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 Form No 513. 
 HSK 1/B4 
 
 
 
 
■ A'ext we have the Ancestor hwiseif. ' 
 
 Page 385. 
 
-1/ 
 
 
 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'all SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN' ETC. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY E. J. WHEELER 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1885 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE ....... 1 
 
 H. THE FEIDE OF EOTHEEHITHE . . . . . . . 20 
 
 III. THE SAILOK LAD FROM OVER THE SEA . . . . .29 
 
 IV. OVERDUE AND POSTED . . . . . . . . 48 
 
 V. THE PATIENCE OF PENELOPE ....... 54 
 
 VI. THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA . . . . . . . 62 
 
 VII. CAPTAIN BORLINDER AMONG THE CANNIBALS . . . .74 
 
 VIII. THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN "WATTLES . . . . . . 87 
 
 IX. THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIUS . . .99 
 
 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 I. ALL THE PEOPLE STANDING . . . . . . .117 
 
 II. THE ASTONISHMENT OF MATHEW HUMBLE . . . . . 129 
 
 III. HOW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE 138 
 
 IV. dhusilla's story . . . . . . . ..151 
 
 V. A SECOND "WHITTINGTOX ....... 161 
 
 VI. THE LETTER AT LAST ........ 171 
 
 VII. MATHEW'S FRIENDLY OFFER ....... 183 
 
 VIII. IS IT TRUE? .......... 191 
 
 IX. THE ■WISDOM OF THE STRONG MAN ...... 200 
 
 X. SAILOR nan's RIDE ......... 209 
 
 XI. THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE . . . . . . .217 
 
 XII, ' GOD REST YOU MERRY GENTLEMEN.' , . . . 227 
 
COXTEXrS. 
 
 THEY WERE MABBIED. 
 
 PART I.--MON DESIR. 
 
 tllAl'TKr. PAGK 
 
 I. A new-yea.e's dawn ..... ... 233 
 
 II. THE SQUIRE ........ 
 
 III. IN THE bachelors' PAVILION ..... 
 
 IV. THE HUNTING OF THE GOUBAMI .... 
 V. HOW THE iSr.\IL CAME IN .... . 
 
 VI. IfOW THE MAIL WENT OUT ..... 
 
 244 
 2.50 
 257 
 262 
 273 
 
 PART II.— IN THE SEASON. 
 
 I. A HOSE OF JUNE ......... 278 
 
 II. Elsie's friend .......... 289 
 
 :ir. AN ACTRESS AT HOME ........ 296 
 
 iV. THE 0\LY WAY OUT OF IT . . . . . . . 302 
 
 V. THE ENGAGEMENT 30S 
 
 VI. HUSBAND AND WIFE . . . . . . . . . 313 
 
 VIT. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM ........ 320 
 
 VIII. HER SIMPLE DUTY ......... 325 
 
 IX. SHALL I TELL HER? ........ S31 
 
 X. WIFE AND FIANCEE ......... 336 
 
 XT. BROKEN OFF .......... 342 
 
 XII. POOR TOM .......... o46 
 
 XIII. FAREWELL .......... 351 
 
 XIV. AN AUSPICIOUS DAY ..... ^ ., . 357 
 
 THE HUIIBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS . 362 
 
 THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER .... 387 
 
THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 
 
 Perhaps the most eventful day in the story of which I have to tell, 
 was that on which the veil of doubt and misery which had hung 
 before the eyes of Lai Rydc^uist for three long years was partly 
 lifted. It was so eventful, that I venture to relate what happened 
 on that day first of all, even though it tells half the story at tha 
 very beginning. That we need not care much to consider, because, 
 although it is the story of a great calamity long dreaded and 
 happily averted, it is a story of sorrow borne bravely, of faith, 
 loyalty, and courage. A story such as one loves to tell, because, in 
 the world of fiction, at least, virtue should always triumph, and 
 true hearts be rewarded. \Vlierefore, if there be any who love 
 to read of the mockeries of fate, the wasting of good women's love, 
 the success of craft and treachery, instances of which are not 
 wanting in the world, let them go elsewhere, or make a Clu^istmas 
 tale for themselves ; and their joy bells, if they like it, shall be the 
 funeral knell, and their noels a dii-ge beside the grave of ruined and 
 despairing innocence, and for their feast they may have the bread 
 and water of affliction. 
 
 The name of the girl of whom we are to speak was Alicia Ryd- 
 quist, called by all her friends Lai ; the place of her birth and 
 home was a certain little-known suburb of London, called R^other- 
 liithe. She was not at all an aristocratic person, being nothing but 
 the daughter of a Swedish sea-captain and an English wife. Her 
 father was dead, and, after his death, the widow kept a captains' 
 boarding-house, which of late, for reasons which will presently 
 appear, had greatly risen in repute. 
 
 The day which opens my story, the day big with fate, the day 
 from which everything that follows in Lai's life, whether that be 
 ehort or long, will be dated, was the fourteenth of October, in tha 
 
 3 
 
2 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 grievous year of rain and ruin, one thousand eight hunrlred and 
 seventy-nine. And though the summer was that year clean for- 
 gotten, so that there was no summer at all, but only the rain and 
 cold of a continual and ungracious April, yet there were vouchsafed 
 a few gracious days of consolation in the autumn, whereof this waa 
 <jne, in which the sun was as bright and warm as if he had been 
 doing his duty like a British sailor all the summer long, and waa 
 proud of it, and meant to go on giving joy to mankind until fog 
 and gloom time, cloud and snow time, black frost and white frost 
 time, short days and long nights time, should put a stop to hi«» 
 benevolent intentions. 
 
 At eleven o'clock in the forenoon, both the door and the 
 window belonging to the kitchen of the last house of the row called 
 ' Seven Houses ' were standing ojjen for the air and the sunshine. 
 
 As to the window, which had a warm south aspect, it looked 
 upon a chujchyard. A grape vine grew upon the side of the house, 
 and some of its branches trailed across the ujjper panes, making a 
 green drapery which was pleasant to look upon, though none of its 
 leaves this year were able to grow to their usual generous ampli- 
 tude, by reason of the ungenerous season. The churchyard itself 
 was planted with planes, lime-trees, and elms, whose foliage, for 
 the like reason, was not yellow, as is generally the case with such 
 trees in mid-October, but was still green and sweet to look upon. 
 The burying-ground was not venerable for antiquity, because it was 
 less than a hundred years old, church and all ; but yet it was pleas- 
 ing and grateful — a churchyard which filled the mind with thoughts 
 of rest and sleep, with pleasant dreams. Now, the new cemeteries 
 must mostly be avoided, because one who considers them falls pre- 
 sently into grievous melancholy, which, unless diverted, produces 
 insanity, suicide, or emigration. They lend a new and a horrid pang 
 to death. 
 
 It is difficult to explain why this churchyard, more than others, 
 is a pleasant &\}o{i : partly, perhaps, on account of the bright and 
 cheerful look of the place in which it stands ; then, there are not 
 many graves in it, and these are mostly covered or honoured by 
 grey tombstones, partly moss-grown. On this day the sunshine fell 
 upon them gently, with intervals of shifting shade, through the 
 branches ; and though the place around was beset with noises, yet, 
 as these were always the same, and never ceased except at night, 
 they were not regarded by those who lived there, and so the 
 churchyard seemed full of peace and quiet. The dead men who lie 
 there are of that blameless race who venture themselves upon the 
 unquiet ocean. The dead women are the wives of the men, their 
 anxieties now over and done. When such men are gone, they are, 
 for the most part, spoken of with good will, because they have 
 never harmed any others but themselves, and have been kind- 
 bearted to the weak. And so, from all these causes together, from 
 the trees and the sunshine, and the memory of the dead sailors, it 
 is a churchyard which suggested peaceful thoughts. 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 8 
 
 At all events it did not sadden tlie children when they came out 
 frum the school, built in one corner of it, nor did its presence ever 
 disturb or sadden the mind of the girl who was making a pudding 
 in the kitchen. There were sparrows in the branches, and in one 
 tree sat a blackbird, now and then, late as it was, delivering himself 
 of one note, just to remind himself of the past, and to keep his 
 voice in practice against next spring. 
 
 The girl was fair to look upon, and, while she made her pud- 
 ding, with sleeves turned back and Hecks of white flour upon her 
 white arms, and a white apron tied roundher waist, stretching from 
 chin to feet like a child's pinafore or a long bib, she sang snatches 
 of songs, yet finished none of them ; and when you come to look 
 closer into her face you saw that her cheeks were thin and her eyes 
 sorrowful, and that her lips trembled from time to time. Yet she 
 was not thinking out her sad thoughts to their full capabilities of 
 bitterness, as some women are wont to do — as, in fact, her own 
 mother had done for close upon twenty years, and was still doing, 
 having a like cause for plaint and lamentation ; only the sad 
 thoughts came and went across her mind, as birds fly across a 
 garden, while she continued deftly and swiftly to carry on her 
 work. 
 
 At this house, which was none other than the well-known Cap- 
 tains' boarding-house, sometimes called ' Rydquist's, of Rother- 
 hithe,' the puddings and pastry were her special and daily charge. 
 The making of puddings is the poetry of simple cookery. One is 
 born, not made, for puddings. To make a pudding worthy of the 
 name requires not only that special gift of nature, a light and cool 
 hand, but also a clear intelligence and the power of concentrated 
 attention, a gift in itself, as many lament when the sermon is over 
 and they remember none of it. If the thoughts wander, even for a 
 minute, the work is ruined. The instinctive feeling of right pro- 
 portion in the matter of flour, lemon-peel, currants, sugar, allspice, 
 eggs, butter, breadcrumbs : the natural eye for colour, form, and 
 symmetry, which are required before one can ever begin even to 
 think of becoming a maker of puddings, are all lost and thrown 
 away, unless the attention is fixed resolutely upon the progress of 
 the work. Now, there was one pudding, a certain kind of plum- 
 duif, made by these hands, the recollection of which was wont to 
 fill the hearts of those Captains who were privileged to eat of it 
 with tender yearnings whenever they thought upon it, whether far 
 away on southern seas, or on the broad Pacific, or in the shallow 
 Baltic ; and it nerved their hearts when battling with the gales, 
 while yet a thousand knots at least lay between their plunging 
 boM's and the Commercial Docks, to think that they were home- 
 ward bound, and that Lai would greet them with that pudding. 
 
 As the girl rolled her dough upon the Avhite board and looked 
 thoughtfully upon the little heaps of ingredients, she sang, as I 
 have said, scraps of songs ; but this was just as a man at work, as 
 a carpenter at his bench or a cobbler over his boot, will whistle 
 
 b2 
 
& THE CAPTAINS' BO 031. 
 
 scraps of tunes, not because his mind is touched with the beauty of 
 tlie melody, but because this little action relieves the tension of the 
 brain for a moment, without diverting the attention or disturbing 
 tlie current of thought. She was dressed — behind the big apron — ■ 
 in a cotton print, made n\y by her own hands, which were as clever 
 with the needle as with the rolling-pin. It was a dress made of a 
 sympatlietic stufl' — there are many such tissues in every draper's 
 shop — which, on being cut out, sewn up, and converted into a 
 feminine garment, immediately proceeds, of its ovn\ accord, to 
 interpret and illustrate the character of its owner ; so tliat for a 
 shrew it becomes draggle-tailed, and for a lady careless of her 
 figure, or conscious that it is no longer any use pretending to have 
 a iigure, it rolls itself up in unlovely folds, or becomes a mii'acle of 
 flatness ; and for a lady of prim temperament it ai-ranges itself into 
 stiff vertical lines ; and for an old lady, if she is a nice old lady, it 
 wrinkles itself into ten thousand lines, which cross and recross each 
 other like the lines upon her dear old face, and all to bring her 
 more respect and greater consideration ; but for a girl whose fiiguj-e 
 is tall and well-formed, this accommodating material becomes as 
 clinging as the ivj, and its lines are every one of them an exact 
 copy of Hogarth's line of beauty, due allowance being made for the 
 radius of curvature. 
 
 I do not think I can give a better or clearer account of this 
 maiden's dress, even if I were to say how-much-and-eleven-pence- 
 three-farthings it was a yard and where it was bought. As for that, 
 however, I am certain it came from Bjornsen's shop, where English 
 is spoken, and where they have got in the window,' not to be sold 
 at any price, the greatest curiosity in the whole world (excej^t the 
 Golden Butterfly from Sacramento), namely, a beautiful model of a 
 steamer, with everything complete — rigging, ropes, sails, funnel, 
 and gear — the whole in a glass bottle. And if a man can tell how 
 that steamer got into that bottle, which is a common glass bottle 
 with a narrow neck, he is wiser than any of the scientific gentlemen 
 who have tackled the problems of Stonehenge, the Pyramids, the 
 Yucatan inscriptions, or the Etruscan langua,ge. 
 
 That is what slie had on. As for herself, she was a tall girl ; 
 her figm-e was slight and graceful, yet she was strong ; her waist 
 measured just exactly the same number of inches as that of her 
 grandmother Eve, whom she greatly resembled in beauty. Eve, as 
 we cannot but believe, was the most lovely of women ever known, 
 even including Rachel, Esther, Helen of Troy, Ayesha, and fair 
 Bertha- with- the-big-feet. The colour of her hair depended a good 
 deal upon the weather : when it was cloudy it was dark brown ; 
 when the sunlight fell upon it her hair was golden. There was 
 quite enough of it to tie about her waist for a gii'dle, if she was so 
 minded ; and she was so little of a fine lady, that she would rather 
 ^lave had it brown in all weathers, and was half ashamed of its 
 golden tint. 
 
 It soothes the heart to speak of a beautiful woman ; the cou- 
 
TBE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 8 
 
 templation of one respectfully is, in itself, to all rightly constituted 
 masculine minds, a splendid moral lesson. 
 
