bye."
At a few yards from his own door Marston met the
postman, who handed him a letter. It was from Howker,
apologising on behalf of Miss Crooze and himself, for not
calling. They had come up to see Marston's capital
piece, but Miss Crooze had to leave for Longport by the
early train. Common gallantry compelled him, Howker,
to return with the lady, in the capacity of protector.
" So ! that's all right," said Saumarez, when Marston
had read the letter.
A few minutes afterwards Marston found himself won¬
dering what his companion had meant.
When the servant of the lodging-house came up to ask
the lady in the parlours what she would like for dinner,
the lady in the parlours replied that she did not feel well,
and would wait till tea time, as she did not think Mr.
Lynch would dine at home. Lucy hid the ten pound note
carefully in an obscure recess. She did not go shopping
at all; but sat in doors all day learning the more favourable
of the critics on the husband's piece by heart.
" I wonder if he will come home this evening in time
for me to see it!" she said to herself.
marston lynch.
243
CHAPTEE XXIII.
old friends and new faces.
" The Merripebbles are here."
" You. don't mean that ? Have you told Lucy ?"
" No : and I don't want you to do so. That's why I
am so glad those Longport people have gone back.j^ They
might have told her."
" I don't see what you are driving at."
" I will pull up in four words—I am in love."
"You!"
" Even I—Apemantus, the cynic—Alcibiades. the Syba¬
rite—whatever you please. And with Maud Carlton."
" Little Maud ?"
" Little Maud is as tall as Mrs. Siddons, and as lovely
as Juno. What are you grinning at ?"
"Nothing. Only it really seems so very odd. It's
true I forgot she has four thousand charms per annum."
" She has six thousand pounds per annum ; and I could
marry a woman worth twenty thousand pounds per
annum to-morrow, if I cared to sell my valuable person
and liberty for such considerations," said Don Sancho, in
a somewhat hurt and and thoroughly conceited tone.
" My dear fellow, I clid'nt mean to be offensive. I am
sure I congratulate her, no you. But—"
"You don't see,yet what I am driving at! We
have one or two comers to turn before it will be fairly
in sight. I am now talcing you to visit the family; and I
ask you, as a friend—and by way of a great favour—
R 2
244
llAItSTON LYNCH.
simply to conceal from them tlie fact of your being
married."
" Good heavens ! What for ?"
" Well, I must tell you—though it involves a humiliating
admission—it was Maud who threw you the bouquet last
night."
" By Jove ! How like her."
" Bather more so than is agreeable to all parties. To
come to the point, the case stands thus. I have
been thrown frequently in contact with her during
my travels of the last two years. The result I have told
you. I have not yet declared myself, nor will I till I have
ascertained the real state of her affections. She treats me
with uniform kindness, but I more than half suspect she is
sick in love with—You !"
" Nonsense!"
" I should like to hope so. Still, I wish to make sure.
Her dragging her friends to England, as she evidently has
done, merely to be present at the first night of your play,
is rather suspicious. I want to see you together, with no
idea on her part that you are a bird already brought down
and trapped."
" Surely you don't want the girl to be entrapped to
making love to a married man ?"
" Don't be too conceited, my young friend. Miss Carl¬
ton has too much good taste and maidenly delicacy to
make love to any man. But I have pretty sharp eyes—
most lovers have—and I think I shall be able to judge
from one, or- at the outside two, interviews, the real state of
the case. If my worst suspicions are confirmed, I shall
simply desist from my intentions. Eortunately, the world
is pretty large, and travelling is cheap. I will not have
any man's leavings—-passez le mot—and I will try to forget
her. Here we are at their hotel. Do you promise, before
we enter ? Mind, I consider this as a test of friendship—of
the one manly friendship I hold dearest."
Saumarez wrung Marston's hand, and looked extremely
sentimental.
MARSTON LYNCH.
245
Marston, whose nature was as open as the day/ and who
abhorred all kinds of artifice and concealment, felt some¬
thing jar within him at the strange proposal. But the
artful Saumarez had attacked him on his weak sides of
vanity and sentiment. Marston plucked up his collar,
twirled his moustache, returned the cordial pressure of his
companion's hand, and gave the required promise.
They entered the comfortable parlour of the snug-looking
Bedford Hotel, and sent up their cards to Mr. Merri-
pebbles.
They were shown into a handsome sitting-room, where
Maud, seated in an easy chair, was seen half buried in a
chaos of newspapers. Marston recognised them as dupli¬
cate copies of the collection Saumarez had brought to his
own lodgings in the morning. Mrs. Merripebbles was in
a remote corner groaning over an unconsoling book, by
the Bev. Mr. Somebody, whereof the burden was the ine¬
vitable perdition consequent upon the indulgence in stage
plays. Old Merripebbles was wagging his head over the
the week-before-last's Punch, and looked supremely happy.
The three rose to welcome their visitors according to
their various forms of expressing hospitality.
Maud advanced with her two statue-like arms cordially
outstretched. Marston placed his hands in hers with a
feeling that somehow they had no right there.
'• Good God! how beautiful! " was his inward ex¬
clamation.
" How kind of you to come and see us," said Maud, as
with beaming eyes she scrutinised Marston from head to
foot with intense satisfaction. " How well you are look¬
ing ! I told you he would come, mamma, though he is
the greatest man in London to-day. You see we know all
about it from the papers."
Mrs. Merripebbles was heard to mutter something
about " indelicate." Then she threw down the Reverend
Somebody's book against theatres, and proceeded to
cuddle Marston in a very affectionate, not to say slobber¬
ing manner.
246
MAKSTON LYNCH.
Old Merripebbles testified to bis deligbt after his usual
infantine fashion. He thrust his hands deeply into his
trousers pocket, and danced round the visitors, stopping
to shake hands profusely with Saumarez, till such time as
Marston should be at liberty.
If the object of Saumarez in arranging the visit had
been really what he had declared to Marston, he would
soon have found the .solution of his problem in the look of
mingled pride and rapture with which Maud Carlton
received our hero—which look was that of an Andro¬
mache welcoming a victorious Hector who belonged to
her.
" You have come to spend the day with us ? " Maud
inquired.
" Certainly, if you will tolerate us," was the reply of—
not Marston, but Don Sancho de Saumarez.
" Dear me ! I am so delighted, or rather, I ought to
say, honoured," said old Merripebbles. " Pray, my
dear, let us have something extremely nice for dinner.
You understand those things so much better than I do.
Perhaps Mr. Saumarez and Mr. Marston—allow me to
shake hands again, and assure you that I never was so
much honoured in the whole course of my life—perhaps
these gentlemen will assist you in ordering what is proper
—though a mere beefsteak in such society—not that I
wish it to be a beefsteak; on the contrary, turtle and
champagne would be more in accordance with 1 beg
your pardon, dear."
The visitors remained to dinner, which did not consist
of a beefsteak.
marston lynch
247
CHAPTER XXIY.
strange waters, with breakers a-head.
Notwithstanding the excellent hotel dinner, the
choice wines, the genial hospitality of his hostess, the
splendid presence of Maud, and the improving conversa¬
tion of Saumarez—to say nothing of the childish delight
of old Merripebbles, in itself enough to send $ Timon
back to Athens—Marston had seldom passed a more un¬
comfortable day than that of his re-union with his kind old
Longport friends after so long a separation.
He could scarcely analyse the feelings that disturbed
him. The most prominent among them was that he was
guilty of a deception. He felt that on entering the room
he should have said at first, " My dear old friends, who
have been like parents to me, I am married to Lucy
Wareing, whom you know and love, and have come to ask
jour blessing for us both." But he had not said so—he
had practically asserted by his behaviour that nothing of
the kind had taken place. He was ashamed to confess
the error. And as shame is the most intolerable of all
sensations, he got rid of it as quickly as he could.
Sopliistry was at hand to help Mm as usual. Was he not
serving his oldest and truest friend P Was not that proud
descendant of the Hidalgos—with his sensitive heart torn
248
MARSTON LYNCH.
by love for a young capricious girl, who perhaps scorned
him—an object of sympathy ? " Of course," Marston
thought—that is, he pretended to think—" the idea of the
girl's being in love with me is preposterous, after the
many opportunities she has had of enjoying the society of
a man so infinitely my superior in rank, attainments, and
all the rest of it." In the process of drawing comparisons
between himself and Saumarez (meaning them, of course,
to be in favour of the latter), Marston found himself
observing that his friend's hair was getting rather thin on
the forehead, and that there were undeniable prints of the
crow's foot on the corners of his friend's brown eyelids.
All the more reason, he thought, for humouring the poor
fellow. I'm told love is like the measles—all the more
serious when taken late in life. We must allow the poor
patient to be a little capricious.
Highly satisfied with this rhetorical conclusion, our
hero proceeded to try and feel comfortable. But Miss
Carlton would not allow him to feel anything of the kind.
Increased years and power had not in the least degree
weakened the leading article in that young lady's creed—
namely, that she had come on earth solely to do as she
liked. She was now, to all intents and purposes, in the
full enjoyment of her goodly fortune; for though barely
eighteen, she had, by a species of coup d'etat, declared her¬
self of age in the most regal fashion. Her mother being
her principal trustee (the other was an obscure relative in
perpetual dread, for his life, of the wrath of Mrs. Merri-
pebbles), the heiress found no difficulty in getting such
sums of money as she required, and disposing of them as
she thought fit. She thought fit to dispose of all in the
furtherance of her one object in life—namely, that of
qualifying herself to become the wife of Marston Lynch.
Of that gentleman's merit she had formed a doubtless
exaggerated estimate. Being gifted with an ardent im¬
agination, she had prophesied a most brilliant future for
the man—or rather, the boy—she idolised, and thought
that he would require a very superior sort of wife. She
MAESTON LYNCH.
249
Lad submitted, meekly, to be separated from Lim, bodily;
that she might have time to bring herself nearer to him,
mentally. Finding everybody around her worshipping
her for her money, Miss Carlton, as will not unfrequently
happen in such cases, felt the most withering contempt
for that commodity—except as a means to a given end.
If it had once struck her that Marston would have been
happy with her—proud of her—and kind to her, with her
money alone, she would have simply offered herself and it
together, and taken no further trouble. But such a
possibility never entered into her head. It would have
been to degrade her phoenix to the level of the clumsy
speculators, who, from time to time, insulted her under¬
standing by business-like proposals of marriage, and
whom she was never long in sending about their business,
more or less civilly. It should be borne in mind that this
young lady had never received a fashionable education.
The honest uncertain old mother was not such a fool, or
such a humbug, as to give her daughter a dog's-eared
peerage by way of horn-book. Otherwise, Miss Carlton's
decided character might have been so bent as to insist
upon an alliance with a poor younger son of a noble
family; and I dare say in this, as in most cases, her
wishes might have been easily realised. I have no com¬
plaint to make as to this culpable omission in her rearing.
Possibly it may account for her growing up in the belief
that there was no more important person or class of
persons in the world than herself. If so, let all mothers
whose daughters are wealthy in their own right, take
warning by the terrible example.
At any rate, immediately on leaving England, Miss
Carlton had set resolutely to work to improve herself in
every possible way. The fact of her loving Marston Lynch
(as she certainly did very ardently), was in her mind suffi¬
cient proof of his being a very great personage, and worthy
of any trouble or sacrifice. As she had very great talents
(in fact, from the .circumstance of some of her dearest
friends pronouncing her a mad woman in after life, there is.
250
MAIiSTON LYNCH.
reason to suppose slie was something of a genius), she made
rapid progress in all her studies. She had a splendid con¬
tralto voice, and Marston liked music. He must, there¬
fore, have music of a very superioAquality, without going
from home for it. Maud was the terror and delight of
the first Yenetian and Neapolitan music masters; the
terror, from her intolerable trantrums when they did not
bring her on fast enough—the delight, on account of her
marvellous quickness and thoroughly artistic nature (nor
let us forget the lavishment of the gold pieces, Avhen they
made her satisfied with her own progress). Marston knew
languages. Maud, to make up for her deficiencies in other
matters, of which he was the sole acknowledged master,
must know more than he. She was a fine French, Spanish,
and Italian scholar within eighteen months (there was a
little due to honest Miss Crooze for this, by-the-bye,) and,
at the time of our renewing her acquaintance, was already
deep in German, whereof Marston knew not a sentence.
She studied history, poetry, and (especially) painting, with
great ardour and success. In a word, from the sole impetus
of her headstrong unquestioning love, she succeeded in
making herself a very uncommon specimen of that rara avis
' in terris, a beautiful and accomplished lady.
And yet she was a perfect child—a spoilt one, of course.
For you see she had not been trained to do all this for the
sake of society—that is to say, to show off before a few
thousand people for whom she did not care a pin, and who
would naturally care much less for her. She had done it
of her own account, for the sake of a man she had been so
indelicate as to love. It stands to reason that she would
be punished in the long run for such very unbecoming
conduct. But it is not my business to anticipate.
At Genoa, in her eighteenth year, she had looked at
herself in the glass, and rapidly reviewed her mental attain¬
ments. She declared herself a sufficiently near approach
to perfection to return to England. She ordered her
mother and step-father to hold themselves in readiness for
a speedy departure. She would keep him waiting no longer.
MAB.STON LYNCH.
251
" Upon my word, Maud," said her mother; " Your con¬
duct is the most indelicate."
"You must not say that, mamma: anything but that,
for it is wide of the truth."
" But a young man who has never even proposed—"
"Whoever does propose to a girl of fourteen, except
designing hucksters? Besides, he is poor, and would
never propose to me."
"James's Church! Girl, are you going to propose to
him?"
" If I see he loves me, as he must, I think" (Maud
glanced at the mirror), " he will soon be able to see that I
love him. I have never been taught to disguise my feel¬
ings, mamma. God bless you for that, the greatest good
you have ever done me. There was no disguise of my
love when I steered the boat, and threw the casks about to
save liis life. He cannot have forgotten that."
" My child, that was three years ago."
" I have loved him for more than three years."
" But we have never heard from him."
" No, thanks to your maternal precautions. But he has
heard of me, as you know."
" Through Don Sancho de Saumarez ? My poor child,
do you suppose a man, dying in love for you himself, would
deliver messages to a rival?"
" So! A man whose addresses you yourself have en¬
couraged you admit to be base enough to betray his friend.
Thank you, mamma, for your own opinion of Don Sancho
de Saumarez, which coincides with my own. We will
talk no more on this subject if you please."
The next day a stray London newspaper informed them
that a new piece was in preparation at the Cork-street
Theatre, which expected to create, &c. &c. The author¬
ship was attributed to Mr. Marston Lynch of Longport, a
young writer of great provincial celebrity, and already
favourably known as a contributor to the metropolitan
magazines. There were said to be good parts for Mrs.
Swann, Mr. Dashwood, Mr. Muggins, &c. &c.
252
MARSTON LYNCH.
"I'm going to London, mamma," said Maud, "you
may accompany me or Rot as you think fit."
Mrs. Merripebbles wept and scolded a good deal. She
declaimed against stage plays and worldly vanities in
general, and predicted a shameful end for her daughter.
Then she suddenly remembered that Marston had promised
-to put her and old Elspeth the Scotch servant in the first
play he ever wrote, and wondered whether he had ever kept
(lis promise,. and whether or not she should be able to
recognise herself. She remembered certain salient points
in the character of Elspeth which she feared the dramatist
had overlooked, and regretted that she had not been at his
elbow during the labours of composition. She was in
high glee during the rest of the day, and performed pro¬
digies of packing—occasionally resting in her labours to
laugh at some long-forgotten facetiae of Marston Lynch's
—whom she declared she had always loved and admired
(which was strictly true). She rated Old Merripebbles for
standing with his hands in his pockets and smoking his
filthy cigarettes (the sole dissipation with which our mild
old friend had been contaminated in the very vortex of
continental immorality)—instead of taking an interest in
the welfare of a young man whose triumphs they were
going to witness—and whom, if he had any feeling, he
ought to regard as a son. Once in the course of the day
she performed a pew steps of the Highland Eling from
memory, as she had once seen it executed in the back-
kitchen at Ash Grove (by particular desire, and on that
occasion only) by the sprightly Elspeth. She even com¬
mitted herself at one period by embracing Maud rapturously
—declaring that young lady to be her own true daughter
and that she honoured her for fixing her choice upon a
man of genius instead of consenting to pass her life
among a set of clerks and stockjobbers. This was said in
the presence of Merripebbles on purpose to humiliate that
negotiant, who immediately felt very much ashamed of
himself and his order.
Mrs. Merripebbles, after a hot supper—with some
MARSTON LYNCH.
253
Laehrymse Christi—retired to rest very much fatigued,
and groaning piteously. She wondered if she might be
forgiven for having judged too harshly of the benighted
Italian Catholics by whom she was surrounded. At least
they had the grace to do penance for their sins.
Old Merripebbles was in suppressed extacies. He
loved travelling. He loved London. He loved going to
the play. He loved Marston Lynch with all his honest
old heart, believing our hero to be the most gifted per¬
sonage on the face of the earth. To be sure there was also
Don Sancho de Saumarez, who was a gentleman of dis¬
tinguished manners and great attainments. But then he
was not so—so—well, he was not so young as Marston.
Tou see, the old gentleman, who had the meanest opinion
of himself, never felt himself so much at home as when
among very young people. He felt that the young people
appreciated him, and you may be sure they did. They
laughed at him occasionally, and now and then played hfm
very cruel tricks. But this was what the old boy liked
above all things.
Everything had happened, as usual, in accordance with
Miss Carlton's wishes. They had reached London just in
time to witness the first performance of the chef d'oeuvre.
Maud had seen our hero—handsome, better grown, more
manly than she had hoped—clamoured for and applauded
by two thousand people. She believed him to be the
greatest man in the world.
In the morning she had read his name in the newspapers
—those wonderful mysterious, newspapers !—discussed, as
it seemed to her, with the same importance, as the kings
and statesmen in the neighbouring columns. And here he
was, fresh from his triumph—come to lay himself at her
feet. And there she was, to raise him up, and press him
to her heart.
It must not be supposed that Miss Carlton went through
the latter interesting process literally, in the presence of
her mamma, Mr. Merripebbles, and the strickeii Sancho
(whom she would rather had not made his appearance on
254
MARSTON LYNCH.
the occasion, but whom she felt sufficiently happy, and at
peace with all men, to tolerate). Self-willed and impetu¬
ous as was this young lady, she was by no means deficient
in real female delicacy, and proper respect for the conve¬
nances. But she made no disguise of her delight at seeing
Marston again; of her admiration of his genius, his
triumphs, and his presence. She told him frankly how
they had come all the way from Genoa 011 purpose to see
his play; how they had seen it, and how masterly a pro¬
duction it was; and finally, how she had felt sure that he
would be the first to find them out in London, and hasten
to see them.
"Not the first, my dear," said Mrs. Merripebbles.
" True," said Maud. " You were not up early enough
for that, Sir. Mr. Tofts has been here. But Mr. Tofts
has not the excuse for late rising, of having produced a
play—which all London is going mad about—on the pre¬
vious evening. Nor is Mr. Tofts at all likely to be con¬
fined to his bed owing to a fatigue of that description."
This was at an early stage of the visit. Marston began
to feel hopeful.
" If Tofts has been here," he thought, " he must have
told them of it. Well, it will be a comfort to make an
end of this morbid ridiculous white lying business, which
is not at all to my taste, and which, after all, cannot
possibly serve Saumarez."
By "it" Marston had meant his marriage. It never
occurred to him that Mr. Tofts (in company with a few
more members of the human species) might possibly have
escaped all knowledge of that most important event; or,
having been apprised thereof, might be so rude as to
forget all about it. You see, we all consider ourselves
such very great people, and think all the world takes such
an immense interest in us and our doings !
The sequel of the conversation suggested the humiliating
probability that Tofts had not made the slightest allusion
to our hero beyond a passing compliment on his success of
the preceding evening.
MARSTON LYNC1I.
255
" How that young naan has got on, to be sure," said
Mrs. Merripebbles. " S carcely six-and-twenty, and already
a large shipowner."
" Indeed!" said Marston, carelessly; " I thought he
was a lawyer—or something of that kind." .
" So he was ; but he turned shipbroker, and without a
penny of capital to begin life with, has played his cards
so well that he is now the principal owner of the Carlton
line of Quebec packets."
"The Carlton line?" Marston asked, awakened to a
feeble interest in the doings of Tofts.
"Yes. And the principal ship, which he told us all
about—horse-power, state-rooms, brass railings, and all
the rest of it—is called 'The Maud.' Do you see any¬
thing significant in that, Mr. Marston ?"
" Why—yes—I suppose it means something," Marston
answered, as if he thought that no meaning whatsoever on
the part of Tofts could be of very deep significance.
" He has just returned from Canada—a hasty visit—and
expects to be called back again shortly to make a length¬
ened stay. It is my opinion he came to Europe with the
intention of fetching somebody. And I think I know
somebody, who, if she were not blind, might go back to
Canada as Mrs. Tofts."
" Mamma," said Miss Carlton, quietly, " Do you know
that you are talking very like a vulgar housemaid ? Why
not at once say that ' Tofts is willing,' or make some allusion
to my keeping company with him. You could not place
the question, which is one such as ought never to be publicly
brought forward, in a more offensive light."
"'This to me, you abandoned—wicked, impious girl."
" I must say, Maud," struck in the headstrong Merri¬
pebbles, " that such language as that to your mamma, in
my presence—"
" Hold your tongue if you please, Mr. Merripebbles.
You are ready enough to abandon your own children to
the care of foreign schoolmasters and menials. Pray do
not waste your superfluous paternal tyranny on my child
256
MAHSTON LYNCH.
—who has no father to protect her, and who doesn t deserve
one, or any other blessing."
Mrs. Merripebbles sobbed, and wished she was dead;
and then turned dreadfully pale in terror of being taken at
her word.
Old Merripebbles, who felt himself a very monster of
heartlessness, and expected almost to be given into well
merited custody for deserting his offspring (comfortably
installed in English boarding-schools at Nice), stood
quaking on the hearth-rug, ashamed to look his guests in
the face.
Maud, with a frank assuring smile, held out her hand to
him. The old gentleman bent over the snowy jewelled
palm, which he was almost afraid to press with courtly
gratitude. This approval from the Queen Regnant was
quite enough for him. He was a happy man again.
" You must forgive me, mamma," said Maud. " If we
have been offensive to each other we are surely quits on
that score. But as you have brought the objectionable
question forward, pray let us try and settle it. Do you
wish me to marry Mr. Tofts—who, by the way, has not
yet asked me—but supposing he had offered himself,
would you wish me to accept him ?"