 'Here,' says the moralist to himself, 'is the greatest prize that 
 the earth has to ofier to the sons of Adam. One must make oneself 
 worthy of such a prize ; no one should possess a goddess who is 
 not himself godlike.' 
 
 Having drawn his moral, the philosopher leaves off gazing, and 
 returns, with a sigh, to his work. If you look too long, the moral 
 is apt to evaporate and vanish away. 
 
 The door of the kitchen opened upon the garden, which was not 
 broad, being only a few feet broader than the width of the house, 
 but was long. It was planted with all manner of herbs, such as 
 thyme, which is good for stuffing of veal ; mint, for seasoning of 
 that delicious compound, and as sauce for the roasted lamb ; borage, 
 which profligates and topers employ for claret-cup, though what it 
 was here used for 1 know not ; parsley, good for garnish, which 
 may also be chopped up small and fried ; cucumber, chiefly known 
 at the West End in connection with salmon, but not disdained in 
 the latitude of Rotherhithe for breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, in 
 combination with vinegar or anything else, for cucumber readily 
 adapts itself to all palates save those set on edge with picksomeness. 
 Then there were vegetables, such as onions, which make a noble 
 return for the small space they occupy, and are universally admitted 
 to be the most delightful of all roots that grow ; lettuces, crisp and 
 green : the long lettuce and the round lettuce all the summer ; the 
 scarlet-runner, which runneth in brave apparel, and eats short in 
 the autumn, going well with leg of mutton ; and, at the end of the 
 strip of ground, a small forest of Jerusalem artichoke, fit for the 
 garden of the Queen. As for flowers, they were nearly over for the 
 year, but there were trailing nasturtiums, long sprigs of faint 
 mignonette, and one great bully hollyhock ; there were also, in 
 boxes, painted green, creeping- jenny, bachelors'-button, thrift, 
 ragged-robin, stocks, and candy-tuft, but all over for the season. 
 There was a cherry-tree trained against the wall, and beside it a 
 peach ; there were also a Siberian crab, a medlar, and a mulberry- 
 tree. A few raspberry-canes were standing for show, because 
 among them all there had not been that year enough fruit to fill a 
 plate. The garden was separated from the churchyard by wooden 
 palings, painted green ; this made it look larger than if there had 
 been a wall. It was, in fact, a garden in which not one inch of 
 ground was wasted ; the paths were only six inches wide, and 
 wherever a plant could be coaxed to grow, there it stood in its 
 allotted space. The wall fruit was so carefully trained that there 
 was not a stalk or shoot out of place ; the flower borders wei e so 
 carefully trimmed that there was not a weed or a dead flower ; while 
 as for grass, snails, slugs, bindweed, dandelion, broken flower-pot, 
 brickbat, and other such things, which do too frequently disfigure 
 the gardens of the more careless, it is delightful to record that there 
 was not in tliis little slice of Eden so much as the appearance or 
 
6 THE CAPTAiyS' BOOM. 
 
 suspicion of such a thing. The reason why it was so neat and so 
 well watched was that it was the delight and paradise of the 
 captains, who, by their united efforts, made it as neat, snug, and 
 orderly as one of their own cabins. There were live creatures iu 
 the garden, too. On half a dozen crossbars, painted green, were 
 just so many parrots. They were all trained parrots, who could 
 talk and did talk, not altogether as is the use of parrots, who too 
 often give way to the selfishness of the old Adam, but one at a time, 
 and deliberately, as if they were instructing mankind in some new 
 and great truth, or delighting them with some fresh and striking 
 poetical ejaculation. One would cough slowly, and then dash his 
 buttons. If ladies were not in hearing he would remember othei 
 expressions savouring of fo'k'sle rather than of quarter-deck. 
 Another would box the compass as if for an exercise in the art of 
 navigation. Another seldom spoke except when his mistress came 
 and stroked his feathers with her soft and dainty finger. The bird 
 was growing old now, and his feathers were dropping out, and 
 what this bird said you shall presently hear. 
 
 Next there was a great kangaroo hound, something under six 
 feet liigh when he walked. Now he was lying asleep. Beside him 
 was a little Maltese dog, white and curly ; and in a corner — the 
 warmest corner— there was an old and toothless bulldog. Other 
 things there were — some in boxes, some in partial confinement, or 
 by a string tied to one leg, some running about — such as tortoises, 
 hedgehogs, Pei'sian cats, Angola cats, lemurs, ferrets, Madagascar 
 cats. But they were not all in the garden, some of them, including 
 a mongoose and a flying-fox, having their abode on the roof, where 
 they were tended faitlifuUy by Captain Zachariasen. In the 
 kitchen, also, which was warm, there resided a chameleon. 
 
 Now, all these things — the parrots, the dogs, the cats, the 
 lemurs, and the rest of them — were gifts and presents brought 
 across the seas by amorous -captains to be laid at the shrine of one 
 Venus— of com^se I know that there never can be more than one 
 Venus at a time to any well-regulated male mind — whom all wooed 
 and none could win. There were many other gifts, but these were 
 within doors, safely bestowed. It may also be remarked that 
 Venus never refuses to accept oflerings which are laid upon her 
 altar with becoming reverence. Thus there were the fragile coral 
 fingers, named after the goddess, from the Philippine Islands ; there 
 were chests of the rich and fragrant tea which China grows for 
 Russia. You cannot buy it at all here, and in Hong-Kong only as 
 a favour, and at unheard-of prices. There were cups and saucers 
 from Japan ; fans of the coco de mer from the Seychelles ; carved 
 ivory boxes and sandal-wood boxes from China and India ; weapons 
 of strange aspect from Malay islands ; idols from Ceylon ; praying 
 tackle brought down to Calcutta by some wandering Thibetan ; 
 with fans, glasses, mats, carpets, pictures, chairs, desks, tables, and 
 even beds, from lands (V outre mer, insomtich that the house looked 
 like a great museum or curiosity-shop. And everything, if y(ju 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE 3IUTE. 7 
 
 please, brought across the sea and presented by the original im- 
 porters to the beautiful Alicia Rydquist, communly called Lai by 
 those who were her friends, and Miss Lai by those who wished to 
 be, but were not, and had to remain outside, so to speak, and 
 all going, in consequence, green with envy. 
 
 On this morning there were also in the garden two men. One 
 of them was a very old man — so old that there was nothing left of 
 him but was puckered and creased, and his face was like one of 
 those too faithful maps which want to give eveiy detail of tlie 
 country, e\^en the smallest. This was Captain Zachariasen, a Dane 
 by birth, but since the age of eight on an English ship, so that he 
 had clean forgotten his native language. He had been for very 
 many years in the timber trade between the ports of Bergen and 
 London. He was now, in the protracted evening of his days, 
 enjoying an annuity purchased out of his savings. He resided 
 constantly in the house, and was the dean, or oldest member anwng 
 the boarders. He said himself sometimes that he was eighty-five, 
 and sometimes he said he wa§ ninety, but old age is apt to boast. 
 One would not baulk him of a single year, and certainly he was 
 very, very old. 
 
 This morning, he sat on a green box half-way down the garden 
 — all the boxes, cages, railings, shutters, and doors of the house 
 were painted a bright navy-green — with a hammer and nails in his 
 hand, and sometimes he drove in a nail, but slowly and with con- 
 sideration, as if noise and haste would confuse that nail's head, and 
 make it go loose, like a screw. Between each tap he gazed around 
 and smiled with pleased benevolence. The younger man, who was 
 about thirty years of age, was weeding. That is, he said so. He 
 had a spucl with which to conduct that operation, but there were 
 no weeds. He also had a pair of scissors, with which he cut off 
 dead leaves. This was Captain Holstius, also of the mercantile 
 marine, and a Norwegian. He was a smartly-dressed sailor — wore 
 a blue cloth jacket, with trousers of the same ; a red silk handker- 
 chief was round his waist ; his cap had a gold band round it, and a 
 heavy steel chain guarded his watch. His face was kind to look 
 upon. One noticed, especially, a greyish bloom upon a ruddy 
 cheek. It was an oval face, sucli as you may see in far-off Bam- 
 borough, or on Holy Island, with blue eyes ; and he had a gentle 
 voice. One wonders whether the Normans, Avho so astonished the 
 world a thousand years ago, were soft of speech, mild of eye, kind 
 of heart, like their descendants. Were Bohemond, Robert the 
 Dovil, great Canute, like unto this gentle Captain Holstius ? And 
 if so, why were they so greatly feared ? And if not, how is it that 
 their sons have so greatly changed ? They were sailors — the men 
 of old. But sailors acquire an expression of unworldliness not found 
 among us who have to battle with worldly and crafty men. They 
 are not tempted to meet craft with craft, and treachery with deceit. 
 They do not cheat ; they are not tempted to cheat. Therefore, 
 although the Vikings were ferocious and bloodthirsty pirates, 
 
8 TBE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 thinking it but a small thing to land and spit a dozen Saxons or so, 
 burn their homesteads, and carry away their pigs, yet, no doubt, 
 in the domestic circle, they were mild and gentle, easily ruled by 
 their wives, and obedient even to taking charge of the baby, which 
 was the reason why they were called, in the pronunciation of tlib 
 day, the hardy Nursemen. 
 
 A remarkable thing about that garden was that if you looked 
 to the north, over the garden walls of the Seven Houses, you ob- 
 tained, tlrrough a kind of narrow lane, a glimpse of a narrow 
 breadth of water, with houses on either side to make a frame. It 
 was like a little strip of some panorama which never stops, because 
 up and down the water there moved perpetually steamers, sailing- 
 sliips, barges, boats, and craft of all kinds. Then, if you turned 
 completely round, and looked south, you saw, beyond the trees in 
 the churchyard, a great assemblage of yard-arms, masts, ropes, 
 hanging sails, and rigging. And from this quarter there was heard 
 continually the noise of labour that ceaseth not — the labour of 
 hammers, saws, and hatchets ; the labour of lifting hea\'y burdens, 
 with the encouraging ' Yo-ho ' ; the labour of men who load ships 
 and unload them ; the labour of those who repair ships ; the ring- 
 ing of bells which call to labour ; the agitation which is caused in 
 the air when men are gathered together to work. Yet the place, 
 as has been already stated, was peaceful. The calm of the garden 
 was equalled by the repose of the open place on which the windows 
 of the house looked, and by the peace of the churchyard. The 
 noise was Avithout ; it afiected no one's nerves ; it was continuous, 
 and, therefore, was not felt any more than the ticking of a watch 
 or the beating of the pulse. 
 
 The old man presently laid down his hammer, and spoke, say- 
 ing, softly : 
 
 ' Nor — wee — gee.' 
 
 'Ay, ay, Captain Zachariasen,' replied the other, pronouncing 
 the name with a foreign accent, and speaking a pure English, 
 something like a Welshman's English. They both whispered, 
 because the kitchen door was open, and Lai might hear. But 
 they were too far down the garden for her to overhear their talk. 
 
 ' Any luck this spell, lad '] ' 
 
 The old man spoke in a meaning way, with a piping voice, and 
 he v/inked both his eyes hard, as if he was trying to stretch the 
 wrinkles out of his face. 
 
 Captain Holstius replied, evasively, that he had not sought 
 for luck, and, therefore, had no reason to complain of unsuccess. 
 
 ' I mean, lad,' whispered the old man, ' have you spoke the 
 barque which once we called the Saucy Lai ] And if not ' — be- 
 cause here the young man shook his head, while his rosy cheek 
 showed a deeper red — ' if not, why not ? ' 
 
 'Because,' said Captain Holstius, speaking slowly — 'because I 
 epoke her six months ago, and she told me ' 
 
 Here he sighed heavily. 
 
TEE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 9 
 
 ' What did slie tell you, my lad 1 Did she say that she wanted 
 to be carried off and married, whether she liked it or not 1 ' 
 
 'No, she did not.' 
 
 ' That was my way, when I was young. I always carried 'em 
 oflF. I married 'em first and axed 'em afterwards. Sixty year ago, 
 that was. Ay, nigh upon seventy, whicli makes it the more com- 
 fortable a thing for a man in his old age to remember.' 
 
 ' Lai tells me that she will wait five years more before she 
 gives him up, and even then she will marry no one, but put on 
 mourning, and go in widow's weeds — being not even a wife.' 
 
 ' Five years ! ' said Captain Zachariasen. ' 'Tis a long time for 
 a woman to wait for a man. Five years will take the bloom off of 
 her pretty cheeks, and the plumpness off" of her lines, which is 
 now in the height of their curliness. Five years to wait ! Why, 
 there won't be a smile left on her rosy lips. Whereas, if you'd 
 the heart of a loblolly boy, Cap'en Holstius, you'd ha' run her 
 round to the church long ago, spoke to the clerk, whistled for the 
 parson, while she was still occupied with the pudding and had her 
 thoughts far away, and — well, there, in five years' time she'd be 
 playin' with a four-year-old, or, may be, twins, as happy as if there 
 hadn't never been no Cap'en Armiger at all.' 
 
 ' Five years,' Captain Holstius echoed, ' is a long time to wait. 
 But any man would wait longer than that for Lai, even if he did 
 not get her, after all.' 
 
 ' Five years ! It will be eight, counting the three she has 
 already waited for her dead sweetheart. No woman, in the old 
 days, was ever expected to cry more than one. Not in my day. 
 No woman ever waited for me, nor dropped one tear, for more 
 
 than one twelvemonth, sixty years ago, when I was dr .' Here 
 
 he recollected that he could never have been drowned, so far back 
 as his memory served. That experience had been denied him. 
 He stopped short. 
 
 ' She tliinks of him,' Captain Holstius went on, seating himself 
 on another box, face to face with the old man, ' all day ; she 
 dreams of him all night ; there is no moment that he is not in her 
 thought — I know because I have watched her ; she does not speak 
 of him : even if she sings at her work, her heart is always sad.' 
 
 ' Poor Rex Armiger ! Poor Rex Armiger ! ' This was the 
 voice of the old parrot, who lifted his beak, repeated his cry, and 
 then subsided. 
 
 Captain Holstius's eyes grew soft and humid, for he was a 
 tender-hearted Norwegian, and he j^itied as well as loved the 
 girl. 
 
 ' Poor Rex Armiger ! ' he echoed : ' his parrot remembers 
 him.' 
 
 ' She is wrong,' said the old man, ' very wrong. I always tell 
 her so. Fretting has been known to make the pastry heavy : 
 tears spoil gravy.' He stated this great truth as if it was a well- 
 known maxim, taker from the Book of Proverbs. 
 
.10 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 ' That was the third time that I spoke to her ; the third time 
 that she gave me the same reply. Shall I teaze her more ? No, 
 Captain Zachariasen, I have had my answer, and I know my 
 duty.' 
 
 ' It's hard, my lad, for a sailor to bear. Why, you may ba 
 dead in two years, let alone five. Most likely you will. You look 
 as if you will. What with rocks at sea and sharks on land, most 
 sailoi's, even skippers, by thirty years of age, is nummore. And 
 though some ' — here he tried to recollect the words of Scripture, 
 and only succeeded in part — ' by good seamanship escape, and live 
 to seventy and eighty, or even, as in my case, by a judgmatic 
 course and fair winds, come to eighty-five and three months last 
 Sunday, yet in their latter days there is but little headway, the 
 craft lying always in the doldrums, and the rations, too, often 
 short. Five years is long for Lai to wait in suspense, poor girl ! 
 Take and go and find another girl, therefore,' the old man 
 advised. 
 
 'No' — the Norwegian shook his head sadly — 'there is only 
 one woman in all the world for me.' 
 
 'Why, there, there,' the old Captain cried, 'what are young 
 fellows coming to % To cry after one woman ! I've given you my 
 advice, my lad, which is good advice ; likely to be beneficial to the 
 boarders, especially them which are permanent, because the sooner 
 the trouble is over, the better it'll be for meals. I did hear there 
 Avas a bad egg, yesterday. To think of Rydquist's coming to bad 
 eggs ! But if a gal will go on fretting after young fellows that is . 
 long since food for crabs, what are Ave to expect but bad eggs ? 
 INIarry her, my lad, or sheer ofl', and marry some one else. P'raps, 
 when you are out of the way, never to come back again, she will 
 take on with some other chap.' 
 
 Captain Holstius shook his head again. 
 
 ' If Lai, after three years of waiting, says she cannot get him 
 out of her heart — why, why there will be nothing to do, no help, 
 because she knows best what is in her heart, and I would not that 
 she married me out of pity.' 
 
 ' Come to pity ! ' said Captain Zachariasen, ' she can't marry you 
 all out of pity. There's Cap'en Borlinder and Cap'en Wattles, 
 good mariners both, also after her. Should you like her to marry 
 them out of pity ? ' 
 
 ' I need not think of marriage at all,' said the Norwegian. ' I 
 think of Lai's happiness. If it will be happier for her to marry 
 me, or Captain Borlinder, or Captain Wattles, or any other man, 
 I hope that she will marry that man ; and if she Avill be happier in 
 remembering her dead lover, I hope that she will remain without a 
 husband. All should be as she may most desire.' 
 
 Then the girl herself suddenly appeared in the doorway, shad- 
 ing her eyes from the sunshine, a pretty picture, with the flour 
 still upon her arms, and her white bib still tied round her. 
 
 'It is time for your morning beer, Captain Zachariasen,' she 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 11 
 
 said. ' Will you have it in the kitchen, or shall I bring it to you 
 in the garden ? ' 
 
 ' I will take my beer, Lai,' replied the old man, getting up 
 from the box, 'by the kitchen fire.' 
 
 fie slowly rose and walked, being much bent and bowed by the 
 weight of his years, to the kitchen door. 
 
 Captain Holstius followed him. 
 
 There was a wooden armchair beside the fire, which was bright 
 and large, for the accommodation of a great piece of veal already 
 hung before it. The old man sat down in it, and took the glass of 
 ale, cool, sparkling, and foaming, from Lai's hand. 
 
 ' Thoughtful child,' he said, holding it up to the light, ' she for- 
 gets nothing — except what she ought most to forget.' 
 
 'You are pale to-day, Lai,' said the Norwegian, gently. ' Will 
 you come with me upon the river this afternoon I ' 
 
 Slie shook her head sadly. 
 
 ' Have you forgotten what day this is, of all daj's in the year ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 Captain Holstius made no reply. 
 
 ' This day, tlu-ee years ago, I got his last letter. It was four 
 months since he sailed away. Ah me ! I stood upon the steps of 
 Lavender Dock and saw his ship slowly coming down the river. 
 Can I ever forget it 1 Then I jumped into the boat and pulled out 
 mid-stream, and he saw me and waved his handkerchief. And that 
 was the last I saw of Rex. This day, three years and four months 
 ago, and at this very time, in the forenoon.' 
 
 The old man, who had drained his glass and was feeling just a 
 little evanescent headiness, began to prattle in his armchair, not 
 having listened to their talk. 
 
 ' I am eighty-five and three months, last Sunday ; and this is 
 beautiful beer, Lai, my dear. 'Twill be hard upon a man to leave 
 such a tap. With the Cap'ens' room ; and you, my Lai.' 
 
 ' Don't think of such things, Captain Zachariasen,' cried Lai, 
 wiping away the tear which had risen in sympathy for her own 
 sorrows, not for his. 
 
 ' 'Tis best not,' he replied, cheerfully. ' Veal, I see. Roast 
 veal ! Be large-handed with the seasonin', Lai. And beans ? Ah ! 
 and apple-dumplings. The credit of Rydcj[uist's must be kept up. 
 Remember that, Lai. AVherefore, awake, my soul, and with the 
 sun. Things there are that should be forgotten. I am eighty-five 
 and a quarter last Sunday, like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob— even 
 Methusalem was eighty-five once, when he was little more than a 
 boy, and never a grey hair — and, like the patriarchs at then* best 
 and oldest, I have gotten wisdom. Then, listen. Do I, being of 
 this great age, remember the gals that I have loved, and the gals 
 who have loved me ? N"o. Yet are they all gone like that young 
 man of yourn, gone away and past like gales across the sea. They 
 are gone, and I am hearty. I shall never see them nummore ; yet 
 I sit down regular to meals, and still play a steady knife and fork. 
 
12 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 And what I say is this : " Lai, my dear, wipe them pretty eyes with 
 your best silk pockethandkercher, put on your best frock, and go 
 to church in it for to be married." ' 
 
 ' Thank you. Captain Zachariasen,' said the girl, not pertly, but 
 with a quiet dignity. 
 
 ' Do not,' the old man wont on — his eyes kept dropping, and 
 his words rambled a little — ' do not listen to Nick Borlinder. Ho 
 Bings a good song, and he shakes a good leg. Yet he is a rover. I 
 was once myself a rover.' 
 
 She made no reply. He yawned slowly and went on : 
 
 ' He thinks, he does, as no woman can resist him. I used to 
 have the same persuasion, and I found it sustaining in a friendly 
 port.' 
 
 ' I do not suppose,' said Lai, softly, ' that I shall listen to 
 Captain Borlinder.' 
 
 'Next,' the old man contim;ed, 'there is Cap'en Wattles. 
 Don't listen to Wattles, my dear. It is not that he is a Yankee, 
 because a Cap'en is a Cap'en, no matter what his country, and I 
 was, myself, once a Dane, when a boy, nigh upon eighty yeai's ago, 
 and drank corn brandy, very likely, though I have forgotten that 
 time, and cannot now away with it. Wattles is a smart seaman ; 
 but Wattles, my dear, wouldn't make you hapj^y. You want a 
 cheerful lad, but no drinker and toper like Borlinder ; nor so quiet 
 and grave as Wattles, which isn't natural, afloat nor ashore, and 
 means the devil.' 
 
 Here he yawned again and his eyes closed. 
 
 ' Very good, sir,' said Lai. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear — yes — and this is a very — comfortable — chair.' 
 
 His head fell back. The old man was asleep. 
 
 Then Captain Holstius drew a chair to the kitchen door, and 
 Bat down, saying nothing, not looking at Lai, yet with the air of 
 one who was watching over and protecting her. 
 
 And Lai sat beside the row of freshly-made dumplings, and rested 
 her head upon her hands, and gained out into the churchyard. 
 
 Presently her eyes filled with tears, and one of them in each 
 eye overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. And the same pheno- 
 menon might have been witnessed directly afterwards in the eyes 
 of the sympathetic Norweegee. 
 
 It was very quiet, except, of course, for the screaming of the 
 steam-engines on the river, and the hammering, yo-ho-ing, and 
 bell-ringing of the Commercial Docks ; and these, which never 
 ceased, were never regarded. Therefore, the calm was as the calm 
 of a Sabbath in some Galilean village, and broken only in the 
 kitchen by the ticking of the roasting-jack, and an occasional remark 
 made, in a low tone, by a parrot. 
 
 Captain Holstius said nothing. He stayed there because he 
 felt, in his considerate way, that his presence soothed and, in some 
 sort, comforted the girl. It cost him little to sit there doing nothing 
 at all. 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 13 
 
 Of all men that get their bread by labour it is the sailor alone 
 who can be perfectly happy doing nothing for long hours together. 
 He does not even want to whittle a stick. 
 
 As for us restless landsmen, we must be continually talking, 
 reading, walking, fishing, shooting, rowing, smoking tobacco, or in 
 Bome other way wearing out brain and muscle. 
 
 The sailor, for his part, sits down and lets time run on, unaided. 
 He is accustomed to the roll of his ship and the gentle swish of the 
 waves tlirough which she sails. At sea he sits so for hours, while 
 the breeze blows steady and the sails want no alteration. 
 
 So passed half an hour. 
 
 While they were thus sitting in silence, Lai suddenly lifted her 
 head, and held up her finger, saying, softly, 
 
 ' Hush ! I hear a step.' 
 
 The duller ears of her companion heard nothing but the usual 
 sounds, which included the trampling of many feet afar oft". 
 
 ' What step 1 ' he asked. 
 
 Her cheeks were gone suddenly c^uite white and a strange look 
 WAS in her eyes. 
 
 ' Not his,' she said. ' Oh, not the step of my Res ; but I know 
 it well for all that. The step of one who All ! listen ! ' 
 
 Then, indeed. Captain Holstius became aware of a light hesitat- 
 ing step. It halted at the open door (which always stood open for 
 the convenience of the Captains), and entered the narrow hall. It 
 was a light step, for it was the step of a barefooted man. 
 
 Then the kitchen door was opened softly, and Lai sprang for- 
 ward, crying madly : 
 
 ' Where is he ? Where is he ? Oh, he is not dead ! ' 
 
 At the sound of the gh-l's cry the whole sleepy place sprang into 
 life ; the dogs woke up and ran about, barking with an immense 
 show of alertness, exactly as if the enemy was in force without the 
 walls ; the Persian cat, which ought to have known better, made 
 one leap to the palings, on which she stood with arched back and 
 upright tail, looking unutterable rage ; and the parrots all screamed 
 together. 
 
 When the noise subsided, the new comer stood in the doorway. 
 Lai was holding both his hands, crying and sobbing. 
 
 Outside, the old parrot repeated : 
 
 ' Poor Rex Armiger ! Poor Rex Armiger ! ' 
 
 Captain Zachariasen, roused from his morning nap, was looking 
 about him, wondering what had happened. 
 
 Captain Holstius stood waiting to see what was going to happen. 
 
 The man, who was short in stature, not more than five feet 
 three, wore a rough cloth sailor's cap, and was barefoot. He was 
 dressed in a jacket, below which he wore a kind of petticoat, 
 called, I believe, by his countrymen, who ought to know their own 
 language, a ' sarong.' His skin was a copper colour ; his eyes dark 
 bro'wn ; his face was square, with high cheek-bones ; his eyes were 
 soft, full, and black ; liis mouth was large with thick lips ; his nose 
 
14 THE CAPTAISS' ROOM. 
 
 v^'as short and small, -n^ith flat nostrils ; his hair was black and 
 coarse — all these characteristics stamped him as a Malay. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen rubbed his eyes. 
 
 ' Ghosts ashore ! ' he murmured. ' Ghost of Deaf-and-Cumb 
 Dick ! ' 
 
 ' Who is Dick ? ' answered Captain Holstius. 
 
 ' Captain Armiger's steward — same as was drowned aboard the 
 ' Philippine ' three years ago along with his master and all hands. 
 Kever, nevermore heard of, and he's come back.' 
 
 The Malay man shook his head slowly. He kept on shaking it, 
 t(j show them that he quite understood what was meant, although 
 he heard no word. 
 
 ' Where is he ? Oh, where is he ! ' cried the girl again. 
 
 Then the dumb man looked in her face and smiled. He smiled 
 and nodded, and smiled again. 
 
 ' Like a Chinaman in an image,' said Captain Zachariasen. ' He 
 can't be a ghost at the stroke of noon. That's not Cliristian ways 
 nor Malay manners.' 
 
 But the smile, to Lai, was like the first cool draught of water to 
 the thirsty tongue of a wanderer in the desert. Could he have 
 smiled were Rex lying in his grave ? 
 
 A Malay who is deaf and dumb is, I suppose, as ignorant of his 
 native language as of English : but there is an atmosphere of 
 Malayan abroad in his native village out of which this poor fellow 
 picked a language of his own. That is to say, he was such a master 
 of gesture as in this cold land of self-restraint would be imj^ossible. 
 
 He nodded and smiled again. Then he laughed aloud, meaning 
 his most cheerful note ; biit the laughter of those who can neither 
 hear nor speak is a gruesome thing. 
 