" Who" says I did? " inquired her mother, tartly.
" Would you wish me to marry Mr. Tofts, papa ? "
Mr. Merripebbles broke out into an evident perspiration,
and nibbed his thin locks about violently—
" Why, my dear young lady, I don't know—that is to
say, I should consider it an honour myself "
" Why?"
" Well, Mr. Tofts has got on so remarkably well."
" You mean lie has made money ? -But that is precisely
what I do not want. We have not a single taste in com¬
mon. I do not love him, and we could never possibly be
happy together. Why on earth—as I am fortunately
placed above the necessity of sacrificing my happiness for
the means of existence—should I many a man who could
at best only give me six horses instead of two ? "
MARSTON LYNCH.
257
" Let her alone !—let her alone ! " said Mrs. Merri-
pebbles, who had just recovered her (ill) temper : "in a
few minutes she'll out with it all. What a hurry she was
in to come to England and all the rest of it. This is leap
year, I believe, and nothing on earth would surprise me "
" Mother ! " Miss Carlton rose from her seat angrily,
her beautiful frame quivering all over.
" How were the vines looking when you left Piedmont,
Mr. Merripebbles ? " broke in Don Sancho, loudly, with a
too evident wish to turn the conversation.
The look with which Miss Carlton favoured the speaker
was decidedly not one of gratitude. She felt that the pro¬
ceeding was coarsely indelicate. It was calling attention
to an implication that should have been passed over.
Marston Lynch felt his cheeks flame.
Maud recovered her composure as well as she could,
and talked to Marston about old times and old friends.
She believed she had seen Miss Crooze in the stalls on
the previous evening with some one remarkably like Mr.
Howker. But Maud was a little near-sighted, and besides
had been too much absorbed in the performance to verify
the fact. And indeed it could not have been the lady and
gentleman alluded to, or they would surely have found
them out. Was Marston still at daggers drawn with his
rich uncle, and had he heard anything lately of that darling
little Lucy, whom the questioner had neglected shamefully
for the last several months ?
Marston's lip quivered. He was anxious to blurt out
the whole truth. He looked imploringly to Saumarez, as
beggiug absolution from his rashly given promise.
Saumarez had thought fit to assume the bearing of a
wretched and despondent lover, to whom there is no hope
left. He understood Marston's glance, and replied with a
despairing toss of the head, which plainly expressed "Do
as you like! Don't mind me. I am a poor devil not
worth a thought! "
Marston felt extremely sorry for his friend. Besides, as
one or two of my readers may know, when once you have
s
253
ma-iiston lynch.
lent yourself to a lie, tlie process of redeeming yourself
from a creditor of that description is remarkably humiliating.
So he resolved to say nothing about his marriage on that
eyening, and exerted himself strenuously to put a very
Damon to Don Sancho's Pythias.
After dinner (the cloth was laid at 3 p.m. : I hope the
reader needs not to be told, at this late hour of the story
that the Merripebbles was not a fashionable family) they
had music : Maud awakened rare melodies on the old hotel
piano, and sang songs of all nations in great variety.
Amongst others Marston noticed one or two unpretending
ballads which sounded strangely familiar to him, but which
he could not at once recognise. He soon claimed them,
however, as his own—early scraps of verse he had long
thrown aside and forgotten. He was agreeably surprised
to find them not utterly destitute of some kind of merit,
and immensely flattered by the homage of their preservation
by the young lady, who had adapted them all to appropriate
airs either of her own composition or selection. But the
flattery made him uncomfortable, and he felt he was accept¬
ing it under false pretences.
" All men are not equally fortunate," said Saumarez with
a deplorable sigh. " I once sent Miss Carlton songs of
my own composition. But they are deservedly forgotten."
" By no means. I remember your songs perfectly well.
I will sing you as many of them as you like."
" Pray do! Let us have one of old Sancho's" said
Marston, patronising his distinguished friend most affably.
" How would you like it ? In your own very excellent
English, or in the original French, Spanish, or Italian, as
the case may be P I have all the versions."
Don Sancho bit his lips, and then laughed gaily.
" lling the bell, Mr. Merripebbles, and order handcuffs
for one. The thief is detected. Guilty of felonious trans¬
lation attended with violence. But I am so hardened in
my sin as not to feel ashamed of it. What would you
have ? I am not a man of genius. I love art and poetry,
and like to contribute my mite to their treasuries. Voila
MARSTON LYNCH.
259
tout! Je ramasse mon bien ou je le trouve. We are not
all admitted to the innermost recesses of the temple. I see
younger and more gifted men step in before me, and wish
them God speed. But let me and other poor devils wor¬
ship in peace, in the mud below the outer steps. If I
can't be Endymion, let me sit out in the moonlight now
and then."
Don Sancho concluded this remarkably fine apologue—
in which the element of moonshine was appropriately con¬
spicuous—in a voice tremulous with emotion (he had been
pronounced the best Romeo on the American stage by the
first New York papers). The whole assembly was touched;
for it was obvious that, under the symbol of Art Worship,
the speaker had intended to imply the hopelessness of his
devotion to a more tangible goddess.
Marston felt extremely sorry for his friend and for Maud,
and quite ashamed of his own excellences and attractions.
If vanity and sham sentiment had not been so busily at
work within him, it might have occurred to him that he
would do very well to kick his dear friend down stairs for
acting a most shameful and unworthy part; namely, in
leading on a pure-minded young lady (whom he himself
professed to love) to commit herself by an admission of
preference for a married man.
The tears of Mrs. Merripebbles rose to the surface with
their accustomed readiness. Old Merripebbles led the
stricken hidalgo to a seat, gave him a bunch of grapes,
and plied him with claret—just as he had been accustomed
to solace his own beloved Tommy (aged seven) with cakes
and halfpence when in trouble.
" I have one of your songs here which I have always
liked," said Maud, with more kindness in her manner than
she had yet shown to their elder visitor : " I will sing it
you like."
Don Sancho bowed his head meekly.
Maud sang a really well written song—a little common
place and " flashy" in sentiment and imagery, but fault
less as to rhyme and measure. The singer threw such
s 2
260
MARSTON LYNCH.
deep feeling into her expression as to give the thing more
importance than was its due.
" Beautiful!" said Marston. " Why, Saumarez, I
couldn't write a song like that."
" Generosity in a conqueror is a double defeat," was the
inflated answer.
At half-past six Maud declared that she was going to
dress for the theatre.
" What theatre ?"
What theatre ? Marston's theatre, of course. She
intended going every night, till she had the new piece by
heart.
Marston had not the least objection to go and see his
own piece. Nor was he altogether sorry of the opportu¬
nity to show his friends what a great man he was—how
he would bully the box-keepers, and so forth.
Stop : he had one objection, which perhaps ought to be
considered the least objection. He had left a little lady all
by herself in a lodging-house in Cecil-street, who would
have given her ears
" Pshaw ! he said to himself. " She is not at all well.
I kept her up too late last night: poor little darling, it
would be a shame to spoil a second night's rest for her—-
in her present condition. Besides, there is my promise to
Saumarez. And no doubt she has been up to her eyes in
shopping -with the money I left her, and must have fallen
asleep over some grand ' cutting out' scheme. I will bring
her to see Maud to-morrow, and explain all."
The friends went to the theatre all together.
When the performance was over, they exchanged fare¬
wells on the steps of the theatre. The two young men
declined an invitation to return to sup at the hotel.
'■ We shall see you to-morrow ?" said Maud, whose
cordial manner towards Marston had materially cooled in
the course of the day, and given place to one of anxious
diffidence.
" Certainly," replied Marston, scarcely knowing what he
said.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
261
" Well, Saumarez, I hope you are satisfied," he asked
of his friend, as they walked home alone. " I can tell
you that this deception has been a source of great pain
to me."
" Don't speak of it. What has it been to me ? Satis¬
fied ? I am dissatisfied with myself and everything else.
I believe I am half mad. I feel like an old drivelling
dotard, though I am only thirty-four. Promise me one
thing."
" Not a thing like the last, I hope."
" The same thing—-let it stand over to-morrow. Don't
go near them, if you like—but leave me to-morrow to
myself. After that, do as you please. Confess the whole,
and spare me as little as I deserve."
" But what excuse am I to offer?"
" I don't know. I don't know anything, leave me to¬
morrow to think if I can."
" You really pain me to see you in this state. Be it as
you wish. Come home to supper—I dare say Lucy will
be sitting up." (How was it Marston had thought she
was in bed three hours ago ?)
" No, I can't. I am no company for anybody. Be¬
sides—Pshaw ! I must tell you I take a pleasure in humi¬
liating myself. Do yo.u know where I am going to finish
the evening ?"
" How can I tell?"
" Among the cabbages in C'ovent Garden Market, look¬
ing up at a light in the Bedford Hotel till it goes out.
There, good night.
Don Sancho de Saumarez burst from his friend with a
bitter laugh, and withdrew to a quiet game at billiards,
with some friends in the Quadrant.
" Poor old fellow !" said Marston.
Of course Lucy was sitting up, and flew to the street
door at her husband's well-known step. It was so good
of him to come home so early and so well, and she had
such a nice little supper waiting for him.
Did a chill come over Marston Lynch as he contrasted
262
MARSTON LYNCH.
the homely lodging-house parlour lighted by two dim
candles, with the brilliant mirrored and lustred suite of
rooms in which he had passed the day; the paltry supper
of warmed-up meat and salad with the sumptuous banquet
he had partaken of; the little cold, anxious, trembling
figure that hung round him as if for warmth and life, with
the magnificent self-possessed beanty who might have been
his with all her wealth and charms ? Did he look forward
shudderingly into the inevitable, and contrast it hopelessly
with the vanished possible.
For one moment perhaps. But if a man's weakness
had led him to give way to such feelings, he had enough
of a man's strength to combat them. lie kissed his little
wife heartily, and said he would never leave her for a day
again. He stirred up the fire, and was astonished to find
how comfortable the little place looked. Finally, he en¬
joyed a hearty supper of broiled bones and pickles, and
cleared out the salad bowl. How thoroughly jLucy en¬
joyed seeing him eat, I have no words to tell.
marston lynch.
263'
CHAPTER XXV.
a short one—but full of business.
The next day was to be a fete day with the happy Lucy.
Marston was to spend the day with her. They were to
dine at Richmond (if it had been at a baked potato-stall,
Lucy would have been equally pleased in such company),
and go to see the piece in the evening.
Marston went out early in the morning to change Mr.
Toplin's cheque. He had never had so much money in his
possession before, He took a cab, of course, though he
had nowhere particular to go to, and stopped the vehicle
at various jewellers and dealers in finery—from whom he
made costly purchases—a great many for himself, but far
more for Lucy.
He discharged the driver at the top of Cecil-street, and
walked.
Towards his own home ? No. Towards Covent Garden.
He had not the slightest intention of calling at the Bed¬
ford, of course. But Lucy liked flowers, and he was de¬
termined to take her home the most splendid bouquet that
money could purchase.
He bought his bouquet, .and met old Merripebbles dissi¬
pating in a pennyworth of apples.
" Come up," said the old boy, " you'll find them all at
home."
Marston attempted an apology, he had promised his
He was nearly letting the cat out of the bag—he had
264
MARSTON LYNCH.
promised his manager to meet liim at the theatre about a
new piece.
" They'll be delighted to hear all about it, and I dare
say won't press you to stop—and a little Hock and soda
water—"
The wicked old rascal! Where had he learned such
drinks ?
Well, Marston would just step up and pay his respects
to the ladies.
He found them in the society of Hon Sancho de Sau-
marez, who looked pale and interesting. His moustachios
were remarkably black this morning, and the colour con¬
trasted admirably with his " Wertherfaced" complexion.
"Another bouquet, Maud," cried Mrs. Merripebbles,
"you won't refuse this one?"
" Not if it is intended for me, certainly," said Maud,
calmly.
What could Marston do but offer her the bouquet—say¬
ing that he had just purchased it with the intention of—
leaving it for her. He was pressed for time, but would
she accept it as the gift of an old and sincere friend ?
" As the gift of an old and sincere friend, certainly,"
said Maud, with some sadness in her voice and counte¬
nance as she took the flowers.
" But whose was the rejected bouquet ?" Marston in¬
quired, gaily. " Not yours, old fellow, I hope. You
deserve better treatment.
" No," said Saumarez, bitterly, " I have long left off
bringing them. My offerings are never accepted. I am
an eel who is used to skinning. The last victim of my
species, who has just wriggled out of the apartment in a
most wretched condition, is Tofts."
" Toujours , Tofts ?"
"Yes," Mrs. Merripebbles interposed, " he has to start
for Canada to-morrow, and came this morning with a formal
proposal of marriage. Nothing could be more delicate or
flattering than the way in which he declared himself?"
" He could not have offered to buy a ship, a- cargo and
MARSTON LYNCH.
265
all, in a more thoroughly business-like and straightforward
manner," said Maud, contemptuously.
"Now, Maud, be quiet, we have agreed not to quarrel
to-day, and, after my promise to accede to all your wishes,
it is really too bad of you. Tou may guess what answer
he received, Mr. Marston."
" I hope he was sent about his business to give place to
a better man," said Marston, warmly glancing at his
friend.
" Something of that, perhaps," said the mother. "We
are all friends here, I hope; even you, Mr. Saumarez, I
believe, have my dear child's interest at heart ? Marston,
I will trifle with her and with you no longer. Mr. Tofts,
in answer to a question that he put, was informed that my
daughter's affections were elsewhere disposed of."
" Silence, Mother,," said Maud, quivering with shame
and a thousand other emotions : " this is wrong. This is
not the place. Spare me !"
She was about to hurry from the room.
" Stay, Maud !" Marston cried. " This has gone too
far. My dear friends, I have been to blame. But hear
me ?"
" Marston Lynch !" cried Don Sancho, in a loud voice,
leaping from his seal, "You are under a promise to
me."
" I know it."
" I claim its fulfilment. Leave the house with me. I
must speak to you alone."
And he hurried the wondering Marston out of the apart¬
ment, and into the Covent Garden Piazzas, leaving the
family trio aghast with astonishment.
" Now, Saumarez, what is the meaning of this tom¬
foolery ?"
" Tomfoolery ! Idiotcy ! Madness ! Padded rooms !
Handcuffs and whips, that is the meaning of it, I suppose.
If I had let you speak the truth it would have blasted me
in her opinion for ever and ever.."
"But the truth must come out."
266
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" Out with it, then, and ruin me. Destroy my last
chance. Let her despise me—and get it over. But you
promised me till to-morrow."
" What matters a day ?"
" Everything. You can coin an excuse—a lie. I have
known men do more than that to serve a friend—or, at
least, yoa can give me time to play my last card; and, if
that fails, to escape over the seas. I tell you, man, I only
hoped for this day's enjoyment of her society—and then—
then But what is that to you ? But, go hack and
tell them all. You cannot place my conduct—into which
my blind passion has hurried me—in a blacker light than
I shall place it when all is over. There, go."
" I shall not again visit our friends, Saumarez, till I
take my wife to see them." Marston answered quickly.
" I will keep my word with you, and my motives for con¬
cealing my marriage shall remain a mystery, let them think
what they will. I think that your most honest plan would
be to return to them yourself, and save me the trouble of
a confession."
" And confess myself a pitiful, plotting dastard—as I
have been ? I should still like to have a hope to cling to.
But, enough. God bless you, my boy. You have be¬
haved nobly. We may never meet again."
Don Sancho walked hurriedly away, brushing his eye¬
lids with the back of his buckskin gloves.
" I hope he won't do himself any harm," thought
Marston, looking after the retreating figure of his friend.
" He's as mad as a March hare.
In case any uneasiness should be felt on the score of
Don Sancho de Saumarez, it must be stated here that he
did himself no harm whatever, beyond such as may have
accrued from the inhalation of a choice Havannah cigar,
which he smoked enjoyingly in Kilpack's Divan, seated on
the counter, against which he drummed his patent leather
heels with the greatest satisfaction for the space of half-an-
liour.
The clock of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, sounded the
MARSTON LYNCH.
267
hour of noon. Marston was overdue at Cecil-street. He
bought a second bouquet—handsomer than the first—and
went home to fetch his wife in a cab.
They dined at the Star and Garter—would I had time
and space to describe the innocent joys of that dinner.
Marston was absent, and pre-occupied it is true—but
then, what weighty undertakings had he not on his mind ?
Nevertheless, he was all kindness and devotion to Lucy.
He told her of his future literary schemes—how many
plays he intended writing within the next six months—and
how he would naturally raise his scale of prices, in propor¬
tion to each success. Lucy thought the dinner a little too
costly, it is true; but then, what was good enough for
such a man as her husband ?
In the evening they returned to town by rail, and drove
in state to the Cork Street theatre.
Then Lucy was in her glory. The servants of the
theatre recognised her husband, and treated him with sub¬
mission. Great men, great authors, critics, and what not,
came up to them with compliments and congratulations,
and all seemed proud of an introduction to the pretty
modest little wife of the successful author. Even the
great Toplin himself, retreating into the body of the house
for breathing time, after a terrible engagement with his
arch enemies of the free list, was fain to stop and shake
hands with his young friend, to whom he said (with his
most courtly bow to the pretty little wife)—
" Lucky dog ! Lucky dog ! Carry all away before you,
everywhere. I see Thursday night was not your first
brilliant success by any means. Glad I've seen you, Mrs.
Lynch—always delighted to find my authors are men of
taste. Thought well of him last night, but feel sure of
him now."
" What a nice gentleman !" said Lucy, as Toplin, after
a "more exquisite bow than the other," returned to the
attack at the free barrier list.
They were shown into a private box, " Mr. Lynch's
box," as the entire house was audibly informed, to the
268
MAUSTON LYNCH.
great delight of Lucy. And then to have Mr. Lynch by
her side, and to know that all those people were assembled
to listen to Mr. Lynch's play !
The first act of Mr. Lynch's play proceeded without in¬
terruption. Lucy anticipating each word as spoken by the
actors—occasionally getting a little pettish when they went
wrong. She had copied out the manuscript herself in a
beautiful school hand, and knew it by heart.
When the first act was over, Lucy, by the dignity of her
position as the author's wife, felt emboldened to glance
round the house.
" Good heavens, Marston ! who is that beautiful girl
staring at us from the opposite box. I know the face—it
must be—Marston, it is Maud Carlton ?"
The reader will conceive that Marston was inexpressibly
delighted by the discovery.
" It is Maud. There is Mr. Merripebbles with her, and
behind him—why it is your friend Saumarez, Marston."
Marston was delighted, of course.
" She has seen me. She has left the box. She is
coming round to us. How beautiful she has grown."
In a few seconds the rustle of brocade was heard outside
the box-door. A tap followed. Marston opened the
door, and Lucy and Maud were in each other's arms.
" You darling little Lucy ! I should have known you
anywhere, you are not a bit altered, except just a little
prettier. When did you come to London ? To-day, of
course, or Marston would have told us. I am jealous of
him already, for having picked you up before me."
" Marston, did you know that Maud was in London.?"
" My dear—Maud—Miss Carlton—I would have ex¬
plained this morning, had it not been for "—
Don Sancho looked in at the box-door with a Mesphis-
tophilean grin, (he had adapted Faust to the English stage
himself, and his performance of the Demon had been
highly applauded in Baltimore and Boston.)
" What is the meaning of this ?" said Maud, clutching
MAESTON LYNCH.
269
at Lucy's left hand, on which her quick eye had detected
the wedding-ring.
" Have you seen her, Marston, and not told her ?"
" It is not my fault, so help me heaven, Maud. Lucy
is my wife ; we have been married four months. I would
have brought her to see you to-morrow."
Miss Carlton stood rigidly for a few moments, like one
in a fit of catalepsy. Her cheeks were courlourless, her
lips blue. Then she turned slowly round and walked out
of the box. They could hear her heavy-measured steps in
the box lobby when the curtain had drawn up for the
second act.
Don Sancho de Saumarez followed the young lady.
270
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XXVI.
don sancho makes love after an eccentric
fashion.
It is most likely that Miss Carlton in full evening dress,
as she was, would have marched from the box-lobby into
Cork-street—right among the cabmen and orange-women
—had it not been for the intervention of the check-taker's
barrier. There she was brought to a standstill, and stood
gazing with sullen wildness down the entrance of the
theatre. If the little iron railing before her had belonged
to a bridge—with dark deep gurgling water on the other
side of it, instead of a lighted hall thronged with lackeys
and idlers—there is little reason to doubt that the young
lady would have jumped over it. A civil official, (such
things do exist here and there, even in theatres) noticing
her agitated condition, and knowing it was no tit place for
a young lady, as he could see she was, to stand alone in,
asked her, as a hint, if she was waiting for her carriage.
She waved her hand mechanically, and said, " get me one."
A cab was called, and Maud leaped into it, with a con¬
temptuous disregard of such dependencies as cloak, fan,
opera-glass, stepfather, &c., which she had left behind her
in the box, and told the man to drive the Bedford Hotel.
Don Sancho got in a cab immediately after her. It is
possible that Maud's driver, with the acute perceptions
of his order, divined that he had got hold of an inex¬
perienced fare, and went a mile or so out of his way, with
a view to earning an honest shilling for his struggling wife
MARSTON LYNCH.
271
and family. It is also likely that Don Sancho's driver, by
a similar mental process, made up his mind that his fare
was one with whom no such liberties might be taken; or,
perhaps, the descendant of the hidalgos—(by the way,
" hidalgo " means somebody's son : clearly our friend was
an hidalgo)—with his usual seeking after effect—even
with no better audience than a cabman—had done a little
retail Monte Christo business on the way, and encouraged
the man to speed by rare munificence. At any rate, when
Maud entered the sitting-room of the hotel, to be alone
for a little Avhile—(her mother, she knew, had retired to
bed early, being unwell)—to try and tame her maddening,
writhing thoughts into something like order,—there was
Don Sancho seated at a table, in an unexceptionable atti¬
tude, with the lamp so disposed as to set off his interesting
face and figure to the best advantage.
Maud started with a feeling of something like terror.
Dor a moment she thought this man must possess some
supernatural power. It seemed to her, she had left him a
few seconds ago miles away, such had been the hurry and
pre-occupation of her thoughts; and here he was before
her as if by magic, perfectly calm and collected. She was
really and truly afraid of him.
Nothing could have pleased Don Sancho de Saumarez
better. In fact, he had " led up to " the situation, and
he was an experienced dramatist and stage-manager, as we
have learnt.
" I believe you are a devil," said Miss Carlton, in a
voice wherein hatred certainly had the best of it over
fear.