 Then Lai, with shaking lingers, took from her bosom a locket, 
 which she opened and showed the man. It contained, of course, 
 the portrait of her lover. 
 
 He took it, recognised it, caught her by one hand, and then, 
 smiling still, pointed with eyes that looked afar towards the east. 
 
 'Lies buried in the Indian Ocean,' murmured the old man ; 'I 
 always said it.' 
 
 Lai heard him not. She fell upon the man's neck and 
 embraced and kissed him. 
 
 ' He is not dead,' she cried. ' You hear, Captain -Holstius ? 
 Oh, my friend, Rex is not dead. I knew he could not be dead — I 
 have felt that he was alive all this weary time. Oh, faithful Dick : ' 
 She patted the man's cheek and head as if he was a child. ' Oh, 
 good and faithful Dick ! what shall we give him as the reward for the 
 glad tidings ! We can give him nothing — nothing — only our grati- 
 tude and our love.' 
 
 ' And dinner, may be,' said Captain Zachariasen. ' No, not 
 the veal, my dear ; ' for the girl, in her hurry to do something for 
 this messenger of good tidings, made as if she would sacrifice the 
 joint, ' First, because underdone veal is unwholesome, even for 
 
TEE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 15 
 
 deaf and dumb Malays ; second, roast veal is not for the likes of 
 him, but for Cap'ens. That knuckle of cold pork now -' 
 
 Lai brought him food quickly, and he ate, being clearly 
 aungry. 
 
 ' Does he understand English ? ' asked Captain Holstius. 
 
 ' He is deaf and dumb ; he understands nothing.' 
 
 When he had broken bread, Dick stood again, and touched 
 the girl's arm, which was equivalent to saying, ' Listen, all of 
 you ! ' 
 
 The man stood before them in the middle of the room with the 
 open kitchen door behind him, and the sunlight shining upon him 
 through the kitchen window. And then he began to act, after the 
 fashion of that Roman mime, who was able to convey a whole story 
 with by-play, under-plot, comic talk, epigrams, tears, and joyful 
 surprises, without one word of speech. The gestures of this 
 Malay were, as I have said, a language by themselves. Some of 
 them, however, like hieroglyphics before the Rosetta Stone, wanted 
 a key. 
 
 The man's face was exceedingly mobile and full of quickness. 
 He kept his eyes upon the girl, regarding the two men not at all. 
 
 And this, in substance, was what he did. It was not all, be- 
 cause there were hundreds of little things, every one of which had 
 its meaning in his own mind, but which were unintelligible, save 
 by Lai, who followed him with feverish eagerness and attention. 
 Words are feeble things at their best, and cannot describe these 
 swift changes of face and attitude. 
 
 First, he retreated to the door, then leaped with a bound into 
 the room. Arrived there he looked about him a little, folded his 
 arms, and began to walk backwards and forwards, over a length of 
 six feet. 
 
 ' Come aboard, sir,' said Captain Zachariasen, greatly interested 
 and interpreting for the benefit of all. ' This is good mummicking, 
 this is.' 
 
 Then he began to jerk his hand over his shoulder each time he 
 stopped. And he stood half-way between the extremities of his 
 six-foot walk and lifted his head as one who watches the sky. At 
 the same time Lai remarked how by some trick of the facial 
 muscles, he had changed his own face. His features became 
 regular, his eyes intent and thoughtful, and in his attitude he waa 
 no longer himself, but — in appearance — Rex Armiger. 
 
 'They're clever at mummicking and conjuring,' said Captain 
 Zachariasen ; ' I've seen them hmg ago, in Calcutta, when I was 
 in ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' cried Lai imperatively. ' Do not speak ! Do not 
 interrupt.' 
 
 The Malay changed his face and attitude, and was no more Rex 
 Armiger, but himself ; then he held out his two hands, side by 
 side, horizontally, and moved them gently from left to right, and 
 right to left, with an easy wave-like motion, and at the same time 
 
16 THE CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 ]ie swung himself slowly backwards and forwards. It seemed to 
 the ghi to imitate the motion of a ship with a steady breeze ia 
 smooth water. 
 
 ' Go on,' she cried ; * I understand what you mean.' 
 
 The man heard nothing, but he saw that she followed him, and 
 he smiled and nodded his head. 
 
 He became once more Rex Armiger. He walked with folded 
 arms, he looked about him as one who commands and who has the 
 responsibility of the ship upon his mind. 
 
 Presently he lay down upon the floor, stretched out his legs 
 straight, and with his head upon his hands went to sleep. 
 
 ' Even the skipper's bunk is but a narrow one,' observed Captain 
 Zachariasen, to show that he was following the story, and proposed 
 to be the principal interpreter. 
 
 The dumb actor's slumber lasted but a few moments. Then he 
 sprang to his feet and began to stagger about. He stamped, he 
 groaned, he put his hand to his head, he ran backwards and for- 
 wards ; he presented the appearance of a man startled by some 
 accident ; he waved his arms, gesticulated wildly, put his hands to 
 his mouth as one who shouts. 
 
 Then he became a man who fought, who was dragged, who threat- 
 ened, who was struck, tramping all the while with his feet so as to 
 produce the impression of a crowd. 
 
 Then he sat down and appeared to be waiting, and he rocked to 
 and fro continually. 
 
 Next he went through a series of pantomimic exercises which 
 were extremely perplexing, for he strove with his hands as one 
 who strives with a rope, and he made as one who is going hand 
 over hand, now up, now down a rope ; and he ran to and fro, 
 but within narrow limits, and presently he sat down again, and 
 nodded his head and made signs as if he were communicating with 
 a com.panion, 
 
 ' Dinner-time,' said Captain Zachariasen, ' or, may be, supper.' 
 
 After awhile, still sitting, he made as if he held something in 
 his hand which he agitated with a regular motion. 
 
 ' E;Ockuig the baby,' said Captain Zachariasen, now feeling his 
 way surely. 
 
 Lai, gazing intently, paid no heed to tliis interruption. 
 
 Then he waved a handkerchief. 
 
 ' Aha 1 ' cried Captain Zachariasen ; ' I always did that myself.' 
 
 Then he lay down and rested his head again upon his arm ; but 
 Lai noticed that now he curled up his legs, and the tears came into 
 her eyes, because she saw that he, personating her Rex, seemed for 
 a moment to despair. 
 
 But he sat up again, and renewed that movement, as if with a 
 etick, which had made the old skipper think of babies. 
 
 Then he stopped again, and let both arms drop to his side, still 
 si tting. 
 
 ' Tired,' said Captain Zachariasen. ' Pipe smoke time.' 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 17 
 
 The Malay did not, however, make any show of smoking a pipe. 
 He sat a long time without moving, arms and head hanging. 
 
 Then he started, as if he recollected something suddenly, and 
 taking paper from his pocket, began to write. Then he went 
 through the motion of drinking, rolled up the paper very small, 
 and did something with it difficult to understand. 
 
 ' Sends her a letter,' said the Patriarch, nodding his head 
 sagaciously. ' I always wrote them one letter after I'd gone away, 
 8o's to let 'em down easy.' 
 
 This done, the Malay seated himself again, and remained sit- 
 ting some time. At intervals he lay down, his head upon his 
 hands as before, and his legs curled. 
 
 The last time he did this he lay for a long time— fully five 
 minutes — clearly intending to convey the idea of a considerable 
 duration of time. 
 
 When he sat up, he rubbed his eyes and looked about him. 
 He made motions of surprise and joy, and, as before, communi- 
 cated something to a companion. Then he seemed to grasp some- 
 thing, and began again the same regular movement, but with 
 feverish haste, and painfully, as if exhausted. 
 
 ' Baby again ! ' said the wise man. ' Rum thing to bring the 
 baby with him.' 
 
 Then the Malay stopped suddenly, sprang to his feet, and made 
 as if he jumped from one place to another. 
 
 Instantly he began again to rush about, shake and be shaken 
 by shoulders, arms, and hands, to stagger, to wave his hands, 
 finally to run along with his hands straight down his sides. 
 
 'Now I'm sorry to see this,' said Captain Zachariasen, mourn- 
 fully. ' What's he done 1 Has that baby brought him into 
 trouble 1 Character gone for life, no doubt. ' 
 
 Lai gazed with burning eyes. 
 
 Then the Malay stood still, and made signs as if he were speak- 
 ing, but still with his arms straight to his sides. While he spoke, 
 one arm was freed, and then the other. He stretched tliem out as 
 if for relief. After this, he sat down, and ate and drank eagerly. 
 
 'Skilly and cold water,' said Captain Zachariasen. 'Poor 
 young man ! ' 
 
 Then he walked about, going through a variety of motions, but 
 all of a cheerful and active character. Then he suddenly dropped 
 the personation of Rex Armiger and became himself again. Once 
 more he went through that very remarkable performance of stamp- 
 ing, fighting, and dragging. 
 
 Then he suddenly stopped and smiled at Lai. The pantomime 
 was finished. 
 
 The tlu-ee spectators looked at each other inquiringly, but Lai's 
 face was fuU of joy. 
 
 'I read this mummicking,' said Captain Zachariasen, 'very 
 clearly, and if, my dear, without prejudice to the dumplings, which 
 I perceive to be already finished, and if I may have a pipe, which 
 
 c 
 
18 TBE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 is, I know, against the rules in the kitchen — but so is a mouthing 
 rnummicking Malay — I think I can reel yon off the whole story, 
 just as he meant to tell it, as easy as I could read a ship's signals. 
 I^ot that every man could do it, mind you ; but being, as one may 
 say, at my oldest and best ' 
 
 Lai nodded. Her eyes were so bright, her cheeks so rosy, that 
 you would have thought her another woman. 
 
 ' Go, fetch him his pipe. Captain Holstius,' she said. Then, 
 seized by a sudden impulse, she caught him by both hands. ' It 
 
 could never have been,' she said, ' even — even — if You will 
 
 rejoice with me ? ' 
 
 * If it is as you think,' he said, ' I both rejoice and thank the 
 Father humbly.' 
 
 Fortified with his pipe, the old man spoke slowly in full enjoy- 
 ment of his amazing and patriarchal wisdom. 
 
 ' Before Cap'en Armiger left Calcutta, ' he began, ' he did a 
 thing which many sailors do, and when I vras a young man, now 
 between seventy and eighty years ago, which is a long time to look 
 back upon, they always did. Pecker up, Lai, my beauty. You 
 saw how the mummicker rolled his eyes, smacked his lips, and 
 clucked his tongue. Not having my experience, prob'ly you didn't 
 quite understand what he was wishful for to convey. That meant 
 love, Lai, my dear. Those were the signs of courting, common 
 among sailors. Your sweetheart fell in love with you in the Port 
 of London, and presently afterwards with another pretty woman 
 in the Port of Calcutta, which is generally the way with poor Tom 
 Bowling. She was a snuff-and-butter, because at Calcutta they 
 are as plenty as blackberries ; and when young, snuJl-and-butter is 
 not to be despised, having bright eyes ; and there was another 
 thing about her which I guess you missed, if you got so far as a 
 right understanding of the beginning. She was a ^vidow. How 
 do I know she was a widow ? This way. The mmnmicking Malay, 
 whose antics can only be truly read, like the signs of the weather, 
 by the wisdom of eighty and odd, put his two hands together. 
 You both saw that — second husband that meant. Then he Avaved 
 his hands up and down. If I rightly make out that signal it's a 
 signal of distress. She led the poor lad, after he married her, a 
 devil of a life. Temper, my girl, goes with snufi-and-butter, 
 though when they're young I can't say but there's handsome ones 
 among them. A devil of a life it was, while the stormy winds did 
 blow, and naturally Cap'en Armiger began to cast about for to cut 
 adrift.' 
 
 'Go on, Captain Zachariasen,' said Lai, who only laughed at 
 this charge of infidelity. 
 
 The Malay looked on gravely, understanding no word, but nod- 
 ding his head as if it was all right. 
 
 ' He marries this artful widow then, and, in due course, he has 
 & baby. You might ha' seen if you'd got my eyes, which can't be 
 looked for at your age, that the rnummicking mouther kept rocking 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE MUTE. 19 
 
 that baby. Veiy well, then ; time passes on, he has a row with 
 the mother ; she, as you may have seen, shies the furniture at his 
 head, which he dodges, being too much of a man and a sailor to 
 heave the tables back. Twice she shies the furniture. Then he 
 ups and off to sea, taking — which I confess I cannot understand, 
 for no sailor to my knowledge ever did such a thing before — 
 actually taking — the — baby — with him ! ' The sagacious old man 
 stopped, and smoked a few moments in meditation. ' As to the 
 next course in this voyage,' he said, ' I am a little in doubt. For 
 whether there was a mutiny on board, or whether his last wife 
 followed him and carried on shameful before the crew, whereby the 
 authority of the skipper was despised and his dignity lowered, I 
 cannot tell. Then came chucking overboards, and whether it was 
 Cap'en Armiger chucking his wife and baby, or whether he chucked 
 the crew, or whether the crew chucked him, is not apparent, 
 because the mummicker mixed up Jonah and the crew, and no man, 
 not even Solomon himself, in his cedar-palace, could tell from his 
 actions which was crew and wliich was Jonah. However, the end 
 is easy to understand. The Cap'en, in fact, w^as run in when he 
 got to shore — you all saw him jump ashore — for this chucking over- 
 board, likely. He made a fight for it, but what is one man against 
 fifty. So they took him ofl", with his arms tied to his sides, being 
 a determined young fellow, and he was tried for bigamy, or chuck- 
 ing overboard, or some such lawful and statutable crime. And he 
 was then sentenced to penal servitude for twenty years or it may 
 be less. At Brisbane, Queensland, it was perhaps, or Sydney, New 
 South Wales, or Singapore, or perhaps Hong-Kong, I can't say 
 which, because the mmnmicker at this point grew confused. But 
 it must be one of these places where there's a prison. There he is 
 still, comfortably working it out. Wherefore, Lai, my dear, you 
 may go about and boast that you always knew he was alive, because 
 right you are and proud you may be. At the same time, you may 
 now give up all thoughts of that young chap, and turn your at- 
 tentions, my dear, to '—here he pointed with his pipe — 'to the 
 Norweegee.' 
 