Don Sancho was immensely flattered. You could not
have paid him a compliment more to his taste. He put on
his coldest smile, and elevated the extremities of his thin
black eyebrows to their utmost Mephistophelean pitch.
" Why have you come here ?"
" To seize an opportunity," said the actor, calmly.
" Of humiliating me ? Have you not had sufficient ?
But no ! You must reap the fruits of your labours."
272
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" I hope so in time. They have been long and arduous
enough."
Maud sat down heavily, and pressed her hand against
her burning brow, tossing her lovely forest of ringlets
about in splendid disorder.
" You have done this," she resumed, looking up fiercely.
" I cannot tell you what, nor how. But I feel that I owe
you this worse than death and shame that has come
upon me. You have weighed upon my life like an evil
destiny ever since I have known you."
The Brummagem 0. Smith could scarcely contain his
satisfaction.
" Why have you done this?" Maud asked, almost im¬
ploringly. " Now that you have triumphed, you cannot
refuse to tell me. I am curious to know what motive you
could have for pursuing me with such malignity."
" What have I done, Maud ?" Saumarez inquired in a
sweet voice, suddenly changing to an expression of naive
simplicity.
The question was certainly a trying one. What had he
done ? Maud could not answer him ; and yet her woman's
instinct told her that he had done all.
" Was it my fault, Maud ?" (lie had never called her
Maud till this evening; she winced at the familiarity as an
evidence that he was gaining an ascendancy over her.)
" Was it my fault, Maud, that you fixed your affections on
Marston Lynch ?"
How dare you ?" she' began fiercely.
" Surely, I may allude to what you have never yourself
striven to conceal, as I know to my misery. Was it my
fault that he should be ass and dolt enough to fix his
affections on another less worthy than yourself? You
complimented me just now with an ironical suspicion of
demoniac power. I confess if I had possessed such a gift
I might have exerted it to bring about such a result as has
happened without my interference. But being only a
simple mortal I do not possess the secret of love philtres.
Would to God I did ! Would to God I did !"
MARSTON LYNCH.
273
Don Sancho repeated this with an excellent imitation of
heartfelt anguish, burying his face in his hands, and rock¬
ing to and fro on his chair.
His manner calmed, if not softened her, a little.
" Then why was this concealment, if not to make me an
object of scorn to myself and others ?"
"What concealment?"
The question was asked in a bland tone of astonish¬
ment.
" You know what I mean, but you are here to pain and
exult over me. Well! as you say, I have made no con¬
cealment of my feelings, even to you, whom I know to be
one mass of duplicity. I mean, Marston Lynch's mar¬
riage. His marriage ! Oh, God, in Heaven!"
" And do you think this is a triumph to me, Maud
Carlton, to hear my rival—even now that he is lost—
lamented over with a passion that removes me further from
hope than ever ? Can I enter into Marston Lynch's secret
thoughts ? Can I tell you his motive for concealing his
marriage?"
" You knew of it."
" Maud Carlton, I did not."
Don Sancho leapt to his feet indignantly as he spoke.
He really managed to bring a flush into his pale cheeks,
and looked a noble picture of outraged virtue.
Don Sancho de Saumarez had studied the theory of
Lying as assiduously as he had cultivated its practice. It
was one of his maxims that lies are like bullets, the biggest
do the surest service.
Maud was baffled but not convinced.
"Why are you here now ?" she asked sullenly.
" Why am I ever here? Why is it that I cannot keep
myself away in spite of scorn and insult ? But let that
pass. I followed you, Maud, to protect you."
" From whom, pray ?"
" From yourself, probably. When you left the theatre,
I could have wished myself a demon indeed. Would you
know why ?"
T
27.4
MAKSTON LYNCH.
Maude tossed her head.
" Because a demon possessed you."
Don Sancho was highly pleased with this epigram; and
made a mental note of it for his next dramatic adaptation
from the French.
" You are right," said Maud, strongly excited. " I was
—I am possessed of a demon. The little miserable pale-
faced doll! I left her in mercy, or I should have wrenched
her puny hand off. Fool, dolt, idiot, as he is. There
must be love-spells or philtres in the world, or he could
never have preferred such a baby to me. To me!" Miss
Carlton drew herself up to her full height, and surveyed
herself angrily in a mirror. Don Sancho admired her very
much indeed, and persuaded himself for the moment that
he was dying in love for her.
" He did not know you, Maud. Thank Heaven!"
" Why ?"
" Because had he known you in time, he would have
won you from me. He is my superior in everyway," (Don
Sancho knew the value of a little humility) : " I should
have given up all hope."
" Do so now—once and for ever."
" No, by Heavens ! 1 will win you yet."
" You think so."
" I do—I will. Your love for him is at an end. It
will soon change to hate. He has slighted you, and you
can never forgive him. You will hate him the more when
you see him prosperous and happy with another—insulting
you with their very happiness. You cannot live without
love, Maud. In time you will have tested the value of
mine—and will accept it."
Maud seemed not to heed the last part of his speech.
She sat biting her hp, beating her pretty foot against the
carpet, and repeating, " Happy—prosperous !—Happy—
prosperous !—and with her."
Then she wheeled round on her chair, and addressing
her visitor in a choking voice, commenced—
" Saumarez, I believe I could almost love you, if ~"
MABSTON LYNCH.
275
She paused
" If there is a condition, name it."
Maud laughed.
" I meant to say if instead of a scheming trickster, you
were a bold villain."
" I am neither, Maud; but proceed."
Maud laughed again. A cracked, jarring, unpleasant
laugh it was—so different to her usual silvery tones.
" I was going to give a bit of bombast in your own style
—and to say that if you could show me them both dead,
with knives in their hearts, and tell me it was your work,
I would pay you like a bold bravo, with a handsome price
—and marry you. There—leave me. You have taken
me at an unkind advantage. Why, man, you are a pitiful
coward to pry into a poor girl's weaknesses, and listen to
her ravings. Good night."
Don Sancho rose and took her hand. She tried to re¬
lease it, but the effort seemed hardly worth the making.
She left it there.
" Maud Carlton," said Saumarez, fixing his eyes upon
her, and speaking in measured tones. " I know you
better than you think. You have been grievously out¬
raged—not intentionally, perhaps—but the thing is done.
You spoke just now, lightly, of a terrible revenge. Ke-
venge on such a scale is, of course, out of the question.
But revenge of some kind you must and will have. I can
give it you."
" By marrying me ? Frankly, I should consider it no
great triumph."
" I have it in my power to make Marston Lynch a rich
man."
" So had I. How will that serve me ? "
" Bead this."
Don Sancho produced a document from his breast pocket,
and held it open, without relinquishing it, for Maud to read.
It was no other than our old acquaintance the will, which
had exercised such an influence on the nerves and cheque
book of Mr. Gregory Lynch.
T 2
276
MARSTON LYNCH.
" I cannot read to-night, my head is swimming. What
is the meaning of this ? "
" A will, which, if once made public, makes Marston
Lynch a freehold proprietor, and his wife a rich man s
lady, surrounded by every luxury and honour, richer
than yourself, Maud."
" Give it to me."
Miss Carlton clutched at the document spitefully. Don
Sancho retained his possession of it.
"Not yet, at any rate. Hear a few words that may
give you some idea of the lengths my passion for you has
led me. This will came into my possession—no matter
how—some time back. It brought me to England that I
might do jnstice to Marston Lynch, who is entitled by this,
his grandfather's will, to a great portion of his uncle's pro¬
perty. Two years ago I had completed the chain of
evidence necessary to establish its validity. Marston was
on the eve of becoming wealthy, when "
" What ? "
" When I discovered that you loved him. He was more
than my match already. I was not going to put the ad¬
ditional weapons in his hands of riches and power. Marston
Lynch was my friend : but if my brother stood in my way,
in love, I would remove him."
" I do not understand you."
" You shall. I am a selfish man, and, where my own
interest and passions are concerned, an unscrupulous one.
I have concealed this will to further my own interests with
you, by retarding those of my rival. Promise me some
hope, and it shall never see light."
" Would you commit a robbery? "
" You were only half in bitter jest, awhile ago, when
you proposed that I should commit two murders. Yes,
Maud, I could become either a scheming trickster or a bold
villain to win you. It depends on a word from you whether
Marston Lynch is to become a rich man or a starving
beggar. Continue to treat me as you have done,
and I have no longer any motive for continuing a crime.
MARSTON LYNCH.
277
Marston and his wife shall he happy, if I cannot
be so."
He had held the will temptingly open, and Maud had
spelt it line by line. She was nearly mad. All the worst
passions of her ardent nature had been aroused by the
sorely trying events of the evening. She was as vindictive
as she was loving. Remember that her fine glowing nature
was as a rank uncultivated garden, with scarcely a weed
eradicated; beautiful as were its flowers, rich as were many
of its fruits. She had lived for a dream which had been
cruelly dissipated. She hated Lucy Lynch from the bottom
of her heart. Her quick imagination had divined, that with
herself, backed by the magic of her wealth, Marston Lynch
would have been a happy honoured man—would have had
the means to develope his character and realise his ambitions:
whereas, with a timid, helpless partner like Lucy, his career
would be trammelled and his life eventually embittered. At
first she thought her anger towards the poor little wife was
disinterested, on Marston's account. What right had the
designing little,schemer to spread her toils to clog a great
man's steps for her own selfish gratification ? She (Maud)
would have helped, supported him, with her strength and
wealth, and, above all, her love, which was as great as her¬
self. But when she saw before her the written evidence of
a possibility that Marston and Lucy might be happy to¬
gether—independent of her, her wealth, or her revenge—
she was bound to recognise the ravaging power of base
selfish jealousy. She would rather see them both dead
than happy with each other.
i* " Give it to me," she said, clutching at the will
again.
"Unconditionally, Maud?"
" I do not know. I cannot tell its value ; but I cannot
bear the thought that he should see her happy and smiling;
he would grow to love her. She is beautiful after all—
above all, when she is happy. The madman! 1 would
have loved him through everything. I would love him
now if he would leave her. What are their laws to me?
278
MAXSTON LYNCH.
I would sing ballads in the streets for him. I would
drudge, slave, suffer, steal for him. My Gfod, what love
the fool has lost!"
The artistic sense of Saumarez—if nothing higher—was
thoroughly roused. He admired the strong, agonised,
untutored, lawless girl more than ever. If he had been
an honest man he would have obeyed a momentary im¬
pulse to speak half-a-dozen words, that might have placed
the poor shaken spoilt child in the way of peace, if not to
happiness. But, alack! he was thirty-four years of age,
and an artificial rogue of some twenty years' induration.
He had prepared a very pretty plot, which it would be a
thousand pities to spoil.
" Here is the will, Maud," he said, folding up the docu¬
ment and handing it to her.
She took it eagerly at first, and then seemed terrified at
Ts possession.
" Whait am I to do with it ?"
" What you please. Bring me to the hulks with it, if
you like; only remember it was done for your sake. I
have only one condition to make.
" What is that ?"
"That you do not destroy it till we are married."
" Take it back, then."
" If I do, it will only be to give it to Marston and con¬
fess all. I am sick of this course, if no reward is to come
of it. Shall I take it ?"
"No-—no; I must see them ruined—beggars—starving
beggars."
" You shall. I will do any good or evil you may com¬
mand me, Maud, only make yourself the price. After all,
why should I affect to love Marston Lynch ? I hate him.
I have hated him ever since he has crossed my path. I have
power to injure him beyond what you hold in your hand.
If I can punish him for his insolent slights to you; if I
can show him to you, with his pet wax doll, ruined, broken,
and miserable, loathing and detesting each other—"
" Show me that, and take all I have."
MARSTON LYNCH.
279
Miss Carlton had grown very ngly within the last few
minutes.
" You make me out a very common trickster indeed.
If I chose to scheme for money, I have brains enough to
do it, on a larger scale than you have any conception of.
I want you, Maud, not your money."
" Then take me, with or without it," said Maud, with a
contemptuous toss of her beautiful body, as though she
were throwing that precious creation away as a thing no
longer of any value.
Mr. Merripebbles, scared and breathless, entered the
apartment. Maud, at a sign from Saumarez, concealed,
the will in her bosom. She immediately repented of having
done so; but it was too late to retract.
" Dear, dear !" said old Merripebbles, intensely fluttered.
" What is the meaning of all this ? Maud, I waited in
the box half an hour for you. Then I went over to Mr.
Marston's box, and he quite confused me with explana¬
tions about something or other. To think of his being
married to little Lucy, all the time, and—Mr. Saumarez
you are not going, surely?"
" I am sorry I am compelled to, Sir. Miss Carlton—
perhaps I may be allowed to say Maud—to-night was
indisposed. I hope to be received for the future on a more
intimate footing."
What coidd Maud say ?
" Good night," that was all.
Mr. Saumarez appeared to receive this parting saluta¬
tion with rapture, and held the speaker's hand much
longer than was intended, bidding the aforesaid speaker be
composed, with an assurance that he would look round the
first thing in the morning. As Mr. Merripebbles showed
him to the door, Don Sancho pressed the old stockbroker's
hand veiy warmly, whispering in that gentleman's ear a
comforting assurance that he believed he had made it all
right at last.
" I am sure I am very much honoured and delighted,"
said the old boy, with a not very delighted face—" but,"
280
MARSTON LYNCH.
he added to himself, when the visitor had departed, " I had
hoped it was to be Mr. Marston; though, of course, that
is out of the question."
Don Sancho de Saumarez sped along the Covent Garden
Piazzas (bound for the Quadrant) at a brisk lively
pace, that threatened to break into a dance, musing as
follows:—
" So ! I have made her an accomplice in what she
believes to be a criminal transaction; and have promised
to bring Marston Lynch, to ruin. Poor old Marston ! I'm
sure I shan't take any trouble in the matter. I shall just
leave him to himself—he'll do it fast enough, without my
assistance—and shall claim credit for the consequence.
She's a splendid young virago, and it will have a glorious
effect when it gets wind that she's going to marry me."
Don Sancho de Saumarez surpassed himself at billiards
that evening.
marston lynch.
281
CHAPTER XXVII,
marston makes tiie acquaintance of several
distinguished public characters one espe¬
cially.
On the following morning Marston and Lucy left their
lodgings early, en route for the Bedford Hotel, to call on
their old friends, and soothe the irritated Maud if possible.
Our unfortunate hero felt himself in a position which, had
it not been so acutely painful, would have been excessively
ridiculous. He was willing himself to explain everything.
But what was there he really could explain; and who was
likely to ask for an explanation ? He could not go and
apologise to Miss Carlton for having first inspired that
volcanic young lady with a tender passion, and subsequently
married somebody else. Should he keep away altogether
and let the scrape right itself? His ingenuous and candid
nature revolted at the idea. He would face his old bene¬
factors ; and, if they should have any reproaches to make,
would endeavour to bear or meet them. After all, perhaps
he was exaggerating the whole difficulty. Maud had been
wayward and rude to Lucy at the theatre. What of that ?
Maud had always been wayward, and rudeness was no
novel phrase in her behaviour. He decided that he would
take his wife to her old friends, and ignore everything, but
a want of candour on his part in concealing his marriage
from people to whom his welfare was dear, for which con-
282
MARSTON LYNCH.
cealment, temporarily, lie would say there was a special
reason. What reason? To this inquiry he would only
answer himself with a hearty mental curse at his dear
friend Saumarez, and a recognition of increased perplexity.
As to Lucy, she was in a state of intense bewilderment
at the whole affair. What motive could Marston have for
concealing from her his knowledge of the family being in
London, and his frequent visits to them, any more than, on
the other hand, for keeping his marriage a secret from
them? Lucy had not a spark of jealousy in her composi¬
tion. Nor had she as yet learned to believe in the possi¬
bility of her idolized husband being induced—for any
earthly consideration—to act disingenuously or unwisely.
Marston could only explain to her that he had acted on an
unconditional promise given to Saumarez. Lucy strove
to admire this scrupulous adherence to an engagement,
however extracted, and succeeded in discovering therein
something like magnanimity. But from that time forth
she conceived an instinctive aversion to Don Sancho,
to which she adhered ever after with true feminine
tenacity.
They reached the hotel, and sent up their cards to the
heads of the family,
In a short time the servant returned, with the embar¬
rassed countenance of one charged with an ungracious
message. Mrs. Merripebbles and Miss Carlton respect¬
fully declined receiving the visitors.
Mr. and Mrs. Lynch walked back to Cecil-street—silent
and unhappy.
In the course of the day, Marston, at Lucy's suggestion,
wrote to Mrs. Merripebbles, expressing, in warm terms,
his gratitude, and that of his wife, for the many kindnesses
received from the stockbrocker's family, with his regret
that any misunderstanding should have shut them out
from so dear a circle. Lie briefly said that he had been
bound in honour to keep the change in his condition a
seeret, for a certain time, for a reason he was not even then
at liberty to make public, but which, in justice to himself,
MAKSTON LYNCH,
283
lie would declare to Mrs. Merripebbles personally, if she
would favour him with an interview.
In a few hours the letter was returned with the seal un •
broken.
" Who could have told them your address?" asked the
suspicious Lucy.
" Who ? Why, anybody. There can be no difficulty
in finding; out where I live," replied the popular author,
conceitedly.
" There is only one person who could have told them,"
Mrs. Lynch persisted.
" You mean Saumarez? Suppose he did ? If they
asked him my address, of course he would give it. My
dear, I don't like to see you so suspicious. You see
treachery in everything."
" From that quarter I do."
Don Sancho de Saumarez never visited Marston Lynch
again at the residence of the latter, who rather gave his
wife to understand that he had cut the Mexican's acquaint¬
ance, in obedience to her repeated urging. But, after a
slight coolness, the two gentlemen soon began to meet in
green-rooms, coffee-rooms, and at the chamber of their
mutual bachelor acquaintances, on much of their former
footing. On one occasion, after a somewhat lively supper,
when Marston was in rather a sentimental condition,
Saumarez melted the last icicle by seizing his young friend
rapturously by the hand, and exclaiming, in a passionate
whisper—
" Marston ; I can't bear this. You have sacrificed your¬
self most nobly for me. You have saved me more than
life. I have hopes now—which, if you had divulged my
unworthiness, would have been destroyed for ever, All
shall be explained and atoned for. Only say we are
friends."
" My dear fellow "
The remainder of the scene was tearful and incoherent.
Marston did not mention this formal reconciliation to his
284
MARSTON LYNCH.
wife. Women were so prejudiced. Saumarez was a good
fellow after all. Besides, as they must be thrown con¬
stantly together in the way of business, what folly to keep
up the semblance of a feud between them !
Marston Lynch was at work upon a new comedy—in
five acts, if you please—about which he talked a great deal
more than was necessary, but with which he made no
great progress. This he attributed to various causes—too
much company—other literary engagements—laziness, &c.,
&c., all of which obstructions he perennially resolved to
remove on the following Monday, and attack the magnum
opus in earnest.
The secret was, our hero had set himself a task beyond
his present powers, and was afraid of it. He was in the
perilous position of a young man depending upon literature
for his existence who had been precociously successful. In
such cases, the entire journey seems as easy as the first
step. At the second, or third, the ground usually becomes
hilly. Marston, at this time, had not had sufficient expe¬
rience of art or nature to carry him through the ambitious
project he had formed; and good natured friends, jealous
of his early success, already began to inquire with sneering
impatience for the promised chefd'ceuvre.
Altogether, though, Marston found no lack of employ¬
ment, and that, as long as it lasted, lucrative enough in its
way. He had a ready pen, and his name being well before
the public, found no difficulty in obtaining access to the
periodicals, then a more profitable vein to work than at
present. On one especially—of which more hereafter—
he became a person of some importance. Various desul¬
tory commissions, moreover, were offered him frequently
enough for literary work, very little to his taste. Some of
his proposed engagements were queer enough, as the fol¬
lowing specimen will testify :—
One morning, as Marston was writing, the servant
brought him a card. Mr. Marston looked at it.
" Mr. Tipton—who the deuce is Mr. Tipton ?" he
MARSTON LYNCH.
285
asked himself. " I know no one of the name but the man
who sings comic songs, of a questionable description, at the
Supper Taverns."
The visitor, on being shown in, turned out to be the
popular vocalist himself.
He was a quaint, vulgar-looking, good-humoured fellow,
dressed in an expensive caricature of the prevailing fashion.
He was not alone: and his companion excited no little
surprise in our hero. This was a graceful delicate little
girl, of some five years old, splendidly and tastefully
dressed, whom the comic singer seeemed to treat with
great tenderness.
" How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Tipton, shaking hands
with our hero with much cordiality, and helping himself to
a seat with the little girl on his knee. "No occasion for
introduction between us, eh? Public characters ought to
know each other. Birds of a feather you know."
Marston having resisted a momentary temptation to
kick his visitor out of the room, laughed heartily, and
asked in what way he might have the pleasure of serving
Mr. Tipton.
" Ah ! that's my style—business first, pleasure after¬
wards. We shall get on I see. Now, I want you to
write me a song."
" Indeed!" Marston turned slightly red, and was
about to add, " and what the devil is that to me." But
it was evident, from the man's manner, he had no idea he
was conferring anything but the highest honour, in the
offer of his patronage.
" Yes, something spicy. Bun, and look out of window,
my love," said he to the little girl, who obeyed him.
" Something in the style of my "
And, with a vulgar wink, he named a song, of which
Marston remembered to have heard the commencement
only, having been driven out of the room by its atrocious
character.
Pie arose from his chair with offended dignity.
" You have applied to the wrong person, sir."
286
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" Not a bit," Mr. Tipton interrupted pleasantly.
"Don't make a mistake. Money's no object to me for a
taking article. Name your own price—and the money
down when it is finished. Say ten pounds—twenty, if
you like—and I'll give you a cheque for half in advance."
Mr. Tipton had no idea that an author could feel any
but pecuniary scruples at writing in his peculiar school
of composition.
Marston saw it was useless being angry with the man.
He merely said his time was too much occupied now to
undertake any new engagements.
" Then, take your own time. Choose your own sub¬
ject—for you're the man for my money. Mind, half in
advance, whenever you like to begin."
" We'll see about it. I am rather pressed for time just
now. Good morning."
" Good bye. I know how you literary swells are
occupied. Come along, my pet. Mind, pile it up as
strong as you please: in your raciest style."
" That's a sweet little girl of your's, Mr. Tipton,"
Marston said, anxious to evade the disagreeable subject.
" Yes, sir, she is," said the vocalist, parting the child's
hair, and kissing her on the forehead; " she's rather a
good 'un—and she's to be a lady—she is."
" Is she your only one ? "
" Yes, sir, the only one," said the man huskily ; " and
not mine, sir. She's my sister's child—my sister's child."
" Have you no children of your own ? "
" Four—all dead, sir; and the mother—and my sister,
her mother, attending of 'em. That was in the bad time,
that was—before I got my present high position. No
jellies, and game, and broth, and the best advice in them
days, sir."
The singer looked up with a queer, rueful gasp, and
resumed his burden of " But she's to be a lady, a real
lady, she is; and shall have all that money can buy her."
" Do you send her to a good school? "
" School! No, sir. Not yet. It will have to come
MAESTON LYNCH.
287
to that, some day; but I can't bring; my mind to it yet.
She has first-rate masters in the day-time; but I can't let
her go away from me as yet, day or night."
" Good heavens! Why, you don't take her to that
abominable singing-place with you, surely ? "
" Every night, sir; and she's put to bed in Mrs.
Higson's room, as soon as I get there, in a cot fit for a
queen. Why, you don't suppose I'd let her hear a word of
the rough talk that goes on in the concert-room? "
" Well, I should hope not."
" I should hope not. Not a rough word shall ever
come near her ears. But I'm detaining you, sir. Jump
up, pet—pick-a-back! Never mind the door, sir; and
don't forget, whenever you're ready. The money's as
safe as the Bank. Sir, to you. Gee-up ! "
Mr. Tipton cantered up Cecil-street, with the child on
his back, shouting joyously, and flogging him with the toy
parasol.
" That is a queer application of the aristocratic princi¬
ple, certainly," Marston mused, " or the sacrifice of the
many to the few ! That fellow devotes himself exclusively
to the corruption of the rising generation, to save money,
in order that one little lady may be developed into a
perfect specimen of womankind! We live and learn !
As Mr. Squeers says—' she's a rum 'un is Natur !' But
d n the fellow's impudence for wanting to make me
his accomplice !"
288
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
in which marston lynch has some op his nobles
brought down to ninepence.
Mr. Merripebbles took a furnished house at the
West End of London; that is to say, Mr. Merripebbles
took it nominally—the real tenants being his wife and Miss
Carlton. The house was furnished as most well-to-do
middle-class dwellings are, now-a-days, without a trace of
character or individuality, without one relic or indication
that would make you decisively say " such and such a kind
of man lived ther.e once." Poor old Merripebbles was not
the sort of man to leave any very vivid mark after him.
His changeable restless wife was one of those active
reformers, who are generally discovered, at the end of a
given period, to have left things in exactly the state they
found them. The one being in their little household, who
alone could have given true colour and character to the
dreary platitudes of glass and mahogany around them, was
a changed being, taking interest in few things.
Maud was very wretched. Not grief, but anger—dull,
vindictive, unrelenting anger had taken possession of her
—to the exclusion of all other feelings. Her beautiful
dream of life was over: the fairy prince had married the
pretty shepherdess—treating her, the all-powerful en¬
chantress, with disdain. She would weave spells around
them yet, and crush them in-their own rose bower.
MAUSTON LYNCH.
289
Sometimes for days she would neglect her toilette, her
studies, almost her food even—and mope in savage lone¬
liness. Then she would take a self-torturing pleasure in
dressing herself in her costliest garments, and displaying
her rarest accomplishments, passing herself in scornful
review, as it were; as though to say, " And he refused all
this —the all " this," splendid in external beauty and a
thousand graces, being valueless to the vast heart full of
love within, that had been rejected too.
I think a really wise friend at this period would have
saved Miss Carlton from herself. But alas! she had none
such acquaintances in London; they had but few, and
these were people pinned down to the senseless conven¬
tionalities of middle-class life, young women brought up
to think of nothing but to catch husbands—a description
of " game" which, I am assured by numerous complaining
mammas, the utter uselessness (not by any means invaria¬
bly counterbalanced by the existence of a very remarkable
degree of ornament) of the modern class daughter is
making more " shy" every day. Among such young
persons, who are merely saved from utter frivolity by a
strong dash of heartless cynicism in the pursuit of their
material interests, a nature like Maud's could find little
sympathy.
Young ladies of this kind, pinched, padded, gummed,
greased, and tortured, laughing over their hothouse
bouquets (the price of which in more honest times would
have bought shirts for their struggling, bankrupt, despair¬
ing fathers), Maud was thought masculine. It was be¬
cause she was so feminine, that those little speaking dolls
could not comprehend her.
All that there was of her was thoroughly woman, she
was big of heart, and brain!—she was a giant vine, trail¬
ing on the earth, her rich fruits crushed and wasting for
want of a goodly tree to twine herself round. Any miser¬
able sticks were enough for the little creeping plants about
her.
Mrs. Merripebbles scolded and entreated, consoled and
TJ
290
MAKSTON LYNCH.
cried. She treated her daughter with a good deal of
choice invective whieh she called religious exhortation.
She set divers weak-eyed individuals in black coats, and
white cravats of various cuts, to talk to the young lady.
The reception experienced by those gentlemen was seldom
encouraging. The best consolation they had to offer her
wounded spirit, was generally in the form of a lecture
upon surplices or painted windows. Some of them, of a
more practical turn, were of opinion that she could not do
better than devote her energies and fortune to the cause of
the unconverted Heathen, and in fact emigrate with the
speaker as a Missionary bride: an allusion to the street
door usually cut short their interviews.
Sometimes it pleased her to show herself in public,
when Marston Lynch and his wife Avere most likely to see
her. She would taunt Lucy with, her dazzling beauty and
riches, from opera boxes and carriages. The rueful woe-
be-gone looks the poor little successful rival would cast
towards her lost friend, were triumphs to the latter.
But the triumph of all was still Avith Lucy, and the
thought rankled.
And how was our worthy friend, Don Sancho de Sau-
marez, getting on all this time ?
Well, upon the whole, he was progressing as favorably
as could be expected. In the first place, he was in Maud's
most secret confidence. In the second, he was nearer her
equal in intelligence and acquirements than any one else
she was in the habit of seeing. Moreover, dogged and
persistent admiration of a woman, in spite of cruelty and
insult, Avill eventually have some softening influence on the
most obdurate. Even Maud could explain to herself how
it had been brought about. Don Sancho Avas a daily
visitor at her mother's house, with a kind of tacit under¬
standing that he was Miss Carlton's suitor.
There Avas one thing that perplexed our diplomatic
friend not a little. Ihis was Maud's unshaken determina¬
tion of vengeance upon Marston and Lucy. Saumarez had
: made her a promise to Avhich she intended holding him.
MARSTON LYNCH.
291
He had promised to show her enemies, as she called our
poor unoffending young friends, ruined. Let him do this
and he might claim his reward.
Now, as we have seen, Don Sancho was a very good-
natured fellow, and without a particle of malice. It would
give him real pain to ruin Marston.
Besides, he didn't see very clearly how he was to do it.
He had intended to act upon the principle of giving our
hero plenty of rope, and then taking credit to himself for
his execution. However, as he thought Marston had not
perhaps quite rope enough, he thought there would be no
harm in buying him an extra yard or two.
He was really a very pleasant fellow. If he was doing
you an ill turn, he was sure to do it agreeably. If he had
found it necessary, as might happen in an extreme case, to
poison a friend, he would have infallibly made the mixture
palatable. The little shove he meditated giving our hero
down hill he administered in the shape of a most friendly
slap on the shoulder.
He induced one of the scores of small capitalists for
whose discovery he had a remarkable nose, to start a
satirical publication, of which he made Marston the Editor
at a tolerable salary.
This act of friendship stood him in excellent stand. It
even partially reconciled him to Lucy. You see this good
fellow could not bear to have enemies.
The principles of the new journal were avowedly of the
most savage description. Every public character, on
the least provocation, was to be attacked without mercy.
Marston having a decided vocation for this kind of com¬
position, was not long in attracting to himself and his paper
a considerable share of the public attention. A few week's
editorship saw Master Lynch in the possession of a widely
increased London reputation, and also of some few dozen
influential and dangerous enemies.
I think that an enthusiastic young author, with nothing
but his authorship to depend on, had better (from the point
of view, be it understood, of material interest)—take to
u 2
292
MAKST0N LYNCH.
drinking, gambling, horse-racing, alchemy, the search after
the Elixir of Life—travel, in fact, on any of the turnpike
roads to ruin that reach the goal by a short cut—than seek
it by the circuitous and cheerless path of personal satire.
It is all loss and no gain. You attack a hundred people:
you immediately make a hundred enemies,—almost as ex¬
pensive a stud to maintain as a hundred horses. If you
are honest, keen-sighted, and eloquent, so much the worse
for you. Your feelings prompt you to select the basest of
mankind for your castigation : your wits give you the
clearest insight as to the faults by which they are most
distinguished, and naturally most anxious to conceal; your
eloquence lends you colours to paint them as they are. A
bad man hates the truth, as an ugly woman does a photo¬
graph. The secret that he is an ass, is the most danger¬
ous one you can impart to a fool. He will never forgive
it, for may it not have been true ?
The Koman proverb, that " written letters will remain,"
is more true as applied to satirical than to any other class
of literature. I believe that there never was a line printed
against any person—in his own country and language—
that did not come to his eyes with full knowledge of, or
shrewd means of guessing at the writer, and not one such
line, do I believe, was ever really forgotten or forgiven.
No matter how obscure your organ, how harmless your
intention,—if you have once removed the cuticle of a moral
sore, however slight, the patient will remember the pain,
and store up its memory against the operator. And of
the classes the most dangerous to satirise are those usually
selected by the young writer (on the irrational principle of
the unclean bird) as butts for his satire, namely, the men
of his own thin-skinned order. I have often seen " quar¬
rels of authors" apparently made up, the former enemies
, swearing by and hugging each other like Siamese twins.
If ever there has been a paper war between two such
people, I look upon the alliance as unsound ; one that no
. community of interests or ties of subsequent good-fellow¬
ship can hold long together.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
293
They may dedicate books to each other—write, live, eat,
drink, and smoke together! there will still rankle in the
breast of one, at least, some such recollections as the
following:—
" This man once exposed me in the act of plagiarism,
injustice, or ignorance. He robbed me of half such or
such a success by proving that I had stolen my fable from
another writer. He dragged my former needy existence to
light, when I was compelled to do things for a livelihood
that I have not since cared to talk about. He cut up my
favourite book or lashed my pet song. He called my poli¬
tical honesty into question on this occasion, and ridiculed
my grammar on that."
And, take my word for it, this smouldering fire will
break out at some future time. The two friends cool.
One of them—say the honest but inconsiderate satirist—
following what I maintain to be his inevitable destiny, has
not kept pace with the world so rapidly as his late friend
and former enemy. The latter, wise in his generation, has
made friends, and has many gates of success open to him.
It is now in his power to help the other with commissions,
introductions, favorable notices, and what not. Let the
other ask for anything of the kind, and speedily awaken
to a sense of his mistake.
And the man who thus takes what he conceives to be
his legitimate revenge, need not be a bad or vindictive
man in the least. With all the imaginative classes, amour
propre is excessive, and its promptings are too often mis¬
taken for principles.
The most philosophic among us, even though at the
moment he rises from the last dash of a savage article upon
an unknown or disliked author, reading a similar stricture
upon his own works, will, to a certain extent, believe the
writer of the latter to have been actuated by motives of
baseness and calumny or envy.
If I were to see to-morrow Sir Edward Lytton and Mr.
Alfred Tennyson walking arm in arm, laughing at each
other's jokes, and hanging on each other's words, do yott
suppose I should believe in the genuineness of such a
294
MARSTON LYNCH.
coalition? Can the Poet Laureate—unless he be more
than man, and less than Poet—ever forget the sneer at his
merits (aimed through his pension) in the New Timon ?
If Sir Edward were to live for a hundred years—attaining
to a thousand cheap editions, ten thousand Baronetcies,
and a million University Rectorships, would he not writhe
to his dying day under the scorching of these eight im¬
perishable lines in the Old Timon and the New ?
" Such was the Old—here comes the New!
Regard him—a familiar face!
I thought we knew him—What! 'tis you,
The padded man who wears the stays.
" Who charm'd the girls and kill'd the boys,
With dandy pathos, when you wrote,—
A Lion you !—who made a noise,
And shook a mane en papillottes ?"
No ! the "mane en papillottes," is beyond earthly for¬
giveness.
Take another view of the picture. Assume that through
ignorance, temper, or prejudice, you have attacked a good
man unjustly In addition to having a crime on your con¬
science, premeditated or not, you have a good man for
your enemy—a sad state of things at any time. Eor there
are few men so good that they can do no more than forgive
an injustice. The best can rarely bring themselves to
esteem or encourage its perpetrator.
And of the above homily, what is the moral ? I really
do not know o£ any, except the one pointed at by Dr.
Watts, in his excellent ballad of "the Busy Bee,"—only
for little children" in the striking lines upon the " angry
passions," read "literary gentlemen," It weakens the
rhythm, but naturally strengthens the application to the
case in point.
At any rate Marston Lynch made enemies by his, or
rather Don Sancho's new publication—many of them men
who at a future time might have been glad and able to
serve him. He made little else it is true. Eor writing of
that lively and pregnant description, though greatly relished
among the personal friends of the satirised, does not always.
MARSTON LYNCH.
295:
command appreciators outside those circles. The publi¬
cation, in fact, did not pay. Marston Lynch, after having
submitted to a dozen successive reductions of salary, found
himself suddenly deprived of his weekly excitement. The
Journal stopped.
At this period Mrs. Lynch was on the eve of making an
addition to the family.
Marston finished his five-act' comedy in a hurry. He
had quite departed from his original design. The con¬
clusion was an anti-climax, vamped up from stale Trench
materials. Marston took it to his friend Toplin, of the
Cork-steeet Theatre.
Mr. Toplin having detained the MS. a month, returned
it unopened. Marston had questioned, in his late Journal,
the talents and charms of a new actress, a great favourite
of Mr. Toplin's, but, it should be added, not of Mrs.
Toplin's. The manager had been heard to say, that he
would have nothing to do with a pitiful fellow who could
be so unmanly as to attack a lady.
The piece " went the round" of all the principal theatres,
and was rejected at all in succession.
Lucy was confined of a little boy—who came into the
world with a scanty supply of comforts waiting for him.
Marston, driven by his necessities, consented to the pro¬
duction of his piece at one of the minor theatres, that
had been taken by a needy speculator, chiefly with a
view to extorting money from amateurs, ambitious for a
public debut. Our hero was to be paid a small sum for
each nightly representation; the piece was acted by a
wretched gang of shop-boys, ballet girls, and supernume-
raries. The theatre, sank into disrepute by various suc¬
cessive mismanagements, was considered beneath the
notice of the newspapers. The piece dragged on for a
week, and then died out of the bills. Marston was not
sorry—he had been ashamed of it.
Hopeless struggling, " cold water," and unceasing dis¬
appointment are a bad regimen for young men of our hero'
constitution.
Marston Lynch fell ill.
396
marston lynch.
CHAPTER XXIX.
in which mrs. merripebbles is attacked with
cholera and other ailments.
The cholera visited London, and Mrs. Merripebbles, as
might have naturally have been expected, made immediate
arrangement for catching it. She began by frightening
herself dreadfully, and passing in dismal review the dead¬
liest sins she remembered to have recently committed.
Having satisfied herself that the purchase of a rather
handsome bonnet, a Saturday night visit to the opera, the
written permission to her eldest son at boarding-school to
leam the fiddle, and a few such enormities, were quite
sufficient grounds for a special visitation of an avenging
providence on her offending head, and having thereby
worked herself into a state of nervous preparation for any
contagious or epidemic malady that might happen to pre¬
sent itself, she proceeded to raise her edifice on the
foundation she had so elaborately planned. She studied
in succession every quack panacea that she saw advertised
or heard suggested, following the directions of each (and
compelling all members of her household who would
submit to her dictation, to do the same), with scrupulous
and enthusiastic fidelity until its successor appeared. It
was certainly no fault of our impetuous old friend if the
cholera would not visit her hospitable mansion. She
spared no pains to coax the expected guest by assurances
,0f a favourable reception. She dosed Merripebbles with
marston lynch.
297
patent pills till that crushed worm was almost upon
the point of turning, and actually did hint at business
in the North of England. The pills, however, it was
suddenly proved on the representations of a homoeopathic
apostle, would eventually result in convulsions and death.
So they were abandoned; and the family nourishment,
for the space of two or three days, consisted of half a
thimble-ful of globules. Homoeopathy, in its turn, came
as speedily to grief, and the Cold Water Cure did injury
in its stead. Number 38 a, Westphalia Villa (Oh ! those
villas, terraces, and gardens of modern civilization! when
will one of them acquire such a distinctive character as to
make any name more appropriate to it than another?)
was converted into a temporary tank. The bluenosed and
ague-stricken Merripebbles (the cafe-au-lait which he
loved being ruthlessly cut off) sat shivering over a break¬
fast-cup full of milk and water, and washed-out servants
gave warning as distinctly as their chattering teeth would
allow them. Hydropathy went the way of its predecessors,
and was succeeded by a reign of carnivorism. Animal
food was discovered to be the only preventive or remedy
for cholera. The butcher's bills of Number 38a augmented
fearfully, and the mansion from morning till night smelt
like a Fleet Street tavern. This ensanguined state of
things continued till the nominal master of the house felt
himself rapidly degenerating into cannibalism, and sickene'd
at the bare mention of steak and gravy. Still, the cholera
most uncivilly refused to come, in spite of the hospitable
arrangements made for its welcome. Mrs. Merripebbles
thought she would give it another chance. A diplomatist,
in the Cognac interests, had pointed out, through the
columns of a daily newspaper, that the only possible
safety for the human race, during the existing crisis, lay
in the immoderate consumption of neat brandy. It was
now the spirit merchant's turn to crow defiance at the
supplanted butcher. Under the new dispensation, Mrs.
Merripebbles herself (usually a pattern of abstemiousness)
suffered frequently from headache, and required, more than
298
MARSTON LYNCH.
once, to be conducted to her bed-chamber in a most
decided state of medicine ; while the lax behaviour of her
domestics (especially that of her most obedient servant,
otherwise husband), at this stage of the Merripebbles'
domestic pharmacy, was such as to suggest grave in¬
quiries into the comparative evils of diseases and remedies.
A vegetarian high-priest turned up opportunely, while the
house had yet a character to lose, and_ the greengrocer
came in for his turn of patronage. Cucumbers, melons,
vegetable, marrows, cabbages, and stone fruit—with cider
and preparations of lemon-juice as beverages—were the
staple articles of consumption in the establishment; and,
at length, Mrs. Merripebbles had her reward. A con¬
scientious persistence in this last-mentioned nutritious
regime, for three or four days, made her seriously ill.
She had now the triumph of proving her words good.
She had said, from the commencement, that she knew she
was going to have the cholera, and now she had got it.
Mrs. Merripebbles took to her bed, with excusable pride
and satisfaction.
During this time, Maud Carlton had, as usual, pursued
her own course—eating and drinking what she pleased
(when she cared to do either), and treating her mother's
sanitary fidgets with her habitual contempt for all irrational
vagaries save her own. One evening, though, she per¬
ceived that Mrs. Merripebbles was seriously indisposed,
and in need of assistance. The emergency was a godsend
to Miss Carlton. We have seen this young lady ex¬
clusively occupied in nursing a certain vulture, to which
all kinds of ugly adjectives might be applied—selfish,
morbid, and what not—which she encouraged to feed upon
her inmost heart. The illness of a really affectionate and
beloved parent induced her to neglect this objectionable
pet for a brief while, -and allowed her to give unfettered
play to the strong and good sense and stronger love of
her unspoiled nature.
She carried her mother up to bed (the nominal assistance
of a weak-kneed footman counting for nothing in the
MARSTON LYNCH.
299
transaction). She sent out for simple remedies, which she
applied with her own hand, and watched her parent
through a long night, as lovingly and as tenderly as Lucy
Lynch herself could have done. No; no, not quite as
tenderly, perhaps; for, when Maud's mother said a foolish
thing (as she did frequently), Maud could not repress an
expression of contempt for fools and foolishness generally
—the eternal mistake of foolish people of all ranks—social
or intellectual.
In the morning, Mrs. Merripebbles, awakening from a
feverish sleep, insisted on getting up. She was much
better, she said. Maud saw that she was nothing of the
kind, and refused her permission.
Mrs. Merripebbles, of course, flew into a passion. She
had gained one point by proving that she had been
attacked by cholera (which was not the case). It was now
her duty to establish a second by manifesting that her last
pet nostrum was an efficacious remedy for the disease that
was hurrying thousands of unprepared immortal souls to
perdition, &c. Briefly, she insisted on being supplied with
a certain draught from the particular Pharmacopoeia just
then in favour, which Maud knew to be all but a deadly
poison under the circumstances, preparatory to putting on
her clothes, that she might go forth to administer health
and consolation in the highways and alleys.
Maud paid no attention to the request, knowing its un¬
reasonableness. A servant entered and announced the
arrival of Bon Sancho de Saumarez—(he had resumed
the Spanish honorary distinction, for want of other
variety).
" I forbid you to receive that man, Maud," said Mrs.
Merripebbles, sharply.
" Tell him so," said Maud, quietly, to the servant; "or
rather tell him my mother is ill, and I cannot leave her.
He may come again."
"No, let him wait"—(the patient sat up in her bed)—
"till I come down to tell him what I think of him—
what I know of him, and forbid him my house for ever."
300
MAHSTON LYNCH.
" You had better not excite yourself, mamma; my mes¬
sage will be sufficient for the present." .
The servant left the room, well knowing which message
it would be most incumbent on her to deliver—namely,
Miss Carlton's.
It should be stated that Mrs. Merripebbles, during her
cholera panic, believing that the time was come for her to
set her house in order, had looked around her to see in
what condition she would be likely to leave things after
her. The prospect of her daughter at the mercy of Don
Sancho had not appeared to her in a favourable light. The
emergency of the case enabled her mental vision to act;
unobstructed by temper or prejudice, she had been per¬
mitted to see Don Sancho pretty much as he was. She
felt him to be undeserving of Maud's love, and knew,
moreover, that Maud did not love him. Their constant
Ineetings and secret conferences inspired her with suspicion.
The tie that bound two such uncongenial spirits was to her
a mystery. She considered her daughter's soul in peril,
and paid Don Sancho de Saumarez the compliment of be¬
lieving him the fiend by whom it was endangered. Sancho
would have been delighted to know that he stood so high
in anybody's estimation.
" Give me my draught, Maud—let me go and speak to
that man," said Mrs. Merripebbles.