 Captain Holstius, who had shaken his head a great deal during 
 the Seer's interpretation, shook his head again, deprecatingly. 
 
 ' Thank you, Captain Zachariasen,' said Lai, laughing. What a 
 thing joy is ! She laughed, who had not laughed for three years. 
 The dimples came back to her cheek, the light to her eyes. ' Thank 
 you. Your story is a very likely one, and does your wisdom great 
 credit. Shall I read you my interpretation of this actmg ? ' 
 
 The Caj^tain nodded. 
 
 ' Rex set sail from Calcutta with a fair wind, leaving no wife 
 behind, and taking with him no baby. How long he was at sea I 
 know not ; then there came a sudden storm, or perhaps the strik- 
 ing on a rock, or some disaster. Then he is in an open boat alone 
 with Dick here, though what became of the crew I do not know ; 
 then he WTites me a letter, but I do not understand what he did 
 
 c 2 
 
20 TRE CAPTAINS' FiOOM. 
 
 with it when he had written it ; then they sit together expectant 
 of death ; they row aimlessly from time to time ; they have no 
 provisions ; they suffer greatly ; they see land, and they row as 
 hard as they can ; they are seized by savages and threatened, and 
 he is there still among them. He is there, my Rex, he is there, 
 waiting for us to rescue him. And God lias sent us this poor dumb 
 fellow to tell us of his safety.' 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 ' Poor thing ! ' he said compassionately. ' Better inquire at 
 every British port, where there's a prison, in the East, after an 
 English ofhcer working out his time, and ask what he done, and 
 why he done it ? ' 
 
 ' Let be, let be,' said Captain Holstius. ' Lai is always right. 
 Captain Ai-miger is among tlie savages, somewhere. We will bring 
 him back. Lai, courage, my dear ; we will bring him back to you 
 alive and well ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 THE PRIDE OF EOTHERHITHE. 
 
 The terrace or row called Seven Houses is situated, as I have 
 stated above, in a riverside township, which, although within siglit 
 of London Bridge, is now as much forgotten and little known as any 
 of the dead cities on the Zuyder-Zee or the Gulf of Lyons. In all 
 respects it is as quiet as pi-imitive, and as little visited, except by 
 those who come and go in the matter of daily business. 
 
 The natives of Rotherhithe are by their natural position, aided 
 by the artificial help of science, entirely secluded and cut off from 
 the outer world. They know almost as little of London as a High- 
 lander or a Cornish fisherman. And as they know not its 
 pleasures, they are not tempted to seek them ; as their occu- 
 pations keep them for the most part close to their own homes, 
 they seldom wander afield ; and as they are a people contented 
 and complete in themselves, dwelling as securely and with as 
 much satisfaction as the men of Laish, they do not desire the 
 society of strangers. Therefore great London, with its noises 
 and mighty business, its press and hurry, is a place which 
 they care not often to encounter ; and as for the excitement and 
 amusements of the West, they know them not. Few there are in 
 Rotherhithe who have been farther west than London Bridge, 
 fewer still who know the country and the people who dwell west of 
 Temple Bar. 
 
 It is a place protected and defended, so to speak, by a narrow 
 pass, or entrance, uninviting and unpromising, bounded by river 
 
THE PRIDE OF ROTREIIHITHE. 21 
 
 on one side and docks on the other. This Thermopylfe passed, 
 one finds oneself in a strange and ci.irious street with water on the 
 left and water on the right, and ships everywhere in sight. 
 
 It possesses no railway, no cabstand, no omnibus runs thither ; 
 there is no tram. The nearest station is for one end, Thames 
 Tunnel, and for the other, Deptford. All the local arrangements 
 for getting from one place to the other seem based on the good old 
 principle that nobody wants to get from one place to the other ; 
 one would not be astonished to meet a string of pack-horses laden 
 witli the produce of the town, so quiet, so still, so far removed 
 from London, so cld-wurld in its aspect is the High Street of 
 E,otherliithe. 
 
 If, however, they are little interested in the great city near 
 which they live, they know a great deal about foreign countries 
 and strange climates ; if they have no politics, they read and talk 
 much about the prospects of trade across the sea ; they do not take 
 in 'Telegraph,' 'Standard,' or 'Daily Kews,' but they read from 
 end to end that admnable paper the ' Shipping and Mercantile 
 Gazette.' For all their prospects and all their interests are bound 
 up in the mercantile marine. No one lives here who is not inter- 
 ested in the Commercial Docks, or the ships which use them, or 
 the boats, or in the repairs of ships, or in the supply of ships, or in 
 the manners, customs, and requii'ements of skippers, mates, and 
 mercantile sailors of all countries. Their greatest man is the 
 Superintendent of the Docks, and after him, in point of importance, 
 are the dock-masters and their assistants. 
 
 Rotherhithe consists, for the most part, of one long street, 
 which rmis along the narrow strip of ground left between the river 
 and the docks when they were built. The part of the river thus 
 overlooked is Limehouse Pleach ; the street begins at the new 
 Thames Tunnel Station, which is close beside the old Rotherhithe 
 Parish Church, and it ends where Deptford begins. There are 
 many beautiful, and many wonderful, and many curious streets in 
 London ' and her daughters ; ' but this is, perhaps, the most curious. 
 It is, to begin with, a street which seems to have been laid down so 
 as to get as much as possible out of the way of the ships Avhich 
 press upon it to north and south. Ships stick theii' bows almost 
 across the road, the figure-heads staring impertinently into first- 
 floor windows. If you pass a small court or wynd, of which there 
 are many, with little green-shuttered houses, you see ships at the 
 end of it, with sails hanging loosely from the yard-arms. 
 
 On the left hand you pass a row of dry docks. They are all 
 exactly alike ; they are built to accommodate one vessel, but rarely 
 more ; if you look in, no one questions your right of entrance ; and 
 if you see one you have seen them all. 
 
 Look, for instance, into this dry dock. Within her is a two- 
 masted sailing vessel ; most likely she hails from Norway or from 
 Canada, and is engaged in the timber trade. Her planks show 
 signs of age, and she is shored up by great round timbers like 
 
22 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 bits of a mast. Her repairs are probably being executed by one 
 man, who is seated on a hanging board leisurely brandishing a 
 paint-brush. Two more men are seated on the wharf, looking on 
 with intelligent curiosity. One man — perhaps the owner of the 
 ship, or some other person in authority — stands at the far end of 
 the dock and surveys the craft with interest, but no appearance of 
 hurry, because the timber trade, in all in its branches, is a leisurely 
 business. No one is on board the ship except a dog, who sits on 
 the quarter-deck sound asleep, with his nose in his paws. 
 
 The wliarf is littered all about with round shores, old masts, 
 and logs of ship timber ; it is never tidied up, chips and shavings 
 lie about rotting in the rain — the remains of old repau-s, long since 
 done and paid for, upon ships long since gone to the bottom ; there 
 is a furnace for boiling pitch, and barrels for the reception of that 
 useful article ; there is a winch with rusty chains ; there is a crane, 
 but the wheels are rusty. The litter and leisure of the place are 
 picturesque. One wonders who is its proprietor ; probably some old 
 gentleman with a Ramillies wig, laced ruffles, gold buckles on his 
 shoes, silk stockings, a flowered satin waistcoat down to his knees, 
 sober bro-ivn coat, and a gold-headed stick. 
 
 At the entrance to the dock there is a little house with green 
 shutters, a pretence of green railings which enclose three feet of 
 ground, and green boxes furnished with creeping jenny and 
 mignonette. But this cannot be the residence of the master. 
 
 Beyond the dock, kept out by great gates which seem not to 
 have been opened for generations, so rusty are the wheels and so 
 green are their planks with weed and water-moss, run the waters 
 of the Thames. There go before us the steamers, the great ocean 
 steamers, coming out of the St. Katherine's, London, and West 
 India Docks ; there go the sailing ships, dropping easily down with 
 the tide, or slowly making way with a favourable breeze up to the 
 Pool ; there creep the lighters and barges, heavily laden, with tall 
 mast and piled-up cargo, the delight of painters ; there toil con- 
 tinually the noisy steam-tug and the river packet steamer ; there 
 play before us unceasingly the life, the movement, the bustle of the 
 Port of London. 
 
 But all this movement, this bustle, seems to us, standing in the 
 quiet dock, like a play, a procession of painted ships upon a 
 painted river, with the background of Limehouse church and 
 town all most beautifully represented ; for the contrast is so 
 strange. 
 
 Here we are back in the last centurj'- ; this old ship, whcjse 
 battered sides the one man is tinkering, is a hundred years old ; 
 the Swedish skipper, who stands and looks at her all day long, in 
 no hurry to get her finished and ready for sea, flourished before the 
 French Revolution ; the same leisurely dock, the same leisurely 
 carpenter, the same leisurely spectators, the same gi-een palings, 
 the same little lodge with its green door and green flower-box, 
 were all here a hundred years ago and more ; and we, who lool 
 
THE PRIDE OF ROTHERHITRE. U 
 
 about us, find ourselves presently fumbling about our heads to aee 
 wliether, haply, we wear tye-wigs and three-cornered hats. 
 
 On the doors of tliis dock we observe an announcement warning 
 marine-store dealers not to enter. What have they done — the 
 marine-store dealers 1 
 
 A little farther on there is another dry dock. We look in. The 
 same ship, apparently ; the same leisurely contemplation of the 
 ship by the same man ; the same dog ; the same contrast between 
 the press and hurry of the river and the leisure of the dock ; the 
 same warning to marine-dealers. Again we ask, what have they 
 done — the marine-store dealers ? 
 
 Some of the docks have got suggestive and appropriate names. 
 The ' Lavender ' leads the poet to think of the tender care be- 
 stowed upon ships laid up in that dock (the name is not an adver- 
 tisement, but a truthful and modest statement) ; the ' Pageant ' is 
 magnificent ; the ' Globe ' suggests geographical possibilities which 
 cannot but fire the imagination of Rotherhithe boys ; and what 
 could be more comfortable for a heart of oak than ' Acorn ' 
 Wharf ? 
 
 One observes presently a strange sweet fragrance in the air, 
 which, at first, is unaccountable. The smell means timber. For 
 behind the street lie the great timber docks. Here is timber 
 stacked in piles ; here are ships unloading timber ; here is timber 
 lying in the water. It is timber from Canada and from Norway ; 
 timber from Honduras ; timber from Singapore ; timber from 
 every country where there are trees to cut and hands to cut 
 them. 
 
 It is amid these stocks of timber, among these ships, among 
 these docks, that the houses and gardens of Rotherhithe lie 
 embowered. 
 
 Some of the houses were built in the time of great George Ter- 
 tius. One recognises the paucity of windows, the flat fa9ade, the 
 carved, painted, and varnished woodwork over the doors. More, 
 however, belong to his illustrious grandfather's period, or even 
 earlier, and some, which want painting badly, are built of wood 
 and have red-tiled roofs. 
 
 Wherever they can they stick up wooden palings painted gi-een. 
 They plant scarlet-runners wherever they can find so much as a 
 s])are yard of earth. They are fond of convolvulus, mignonette, 
 and candy-tuft in boxes. They all hammer on their walls tin 
 plates, which show to those who can understand that the house ia 
 insured in the 'Beacon.' And some of the houses — namely, the 
 oldest and smallest — have their floors below the level of the 
 street. 
 
 There is one great house — only one — in Rotherhithe. It was 
 built somewhere in the last century, before the Commercial Docks 
 were excavated. It was then the home of a rich merchant living 
 among the dry docks — probably he was the proprietor of Lavender 
 and Acorn Docks. There is a courtyard before it ; the door, with 
 
24 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 a porch, stands at the top of broad stairs ; there is ornamentai 
 stone-work half-way up the front of the house, and there is a gate 
 of hammered iron, as fine as any in South Kensington. 
 
 The shops have strange names over the doors. They are chiefly 
 kept by Norwegians, Dutchmen, Swedes, and Danes, with a sprink- 
 ling of Rotlierhithe natives. The things exhibited for sale look 
 foreign. Yet we observe with satisfaction that the public-houses 
 are kept by EngUshmen, and that tlie Scandinavian taste in liquor 
 is catholic. They can drink — these Northmen — and do, anything 
 which ' bites.' 
 
 Quite at the end of this long street you come to a kind of open 
 place, in which stands the terrace called ' Seven Houses.' They 
 occupy the east side. On the west is, first, a timber-yard, open to 
 the river ; next a row of houses, white, neat, and clean ; beyond 
 the terrace is the church, with its churchyard and schools. Then 
 there is another short street, with shops, the fashionable shopping- 
 place of Rotlierhithe. And here the town, properly so called, ends, 
 for beyond is the entrance to the Commercial Docks, and all around 
 spread great sheets of water, in Avhich lie the timber-ships from 
 Norway, Sweden, Canada, Archangel, Stettin, Memel, Dantzic, St. 
 Petersburg, Savannah, and the East. 
 
 Hither, too, come ships from New Zealand, bringing grain and 
 wool, and here put in ships, but in smaller number, bound for 
 almost every port upon the globe. 
 
 And what with the green trees in the churchyard, the clean 
 houses, the bright open space, the ships in the dock, and the 
 glimpses of the river, one might fancy oneself not in London at all, 
 but across the North Sea and in Amsterdam. 
 