" It is useless, mamma—he will have left the house."
Maud believed so.
" I say he has not. He is waiting for you. You wish
to keep me here while you are plotting—Heaven knows
what mischief. What is it you do plot together ?"
" I will give you your draught, mamma, if you please ;
and you may follow your own counsel. I repeat, the man
will have left the house-—he dare not refuse to do so at
my bidding. I will answer any questions you like when
you are better; but you are feverish and over-excited now.
Shall-1 give you the draught ?"
« Yes."
Maud, who had always been accustomed to treat her
MARSTON LYNCH.
301
mother as a child, and who had now not the slightest in¬
tention of quitting the room all day, thought it an act of
simple policy to substitute for the mixture demanded,
which she knew would be injurious, a strong composing
draught, of which she believed her patient stood in need.
The latter having shown during the night that her palate
was vitiated by fever, the young nurse imagined the diffe¬
rence of flavour would not be detected.
Mrs. Merripebbles, with the cunning of an invalid,
watched the whole proceeding, and attached to it an undue
significance. She took the potion from her daughter's
hand, and affected to swallow it. In reality she only held
it in her mouth. In a few seconds she sank back upon her
pillow, and counterfeited slumber.
Maud sat for a few seconds with a book on her lap,
and her eyes fixed on vacancy. The servant returned
with a message that Don Saumarez could, on no account,
leave the house without seeing Miss Carlton, the business
he had to communicate being of the utmost importance.
Maud gave vent to an exclamation of impatience; she
was really annoyed at being called away from her mother's
bedside. Moreover, to be drawn back into the train of
thought and feeling which the presence of Saumarez sug¬
gested was irksome to her. This one little bit of unselfish
duty had been such a relief!
She said briefly that she would receive the not over
welcome visitor, and motioned the servant from the room.
She stooped her face over her mother's, on which she
left a scarcely palpable kiss, really to assure herself that
she might leave her patient for a few minutes in safety.
The counterfeit sleeper construed the movement differently,
and acted her part with increased persistence.
Maud descended to the front drawing room (an apart¬
ment which she had appropriated to her own use for some
reason or another : the view pleased her, or the noise was
less; in a word, the queen willed it), where she found Don
Sancho de Saumarez awaiting her in an imposing attitude
on the sofa. This room, it should be observed, was sepa-
302
MARSTON LVNCH.
rated from an inner one (having independent external com¬
munication), by folding doors, after the invariable fashion
of modern well-to-do dwellings. The folding doors were
closed, and the inner apartment was one but seldom made
use of.
The Son of Somebody was unusually mysterious, and
the close observer would have detected a slight dash of
brigand or bravo in his otherwise picturesque garb. His
hat was a thought more slouched and broader in the brim
than usual. He also wore an imposing mantle, which he
grasped from the inside as though it concealed the hilt of
a poniard. Don Sancho had evidently left home this
morning in the capacity of a villain, and had " made up "
accordingly.
He kept the slouched hat on till the idol of his affec¬
tions had made her appearance, when he started up from
his gloomy pose and cast it from him contemptuously (not
till she had had time to observe the set of it, though).
The lady received him with what a less persistent admirer
might have considered chilling contempt. Don Sancho
did not mind this in the least. He bent over the lovely
jewelled hand that was nonchalantly held out to him, and
touched it respectfully with his hps. It was the first time
he had attempted such a freedom. Miss Carlton made a
scarcely perceptible movement—expressive of indignant
revulsion—and looked at her hand as if she considered it
had received contamination from the jet-black moustache
of our Mexican diplomatist (she needed not have been
alarmed : the dye would not come off,) but afterwards
threw it, as it were, from her heavily, on to the table, as
though she were reckless what became of it.
" A daring liberty, I admit," said the burlesque Tra
Diavolo, " but I have earned the right to it."
" How so ?"
Don Sancho buried his gloved hand in one of the
recesses of his mantle, and drew forth—not a pistol or a
poniard—but a harmless sheet of note paper, written over
in a pale, nervous, little female hand, which he threw on
marston lynch.
303
to the table, as though he had been haulconbridge, and
the sheet of paper the Duke of Austria's head.
Maud forgot that there was such a thing as a sick
mother in the world. Her cheek turned crimson as she
recognised the handwriting and signature, and she bit her
lips in a fierce and ill-omened manner. The letter was in
Lucy Lynch's hand-writing—her rival's (the contempt she
felt for the timid, tremulous caligraphy was indescribable !)
and was dated from an unknown street in Kentish Town.
Maud's vindictive bosom glowed with triumph as she read
the following lines :—
Dear Mr. Satjmarez,—I am afraid this will not find
you, as, from the fact that you have not been to see us for
so long, I suppose you to have left London. If it does
reach you, I hope it will bring you to see us. Marston
has been ill with a brain fever, and has not long been pro¬
nounced out of danger. We were compelled to leave our
comfortable rooms where you came to see us, for we could
not afford the expense. We are in a very humble place
now, but I do not think that will be an obstacle to your
coming to see us. I am sure if you would come and sit a
little with my dear husband you would do him much good.
His friends—Mr. Markworth, and Mr. Clough especially
—have been most kind to us in our great troubles. But
for them my dear Marston would not have been preserved
to me. But I know he thinks more of you than any other
friend. He is so weak and despondent, he requires some
one like you to encourage him with hopes for the future.
Dear Mr. Saumarez, I do not write to ask you for assist¬
ance—I have no fear for the future—for I know what my
husband's vast talents are when he is able to exercise
them, and that he is good as he is clever, and will exert
himself for me and his darling child as he would not
for his own sake. But I know it must be some time
before he can resume his occupations, and his weak condi¬
tion makes him exaggerate his difficulties. He says he
had no business to turn author—that the small faculties he
had have left him, and that he will never be able to work
304
marston lynch.
again. You know him better than that, and I wish you
would come and encourage him by a few of yonr cheering
words. If yon would tell him of something to do (such as
you are constantly hearing of)—-and that you know he will
be able to do it as well as ever he could in Ms life—it would
do him so much good. We do not want money at all.
We have money for a month at least. Marston had a
book sent him to translate before he was taken ill. Mr.
Markworth has translated it for him—and would not take
any of the money for it—was not that kind of him ? He
has done it very well—Marston says a great deal better
than he could—but of course I cannot believe that. In a
week or two he will be quite well and able to write a play
or paint a picture. I cannot tell you how patient he has
been, and how good to me. The only thing that makes
him peevish, I know, is seeing me, as he thinks, straitened
and overworked. But I really am very strong, though I do
not look it. Dear Mr. Saumarez, pray excuse this tedious
scrawl, and if you can find time do come and see Marston.
He talks about taking a common clerk's situation, and all
kinds of wild things (owing to his weakness), which I
know a few words from you would drive out of his head.
He is calling to me for his draught, and it is time I should
conclude.
" Dear Sir, yours very sincerely,
" Lucy Lynch.
" P.S. I do not write at all a good hand, but I can
copy very neatly. I copied Marston's plays for him, and
they were quite satisfied with my work at the theatres.
Do you think you could get me any copying to do ? It
would be a great amusement for me in the long evenings
—only I would not have Marston know I did such a thing
for worlds. It would make him wretched ; but I should
positively like it above all things—for the mere sake of
being occupied."
Maud Carlton had left off biting her rosy lip. It
quivered a little, and her hand trembled, as she read the
MARSTON LYNCH.
305
close of this rambling attempt at self-deception. But she
had cast her better angel from her; and, to be obdurate
as she had determined, she must needs be cruel to ex¬
aggeration.
"Well?" she said, laying down the letter.
" Well," Saumarez echoed, "are you satisfied?"
" What with ?"
"With the hopeless degradation of your enemies—and
mine in the share I have taken in effecting it ?"
" No—you are an impostor. What have you done to¬
wards it? Were you the means of giving the man the brain
fever ? "
" Yes," was the cool reply.
Maud was nonplussed by the deliberate statement. After
a few seconds' pause she asked—
" How so?"
" I overtaxed his brain and undermined his resources.
I repeat, are you satisfied? "
Miss Carlton buried her face in her hands, and then rose
to walk angrily backwards and forwards. She turned
abruptly upon her companion with the question—
" Have you been black-hearted villain enough to leave
this letter unanswered ? "
" Yes."
"You have left your friend to misery and starvation for
the sake of your own interest ? "
" Say passion, and I admit it. For the third time, are
you satisfied? "
Saumarez could be nothing he pretended to be—not even
a scoundrel. He received Lucy's letter when he happened
to be in a good humour (as he generally was) and remark¬
ably flush of money. He had sent Mrs. Lynch a friendly
loan of ten pounds, enclosed in the most genial and en¬
couraging letter imaginable—apologising merely for not
paying the requested visit, on the plea of urgent business
on the Continent. The latter may be taken at once as
a proof that he had no intention of leaving England for the
present.
x
MAKSTON LYNCH.
" No," said Maud, after another pause—and speaking
ratlier to herself than wishing to compliment the man she
considered the mere instrument of her vindictiveness with
any explanation of her motives—"No no! a hundred
times, No ! He is happier—better—more beloved than
ever. Here is this wax doll lifted into martyrdom by her
devotion to him. No doubt he loves her, and has faith in
her. They have a child. He has friends, who love and
toil for him. Why should mere chance comers—people
whose names I never heard—have the privilege of being
near him in his sorrows, and of helping him through them,
to mock me with his felicity and greatness that I alone am
debarred from sharing ? Who are these men? "
" Nobodies. Ask nine people out of ten what they are,
and your answer will be, ' starving vagabonds.' One of
the men, mentioned in the letter, is a writer, whose name
has never appeared in print, and is notorious for his powers
of doing other people's work well, and his own carelessly.
The other is a clever painter, who would neglect a com¬
mission for a Duchess's portrait, in order to paint a sign
in liquidation of a tavern supper."
" How dare you revile such men, who can be true to a
suffering friend, knowing what you are yourself? "
" I do not revile them. I merely describe them. They
are better men than I am—than I have been, for the. last
six months, at any rate. They are men who can do no
good for themselves, but are incapable of doing any harm
to others. You see, I am perfectly aware of my own moral
inferiority."
" They are noble creatures," Maud exclaimed, with
spontaneous enthusiasm, "whatever else they are. And
what must he he who can command the friendship of such
men ? No, no—I cannot bear—the thought that he can
be well and happy, and honoured, and owe none of it. to
me, is intolerable."
" What will satisfy you ? " inquired Saumarez, with an
assumed expression of despair." "I confess I am getting
weary of my task. It is not so easy to be a rascal as. I
MARSTON LYNCH.
307
thought it, whatever the reward. Eelease me from my
promise, I will release you from yours—and Marston Lynch
will become a rich man in a week."
" How so ? " Miss Carlton snapped sharply at the new
bait offered to her vengeful appetite.
" His uncle's health is failing. He is getting alarmed
at the prospect of death, and remorseful for past misdeeds.
He is coming to London in a few days, expressly to find
out and befriend Marston; he has written to tell me so."
" Let him dare ! " Maud laid her hand on her writing-
desk, in which Don Sancho well knew the document, so
perilous to Gregory Lynch, which he had entrusted to her,
to be concealed.
" Nothing short of the absolute ruin of these young
people will appease you, then ? "
" Nothing, nothing ! " Maud's voice was hoarse. Her
rich quick imagination had called up a picture of the man
she loved ending his days happily with the woman she
hated—which her evil untrained temper could not bear.
" Give me back that will, then."
" What for ? "
" To use in furtherance of your cruel determination. I
find I cannot recede. Ask me no more questions—make
no further conditions, except this stipulation, that if, in a.
month's time, I do not claim the reward, having earned it
on your own terms—for which I have forfeited all claims
to honour and self-respect—our contract is at an end."
Maud unlocked her desk and took forth the will. She
was about to hand it, with some reluctance, to her com¬
panion, when she hastily drew back her hand, and replaced
it in its original hiding place with great precipitancy.
Saumarez had for once proved himself a bad actor. His
eyes had glistened too brightly and his fingers had quivered
too nervously in eagerness to recover possession of the
parchment.
" No," said Maud, as she relocked her desk. " You are
too eager for it. If this be really the life and death power
you have represented it, I will hold it in my hands. Fulfil
x 2
308
MARSTON .LYNCH.
your contract by other means. You have been villain
enough to cheat Marston Lynch of his inheritance ; I will
have a guarantee that you do not cheat me of my revenge."
A groan was heard from the inner room, and the sound
as a heavy body falling.
Maud ran to the folding doors and burst them open—
Saumarez following.
Mrs. Merripebbles lay on the carpet half dressed,
clutching at a table cover, which she had dragged down
with a shower of albums and parlour ornaments.
" Mamma!"
Maud seized her mother round the waist, and endea¬
voured to lift her to a sofa.
" Stand oft', girl!—do not touch me," the mother
shrieked, with an expression of horror; and then added,
hurriedly, in a subdued atid unnatural tone : "I am in
pain all over, my dear—that is why you must not touch
me. I came down to ask you to fetch a doctor. I fainted
at the door. That is all."
" But, mamma,—the draught I gave you "
"Aha! the draught!" Mrs. Merripebbles screamed
again her own natural scream, and once more subsided
into her constrained tone. "It is the pain, my dear.
Fetch me a doctor. Go yourself, and leave me in the
front room "
"Run, you," said Maud to Saumarez, as if she had been
speaking to a dog.
Saumarez could desire nothing better. Any chance to
distinguish himself; even that of offering cabmen half-a-
crown a mile to drive like the devil!
He disappeared in an instant.
" Let me take you up to bed, mamma," said Maud, her
eyes full of tears.
" No ; the front room—on the sofa. Then go, and call
the servants. They will not hear the bell."
Maud did as she was desired. She conducted her mother
to a couch in the front room, which she hastily quitted,
taking her icriiing desk with her.
MARSTON LYNCH.
309
" She has taken it!" gasped the sick woman, looking
after her daughter; " and I may die, and never know its
contents."
Maud returned in a few seconds, without her writing
desk, but followed by two or three servants, and old Mem-
pebbles, just arrived from an unwonted business absence
of forty-eight hours. The poor broken-hearted old fellow
came staggering into the room, rocking to and fro, like a
reed shaken by the wind, under the shock of this terrible
calamity, and fell moaning on his knees by the side of the
adored, imperious wife, by whom he lived and moved and
had his being.
"Not ill—my darling—my honoured wife. Not very
—dangerously—seriously ? Tell me you are not so, from
your own dear sensible lips—and I shall know it is the
truth."
To the astonishment of Merripebbles, instead of a rebuke
for this somewhat irrational display of feeling, such as he
might have expected, he received only a tight cuddle round
the neck, and a shower of kisses on his bald head from the
lips that had been the temple porches of his own oracle for
twenty years.
" Send them away—all but you—my dear, good hus¬
band," said a sweet voice, that Merripebbles scarcely re¬
cognised.
The whisper had been overheard, and the room was
cleared in an instant. Merripebbles sat on the sofa,
clutching his wife's hot hand tightly, as though his nervous
fingers could keep in the life he feared was ebbing, and
quaking with the apprehension of a helpless nature brought
face to face with responsibility.
" My good, kind husband," Mrs. Merripebbles began ;
"it is just possible that I am dying—"
" No—no."
" It may be so—I hope not; for I should like to live
to be a better wife to you "
" Couldn't do it."
Merripebbles swallowed two streaming rivulets of tears,
which nearly choked him.
310
MAR8TON LYNCH.
" I am not afraid, but I have an earthly duty to perform.
You will perform it for me—will you not—if I should be
taken away? You never denied me anything yet."
" Never could."
"Then—time maybe short—I suffer terribly ; that un-
happy girl, Maud, is conspiring with that moustached and
painted villain (God forgive me if I am unjust; but no, I
am not) to rob and ruin Marston Lynch. I do not know
how, but the proofs are in her desk, I overheard a con¬
versation between them. She thought she had given me
laudanum, but I outwitted her "
" My dear, pardon my presumption, but I think this
must be the effects of fever. Miss Carlton, Maud, your
daughter, with the moral and religious training you have
given her, to be guilty of the slightest impropriety, much
more "
Mrs. Merripebbles smiled a sad smile, and tenderly
kissed the swollen veins of her husband's quivering attenu¬
ated hand.
" Bless your old wrong head ! As you always believed
me infallible when I was wayward and peevish, it is natural
you should oppose me when I am for once right. I have
spoiled that girl, as you have spoiled me. I have encour¬
aged her too much in her pride of wealth and beauty.
What it has led her to it may be too late for me to learn.
Promise me, perhaps as a last request, that you will strive to
remedy any wrong I may have done her. If she has done
wrong, consider it my fault, and treat it as I would have
you treat a fault committed by me—not hushed up, or
varnished over, but wiped out by the sternest atonement.
Promise me this, my dear, faithful, simple-hearted Frank,
who have been so foolishly obedient to me, through good
and evil. This is a good request; comply with it, and
you may feel less remorse for having devoted the best of
your life to obeying the caprices of a wilful wicked woman.
You will approve of the last thing she asked you to do;
and so forget the many foolish ones. Promise me, my dear
good Frank."
Merripebbles howled. He threw his long carcase, with.
marston lynch.
311
limp outstretched arms, across the prostrate form of his
wife, and could only gasp, to an imaginary audience on the
ceiling—
" She is ill—she is dying ! What will become of me ?
She never spoke so like an angel before, and it's the first
time she ever called me Frank in her life !"
Still Merripebbles could not believe that a polished gen¬
tleman like Mr. Saumarez, and an accomplished young lady
like Miss Carlton, could be guilty of anything wrong. His
wife was wandering.
Don Sancho de Saumarez speedily made his appearance,
accompanied by one of the most distinguished physicians
in London. The Don had been cereful to select a knight.
As I happen to be writing for The Train, and not for
The Lancet, a kind of consideration often overlooked by
modern writers of narrative, I will spare my readers the
details of Mrs. Merripebbles' symptoms and medical treat¬
ment ; and simply state that she was pronounced by the
physician in a most dangerous state; in which condition
I will leave her for the present in the affectionate care of
her husband and daughter.
Don Sancho finding himself rather at a discount, took
his leave, and soliloquised,—
" Confound the old woman and her cholera! If it
had'nt been for her I should have recovered possession of
the precious document. However, she can do no great
harm with it."
" What a spiteful madcap it is ; and what an abomina¬
ble nuisance! Now, if Marston were a sensible fellow,
we might arrange it together. Get him to dress up in rags
and take a crossing, just for a day or two—and point him out
to her under these circumstances, and she would be satis¬
fied. Or we might get up a sham report of the poor little
wife committing suicide, driven to it by her husband's ill-
treatment—it the young fools would only play into my
hands. No, that wouldn't do; Marston a supposed
widower, and my game is effectually floored. However,
they have such ridicuously strait-laced notions that neither
312
MARSTON LYNCH.
of them would accede to any such proposition. What a
fool Marston is to be sure ! Why if he would but consent
to help me as a friend in my very rational pursuit of Miss
C.'s comfortable fortune, I should only be too glad to put
a few hundreds in his pocket by way of commission. But
he wouldn't! Just now, too, when there are so many
good things I might throw in his way ! There is nothing
I hate so much as disobliging a friend. But in the pre¬
sent case I really have no alternative. If I can injure
him I must; and T suppose I can, if I try. Hard lines !
for I really like him. Perhaps, though, I can make it up
to him some day in one way or another."
The Don went to dine at his club, Avhen he was congra¬
tulated by many distinguished persons—who had not been
aware of his existence for the past three or four years
(though he had repeatedly during that period dined at the
next table to all of them)—on the rumour of his approach¬
ing marriage with a Longport heiress worth twenty odd
thousand pounds a-year, an estimate of Miss Carlton's
private fortune which Don Sancho de Saumarez was careful
not to point out as exaggerated.
MAESTON LYNCH,
313
CHAPTER XXX.
terra incognita.
There exists in the moral topography of London, and
of every great city whereunto the inexorable army of
civilization, with its inalienable troop of camp followers—
Wealth, Misery, Luxury, and Art—has penetrated, a
kind of debateable ground, or no man's land, to which, till
within our own time, no definite name or boundaries could
be assigned; but the limits of which are now pretty
generally understood, and which its enterprising dis¬
coverers have christened Bohemia. The territory has
only recently been explored. For centuries, the Avorld
went on around it with scarcely an idea of its existence,
and knowing no more of its whereabouts, its products,
laws, and customs, than those of Prester John's kingdom,
of the Aztec city of refuge, of Candide's El Dorado, or of
the fabulous white republic of the Jebel-el-Kumri, in
central Africa. There was said to be such a place, and it
was believed to be inhabited by a strange race of men.
That was all the world knew, or cared to know, about the
matter. Gradually the restless spirit of discovery, ex¬
ploring the moral as indefatigably as the physical world,
led, after much circum-navigation, to the shores of
Bohemia being sighted. A positive longitude and lati¬
tude were thus assigned to the country in the social map.
Still the place remained only a kind of Japan—a land
314
MAKSTON LYNCH.
whose harbours had been entered, and whose inhabitants
had been seen and spoken with. Voila tout! Its in¬
terior continued unvisited, and its customs a mystery.
The former might have been penetrated, and the latter
unravelled, without much difficulty or opposition on the
part of the inhabitants, had the aspect of the country been
more attractive. But the Bohemian coasts were pro¬
nounced barren and inhospitable, and Bohemian manners
repellant. So the first adventurous visitors from the
outer world sailed away in search of fairer climates and
more genial tribes, and the Bohemians were left, in their
bleak and barren fastnesses, to the undisturbed enjoyment
of their own devices.
The time is not far distant when we shall be as familiar
with Jeddo as with Battersea. Enterprise is like a raging
fire, that " doth consume the thing which feeds its fury,"
and will not bate while there is a stick unconsumed within
its reach. Civilization abhors ostracism in nations as
nature abhors a vacuum. A community, now-a-days, has
no more chance of living in and for itself, without letting
the rest of the world into its secrets, than a settler in a
New England village would have of passing a quiet month
without imparting to his neighbours the 'fullest particulars
of his name, his age, his birthplace, his occupation, and
his political opinions. The mystery of Japan is doomed.
Empires with fleets and armies to employ, merchants with
ventures to make, savants pining for scientific novelties,
authors perishing for want of unhackneyed subjects—
these have sniffed the untasted prize from afar off, and are
flocking round it like wolves round a newly-slain carcass.
Let the mysterious empire refuse to open its gates to the
clamorous visitors, and, like another wolf—he of the
fable—they will speedily make an excuse for indignantly
forcing them. The pressure from without is terrible—
heaven knows how many tons weight to the Japanese
cubic-foot—and the sides of the hermetically-sealed nation
must collapse under it. Most of us may live to read
" our own correspondent's " letters in the Times, written
MABSTON LVNCH.
315
from tie British Lion Hotel, the Cafe de l'Europe, or the
Columbian House, in Jeddo.
As it must be, according to the " manifest destiny " of
Japan, so has it already been with Bohemia. The barriers
of that formerly isolated country have been broken down,
and its ports opened to the world. Still, little is yet
known of it. The scanty accounts hitherto published
have either been founded on the one-sided representations
of interested natives, on the observations of hasty and
superficial visitors, or, more frequently, on the statements
of mendacious personages who have never visited the
country at all.
I have lived and suffered in Bohemia, and, I thank
heaven, have escaped from it so long ago as to be able to
speak of its miseries, which no longer afflict me, without
undue bitterness; and of its joys, which no longer tempt
me, without partial fondness. Let me attempt a brief
description of the land, as I know it.
Bohemia Proper, otherwise called Petroea, or the Stony
(there are other Bohemian provinces which I have never
visited, but not one of which is entitled to the name of
Bohimia Felix), is a kind of backslum suburb to the sister
cities of literature and art. It is a stronghold of rebels,
whereunto, as to the cave of Adullam, resort all such in¬
habitants of those regions as are in distress—" every one
that is in debt, and every one that is discontented "—with
the edicts of the modern king Saul, society—whom they
are leagued together by a solemn vow to conquer and bend
to the recognition of their claims. But, alas, for the
Bohemian camp ! there, the parallel with the Adullamites
ceases. King Saul is too strong for them; and never a
David has yet shown among them to organise and lead
them to victory.
Many pleasant and humourous definitions of the Bo¬
hemian have been attempted. Those who really know
him and his sufferings will acknowledge that his case is
too serious a one for a feeling man to make light of. The
inhabitants of Bohemia may be characterised generally as
316
MAESTON LYNCH.
men with high artistic or literary aspirations who cannot
succeed in life. The causes of their non-success may be
infinite. The Bohemian may be indolent, or vicious, or
ignorant, or simply incapable. He may be an artist be¬
lieving himself sent into the world with a mission for
historic frescoes and altar-pieces, but whom an unaccount¬
able negligence in early life to learn the external proportions
of the human figure, or the chronic want of the price of a
few yards of canvass, may have reduced to the ignoble
necessity of colouring theatrical portraits or cheap photo¬
graphs for a miserable livelihood. He may be a high-art
dramatist, believing in his powers to resuscitate the
Elizabethan drama (the Bohemian has generally faith in
his own powers for achieving something or other that is
not wanted)—which is as dead as Queen Elizabeth herself,
and no one wishes to be startled by the apparition of its
ghost—and unable to devote his mind to the supply of
any real literary want of the day, such as novel, essay,
or leading article. He may be a poet, and accustomed
only to express himself in verse, in an age when verse is
paid for (when at all) at a not much higher scale per
measurement than the more expensive kinds of bonnet
ribbon. He may be a profound philosopher and politician
(I know such a Bohemian), with a knowledge of almost
every spoken language and written book, able to write
lucidly and brilliantly upon any subject, but who is
branded as " crotchetty"—that is to say, who prefers real
independence of thought and action in a ragged coat and
with dinner at certain intervals, to intellectual prostitution
or uncongenial drudgery for the pitiful prizes of external
respectability and a sufficiency of creatnre comforts. The
Bohemian may be simply an ambitious ass, willing to turn
his hand to any thing, but capable of accomplishing
nothing satisfactorily; 01* an unfortunate waif or stray,
thrown by accident on to the uncongenial soil, without
strength or skill to wrest from it even such bitter and
scanty fruits as it is capable of producing ; or he may be
a man of genius, with a tendency to fly off at a tangent
MARSTON LYNCH.
317
from his existing engagements in pursuit of some new
experiment of living—or, simply, to get drunk and forget
them.
There is another phase of 13 ohemianism, an exceptional
one, it is true, whtch is, perhaps, the most deplorable of
all—the literary Bohemian endowed with great and avail¬
able general powers (what the Trench so happily charac¬
terise by the simple word facilite), who has sold himself
into slavery, who writes in violation of his conscience and
instincts, for the sake of a little ready money. His extri¬
cation from the gulf is is far more hopeless than that of his
needier and less capable brethren, who have still some
sustaining principle and have not forfeited all hope ot self-
respect. Respectable people, shaking their heads, will de¬
plore that such a man, with his vast talents and abundant
earnings, should lead the life he does-—namely, one of utter
improvidence and dissipation. But the respectable people—
perfectly satisfied with the propriety of their own pursuits,
whatever they may be—do not know that this man's intel¬
lectual perceptions of what is right and wrong make him
regard his exercise of those talents, for which they envy and
admire him, with loathing, and the money it brings him as
the wages of sin. The earnings of such a man are like the
fairy money of the old superstition—they change quickly
to dirt; wasted, as ill-gotten gains usually are.
Many respectable well-to-do authors and artists who have
laboured ploddingly and successfully to hit the public
taste, and whom you know in the enjoyment of their com¬
fortable reward, will tell you rare stories of their early
struggles in Bohemia, representing their past career as
something terribly reckless and improvident, beset with
difficulties of their own making. These men are usually
impostors, who, if they ever visited Bohemia at all, must
have done so in the dillettante spirit of Prince Rodolph as¬
sociating with the thieves in the " Mysteries of Paris
men who may have thrown themselves into the gulf as a mere
passing experiment, but who had taken care to secure them¬
selves to the shore by a rope of safety of some kind. The true
318
MARSTON LYNCH.
Bohemian is essentially an impracticable man. He will
not be led by tether or driven in harness, He is at war
with society, and usually dies with his weapons in his
hand. Sometimes, it is true, pris par la faim, with a wife
and children clamouring round him, he will lay down
his weapons and go over, a docile soldier, to the ranks of
his enemy, to make war on his former associates, betraying
their stratagems and exposing their weaknesses; but these
are rare exceptions.
The Bohemian is improvident, because he is poor. He
can never estimate his earnings ; therefore it is unreason¬
able that he should be expected to regulate his expenditure.
He only receives money fitfully and uncertainly—often at
long intervals; aud your starving man is always intempe¬
rate in eating when he can get the chance. He drinks more
than is good for him, as a rule; for much of his lot as a rule
is cast in taverns, which are too often his exchange, his
studio, and even his home. If he have a nominal home to
go to, the door is frequently guarded by a griffin, in the
shape of an unpaid landlady; or still worse, it is the abode
of beings who will close his.harassed day by a repetition (if
silent, all the less bearable) of the reproaches that the world
is ever casting in his teeth for opportunities wasted and
successes not achieved. He is reckless of his personal ap¬
pearance, for he loves not the world and the world loves not
him, and he will not invest his hard-earned shillings in
broad cloth and fine linen for the world's satisfaction.
These are some of the Bohemian's numerous failings. His
virtues, like those of all human beings whatsoever, vary
according to circumstances. Those which more particu¬
larly attach themselves to his order are endurance, gene¬
rosity, and above all an admirable degree of esprit de corps,
Bohemians are true to one another through all difficulties.
In the depth of their own sufferings they will help their
still more unfortunate brethren, as a matter of course, just
as. a shipwrecked ^ man on a raft will share his wallet of
provisions with his fellow passengers. Heaven help them,
and all poor wretches whatsoever, if this were not the rule.
MAKSTON LYNCH.
319
It was on this inhospitable shore that Marston Lynch,
at the age of twenty-four, found himself with a wife and
child clinging to him, hopelessly shipwrecked, after a brief
and troubled voyage, in dangerous seas, which he had rashly
undertaken without a sailor's strength or experience, in
which he had seen all his little worldly venture go down,
and the turmoil and excitement of which had left him
prostrate. Wrecked in Bohemia! it is as bad as to be
wrecked in Kamschatka, where the natives may be kind
and sympathising, but where there is no housing but seal¬
skin tents, and little food but the bark of trees and fish
oil; where the nights are interminable and the frosts
death!
It was fortunate for Master Lynch that he found the
rough Bohemians kind and sympathising. But for their
timely help, such as it was, he would have perished.
When he was taken ill he was at the very end of his re¬
sources. He had no prospect of receiving money unless
earned by the exercise of his brain. He was attacked with
brain fever, and reduced to the condition of a mechanic
with his arms broken,—worse, for mechanics provide
against such emergencies by mutual-assistance funds—
provisions which literary men never think of, or, if they
do, can never agree sufficiently among themselves to put in
practice. There was not one of Marston's old friends to
whom he or his poor distracted little wife for him (Marston
himself was delirious on the second day), could apply for
temporary assistance. The breach with the Merripebbles'
family, so mysterious in its origin to Lucy, left no hope
from that quarter. Gregory Lynch was out of the ques¬
tion. The movements of Saumarez were so eccentric that
there was no knowing where to find him, even if his friend¬
ship could be relied on, which Lucy had once more begun
to doubt. Biglow Miles, last heard of at St. Petersburg,
en route for the Mediterranean, might be at the antipodes
by this time. To deprive Lucy of her last hope, an en¬
velope had arrived by post on the very morning after her
husband had taken to his bed, enclosing wedding cards
320
MARSTON LYNCH.
from Mr. and Mrs. Howker, and a note, in which the late
Marian Crooze—after a little awkward preamble, which
read, perhaps, just the least thing in the world like an
apology for her condescension in having at last rewarded
ILowker's fidelity by making him the happiest man in the
world, expressed her pleasure in stating that her dear and
affectionate husband (the adjectives underlined by way of
compensation for any possible injustice done to the now-
adored Howker in the opening passages), had been ap¬
pointed to the management of a branch of the business
with which he had been so long connected, recently estab¬
lished at Gibraltar; to which pleasant locality the happy
pair were about to sail immediately, there to take up their
residence as a permanency .To this was added a postscript,
in the bridegroom's hand, inviting Marston and Lucy to
come out and see them whenever the former's engagements
would permit, with the assurance that a new book of
travels in Spain, by M. L., Esq., with illustrations by the
author, was what the public wanted above all things, and
would be more than sufficient to pay all travelling ex¬
penses. '' Mind you do" the bride had written in con¬
clusion, with a true woman's determination to have the last
word.
" If I could only take him there when he is better, to
restore him quite to health," Lucy murmured, as she laid
down the letter, kissing her unconscious patient.
The only intimate acquaintance our hero (let the word
stand since it is written ; but I shall not apply it to poor
Marston again) had made since his sojourn in London had
been a few young men of his own age, belonging to the
class whose characteristics I have attempted to sketch.
Let no one be in too great a hurry to attribute this to a
taste for low society. Bohemian society is not low; it is
simply eccentric, exceptional. Its intellectual attractions
are of a very high order. If it is deficient in social elegan¬
cies and amenities, it is also free from the unmeaning and
wearisome restraints of what is called "polite society."
Drawing-room philosophers may write till they tire, or even
MARSTON LYNCH.
321
till they incur that dreadful calamity of soiling their
finger-nails, they will not succeed in convincing the rational
portion of the community that it is better and wiser to
waste one's time in the senseless fritter of " morning calls"
and evening " receptions," than to sit and listen to the
fearless discussion of vital truths by men of wit and learn¬
ing, even though the Temple of Debate have a sanded
floor, and its rites be performed to the unholy incense of
tobacco-smoke. Marston Lynch not being what is called
" a man of the world," did not possess the gift of making
friends from motives of policy. He could not suddenly
fall in love, as some people can, with a lord, a banker, a
millionaire, a literary magnate, or a publisher, and take
such rapturous interest in the welfare and family doings of
such people as to claim immediate reward in the shape of
substantial friendship, patronage, or employment. The
only acquaintance Marston cared to cultivate was with
people of his own age, with some congeniality of taste or
character. The majority of such persons, among whom
the chances of London life had thrown him, were men of
the classes I have alluded to.
But these were, for the most part, out-of-door comrades,
scarcely known even by sight to Lucy. Some of them,
Marston had occasionally brought home for a cigar and a
chat; but they had usually stopped so late, consumed so
much gin-and-water, and spoken such dreadful profanation
of men and things that Lucy had been accustomed to hold
in the highest veneration, that the poor little woman looked
upon them with something like pious horror. There was
one gentleman, it was true—Mr. Clough, the celebrated
artist—who had somewhat redeemed his character by taking
notice of " baby," and earning the friendship of that im¬
portant personage: but even this was an unsatisfactory
offset to the unbecoming tint of Mr. Clough's linen, his
inordinate passion for onions, and his unpleasant practices
of swearing at every tenth word, and backing the majority
of his assertions by bets. Another gentleman, Mr. Walrus,
(the distinguished dramatist, poet, essayist, caricaturist,
Y
322
MARSTON LYNCH.
and, in his opinion, vocalist and actor,), whom Lucy had
been very much disposed to like, from the extreme suavity
of his manners and the high moral tone of his conversation,
in which he was accustomed to rebuke the too great free¬
dom of his companions. But Mr. Walrus unfortunately
displayed a tendency to get early drunk and quarrelsome;
and was, furthermore, once detected in winking at the
lodging-house maid-servant, who happened to enter the
room during his enunciation of a delightful sentiment in
praise of virtue, worthy of Solomon, or of Joseph Surface:
whereby Walrus fell. There was also, little Doctor
Nussknacker, the Viennese refugee, also a favourite with
baby, who spoke English with scarcely a foreign accent,
and knew everthing; who was a pattern of politeness,
good-humour, and abstemiousness; who would not even
smoke, and confined himself to one weak glass of grog per
night; who never made his appearance without some little
mark of attention to his pretty hostess, if it were only a
bunch of violets, a small purchase of choice fruit, or the
loan of an amusing book; who would listen to Mrs.
Lynch's long and exciting stories of baby's ailiments and
progress in knowledge of the world, with as much patience
and interest as if he had been a wet-nurse on probation,
instead of a doctor of medicine and philosophy, and cor¬
responding member of numerous learned societies. Lucy
was disposed to like the doctor exceedingly, had she not
heard him speak, seriously and excitedly, in defence of
"Bed Kepublicans" (horrid creatures, only associated in
Lucy's mind with the butchery of that poor dear queen,
Marie Antoinette); and humourously, in disparagement of
her (Lucy's) favourite clergyman. Mrs. Lynch could not
stand this. She at once charged the doctor with being a
man of no religion whatever. To this the doctor replied,
with grave and respectful humility, that Mrs, Lynch was in
error : he had been born of Buddhist parents, but had been
educated by a missionary of the shaking Quaker persuasion.
The worst of these men, Lucy complained, was, that you
could never tell when they were in earnest or not.
MARSTON LYNCH.
323
At any rate, Lucy considered none of them in the light
of friends to whom she could apply in the hour of need,
had she known their addresses (which was what very few
people did know). The poor girl's experiences of men
had been limited; she knew not the tests to distinguish
the true from the false. But on the third day, Marston
grew worse. The only sign of consciousness he had shown
during the two first days had been persistently and cohe¬
rently to forbid his wife to send for medical aid. A morbid
terror of expense had taken possession of him—not unna¬
tural to a penniless man with a fevered brain. Lucy, ever
accustomed to obey, had complied with his wishes. But
this morning he was so much worse. Was she doing
right in obeying even him, who was never wrong, now that
he was not master of his own senses ? She would have
given anything for some one to consult—even one of those
strange men who scoffed and made game of everything,
she had scarcely formed the wish when Mr. Markworth was
announced.
Mr. Markworth was one of " those strange men" whom
Lucy had not liked at all, his offence being that he was
" so satirical." This is a favourite adjective with ladies,
which they employ for the expression of a variety of dis¬
agreeable meanings, except the right one. Mr. Markworth
Was an easy-going cynic, who, having a possibly misplaced
contempt for most things, always spoke with contemptu¬
ous toleration of everything—which was perfectly sincere
on his part, but which Mrs. Lynch interpreted as being
meant ironically. However, she was very wrong in dis¬
liking Mr. Markworth, as she soon had reason to admit.
This Markworth was a young man of good family, who
had been educated at college with the belief that he would
inherit a comfortable fortune. His father had speculated,
lost every farthing, and shot himself. Young Markworth
Was left to himself with no resources but the exercise of his
own talents—which were considerable, but not of a pro¬
ductive or popularly available character. He saw no path
open to him but that of literature—for which he felt but
324
MARSTON LYNCIi.
little vocation and no enthusiasm whatever. He wrote for
a bare subsistence, with which he was negatively content.
The effort of composition was hateful to him. Want and
obscurity were preferable to sustained labour. He was a
galley-slave to the stern task-mistress, Necessity, whom he
only served upon compulsion, and within the strict letter
of their hard bargain. He was a philosopher in his way,
defying Destiny with much cheerfulness, from the bottom
of the Bohemian pit into which he had been thrown, to
cast him any lower. He was a man without hopes, and
with the most infinitesimal cares.
He had called this morning intending to loiter away as
much of the day in Marston's society as the latter might
be disposed to allow him. He was greatly distressed to
hear of his friend's illness, and with an expression of deep
interest (Lucy wondered whether he was " making game")
requested to see the patient. His experience at once told
him that Marston was in great danger. He briefly in¬
formed Lucy that he thought medical assistance necessary,
and that he would go immediately in search of a doctor.
He left the house, and soon returned in a cab (Mr.
Markworth never divulged by what means he had raised
the funds to liquidate that and subsequent expenses in the
course of the day), accompanied by Doctor Nussknacker,
laden with sundry packages and phials, and Mr. Thomas
Clough, as an unattached reserve in case of emergencies—
the latter flushed as to countenance, thick as to speech, and
damaged as to hat. Mr. Clough having expressed the
deepest concern for Marston, apologised to Lucy for his
disordered appearance, on the plea that he had beeu up all
night, finishing a picture by gaslight for the exhibition, and
that he had been suddenly called to his friend's assistance
before he had time to . The oratorical performance
concluded abruptly with a hiccough; and Mr. Clough
threw himself despairingly on a sofa, where he slept the
sleep of innocence for the space of one hour.
The Doctor was a man of business, and, what was better,
a man of brains and experience. He was a disciple of
MARSTON LYNCH
325
the sage, Baspail. Marston speedily found himself lifted
as from a lake of infernal fire into a cool Elysium by the
magic application of eau sedative—of which fountains
should flow in every street, and all lancets, leech-jars, and
blister materials whatsoever (which its invention should
ere this have superseded), confiscated to pay the expenses of
their erection. The Doctor and Markworth declared their
intention of sitting up with their patient all night. It
was wonderful by what simple words and cheering per¬
suasions they induced Lucy, soon after their arrival, to quit
that bedside which she had declared she positively would
not leave on any account, to take a few hours' rest. The
department for which Mr. Clough had been retained was
that of light porter and general man of all work. As
soon as he had recovered from his nap, he was sent out for
physic, with which he returned, bringing in with him also
an, unmistakeable odour of fresh malt liquor, a small
cylindrical paper labelled " Best Birdseye," and two clean
pipes (the Doctor, as we have seen, did not smoke). Poor
Lucy was strangely embarrassed by, and strangely gratefu1
to, these odd auxiliaries. They had but two rooms, and,
alas ! no servant. Finding their means getting narrower,
she had dismissed her little nursemaid, on the plea of in¬
capacity ; and in answer to all Marston's exhortations that
a successor should be engaged, had said " she would see
about it"—" there was no hurry"—" Baby was teething,
and she could not bear him out of her arms," and the like.
They were in debt, too, with the lodging-house people, and
at every necessity for ringing the bell Lucy felt sick and
giddy. It was marvellous how Mr. Clough relieved her
on the majority of those trying points. He set the dis¬
ordered room to rights with the skill and celerity (and
much of the aspect) of a " drudging goblin." He made
a bed of great coats and cloaks on the sofa, and insisted
that Lucy should go to sleep thereon instanter, bidding her
not to mind him as he was old enough to be her grand¬
father (Mr. Clough was in his three-and-twentieth year),
and facetiously offering, if Mrs. Lynch should object to
326
MARSTON LYNCH.
smoke, to go out, and prevail on the fire to do the same.
Lucy, half smilingly, was yielding to the sleep she found it
no longer possible to resist, when Baby, from his cradled
post at the foot of the sofa, began to cry. Lucy started
up. Mr. Clough sternly ordered her to lie down again,
and took the squalling heir to the estates of Lynch in his
arms As a rule there is always some one thing which a
Bohemian can do much better than his legitimate work.
Mr. Clough couldn't paint a baby very well, but he cer¬
tainly possessed the gift of amusing and quieting one to a
remarkable degree. Whether he had cultivated this as an
eccentric accomplishment, less expensive of indulgence
than billiards, skittles, or the colouring of meerschaums, or
whether it came naturally to him through a love and ten¬
derness for helpless and innocent creatures, might be dis¬
puted by skilful debaters; but I, for my part, incline to
the latter opinion. Certain it is thai on this occasion
Marston Lynch, junior, was speedily brought, by his gentle
treatment, from crying to crowing, and thence as rapidly
to sleeping.
"What an excellent family man you would make
Mr. Clough," murmured poor Lucy, with fast-closed
eyes.
And it was one of the stupidest things she ever said in
her life. Mr. Clough thought so.
When Lucy awakened from her nap in the evening, she
found tea and shrimps awaiting her consumption. (Mr.
Clough had captured a flying merchant of the latter, after
a hot chase, terminating at the bottom of Salisbury-street).
Baby, the indefatigable, was up again, and crowing in the
highest glee imaginable on his new nurse's lap. The doc¬
tor and his companion were seated by the fire. They told
her the patient was asleep, and progressing_as favourably
as they could expect. She crept noiselessly into the bed¬
room. Marston was tossing restlessly in a sorry enough
substitute for sleep. But his face and hands had been
washed, his linen changed, and his bed made. Everything
in the room was in perfect order. Mr. Thomas Clough
MAKSTON LYNCH.
337
had officiated in the double capacity of housemaid and
valet de chamhre.
I have no wish to disparage the kindness of that gen¬
tleman's heart, the excellence of his intentions, or the value
of his services. But lest I should be accused of drawing a
faultless monster, which the world never saw (by the way,
I have already hinted at one or two blemishes in Mr.
Clough's moral organization that should fully establish his
human fallibility), I must mention another peculiarity in
the Bohemian character, to the rule of which Mr. Clough
was no exception. I have stated that the Bohemian can
always do something better than his professional task.
Let me add that he likes doing anything better than the
same. The slightest excuse for neglecting his daily avoca¬
tions is to him a godsend. Mr. Clough had been called,
from the easel and brushes he loathed, to run errands, make
beds, wash invalids, and nurse babies; and he was su¬
premely happy.