 It was in Rotlierhithe that Lai Rydquist was born, and in 
 Rotlierhithe she was educated. Nor for eighteen years and more 
 did the girl ever go outside her native place, but continued as 
 ignorant of the great city near her as if it did not exist. On the 
 other hand, from the conversation of those around her, she became 
 perfectly familiar with the greater part of the globe ; namely, its 
 oceans, seas, ports, harbours, gulfs, bays, currents, tides, prevalent 
 winds, and occasional storms. Most people are brought up to know 
 nothing but the land : it is shameful favouritism to devote geo- 
 graphy books exclusively to the land upon this round globe ; Lai 
 knew nothing about the land, but a good deal about the water. 
 Such other knowledge as she had acquired pertained to. ships, har- 
 bours, cargoes. Custom dues, harbour dues, bills of lading, insur- 
 ance, wet and diy docks, and the current price of timber, grain, 
 rice, and so forth. A very varied and curious collection of facts 
 lay stored in her brain ; but as for the accomplishments and ac- 
 quirements of ordinary English girls, she knew none of them. 
 
 Her Christian name was Alicia. When she was but a toddler, 
 the sailor folk with whom she plaj^ed, and who gave her dolls, 
 called her Lai. As she grew up, these honest [leople remained her 
 friends, and therefore her name remained. Girls grow up, by 
 
IHE PRIDE OF ROTHERRITHE. 25 
 
 Nature's provision, gradually, so that there never conies a time 
 when a pet name ceases of its own accord. Therefore, to the 
 captains who used the boarding-house, being all personal friends 
 — none but friends, in fact, were admitted to the iDrivileges of that 
 little family hotel — she continued to be Lai. 
 
 The boarding-house was carried on by Mrs. Rj^dquist, Lai's 
 mother, who had been a notable woman in her day. The older in- 
 habitants of Rotherhithe testified to that effect. But her misfor- 
 tunes greatly afiected and changed her for the worse. One need 
 only touch upon the drowning of her father, which happened many 
 years before, and was regarded by the burgesses of Rotherhithe as 
 a special mercy bestowed upon his family, so wasteful was he and 
 fond of drink when ashore. He was chief officer of an East Lidia- 
 man which went down with all hands in a cj'clone, as was generally 
 believed, somewhere north of the Andaman Islands, outward 
 bound. He had spent all his pay in ardent drinks, and there was 
 nothing left for his daughter. But she married a stout fellow, a 
 Swede by nation, and Kydquist by name, who sailed to and fro 
 betv/een the ports of Bjorneborg and London, captain and part 
 owner of a brig in the timber trade. Alas ! that brig dropped down 
 stream one morning as usual, having the captain on board, and 
 leaving the captain's wife ashore with the baby, and she was never 
 afterwards heard of. Also there was some trouble about the insur- 
 ance, and so the captain's widow got nothing for her husband's share 
 in the ship. 
 
 Mrs. Rydquist, then a young woman and comely still, who 
 might have married again, took to crying, and continued to cry, 
 which was bad for the boarding-house which her husband's friends 
 started for her. In most cases time cures the deadliest wounds, 
 but in this poor lady's case the years went on and she continued to 
 bewail her misfortunes, sitting, always with a teapot before her, 
 upon a sofa as hard as a bed of penitence, and plenty of pocket 
 handkerchiefs in her lap. 
 
 There could not have been a happier child, a brighter, merrier 
 child, a more sunshiny child, a more affectionate child, a more con- 
 tented child than Lai, during her childhood, but for two things : her 
 mother was always crying, and the house went on anyhow. When 
 she grew to understand things a little, she ventured to point out to 
 her mother that men who go to sea do often get drowned, and 
 among the changes and chances of this mortal life this accident 
 must be seriously considered by the woman who marries a sailor. 
 But no use. She remonstrated again, but with small effect, that 
 the house was not kept with the neatness desired by captains ; 
 that it was in all respi cts ill-found ; that the quality of the pro- 
 visions was far from what it ought to be, and that meals were not 
 punctual. The aggravation of these things, and the knowledge 
 that they were received with muttered grumblings by the good 
 fellows who put up with them chiefly for her own sake, sank deep 
 into her heart, and shortened — not her life, but her schooling. 
 
26 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 When she was fourteen, being as tall and shapely as many a girl 
 of eighteen, she would go to school no more. She announced her 
 intention of staying at home ; she took over the basket of keys — 
 that emblem of authority — from her mother's keeping into her 
 own ; she began to order things ; she became the mistress of the 
 house, while the widow contentedly sat in the front parlour and 
 wept, or else, which made her deservedly popular among the cap- 
 tains, prophesied, to any one who would listen, shipwreck, death, 
 and ruin, like Cassandra, Nostradamus, and Old Mother Shipton, 
 to these friends. 
 
 Immediately upon this assumption of authority the house began 
 to look clean, the windows bright, the bedrooms neat ; immediately 
 the enemies of the house, who were the butcher, the baker, the 
 bacon-man, the butterman, and every other man who had shot 
 expensive rubbish into the place, began, to use the dignified lan- 
 guage of the historian, to ' roll back sullenly across the frontier. ' 
 Immediately meals became punctual ; immediately rules began to 
 be laid down and enforced. Captains must henceforth only smoke 
 in the evening ; captains must pay up every Saturday ; captains 
 must not bring friends to drink away the rosy hours with them ; 
 captains must moderate theii* language — words beginning with a D 
 were to be overliauled, so to speak, before use ; captains must com- 
 plain to Lai if they wanted anything, not go about grumbling with 
 each other in a mean and a mutinous spirit. These rules were not 
 written, but announced by Lai herself in peremptory tones, so that 
 those who heard knew that there was no choice but to obey. 
 
 She was the best and kindest of managers ; she made such a 
 boarding-house for her captains as was never dreamed of by any of 
 them. Such dinners, such beer, spmts of such purity and 
 strength, tobacco of the finest ; no trouble, no disturbance, the 
 wheels always running smootlily. Captains' bills made out to a 
 penny, with no surcharge or extortion. And, withal the girl was 
 thoughtful for each man, mindful of what he liked the best, and 
 with a mother's eye to buttons. 
 
 It was indeed a boarding-house fit for the gods. So startling 
 were the ' effects ' in cleanliness that honest Dutchmen rubbed 
 their eyes, and seeing the sliips all round them, thought of the 
 Boompjes of Rotterdam ; not a plank in the house but was like a 
 tablecloth for cleanliness. 
 
 Then, as to punctuality : at the stroke of eight, breakfast on 
 the table, and Lai, neat as a band-box, pouring out tea and coffee, 
 made as they should be ; while toast, dry and buttered, muffins, 
 chops and steaks, ham and eggs, bacon, and fish just out of the 
 frying-pan, were on the table. 
 
 On the stroke of one, the dinner, devised, planned, and per- 
 sonally conducted by Lai herself, more diligently than any cook 
 of modern or ancient history, was borne from the kitchen to the 
 Captains' room. 
 
 The nautical appetite is large, both on shore and afloat ; but oa 
 
THE PRIDE OF ROTHERHITIIE. 27 
 
 ghore it is critical as well. The skipper abuard his ship may con- 
 tentedly eat his way through barrels of salt junk, yet ashore he 
 craves variety, and is as particular about his vegetables as a hippo- 
 potamus who has studied the art of dining. 
 
 And this is the reason, not generally understood, why the 
 market-gardens in the neighbourhood of Deptford are so extensive, 
 and why every available square inch of Rotherhithe grows a cab- 
 bage or a scarlet-runner. 
 
 There were no complaints here, however, about vegetables. 
 
 Tea was served at five, for those who wanted any. 
 
 Supper appeared at eight ; and after supper, grog and pipea. 
 Yet, as at dinner the supply of beer was generous yet not wasteful, 
 so at night, every captain knew that if he wanted more than his 
 ration, or double ration, he must get up and slink out of the 
 house like a truant school-boy, to seek it at the nearest public- 
 house. 
 
 The mercantile skipper in every nation is much the same. He 
 is a responsible person, somewhat grave ; ashore he does iKjt con- 
 descend to high jinks, and leaves sprees to the youngsters. Yet 
 among his fellows in such a house as Rydquist's, he is not above a 
 song or even a cheerful hornpipe. He is generally a married man 
 with a large family of whom he is fond and proud. He reads 
 little, but has generally some book to talk of ; and he is brimful of 
 stories, mostly, it must be owned, of a professional and pointless 
 kind, and some old, old Joe Millers, which he brings out with 
 an air as if they were new and sparkling fnim the mint of fancy. 
 
 These men were the girl's friends, all the friends she had. 
 They were fond of her and kind to her, When, as often hap- 
 pened, she found herself in the Captains' room in the evening 
 and sat on the arm of Captain Zachariasen's chair, the stories went 
 on with the songs and the laughing, just as if she was not present, 
 foi they were an innocent-minded race, and whether they hailed 
 from Russia, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Holland, or America, 
 they were chivalrous and respected innocence. 
 
 The house accommodated no more than half a dozen, but it 
 was always full, and the captains were of the better sort. Captain 
 Hansen from Christiania dropped in after his ship was in dock ; 
 if the house was full he went back to his ship ; if he could have a 
 room he stayed there. The same with Captain Bebbington of 
 Quebec, Captain Griggs of Edinburgh, Captain Rosenlund of 
 Hamburg, Captain Eriksen of Copenhagen, Captain Vidovich of 
 Archangel, Captain Ling of Stockliolm, and Captain Tilly of New 
 Brunswick, and a dozen more. 
 
 They rallied round Rydquist's ; they thought it a proud thing 
 to be able to put up there ; and they swore by Lai. 
 
 Then who but Lai overhauled the linen, gave out some to be 
 mended and some to be condemned, and rigged them out for the 
 next voyage ? And as for confidences, the girl was not hfteeu 
 
28 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 years old before she knew all the secrets of all the men who went 
 there, with their love stories, their disappointments, their money 
 matters, their hopes, and their ambitions. And she was already 
 capable, at that early age, of giving sensible advice, especially in 
 matters of the heart. Those who followed that advice subse- 
 quently rejoiced ; those who did not, repented. 
 
 when she was seventeen, they all began, with one consent, to 
 fall in love with her. She remarked nothing unusual for awhile, 
 Imving her mind greatly occupied in considering the price of vege- 
 tables, which during that year remained like runagates for scarce- 
 ness. Presently, however, the altered carriage of the boarders 
 was impossible to be othei-wise than remarkable. 
 
 Love, we k:iow, shows itself by many external symptoms. 
 Some went careless of attire ; some went in great bravery with 
 waistcoats and neckties difHcult to describe and impossible to 
 match ; some laughed, some heaved sighs, some sang songs ; one 
 or two made verses ; those who were getting grey tried to look aa 
 if tliey were five-and-twenty, and made as if they still could shake 
 a rollicking leg ; those who were already turned of sixty persuaded 
 themselves that a master mariner's heart is always youug, and that 
 no time of life is too far advanced for him to be a desirable 
 husband. 
 
 Lai laughed and went on making the puddings ; she knew very 
 well what they wanted, but she felt, no fancy, yet, for any of 
 them. 
 
 When, which speedily happened, one after the other came to 
 lay themselves, their ships, and their fortunes at her feet, she sent 
 them all away, not with scorn or unkindness, but with a cheerful 
 laugh, bidding them go 'seek prettier, richer, and better gu'ls to 
 marry ; because, for her own part, she had got her work to do, 
 and had no time to think about such things, and if she had ever 
 so m uch time she most certainly would not marry that particular 
 suitor. 
 
 They went away, and for a while looked gloomy and ashamed, 
 fearing that the girl would tell of them. But she did not, and 
 they presently recovered, and when their time came and their 
 ships were ready, they dropped down the river with a show of 
 cheerfulness, and so away to distant lands, round that headland 
 known as the Isle of Dogs, with no bitterness in their hearts, but 
 only a little disappointment, and the most friendly feelings to- 
 wards the girl who said them nay. 
 
 When these were gone, the house, which was never empty, 
 received another batch of captains, old and young. Presently 
 similar symptoms were developed with them ; all were ardent, all 
 confident. They had been away a year or two. They found the 
 little Lai, whom they left a handy maiden, a mere well-grown girl 
 of fourteen or so, developed into a tall and beautiful young 
 woman. L'pon her shoulders, invisible to all, sat Love, dis- 
 charging arrows r'vAii and left into the hearts of the most inflam- 
 
THE PR J BE OF ROTHEIiHITHL. 39 
 
 m.ible of men. This batch — excepting two, who had wives in 
 other ports, and openly lamented the fact — behaved in the same 
 surprising manner as their predecessors. They were presently 
 treated with the same dismissal, but with less com'tesy, because to 
 the girl this behaviour was becoming monotonous, and it some- 
 times seemed as if the whole of mankind had taken leave of their 
 senses. They retired in their turn, and Avhen their ships were 
 laden, they, too, sailed away a little discomfited, but not revenge- 
 ful or bearing malice. Then came a third batch, and so on. But 
 of sea-captains there is an end : Lai's friends one after tlie other, 
 came, disappeared after a while, and then came back again. 
 Tliose who used the house at Rotherhithe were like comets rather 
 than planets, because they had no fixed periods, but returned at 
 intervals which could only be approximately guessed. When, 
 however, the cj'cle was fulfilled, and there was no more to fall lu 
 love with her (strangers, as has been stated, not being admitted), 
 there was a lull, and the rejected, when they came back again and 
 found the girl yet heart free, rejoiced, because every man immedi- 
 ately became confident that sooner or later Lai's fancy would fall 
 upon him ; and every man cherished in his own mind the most 
 delightful anticipations of a magnificent wedding feast, with the 
 joy of Rotherhithe for tlxe bride, and himself for bridegroom. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 
 
 A. woMAiSf's fate comes to her, like most good or bad things, -unex- 
 pectedly. Nothing is sure, says the French proverb, but the un- 
 foreseen. Nothing could have been more unexpected, for instance, 
 than that the falling overboard of a Malay steward from an Indian 
 finer should have led to the sorrow and the happiness of Lai 
 Rydquist. That this was so you will presently read, and the fact 
 suggests a fine peg for meditation on causes and efi'ects. Had it not 
 been for that event, this story, which it is a great joy to writfe, 
 would never have been written, and mankind -sould have been 
 losers to so great an extent ; whereas, that temporary immersion in 
 the cold waters of the river in Limehouse Reach produced so many 
 things one after the other that they have now left Lai in the pos- 
 session of the most necessary ingredient of happiness quintessential. 
 We all know what that is, and in so simple a matter a lifting of the 
 eye is as good as a printer's sheet of words. 
 