In the fulness of time, Mr. Clough proposed supper,
and went to fetch it. The materials were not costly or
remarkably delicate. They consisted of a very large crab,
some saveloys, and a pale slab of perspiring cheese. Mr.
Clough was a little saddened to find that his hostess would
not partake of any of these luxuries, which he had pur¬
chased expressly for her, in the belief that she required
" strengthening." In furtherance of this view, he had
also taken the liberty of bringing in with him a half-gallon
can of the mildest porter, participation in which Mrs.
Lynch also thankfully declined. Lucy insisted on passing
the night by her husband's bedside. The doctor and
Markworth yieided the post to her, holding themselves in
readiness for any emergency in the adjoining room. The
three friends spent the night together, sleeping as they best
could on the chairs and sofa, and beguiling the wakeful
hours with cribbage, and, except in the doctor's case, con¬
stant application to the mild porter and the best birdseye.
Mr. Clough had sternly opposed a movement to convey
Baby into the sick room. An atmosphere of dense tobacco-
328
MARSTON LYNCH.
smoke not being greatly conducive to slumber in the early
stages of infancy, Baby proved wakeful throughout the
night. Mr. Clough never murmnred at the constant claims
thereby made on his attention. Whenever Baby wanted
to be taken up, up he was taken. Mr. Clough swore
frightfully over his cribbage losses, called his adversaries
by the foulest names, and accused them of the basest
practices; but never so much as an impatient exclamation
escaped him on Baby's account, even when the exigences
of his infant charge disturbed him at a critical point of
the game. Lucy, in the next room, alternately shuddered
at his fearful oaths, and wept tears of blessing and thank-
ulness at the merry songs and inexhaustible nonsense with
which he kept the child amused. She wondered that it
could be the same man !
Marston Lynch lay for many days in a most precarious
condition. It is certain that nothing but the greatest skill
and the most constant attention could have saved him.
These, the staunch adherence of his rough and ready
Bohemian friends supplied him with. It will be believed
that Lucy's opinion of those gentlemen underwent a rapid
and material change. She considered that, with one ex¬
ception of course, there were no other such good men in
the world. They had saved her husband's life—and what
could ever repay that service ? But with what wondrous
unselfish devotion—with what utter hopelessness of reward
they had effected this great good! It was true that their
conduct '"was only another tribute to Marston's worth that
he could attach to him the friendship of such men! But
then, was it not a further proof of their excellence that
they could practically appreciate his goodness ? And how
kind they were to her; but this was on Marston's account
of course! How wonderfully they relieved her of every
anxiety, lightened her of every burden—and all of them
poor struggling men ! She could never repay them ; but
how she hoped Marston would get strong immediately, if
it were only to put some of those great schemes of his in
MARSTON LYNCH.
329
practice to make his fortune, if only that he might load
these noble fellows with wealth and honours.
Poor little Lucy! She never once thought of the good
that was in herself that would draw forth such good as
might be in others as unerringly as loadstone will attract
loadstone. She little thought that the friendly offices,
commenced in a spirit of matter-of-course good fellowship
for Marston's sake, had been continued and augmented in
tenderness and pity for herself. She little thought that
her unwonted apparition on the gloomy horizon of these
cheerless Bohemians,
" Sick of pacing up and down
Ever more this London town,"
for the most part without kin or home or aim, was like the
rising of a bright particular star of hope and solace. The
Bohemians idolized her to a man. She became like a pet
vivandiere—the daughter of a ragged regiment. She
reigned an absolute little queen of Bohemia, without know¬
ing it. Her subjects vied with one another in forestalling
and gratifying her wishes. There was one primary neces¬
sity to her happiness, namely, the re-establishment of her
husband's health. If mortal men could accomplish this,
they would do so speedily for the reward of seeing her
happy and blooming.
Masculine reader of mine, have you ever lived in a re¬
mote Indian station, or hunted in the back woods of Ame¬
rica, or been a long sea voyage in a ship without female
passengers, or existed for a length of time, under any cir¬
cumstances that did not permit of intercourse with the
society of chaste and cultivated females ? If so, you will
be able to appreciate the delight of my Bohemians at find¬
ing themselves permitted to enjoy the friendship, and
minister to the lxappinees, of a pure-hearted and accom¬
plished little lady like Lucy Lynch.
Not to canvass motives individually, it would be difficult
to over-estimate the services performed by the men I allude
to—to our sick author and his little household. In the
830
MARSTON LYNCH.
first place, they staved off the immediate horrors of pecu¬
niary necessity, which might otherwise have consigned the
whole trio, husband, wife, and child, to the hospital or
workhouse grave. Markworth was an invaluable auxiliary.
He had not the slightest objection to any amount of abso¬
lute labour, provided he was spared the pain of seeking or
inventing it (let me do him the justice to say that had any
such objection existed he would ha ye overcome it for a
friend's sake, rather than for his own.) Marston, when
taken ill, had a few commissions on hand, translations,
compilations, and others. Most of them he had com¬
menced—the plans of all being laid out, so that the mere
writing of them was plain sailing to a competent person.
Markworth, who wrote rapidly and admirably when his
constructive powers were not taxed, thought finishing those
works as good a plan for getting over the day as any other.
Moreover, having no local habitation just then, and hating
tavern benches and tavern society as cordially as he took
the trouble to hate anything, the privilege of writing at
Marston's lodgings all day and sleeping on Marston's sofa
at night, with no more disagreeable person to talk to than
Lucy, amounted to positive pleasure. Markworth finished
all Marston's commissions in rapid succession. This not
only brought in money to the household; but, also, in a
measure, saved the chief's reputation from tarnish by the
fulfilment of his engagements. Phil. Walrus, who was
impulsively generous, had also a rich uncle, whom he
" bled" periodically, by the most transparent and bare¬
faced devices. He came inopportunely with assistance on
more than one occasion. Doctor Nussknacker, who had a
republican contempt for money, and, like Markworth, never
cared to earn more than a bare sufficiency for his slender
wants—which he did by teaching languages—could only
testify his devotion to the cause by suffering his little
connection of pupils to go to rack and ruin, for the pur¬
pose of spending a day at Marston's bedside, hastening
his recovery by a thousand friendly devices not usually
included in the duties of a medical adviser. Mr. Clough
MABSTON LYNCH.
331
continued to confine himself to the menial department: he
fetched whatever was wanted, and, when on the premises,
relieved Lucy of the one arduous duty she had never been
able to accomplish with anything like satisfaction to herself
and husband—that of answering duns. Mr. Clough had
been accustomed to this kind of work'from an early
date, and usually performed it with great coolness and suc¬
cess. When he found Lucy oppressed with household
cares, if the weather happened to be fine, he would volun¬
teer to take baby for a walk up and down the pavement of
Cecil-street, pledging himself to go no further. Cecil-
street usually extended to the Strand—sometimes to a
greater distance; and baby, at this early stage of his
career, became a frequenter of numerous wine-vaults and
bar-parlours of the vicinity, to the wonder and admiration
of maturer habitues.
It needed some such providential assistance, forMarston's
recovery was slow and tedious. Even as it was, they were
sometimes reduced to sad straits : for the soil of Bohemia
is barren, and the crops are not always sufficient for the
farmer's consumption. As soon as Marston was well
enough to be removed with safety, it was found expedient
to vacate the snug lodgings in Cecil-street for a less costly
residence in Kentish-town. Thither I now propose to con¬
duct my readers.
The time is some two or three nights after the events
recorded in my last chapter. The scene is a small apail¬
ment—type of a class infinitely more wretched, in my
opinion, than that "worst inn's worst room," in which Mr.
Pope chose to perpetrate his barbarous murder of the Duke
of Buckingham—the sitting-room of a third-rate suburban
lodging-house. Who has not known—happy the Londoner
who has not!—the miserable low ceiling—the damp walls
—the narrow window that will never shut—the warped
door, with its lock three inches below the staple—the four
spider-legged cane-bottomed chairs—the scanty muslin
curtains, waving to and fro in the draught, like detached
cobwebs—the distorting glass over the mantel-piece—the
332
MAUSTON LYNCII.
mangy peacock feathers, and the hideous plaster ornaments?
Let me be spared a description in full.
At one side of as good a fire as a grate about the size of a
moderate coffee-mill would admit of, sat, in a Windsor elbow
chair, propped up with pillows, an emaciated and care-worn
young man, staring at the fire with a countenance in which
no expression was visible but one of hopeless despair. This
was Marston Lynch. Near him sat a pretty, pale-faced
little woman, busy with needle-work, from which she rose
every now and then to arrange the invalid's pillow, to
smooth his hair, to clasp his hand silently, or to whisper
cheering words in his ear. It is needless to say who this
was. Opposite Marston sat a sturdy, broad-shouldered,
Saxon-faced young fellow, with unkempt hair and a fierce
moustache, in ill-made clothes, the worse by many a stain
and patch, and aggressive thick-soled highlow boots, who
smoked from two inches of blackened clay, and brandished
a stout healthy babe in his arms. This couple was Thomas
Clough and Marston Lynch, junior, Esquires. Also
smoking, and writing at a ricketty, ink-stained Pembroke
table, that kept up a creaking accompaniment to every
movement of his pen, was a young man some three or four
years older than Marston, with a handsome but rather im¬
passive countenance. This was Markworth.
"What a time Walrus is gone," Marston exclaimed, in a
hollow, peevish voice.
"Hold your grumbling," said Clough, breaking
off short in a cheerful nursery rhyme. " If you wanted
him to go to the Strand and back in five minutes, why
didn't you order round your carriage and pair !"
"I am very much obliged to you, Clough, for your
many acts of kindness," Marston began, in a tone of dig¬
nified injury, " but "
" If you say that infernal word ' kindness' to me again
I'll shy the"—Mr. Clough was about to add " baby at
your head," but he substituted "pipe" for the former
noun, in timely consideration for Mrs. Lynch's feelings.
"It is very foolish for you, Clough, to be angry with
MARSTON LYNCH.
333
what Lynch says," Markworth interposed quietly, without
looking up from his paper. " It is natural to his weak
state to he irritable, and, perhaps, unreasonable; but then
it is, perhaps, natural for you to be the same under all cir¬
cumstance—so it can't be helped."
" Do you want anything at your head, Markworth ?"
the wrathful Clough inquired.
" Certainly not. Why ?"
" Because, don't be so infernally aggravating."
" I have no wish to aggravate anybody. I only think if
you and Marston can't help saying disagreeable things
to one another, the best plan will be to go on saying them
as fast as you like, and neither to care about it. It won't
distuib me in the least. I like it quite as well as any¬
thing else."
Mr. Clough's countenance broke slowly into a wide
grin. Lucy pacified her husband with a noiseless kiss on
the forehead.
" I think Clough's blowings up do me good," Marston
said, with a melancholy smile ; " they put something like
life into me. You and Lucy, Markworth, let me have too
much my own way."
" Clough certainly has the extraordinary gift of getting
angry with people and things which I do not possess my¬
self, but which was doubtless ordained in him for some
beneficent purpose."
" Cluck ! cluck ! cluck ! isn't he a thundering fool,
my stunner?" was Mr. Clough's commentary to the
baby.
" Do you think Walrus will succeed ?" Marston asked,
after a pause.
" No ; sure he won't." Mr. Clough was decided on
the point.
" lie seemed very sanguine."
" Sanguine ! he's always sanguine. I never knew him
that he was not going to get three hundred and seventy
pounds next Tuesday, at five-and-twenty minutes past two
in the afternoon. Do you think a knowing card like
334
MAB.STON LYNCH.
Haresfoot will give tin on account of a piece that hasn't
got a line written ? He's a bigger fool than I take him
for if he does ?"
"But Mr. Walrus says the idea is such an original and
beautiful one," Lucy interposed ; " and Mr. Haresfoot will
be glad to secure it from any other manager."
"Mr. Walrus can talk a donkey's hind leg off, I have
no doubt "
" What preposterous nonsense, Clough," interrupted
Markworth, " the days of miracles are passed—he could
not do anything of the kind."
Mr. Markworth was something of a purist. Vulgar,
illogical, or unmeaning figures of speech almost irritated
him.
" Well, he won't talk any money out of old Haresfoot
at any rate."
" If I do not get something to-morrow," Marston
groaned, " what shall I do ?"
"Do without," Mr. Clough suggested.
" But I have promised to pay the people of the house."
"Tell them you can't."
" I dare not face them." Marston buried his face in
his hands, and rocked to and fro. "I cannot do it.
Laugh at and despise me if you like—I deserve it, I know
—but I cannot—anything but that!"
Lucy shuddered, and her heart seemed to stop beat¬
ing. She, too, could do anything but that.
" Then if you were so precious anxious to pay them,
why the deuce did you waste that tenner of Don
Thingamy's ?"
Marston groaned again.
" Oh! Mr. Clough, do not name that—you know it
was my fault," Lucy said, with her eyes full of tears.
Mr. Clough confessed that he deserved to have his head
punched, and requested baby to perform that office for
him.
" I could not help it," Lucy continued.
"LTo, she couldn't," said "Marston; "people came at
MAKSTON LYNCH.
33
an unlucky hour and clamoured for money—she could not
refuse them. I must not blame her—I never could."
"Bless you," Lucy whispered, with a grateful pressure
of Marston's hand.
A tremendous knocking at the street-door caused the
little egg-shell of a house to tremble to its six-inch deep
foundation.
" Here's Phil!"
A light footstep cleared the little staircase in about
three bounds, and Mr. Philip Walrus burst into the room.
He looked very much as though he would burst out of it
again, for Walrus was colossal of stature, and the little
sitting-room scarcely large enough to hold him without
damage to its walls, floor, and ceiling.
" Well, my busy bees," said Philip, sitting on a weak
chair, which caused Mm considerable alarm by an ominous
crack and undulation beneath his weight: " still sipping
the sweets of industry ? Talking about sipping, is there
anytMng to drink ? No ? I'm glad of it. A taste for
ardent spirits is the canker-worm of modern society. Mrs.
Lucy you're laugMng— I'm afraid you don't appreciate
the high morality of those sentiments for which "
" Stow your gab, and tell us how you got on," said
Mr. Clough, politely.
" Tommy, my dear child, unless you immediately coun¬
terfeit the manners of a gentleman, I'll slap your face and
pull your hair. Don't put the baby too near to me, for
I haven't recovered from the measles. Well! I've seeD
old Haresfoot."
" What does he say ?" Marston asked, listlessly.
" Thundering old humbug! Grinned in my face, and
said when we could show him the manuscript it would
receive his best attention. I'll show him up in the Penny
Cane, and ruin him. However, it doesn't matter, old
fellow. I couldn't have written the piece without your
assistance, and you'll be able to- finish it to your own
satisfaction."
"When shall I be able to finish anything?" said
Marston, bitterly.
336
MARSTON LYNCH.
" Look here, Phil," Clough observed ; " money must be
had to-morrow. What have you got"
" Seven-and-six."
" That's no use. Where did you get it ?"
" Half-a-crown on the bustle, from the stage-door¬
keeper, to pay the cab that wasn't waiting; three-and-six
from Charles, at the Blue Monkey, to make my little
account round money, so that I should remember it the
easier; and eighteenpence from the boy at the Cane office.
He'd been up two nights, and was too sleepy to say he
hadn't got any money."
" Well, we must have more. Mark's finishing a tale of
Marston's for the Domestic Teapot. That will be two
quid to the good." (It should be observed that Mr.
Clough never would, on any account, make use of an
ordinary expression if, by going a little out of his way, he
could discover a slang equivalent.)
" I won't touch a penny of it," saidMarston, peevishly.
" Stop a bit, my dear child. You will if your medical
advisers pronounce it good for you. In the first place,
Mrs. Lucy, take charge of these five white gentlemen for
present exigences."
"Don't take them, Lucy. I am sick of plundering
and fleecing you fellows. It must come to an end."
"So it shall. Only wait for the words of wisdom.
Mrs. Lucy, do as you are bid, like a good child."
" Lucy, you shall not—"
" Oh ! then, I had better go to Wolverhampton. You
mean to say you refuse to borrow from me five shillings,
which I shall expect you to pay back to-morrow ?"
" To-morrow, indeed!"
" I repeat that I shall expect vou to pay me back
to-morrow."
" What do you mean ?"
" Ah, now you are coming to reason. My children, I
I have prepared a dramatic suprise for you. Do you know
that handwriting?"
Walrus produced a letter, the address of which he sub¬
mitted to Marston's inspection.
marston lynch.
387
"Why, it is Gregory Lynch's—my uncle."
" Just so; and my particular friend and faithful corres¬
pondent." '
" You—how long have you known him ?"
" Never saw or spoke to the buffer in my life, and don't
want to. But he writes what is called a good letter, dots
his t's prettily, and crosses his i's like copper-plate.
Attention."
Mr. Walrus rose in an oratorical attitude and read, with
much gesticulation, the following epistle to his wondering
auditors.
" To Philip Walrus, Esq.
" Dear Sir—In answer to your polite note just re¬
ceived, which does the greatest credit alike to your head
and heart (' a hackneyed phrase,' Mr. Walrus commented,
' but let us hope merited'), I have only to say that the
differences unhappily existing between myself and your
friend, my nephew, Marston Lynch, were never of my
seeking. I am extremely grieved to hear of his late illness
and present distresses, of which, if I bad received any
earlier intimation, I would have taken measures to alleviate
them, to the best of my ability. I am in very delicate
health myself, and my stay in London will be limited. If
Marston's health will permit him to call upon me, I shall
be happy to see him, with my step-daughter, Lucy, to¬
morrow, at eleven o'clock, when I have to request that he
will meet me with an utter forgetfulness of past misunder¬
standings. If he should be unable to come himself, if you,
or any other friend he may appoint, will call on me at the
time I have made, I shall be glad to make some arrange¬
ments for his present comfort and ultimate benefit. Thank¬
ing you for your kindness in calling my attention to the
matter,
Believe me, dear Sir,
" Yeiy truly, yours,
" Gregory Lynch.
" Long's Hotel, Bond-street, Thursday."
z
338
MARSTON LYNCH.
Marston remained nursing his cliin in silence for some
seconds.
" So you had written to him on my account ? "
" Of course, I had, my dear child."
'• Why did you not tell me ? "
" Well, I wanted to. I flatter myself the epistle was
rather choice in its way, and it went to my heart to waste
it entirely on old Gregory and the Post-office. But then
you see, my infant, you probably would have raised some
objection."
" That I certainly should."
" Like a fool! " Mr. Clough growled.
" You will see, papa, will you not, dear ? " Lucy asked,
imploringly, her wan face flushed by a new-born hope.
" No."
"Oh! but you will though, my estimable young friend."
" I will have no assistance from that man," said Marston,
petulantly. " He is a villain. I have told you over and
over again that I am convinced he has robbed Lucy."
" Then, don't you think it would be advisable to get
back a little on account, while the dear old gentleman is in
a restitution humour ? "
" I will not take a penny from him. I can never thank
you, dear friends, enough for what you have done. I ought
not to refuse you anything. But if you would force me to
humble myself to that man, I can only beg you, as a last
favour, to leave me to my fate; and forgive me—forgive
me ; for I cannot do it."
Tom Clough rose from his seat, placed the baby in his
mother's lap, and stood on the hearth-rug, with his arms
folded, confronting Marston Lynch with a stem coun¬
tenance.
" Now, look here, Marston Lynch," he said, "I say a
good many things, and a good many stupid and a good
many blackguard things, that I don't mean in particular.
But what l am going to say now I do mean. If you let
any of your damned nonsense stand in the way of this
opportunity, not only of saving your own life, which isn't
MARSTON LYNCH.
333
of much consequence, but of bringing back some colour
to your wife's cheeks, and flesh on her bones, which is—
if I catch you at this sort of game, I tell you, by the Lord
Harry, ill or well, weak or strong, I'll give you such an
infernal thrashing that you won't recover for a month,
that's all."
Mr. Clough lit a fresh pipe angrily, and sat down.
Lucy placed the baby on Marston's lap, and throwing
herself at her husband's feet, clasped them both with
her arms.
"You will go and see him, Marston, for my sake and
baby's, will you not? "
Marston Lynch was silent. He trembled, and tears
rolled down his cheeks.
340
marston lynch.
CHAPTEE XXXI.
beginning life again.
Few of Marston Lyncli's resolutions were difficult to
stake. The one that he would on no account accept his
uncle's offers of reconciliation gave way speedily under the
weight of his friends' remonstrances and his wife's exhor¬
tations.
On the following morning Marston and Lucy were up
and dressed early; and something like an hour and a half
ere there would be much prospect of Gregory Lynch's
being out of bed, this pair had left their magnificent
suburban villa (I really believe the wretched little rabbit-
hutch was called a villa), en route for Long's Hotel, Bond-
street—the temporary sojourn of the great Longport
merchant.
There were two reasons for this early stirring. First,
Marston, always impatient, had become more so than ever
since his illness, and having made up his mind to the
magnanimous course of accepting the olive-branch held
out to him by his uncle, he could not rest till the imposing
ceremony had been performed. He had awakened several
times in the night to ask Lucy the time, like a child eager
for the dawn of a long promised holiday. He had been
unable to eat his breakfast, and, had the resources of his
wardrobe permitted, there is no doubt that he would have
made many experimental changes in the decoration of his
outward man before feeling satisfied with his personal
MARSTON LYNCH.
341
appearance for so great an occasion. But, alas! the days
of wearable coats, waistcoats, and trousers in the plural,
or even dual number, were over with Marston Lynch:
and such luxuries as breast-pins, rings, and watches, were
as memories of a past existence. Marston Lynch was
shabby, or to borrow an image from the poetry of the
present generation, " seedy"—a state of things by no
means agreeable to any member of the community, but
which, to the artistic or poetical mind, is simply intolera-
able. The same mental condition which makes a sturdy
picturesque beggar, with matted locks and beard, and
streaming with parti-coloured rags, an object of admira¬
tion, renders the miserably-clad " respectable man," with
his threadbare coat, of a forgotten make, buttoned up to
conceal badness or deficiency of linen, which it only
morally exposes—his limp hat, that would only have been
not laughable two years ago when such shapes were worn
by everybody—darned gloves, and saw-like shirt collar—
an object of ridicule and pity. Why ? Are artists and
poets, then, such indifferent philosophers that they care to
judge of men, or be judged of men themselves, by the cut
and newness of their outward garments ? It may be so.