 And could one, had it not been so, have had the heart to write 
 this tale ? Why, instead of a Christmas story, it would have been 
 a mere winter's tale, a Middle-of-March story, a searching, biting, 
 
30 THE CAPTATXS' BOOM. 
 
 east- wind story, fit only to be cut up and gummed upon doors and 
 windows to keep out the cold. 
 
 When the dinner was off her mind, served, commended, and 
 eaten, and when her mother was deposited for the day upon the 
 sofa, with teapot and the kettle ready, the pocket-handkerchiefs 
 for weeping, the book which she never read in, and, perhajis, one 
 of the younger captains who had not yet heard the story of her 
 misfortunes more than a dozen times or so ; or with some of her 
 friends among the widows and matrons of Rotherhithe, with whom 
 she would exchange prophecies of disasters, general and particular ; 
 Lai would hasten to enjoy herself after her free and independent 
 fashion. One of the captains had given her a little dingy, and 
 taught her how to row it, and her pleasure was to paddle about the 
 river in Limehouse Reach, dodging the steamers, and watching the 
 craft as they went up and down. 
 
 This is a pursuit full of peril, because steamers in ballast some- 
 times come down the river at a reckless speed, their pilots beinsj 
 drunk, cutting down whatever falls in their way ; yet to a girl who 
 is handy with her sculls, and has a quick eye, the danger is part of 
 the delight. On the Thames in Limehouse Reach one may be 
 easily run over and one's boat cut in two. There then follows a 
 bad time for a few moments, while the victim of the collision is get- 
 ting drowned or saved ; still, if one thinks of danger, half the fun 
 of the world is gone. Lai thought of the change, the amusement, 
 the excitement : on the Thames there is continual life, movement, 
 and activity ; on the Thames, there may be fornid by girls, some- 
 times worried by perpetual housekeeping, rest and soothing. As 
 for Lai, the daily press of work was practically finished with the 
 dinner, because the ' service ' might be trusted with the rest. And 
 after dinner, on the river she breathed fresh air. Here was not 
 only mental rest, but also exercise for her young muscles ; here was 
 all the amusement and variety she ever desired ; here she could 
 even let her imagination wander abroad, to the pinnacles and spires 
 of the city of which she knew so little even by hearsay, or to the 
 foreign lands of which she heard so much. Above all, she was 
 alone. This is so rare, so unattainable a thing to most girls, even 
 to those who do not make puddings for sea-captains, that one quite 
 understands how Lai valued the privilege. Her life was all before 
 her. Like other maidens she loved to sit by herself and take a 
 Pisgah-like view of her future. It might lie among the steeples 
 and streets — she had never heard of any West End splendours — of 
 London ; it might be in those far-off lands where some of her 
 captains had wives ; say, in New Brunswick, or beside the beauty 
 of the Great St. Lawrence, or even in Calcutta, or in Dantzic, or in 
 Norway ; or it might lie always in simple and secluded Rotherhithe, 
 among the timber piles of the Commercial Docks. Not a girl given 
 to self -communings, tearing her religion up by the roots to see how 
 it was getting on, or tlie doubts which nowadays seem to assail 
 most fiercely those who have the least power or knowlerlge to help 
 
TUB SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 31 
 
 them to a solution, a quiet, simple, cheerful, hopeful girx, with a 
 smile for everyone and a laugh for all her friends, yet a girl so 
 hard-worked and so full of responsibilities that there were days 
 when she had what the French ladies call an attack of nerves, and 
 must fain get away from all and float at rest, thinking of other 
 things than the wickedness of butchers, upon the bosom of the great 
 river. 
 
 Sometimes, if the weather was too rough for her little boat, she 
 would paddle along the bank till she came to the mouth of the 
 Commercial Docks, and there would row about among the timber 
 ships, watching the men at work, and the great planks being shot 
 from the port-holes in the stern of the vessels, or the dockmen 
 piling the timbers, or the foreign sailors idling about upon the 
 wharves. But mostly she loved the river. 
 
 Now it came to pass, one Saturday afternoon, late in the month 
 of May, and the year eighteen hundred and seventy-six, that Lai 
 happened to be out in her boat upon the river. It was a delightful 
 afternoon, quite an old-fashioned May day, without a breath of east 
 wind, a sky covered with light flying clouds, so that the sunshine 
 dropped about in changing breaths, now here and now there, throw- 
 ing a bright patch upon the water, gilding a steeple, flashing from 
 a window, making even a stumpy little tug glorious for a moment. 
 She sang to herself as she sat in her boat, not a loud song like a 
 Siren or a Lurlei person, but a gentle happy melody — I think it was 
 some hymn — and she sat with her face to the bows, keeping the 
 boat's head well to the waves raised by the swell of the passing 
 ships. She w^as quite safe herself, being near the shore and be- 
 tween two heavily-laden lighters, waiting for tide to go up stream ; 
 the river was rising, and was covered with all kinds of craft. 
 
 Presently she became av/are of a vast gi'eat ship, one of the big 
 Indian liners, slowly rounding the Isle of Dogs. A great ship 
 always attracted her imagination ; it is a thing so vast, so easily 
 moved, and so life-hke. As the tall hull drew nearer, her eyes 
 were fixed upon it, and she paddled a little beyond her protecting 
 lighters, so as to get a better view of the vessel as she passed. 
 
 The ship moved up stream slowly here, because the river was so 
 full. First Lai saw from her place the lofty bows, straight cut like 
 a razor, rounding the Isle of Dogs and steadily growing nearer. 
 Then her pilot put her a point more to starboard, and Lai saw the 
 long and lofty side of her, her port-holes open wide, high out of 
 the water. Along the bulwarks were ranged a line of faces, mostly 
 pale with Indian summers, but not all ; they were the faces of the 
 passengers who leaned over and watched the crowded river and 
 talked together. Lai wondered whether they were glad to come 
 home again, and what they were telling each other, and she hoped 
 they would think their country improved since they saw it last ; 
 and then ventured in mute wish to congratulate their mothers, 
 daughters, and sisters, wives, sweethearts, and all female cousins, 
 relatives, and friends, that the ship had not gone to Davy's Locker 
 
32 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 on her homeward voyage, with so many brave fellows on board. 
 The ship belonged to the great Indian Peninsular Line, and waa 
 called the 'Aryan.' She was so great a ship, and she moved so 
 slowly, that Lai had time for a great many observations as she passed 
 her. Also when her little boat was about midships, still kept bows- 
 on to meet the coming waves, one of the passengers, a young fellow, 
 took off his hat to her with a loud ' Hurrah ! ' He meant a respect- 
 ful salutation to the first pretty girl they had met in the good old 
 countiy, which is full of the prettiest girls in the world. Lai 
 wondered what it felt like, this coming home. All her life long 
 she had been among men who went out of port and presently put 
 into port again ; one or two, in her own experience, never came 
 back, having met with the fate reserved for many sailors ; but that 
 was not a home-coming like that of these exiles from India. There 
 would be joy in their homes, no doubt, but what would the poor 
 fellows themselves feel after these years of separation ? The 
 feminine mind, everybody knows very well, reserves nearly all its 
 sympathies for the sufierings of the men ; while it is an honourable 
 trait in the male character, that it is roused to fury by the suffer- 
 ings of women. 
 
 Just before the ship passed her, the great wave which rolled 
 upwards from her keel came curling six feet high, like the Bore of 
 the Severn and the Parrott, towards Lai's little boat. The lighters 
 reeled and rolled, she seized her sculls and held her bows straight, 
 steady to meet the swell, so that the little vessel gallantly rode over 
 tlie wave ; and this passed swiftly on trying to swamp everything 
 in its way, and presently capsized a boat with two promising and 
 ambitious young thieves, who had gone down the river gaily, hoping 
 tu pick up plunder by the way. They got no plunder on that occa- 
 sion, but a wet skin and a very near escape from the habitual 
 criminal life for which they were preparing themselves. In this 
 they are now, in fact, actively engaged ; insomuch that one has 
 been in prison during three of the five years since that event, and 
 the other two and a half years. When they are out they enjoy 
 themselves very much and drink bad gin. Then the wave caught a 
 Greenwich steamboat and knocked the land-lubber passengers off 
 their legs ; and then it filled and sunk a barge full of hay. The 
 hay went down the river with the next tide and littered the shore 
 of Greenwich, where people who Avent down to dine gazed upon it 
 from the windows of the Ship. There was also a sister or a brother 
 wave on the north bank, proceeding from the starboard bow, but I 
 do not know what mischief that wave succeeded in accomplishing. 
 
 While Lai was considering the ways of this swell, and looking 
 to see what a pother, with a rolling and a rocking and a staggering 
 to and fro it caused, she heard a sudden splash, and right in front 
 of her she was aware of a man in the water. Immediately after- 
 wards another man leaped gallantly from the ship after the first 
 man, and a moment afterwards came up to the surface holding 
 h.im. 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 3S 
 
 Then, without waiting to think, because at such moments the 
 reasoning faculty only brings people to grief and discredit, Lai shot 
 her boat ahead to help, for certainly the two appeared to want im- 
 mediate assistance, and that so badly, that if it came not at once, 
 they would verj' soon want it no longer. Their arms were inter- 
 locked ; they beat, or one of them beat, the water helplessly ; their 
 heads kept disappearing and coming up again. On the ship there 
 was a crowd of faces, terror-stricken. The girl caught one hand as 
 her boat came to the spot. The hand belonged to one of the two 
 men, that was clear, but whether the first or the second she could 
 not tell ; in fact, only that one hand and a little piece of coat cuff 
 were at the moment visible above water, and probably the next 
 moment there would have been nothing at all. The fingers clutched 
 hers like a vice. Lai threw herself down in the boat to prevent 
 being drawn over, and caught the wrist with her other hand. 
 
 Then the group, so to speak, emerged again from the water, 
 and the hand the girl had seized caught the gunwale of the boat, 
 and the eyes in the head which belonged to the hand opened, and 
 the mouth in the head gasped something inarticulate. As for the 
 man's other hand and the whole of the rest of him, that was locked 
 tight in the embrace of the first man who had fallen overboard. It 
 is, anybody knows, the general custom and the base ingratitude of 
 persons who are drowning, to try and drown their rescuers. 
 
 ' Row us ashore quickly,' cried the one 'who clung to the gun- 
 wale ; ' I can hold on for a spell. He won't let go, even to be 
 helped into the boat.' 
 
 The ship was brought to now, and there was a vast crowd of 
 passengers, and the officers shouting and gesticulating. 
 
 They saw the action of the girl in the boat, and then they saw 
 her seize the sculls and pull vigorously to shore. As for Lai, all 
 she saw was a pale and dripping face, fingers which clutched tlie 
 gunwale and nearly pulled it under, and an indiscriminate some- 
 thing in the water. 
 
 ' Oh, can you hold on 1 ' she cried. ' It is but a moment — 
 twenty strokes — see, we are close to the steps.' 
 
 ' Quick ! ' he replied ; ' it is a heavy weight. Row as hard as 
 you can, please.' 
 
 Presently, when the captain of the ship saw the boat landed at 
 the steps, and was sure of the safety of the two men, he made 
 a sign to the pilot, and the ship went on her way, for time is 
 precious, 
 
 ' Lucky escape,' he said. 'Armiger will come over present^, 
 none the worse for a ducking.' 
 
 But the passengers with one accord raised a mighty cheer as the 
 boat touched the shore, and the men on the lighters cheered lustily, 
 and even the two young capsized thieves, who were wet and drip- 
 ping, cheered. And there were some who said the case must b& 
 forwarded to the Royal Humane Society ; and some who talked 
 about Grace Darling, and made comparisons ; and some who said ii 
 
34 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 was their sacred duty to write to the papers, and tell the story of 
 this wonderful presence of mind. But they did not, because shortly 
 afterwards they reached the docks, and there was kissing of rela- 
 tions, packing of wraps, counting of boxes, and afterwards so much 
 to see and talk about, and so many things to tell, that the rescue of 
 the second oihcer in the Thames became only an incident in the 
 history of the voyage, and the voyage itseK only an incident in the 
 history of their sojourn abroad. 
 
 The distance to be rowed was more, indeed, than twenty 
 strokes, but not much more. Still, there are times when twenty 
 strokes of the oar take more time, to the imagination, than many 
 hours of ordinary work. Lai rowed with beating heart ; in two 
 minutes the boat lay alongside the steps. 
 
 ^Vhen her passenger's feet touched the stones he let go, and, 
 being a strong young fellow and none the worse for his cold bath, 
 he carried his burden, an apparently inanimate body, up the stairs 
 to the top. Here he laid him while he ran do^\Ti again to help his 
 preserver. 
 
 ' These are my steps,' she said ; ' my boat is always moored 
 here. Thank you, but if you don't give her the whole length of 
 her painter she will be hung up by the bows when the tide run.s 
 out.' 
 
 She jumped out and ran lightly up the stone steps. At the top 
 the man who had given them all this trouble sat up, looking about 
 him with wondering eyes. Then Lai saw that he was of some 
 foreign country, partly by his dress and partly from his face. The 
 other, who did indeed present a rueful appearance in liis dripping 
 clothes, was, she perceived, an officer of the steamer. Then Lai 
 began to laugh. 
 