Or it may be that the man—the struggling man at all
events—-who now-a-days professes a contempt for external
appearances, is a greater fool than the man who pro¬
nounces him one for the practical expression of such
contempt. On another hand, it is tolerably certain that
artists and poets have a keener sense of the ridiculous than
other people. Coats, hats, gloves, and shirt-collars, as at
present constructed, are ridiculous objects in themselves,
and can only be worn without a sense of shame and dis¬
comfort when in their newest gloss and currency. An
article of modern clothing that has once fallen into the
rearward of fashion is a conspicuous absurdity; and its
wearer stands in the unenviable position of a fool who has
adhered to an obsolete folly. Moreover, there is some¬
thing sadly ridiculous in the toadyism which poverty pays
to riches, by obeying its sumptuary laws, as to discomfort
342
MARSTON LYNCIi.
and hideousness in dress, when debarred of any of the
compensating advantages which alone can make such
tyranny tolerable. Why should a poor gentleman, whose
poverty makes the name a mockery, and excludes him
from every comfortable dinner-table where he may have
once been welcome, stint himself in his daily supply of
cold beef and cabbage for the sake of a shadowy
semblance of the broad-cloth and beaver proprieties pur¬
chased at second-hand shops, at seemingly low but really
exorbitant prices—things that neither defy cold nor disarm
suspicion—when, in a clean blouse or a stout workman's
dreadnought, according to season, a defiant wide-awake,
and an honest pair of fustian continuations, for him the
stout might foam, the pig might smoke, and the apple¬
sauce cream—aye, by Saint Anne, and stuffing should be
hot in the mouth? There must be insurmountable ob¬
stacles to such an independent course; for it is one we
never see a poor gentleman adopting. However, there
are soundly politic reasons why the artist or writer, living
by the exercise of his talents, should be well-dressed. To
be otherwise is an admission of poverty. This would be
of no consequence, but that the world persists in attribu¬
ting poverty, which is equivalent with non-success, to
incapacity ; the mere suspicion of which, to such men as I
speak of, is fatal. Briefly, Marston Lynch was not and
could not be well-dressed for the present. He hurried
over his toilette with the contemptuous haste of an actor
gabbling a part he is ashamed of being obliged to play.
The second reason why Marston Lynch and Lucy
should be early a-foot was a reason, as some will pro¬
nounce, with more reason in it. Kentish-town was a long
way from Bond-street, and Marston Lynch was very
weak; he could only as yet walk slowly and with difficulty.
As yet the days of cheap omibuses were not; and the
more expensive conveyances then in vogue were beyond
their means. The small sum left by Walrus on the
preceding evening had been absorbed at once in the vortex
of household necessities. The journey must be performed
MARSTON LYNCH.
343
on foot, and by slow and easy stages. Marston would
have undertaken it alone, but Lucy would not let him.
He might be taken ill on the road, or " a thousand
things," as Mrs. Lucy expressed it: though I should like?
to know, in the event of any one of those thousand con¬
tingencies presenting itself, what she, poor little soul,
could have done to meet it ? However, so impressed
was she with the necessity of accompanying Marston, with
a view to his support and protection, that she even con¬
sented to leave "baby" in charge of the landlady's
daughter, an undersized damsel, of doubtful trustworthi¬
ness, and of slovenliness as to which there was no doubt
whatever. The little mother's apprehensions, it is true,
had been greatly calmed by her usual ally 011 such emer¬
gencies, Mr. Thomas Clough, who had preferred passing
the night uncomfortably on chairs in Marston's sitting-
room, rather than be driven to the Bohemian's last ex¬
tremity of going home—and who had expressed his
intention of passing the day in the immediate neighbour¬
hood, for the purpose of making careful studies of a
picturesque pump by which he had been fascinated, and
promised to look in, from time to time, with a supervising
eye to the nursery arrangements.
Look at poor Marston Lynch, with an emaciated face,
stooping shoulders and threadbare garments, leaning, with
one hand, on a walking stick, and with the other, on a frail
and slender arm that should have leant on his. Consider
that he has a four miles' walk before him, which he must
perform for the want of a shilling, and which it will take
him two hours to accomplish. Consider that the object of
that walk is to humble himself (for it is useless to blink the
truth) before a man by whom he believes himself to have
been wronged, and whom, in the pride of his youth, strength,
and talents, he had taunted, defied, and insulted on every
possible occasion. And upon the charity (he repeats the
word bitterly to himself many times between his closed
teeth) of that man depends his only hope of relief, peace,
and health, perhaps of life. Having reconciled himself to
344
MAUSTON LYNCH.
the acceptance of assistance from liis uncle, his mind can,
for the present, take in no more disagreeable possibilities.
The idea that that assistance may yet fail him, he will not
contemplate. It is his one resource left, and fail him it
must not. He is going to beg—that is quite humiliation
enough—the alms must be abundant. He is like a famished
man on a raft, who can only strain his eyes to one speck on
the horizon; it is, it must be, the long expected ship that
is to bring him succour. How will Gregory Lynch receive
him ? What will be the extent of his relenting kindness,
or, as Marston loves to consider it, tardy justice ? What
will be the amount of submission exacted from him in re¬
turn for the means to grow strong, to rest, and to live ?
These are the only questions Marston Lynch can ask him¬
self. All his old projects of self-reliance and exertion for
wealth and fame are as vanished dreams of the past, even
as the shipwrecked man's memories of home, and strife, and
duty—all forgotten in the thought of the bread that should
be contained in the hold of that one ship on the horizon.
Contrast this picture with one I have shown you of a
handsome impetuous boy fancying that the world was at his
foot, who was petted, caressed, and loved by all who knew
him, who had too early tasted the seductive sweets of fame
and luxury; and admit that whatever the faults and failings
of my poor anti-hero may have been, his punishment is at
least as much as he can bear.
How ? Has he not a noble and devoted wife who loves
him more than all the world, and a darling child ? With
these blessings, what can happen to harm him ?
Hunger for three, reader. That is the answer. Try it
—for one—to begin with; and see how you like it.
I have heard somewhere a stupid old song of a past
generation, (when the " Jolly God," the "rosy morn," and
similar stereotypes, were implicitly believed in as essentials
to genuine poetry), which speaks of " lovely woman" as
the being who
" Doubles up our joys and divides our cares."
It is a lie. It is only his happiness that an honest man will
MARSTON LYNCH.
345
consent to, or even can, stare with, the woman he loves.
There can be no division of sorrow any more than there
can be a division of typhus fever. The man who, being
wretched himself, derives a consolation from inoculating
those nearest to him with his misery is not one whose ac¬
quaintance I desire. Such people (who are by no means
uncommon remind me of Mr. Tag in the " Rivals," who,
because he had been bullied by his master, kicks the
errand-boy.
Marston walked very slowly, and had to rest many times.
Poor Lucy encouraged and cheered him to the best of her
powers, which were not very great, Lucy being only a kind
of lunar satellite, in a system of which Marston Lynch was
the solar centre. Her face could only reflect back such
light as the sun shed upon it. When Marston's face was
eclipsed by sorrow that of his little wife was in darkness.
On this occasion Lucy was rather inclined to be hopeful
than otherwise. The fact that Marston had consented to
forgive his uncle—for doing she had not the clearest idea
what—was a greater matter for rejoicing; Gregory's re¬
lenting was a sufficient proof that her husband's great
merits were at last about to be recognised. She was, more¬
over, grateful to Gregory Lynch for affording her an oppor¬
tunity of ceasing to think unfavourably of him. She was
a little timid at the prospect of meeting him it is true, and
absolutely frightened at the possibility of the tenable
Mrs. Gregory being present at the interview. But Lucy
was one of the bravest cowards in the world. In the old
times of martyrdom she would have gone trembling all over
to the stake, or suffered herself to be frightened to death
by wild beasts with the greatest firmness and determina¬
tion. However, it was very certain that on this particular
occasion no possible harm could come to her, for would
not her husband be present ? It was remarkable and cha¬
racteristic that Mrs. Lynch persisted in considering her
husband a model of physical as well as moral courage and
strength; and the evidence of her senses that he was
scarcely able to drag himself along the pavement without
346
MAHSTON LYNCH.
the assistance of her arm and a walking-stick did not at all
weaken her firm conviction that, in the event of her being
insulted or aggrieved by a passing giant, her companion
could at a moment's notice, by the exercise of some latent
power within him, rouse himself to the infliction of terrible
chastisement on the offender.
They spoke very little on the way. Marston indulged
in a few feeble rhodomontades as to the dignified attitude
it was his intention to assume in the presence of his hum¬
bled and repentant kinsman; how he would accept of no
service at that kinsman's hands that would at all com¬
promise him in his own estimation; that he would rather
starve; and much nonsense of that kind. Marston knew
in his heart that he would rather not starve, and that he
had for more than a twelvemonth forfeited the right to do
so. If suicide be justifiable at all, it can only be so in the
singular number. Humiliating as was the admission,
Marston could not deny to himself that he was prepared
to accept any terms his uncle might propose, not abso¬
lutely and shamefully degrading ; and to accept them,
moreover, with thankfulness and rejoicing. So he left off
bragging, and occupied himself with building castles in the
air as to the peaceful life in store for himself and his dear
ones.
The last half mile or so of their journey was performed
in silence. The approaching interview engaged all their
thoughts. As they neared the hotel Lucy cast a depre¬
cating glance over her humble attire, and blessed the
invention of plate-glass shop windows, which enabled her
to obtain that indispensable glimpse of the state of her
head-gear without which no woman of any age can present
herself in unaccustomed society. Marston was like an
actor at the wing mumbling over his part, and meditating
the manner of his entree on the scene.
They reached the door of the hotel, before which a pri¬
vate brougham was waiting. Our two poor relations
observed this, not for any connexion that it suggested with
the movements of their wealthy kinsman, but from the
MABSTON LYNCH.
347
common tendency of the human mind on the eve of trying
crises to seek relief from its absorbing occupation by noticing
indifferent objects. The driver of the vehicle, standing at
the horse's head, touched his hat to Marston, with a look
of recognition and a kind of qualified civility. Marston
remembered to have seen the man's face, but could not call
to mind where. The question was not worth asking, and
was instantaneously forgotten. Marston and Lucy, with
beating hearts, pressed each other's arm, exchanged a re¬
assuring smile, and were about to enter the hotel, when—
Don Sancho de Saumarez, with Maud Carlton on his
arm, swept past them out of the hotel, entered the car¬
riage, and were driven off rapidly in the direction of
Oxford-street.
The incident occurred in less time than I have taken to
tell it, but in these two or three seconds a complete drama
was enacted. Lucy's flimsy washed-out muslin skirt had
come in contact with the magnificent flounces of Miss
Carlton. The two women had drawn back, exchanging
glances of mutual recognition and aversion. Lucy had,
without any definite reason, instinctively connected Maud
Carlton with the origin of their present misfortunes. She
had divined that there were grounds of jealousy and strife
between them, and, with all her gentleness, Mrs. Lucy was
quite woman enough to hate, and that pretty strongly, any
one of her own sex whom she might suspect of designs—
past, present, or possible—prejudicial to her heart's peace.
The first cry of surprise over, on the occasion alluded to,
she had shrunk from Miss Carlton as from the touch of
pollution, clung proudly to her precious husband, whom
she protected, as it were, from the designs of the wicked
enchantress by a look of defiance as insolently contemptuous
—aye, and as cruel—as ever Maud's own face had worn in
her bitterest and most wayward mood. One of Lucy's
old glances—humble, deprecating, and imploring—would,
perhaps, have touched Maud's heart, and the elaborate
fabric of Don Sancho de Saumarez might have been scat¬
tered to the winds by one impetuous gust of forgiveness
548
MAKSTON LYNCH.
and self-reproach. But the little vixen (pro tem) had
chosen, in that one movement, to declare war, which the
more powerful fury accepted. Miss Carlton returned the
assault with a withering smile of hatred and triumph, and
a searching, comprehensive look, which as Lucy felt,
took in the whole list of their miseries—her old bonnet
with faded ribbons, her mended gloves and shoes, her
pale cheeks and sunken eyes, Marston's stooping shoulders
and emaciated form, his dejected face, the whitening seams
of his coat, his darned and patched linen—it seemed even
to penetrate to the shabby dogs'-eared leather portemonnaie
in her pocket, that for weeks had contained nothing but
pawnbrokers' duplicates—even to the empty drawers and
cupboards of their miserable apology for a home in Kentish
Town. All these Miss Carlton seemed to know and rejoice
in, as she threw herself back on the cushions of her snug
vehicle, of which she drew up the window with an im¬
patient jerk, as if to interpose a material barrier between
herself and the atmosphere contaminated by the breath of
unfortunate wretches.
Marstop had remained motionless. The gallant Sau-
marez had recognised him, but being taken by surprise,
and without time for the construction of a plot (without
which preparation he could do nothing), had brushed past
his former friend with a sneaking precipitancy, and a some¬
what cur-like expression on his usually engaging counte¬
nance, which, on this occasion only in the course of this
history, was observed to be somewhat flushed.
Our young couple looked after the receding carriage
for some seconds in silence. Then they looked at each
other.
" What can this mean ?"
" No good, I fear ; but let us know at once."
"Yes, let us know," Lucy said, with a heavy sigh.
Neither had the insincerity to pretend to the other that
the visit of the pair who had just departed had been made to
any other resident in the hotel than their uncle; or that it
might have been one to him of mere formality, and in no
MAESTON LYNCH.
349
way connected with their own business. They instinc¬
tively felt the contrary was the case, and entered the hotel
with the gloomy prescience of calamity.
Marston inquired of a waiter if Mr. Gregory Lynch was
within; and was answered in the affirmative.
The visitors sent up their cards, and waited in the
entrance-hall a few anxious moments, that seemed hours.
The waiter returned with a curt message to the effect
that Mr. Lynch could not be seen.
Lucy trembled, and Marston's lip quivered as he fal¬
tered,
" Perhaps he is not up yet."
" Yes, he's up, but he can't be seen—that's the message."
" Perhaps if we were to call again "
" The lady said you need'nt trouble yourselves to call
again, as Mr. Lynch declined seeing you."
The man delivered it respectfully enough, and with
evident reluctance.
" The lady—I presume you mean Mrs. Lyneh ?"
"Yes sir," the waiter good-naturedly added, as a
compensation to the man whom his official position had
compelled him to be the means of distressing.
" Was Mr. Lynch present, may I ask?"
" He was."
"And he said nothing?"
" Nothing whatever, sir,"
" Thank you; then we will not trouble ourselves a
seeond time. Good morning to you."
" Good morning, sir. Going to have a change in the
weather, I think."
He was a compassionate waiter to bestow this amount of
civility, without hope of a shilling, upon the two young-
people who looked so disappointed and so poor; and a
thoughtful one to run as he did to hold the glass door
open for their exit, bowing to Lucy as she passed precisely
as he had bowed five minutes ago to the splendid lady in
the brougham. It was as kind on the waiter's part as
the gift of a quartern loaf from a baker.
350
MARSTON LYNCH.
When they reached the street, the forced self-composure
which Marston had observed before the hotel servants, gave
way utterly. He could not speak. He trembled fear¬
fully. The muscles of his face quivered, and at length a
torrent of tears rolled nown his cheeks.
"Hear, dear Marston—don't. Tor heaven's sake—
anything but that!"
" What shall we do ?"
That was now the question.
They walked mechanically towards Piccadilly. Lucy
squeezing her husband's arm to her own, pressing his
hand beneath her shawl, and imploring him not to give
way.
"It is very cruel."
" It is very—very—very cruel."
" Was that letter written only to raise false hopes, and
cast me lower than ever by disappointing them?"
" No—no. I cannot believe that; there has been some
misunderstanding—or some misrepresentation "
" Prom whom ?"
" I don't know—from his wife, perhaps—or—or—
No matter, let us forget it, dear, as if it had never hap¬
pened."
" Yes, let us forget it—that is the only plan. I must
set to work and earn some money. Yes, I must set to
work."
" That's my own dear. Let us go home."
Home !J Marston shuddered. He had never contem¬
plated re-entering that wretched place except to leave it
for ever.
" Let us go to Walrus's. I want to rest."
Walrus's lodgings were not far off. The hospitable
Philip was fortunately at home, and gave them such wel¬
come as he could afford. He was shocked at the inex¬
plicable cruelty of the treatment they had received, and
expressed his intention of " having it out -with old Gregory,"
as a personal matter,—he having been made the uncon¬
scious instrument of Marston's disappointment.
MARSTON LYNCH.
351
" No, Phil.; let it rest," said Marston. " It is over.
I have been the victim of a terrible vengeance of some
kind. But whoever they may be I cannot risk a second
contest with such enemies. It seems as though it had
killed me already, and I am beginning a new life. Yes,
and I must begin to-day—now, and in earnest. Lucy,
my dear, go home."
" And you, dear ?"
" I ?—oh, I must—see about something. I must call
on publishers, and so forth—get something to do, in fact;
or what will become of us ?"
Lucy suppressed a heaving sigh.
" But you are not well-enough to-day—you should keep
quiet."
" Quiet ? Where ? Where the coalman knocks at the
door three times an hour, and the baker bullies you from
his cart up to the first-floor window, and the green-grocer
forces his way up-stairs, and takes a seat with his back
against the door ? Thank you, my dear. Such circum¬
stances are not conducive to the flow of inspiration, or the
composure of thoughts."
" What will become of us ?"
Mr. Walrus suggested a monosyllabic remedy.
" Boit."
" Prom Fryingpan-court into Fireplace-alley—even if
we could raise a cab-fare, for that distance ? I don't see
any advantage in the change. Can you pay Lucy's omni¬
bus home, as she calls it, Phil ?"
" To be sure—anda fewbobover; but what's your move ?"
"Oh! I don't know. I must try—something. Lucy,
dear, Phil, will see you into an omnibus. I'll rest a bit,
and think of something. There go, there's a good girl, or
I shall be angry."
He had been often angry with her of late. Lucy was
giddy with despair. What should she do ? There was
Marston, scarcely recovered from a fever, and crushed with
a bitter disappointment, in a wild and unsettled state,
352
MARSTON LYNCH.
claiming to be left to himself in town. On the other
hand, she had been three hours away from baby ! a state
of things previously unknown in the existence of that
individual. She could not decide for herself. As usual,
she resolved that Marston should decide for her. She ap¬
proached him, and taking his hand in hers looked him
earnestly in the face, saying,
" How do you think I can leave you, dear, in this state ?
Ask yourself, and tell me what I ought to do."
Always that terrible responsibility of directing the actions
and providing for the happiness of another; Could she
never relieve him of so much as one grain of the load, by
a single act of self-reliance and decision ? No ! Marston
felt, that while she lived, so completely was her volition
absorbed in his, that he alone must bear the burden; and
even though it should crush him, all she could do would
be to watch his sufferings and weep. The charge he had
undertaken was one that would allow of no sleeping at his
post. In his present weak and dejected condition, what a
relief it would have been for him—to give way to lamen¬
tation or despair. He was sick of life, and could almost
have made an end to it: but his life was not his own.
Here was this little woman at his elbow dunning him for
that supply of hope and moral support with which he was
as much bound to furnish her as with gowns, bonnets, and
house room.
Bankrupt as was Marston Lynch of the commodities
required of him, he was an honest debtor. He roused
himself from liis despairing mood with such demonstrations
of strength and cheerfulness as he could assume—kissed
his wife, and answered as follows :—
" Go home, my darling, and attend to your child; you
may do so safely. I am not such a coward as to make
away with myself if that is what you are afraid of. ^1
am only going to do what I told you—to seek for some
employment—''
" But you are not fit to walk about."
" Let me see a fair chance of earning some money and
I shall be fit to run."
MARSTON LYNCH.
353
" And you will come liome straight ?"
" Straight."
" And will promise me not to give way?"
. " On my honour."
" And promise me, not on your honour, but on your
love, that if you should meet with fresh disappointments
in what you seek, you will not let them make you in the
least bit in the world unhappy ?"
This was rather tyrannical—Marston felt it so. It was
like extorting a promise from a man that he would never
cry out in the event of his burning his fingers. Our wives,
are, however, very exacting in such matters, and they must
have their way. Marston gave the required promise, and
wondered if he should be able to keep it.
" I believe you."
Lucy kissed her husband many times, and whispered in
his ear several exhortations on the subject of " keeping
up," and departed on her homeward-bound journey, Mr.
Walrus volunteering to escort her to her conveyance.
Marston having fortified himself with an hour's rest and
a substantial meal, provided by his entertainer, walked
forth on his mission of beginning the world again.
Alas ! he little thought how near the very beginning he
would have to commence the operation. He called 011
several publishers in succession to whom he was mortified
to find his name almost or entirely unknown. His only
success as an author had been in connexion with dramatic
literature—a department quite distinct and apart from that
of ordinary publishing business. He was received in all
cases politely, but with one unvarying result. He was
asked what he had brought to show. He had brought
nothing. He could merely mention certain subjects for
books which he had thought of, and which he felt con¬
fident of being able to treat successfully. The publishers
felt no doubt of this whatever, and would be happy to give
his manuscripts their earliest attention on any of the works
being completed. In answer to requests for casual em¬
ployment, such as translations, compilations, &c., he was
354
marston lynch.
always told that such undertakings usually emanated, like
original works, from the writers ; and in the event of any¬
thing of the kind originating with the publishers, they
were naturally in the habit of entrusting them to people
whom they had been in the habit of employing, and with
whose capabilities they were well acquainted. Marston
soon got weary of this repetition, and was about to return
home disconsolately, in a frame of mind very inadequate
to the fulfilment of his promise to Lucy, when his eye was
attracted by a name on a door-plate which he recognised
as that of a publisher whom he remembered to have heard
spoken of in no very complimentary terms, either as to his
liberality or graciousness, by certain writers of his acquaint¬
ance. This publisher was, moreover, one of the very
highest caste, and Marston had not yet the courage to
present himself at any but second or third-rate houses.
What had deterred him ? Not any under-estimate of his
own powers, depend upon it. It was simply the con¬
sciousness of his shabby appearance that made him un¬
willing to parade his present misery in places where he had
yet some lingering ambition to be one day received with
distinction—an ambition which proves that there was some
hope for Marston Lynch yet.
" Well, he can't eat me," thought Marston ; " and bear
as they describe him, he may have the politeness to offer
me a chair for five minutes, which will be a god-send. It
will only make one more disappointment, and there's no
hurry for getting home."
It was that going home, without having conquered a
single publisher, that Marston Lynch was afraid of.
So, overcoming the restraints of feeling, Marston Lynch
called upon the Publisher, entered into an important en¬
gagement, and became a Pofular Writer.
the end.
—
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