 ' It is all very well to laugh,' he said, grimly, and shaking himself 
 like Tommy Trout, medallist of the Humane Society, after rescuing 
 that Tom, ' but here's half my kit ruined. And, I say, you've 
 saved my life and I haven't even thanked you. But I do not 
 know how to thanh; you.' 
 
 ' It was all by chance,' replied Lai, ' and I am very glad.' 
 
 ' And what are we to do next ? ' he asked. 
 
 He made a sign to the other man, who sprang to his feet, 
 shivered, and nodded. 
 
 ' I am very glad you saved his life, at any rate,' the young man 
 went on ; ' he is the steward of the officers' mess, and he cannot 
 thank you himself, because he is deaf and dumb ; we call him 
 Dick.' 
 
 ' Come, both of you,' said the girl, recovering her wits, which 
 were a little scattered by this singular event. ' Come, both, and 
 dry your clothes.' 
 
 She led the way, and they all three set off running — a remark- 
 able procession of one dry girl and two wet men, which drew all 
 eyes upon them, and a small following of boys, in the direction of 
 the Captains' house. 
 
THE SAILOR LAB FROM OVER THE SEA. 35 
 
 'T thought we should have dragged the gunwale under water,' 
 gasped the young fellow. 
 
 ' So did I,' said Lai, simply. ' Can you swim ? ' 
 
 'No,' he replied. 
 
 'Yet you jumped overboard to rescue your steward. What a 
 splendid thing to do.' 
 
 ' I forgot I couldn't swim till I was in the water. Never mind. 
 I mean to learn.' 
 
 The young fellow was a tall, slight-built lad of twenty-one or 
 twenty-two. Lai pushed him into a bedroom, and pointed to a 
 bundle of clothes. It was not her fault that they belonged to 
 Captain Jansen, who was five feet nothing high, and about the 
 same round the waist. So that when the lad was dressed in them 
 he felt a certain amount of embarrassment, as anyone might who 
 was sent forth into an unknown house with trousers no longer than 
 his knees, and of breadth phenomenal. 
 
 ' "Where can I hide,' he said to liimself, ' till the tilings are 
 dry?' 
 
 He found a room set with a long table and a good many chairs. 
 This was the Captains' room, where they took their meals by day 
 and smoked pipes at night. Just then no one was in it. He 
 wanted to find the girl who had saved his life and rescued him ; so, 
 after a look round, he went on his cruise of discovery. 
 
 Next, he opened another door. It was Lai's housekeeping- 
 room, in v/hich sat an old, old man in an armchair, sound asleep. 
 This was Captain Zachariasen. 
 
 He shut the door quietly and opened another. This was the 
 front parlour, and in it sat Mrs. Rydquist alone, also fast asleep ; 
 but the opening of the door awakened her, and she sat up and put 
 on her spectacles. 
 
 'Come in, captain,' she said, thinking it was one of her friends, 
 but uncertain which of them looked so young and wore clothes of 
 such an amplitude. ' Come in, captain. It is a long time since 
 we have had a talk.' 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am,' he replied. ' It is my first visit here. 
 We always, you know, put into East India Docks.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' She shook her head. ' Very wrong — very wrong ! 
 Many have been robbed at Shadwell. But come in, and I will tell 
 you some of my troubles. Do take a chair.' 
 
 She drew out a handkerchief, and wiped a rising tear. 
 
 ' Dear me, what a dehghtful thing to see a young feUow like 
 you — not drowned yet ! ' 
 
 ' I might have been,' he replied, ' but for ' 
 
 ' Ah, and you may be yet.' This seemed a very cheerful person. 
 ' Many no older than yourself are lying at the bottom of the sea this 
 minute.' 
 
 ' That is very true,' he said, ' but ' 
 
 'Oh, I know what you v/ould say. And Captain Zachariasen 
 eighty-six years of age if a day.' 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 The young man began to feel as if he had got into an enchanted 
 palace. 
 
 When Lai found him there, he was sitting bolt upright, while 
 Mrs. Rydquist was discoursing at large on perils and disasters at 
 sea. 
 
 ' You yourself,' she was saying, ' look like one who will go early 
 and find your end ' 
 
 ' Gracious, mother ! ' cried Lai, in her quick, sharp way, ' how 
 can you say such things 1 Time enough when he does go to find it 
 
 out. Besides Your clothes are quite dry now, and — oh ! oh ! 
 
 oh!' 
 
 Then she laughed again, seeing the delightful incongruity of 
 trousers, sleeves, arms, and legs, so that he retired in confusion. 
 
 When he came to put on his own things, he discovered that the 
 girl of the boat — this girl so remarkably handy with her sculls — 
 had actually taken the opportunity to restore a button to the back 
 of his neck. The loss of this button had troubled him for two 
 voyages and a half. So delicate and unusual an attention naturally 
 went straight to his heart, which was already softened by the con- 
 sideration of the girl's bravery and beauty. 
 
 He thought she looked prettier than ever, with her large eyes 
 and the sweet innocence of her face, when he came down again in 
 his uniform. 
 
 ' Your steward is dry, too,' she said, ' and warming himself 
 before the kitchen fire. Will you have some tea with the captains ? 
 It is their tea-time.' 
 
 'I would rather have some tea with you,' he replied, 'if I 
 might.' 
 
 ' Would you ? Then of course you shall.' 
 
 She spoke as if it Were a mere nothing, a trifle of no value at 
 all, this invitation to take tea with her. 
 
 She took him into her own room, where the young man had 
 seen the old fellow asleep, and presently brewed him a cup of tea, 
 the like of which, he thought, he had never tasted, and set before 
 him a plate of hot toast. 
 
 ' That is better for you,' she said, as wisely as any doctor, ' than 
 hot brandy and water.' 
 
 At last he rose, after drinking as much tea as he could and stay- 
 ing as long as he dared. The ship would be in dock by this time. 
 He must get across. 
 
 ' May I come over, when I can get away, to see you again ! ' he 
 asked, bashfully. 
 
 She replied, without any bashfulness at all and with straight- 
 forward friendliness, that she would be very glad to see him when- 
 ever he could call upon her, and that the best time would be in the 
 afternoon, or, as the evenings were now long, in the evening ; but 
 not in the morning, when she was busy with all sorts of things, and 
 especially in superintending the captains' dinner. 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 37 
 
 * I will come,' he said, and this time he blushed. 'What is 
 your name ? ' 
 
 ' I am Lai Rydquist,' she replied, as if everybody ought to know 
 her. But that was not at all what she meant. 
 
 ' Lai ! What a pretty name. It suits ' And here he 
 
 stopped and blushed again. 
 
 ' And what is your name ? ' 
 
 ' Rex Armiger,' he said. 'And I am second officer on board 
 the " Aiyan," of the Indian Peninsular line, homeward bound from 
 Calcutta.' 
 
 This Avas the beginning of Lai's love-stoiy. A young fellow, 
 gallant and handsome, pulled dripj^ing out of the river — a sailor, 
 too — how could Lai fall in love with anybody but a sailor ? 
 
 Every love-story has its dawn, its iirst faint glimmering, which 
 grows into a glorious rose of day. There are generally, as we 
 know, clouds about the east at the dawn of day. Clubmen about 
 Pall Mall frequently remark this in the month of June on leaving 
 the whist-table ; policemen have told me the same thing ; milkmen, 
 in spring and autumn, report the phenomenon ; old-fasliioned 
 poets observed it. There can be no real doubt or question about 
 it. After the davni and the morning comes the noon, when the 
 story becomes uninteresting to outsiders, yet is a very delightful 
 story to the actors themselves. There are diflerent kinds of clouds, 
 and you already know pretty well what was the cloud which for a 
 long time made poor Lai's story a sad one. 
 
 When, however, the first streaks of dawn appeared the sky was 
 cloudless. You must not suppose that this young lady beheld the 
 man and straightway fell in love with him. Not at all. Love is a 
 plant which takes time to grow. In her case it kei)t on growing 
 long after Rex had left her ; long, indeed, after everybody said he 
 was dead. But it cannot be denied that she thought about him. 
 
 The captains congratulated her on having pulled the young 
 fellow out of the river. Captain Zachariasen, with a gallantry 
 beyond his years, even went so far as to wish he had himself been 
 the subject of the immersion and the rescue. He also related 
 several stories of his own daring, fifty, sixty, or seventy years 
 before, in various parts of the ocean. All this was pleasing. 
 
 Lai laughed at the compliments and sang the more about the 
 house, nor did it disturb her in the least when her mother lifted up 
 her voice in prophecy. 
 
 ' My dear,' she said, ' mark my words. If ever I saw shipwreck 
 and drov.^ning — I mean quite young droAvning — on any man's face, 
 it is marked on the face of that young man. The heedless and the 
 giddy may laugh ; but we know better, my dear — we who have 
 gone through it.' 
 
 When a ship comes home and has but three weeks in which to 
 discharge her cargo and take in her new lading, the officers have hy 
 no means an easy time. It is not holiday with them, but c[uite the 
 reverse ; and it was not often that Rex could get even an evening 
 
33 TRE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 free. In fact, the whole of his wooing was accomplished in five 
 visits to Rotherhithe. 
 
 On his first visit he was disappointed. Lai was on the river in 
 her boat, and so he sat with her mother and waited. Mrs. Rydquist 
 took the opportunity, wliich might never occur again, of solemnly 
 warning him against falling in love with her daughter. This, she 
 said, was a very possible thing to happen, especially for a sailor, 
 because her girl was well set-up, not to say handsome. Therefore, 
 it was her duty to warn him — as she had already warned a good 
 many, including Captain Skantlebury, afterwards cast aAvay in 
 Torres Straits — that it was an unlucky thing to marry into a family 
 whose husbands and male relations generally found a grave at the 
 bottom of the sea. Further, it was well knovm among sailors that 
 if you rescued a person from drowning, that person would, at some 
 time or other, repay your offices by injuring your earthly pros- 
 pects. So that there were two excellent reasons why Res should 
 avoid the Rock of Love. 
 
 They were doubtless valid ; but they were not strong enough to 
 repress in the young man a look of joy and admiration when the 
 girl came home fresh and bright as an ocean nymph. He took 
 supper with her, and between them the two managed to repress the 
 gloom even of the prophetess who sat with them, as cheerful as 
 Cassandra at a Trojan supper. Did ever anyone consider how much 
 that good old man King Priam had to put up with. 1 
 
 Another time was on a Sunday evening. They went to church 
 together and sang out of the same hymn-book. Captain Zachariasen 
 Avas in the pew also, and he Avent to sleep tliree times — viz., during 
 the first lesson, the second lesson, and the sermon, without counting 
 the prayers, during which he probably dropped off as well. After 
 the service, as the evening was fine and the air warm, they sat 
 awhile in the churchyard, and the young fellow, seated on a tomb- 
 stone, unconscious of the moral he was illustrating, had a very good 
 time indeed talking with Lai. When they were tired of the church- 
 yard they walked away to the bridge over the entrance to the docks, 
 and leaned over the rail talking still. Lai was quite used to the 
 confidences of her friends, but somehow this one's confidences were 
 different. He sought no advice, he confessed no love-aft'air ; he did 
 not begin to look at her as if he was struck silly, and then ask her 
 to marry him — which so many of the captains had done ; he asked 
 her about herself, and seemed eager to know all she would tell him, 
 as if there was anything about herself that so gallant a sailor would 
 care to know, with such stupid particulars about her daily life, and 
 how she never left Rotherhithe at all, and had seen no other place. 
 
 ' What a strange life ! ' he said, after many questions. ' What 
 a dull life ! Ai'e you not tired of it 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' she answered. ' Why should I be ? Do they not bring a 
 constant change into the house, my captains ? I know all their 
 adventures, and I could tell you, oh ! such stories. You should 
 hear Captain Zachariasen when he begins to recollect.' 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 39 
 
 ' Ay, ay, we can all spin yarns. But never to leave this place ! ' 
 He paused, with a sigh. 
 
 ' I am happy,' said Lai. ' Tell me about yourself.' 
 
 It was her turn now, and she began to question him until he 
 told all he had to tell ; but I suppose he kept back something, as 
 one is told to leave something on the dish, for good manners. But 
 if he did not tell all, it was because he was modest, not because htj 
 had things to hide of which he was ashamed. 
 
 He was, he said, the son of a Lincolnshire clergj^man, and he 
 was destined to the Church ; solemnly set apart, he was, by his 
 parents and consecrated in early infancy. This made his subse- 
 quent conduct the more disgraceful, although, as he pleaded, hi? 
 own consent was not asked nor his inclinations consulted. Tht 
 road to the Church is grievously beset by wearisome boulders, pits, 
 ditches, briars, and it may be fallen trunks, which some get over 
 without the least difficulty, whereas to others they are grievous 
 hindrances. These things are an allegory, and I mean books. 
 Now unlucky Rex, a masterly youth in all games, schoolboy feats, 
 fights, freaks, and fanteegs, regarded a book, from his earliest 
 infancy, unless it was a romance of the sea or story of adventure, 
 with a dislike and suspicion amounting almost to mania. In his 
 recital to Lai, he avoided mention ot the many floggings he re- 
 ceived, the battles he fought, and the insubordination of which he 
 was guilty, and the countless lessons which he had not learned. He 
 simply said that he ran away from school and got to Liverpool, 
 where, after swopping clothes with a real sailor boy, he got on 
 board a Canadian brig as loblolly boy, and was kicked and cutfed 
 all the way to Quebec and all the way back again. The skipper 
 cuffed him ; the mate cuffed him ; the cook cuffed him ; the crew 
 cuiled him ; he got rough treatment and bad grub. His faculties 
 were stimulated, no doubt, and a good foundation laid for smart- 
 ness in after life as a sailor. Also, his frame was hardened by 
 the fresh breeze of the Windy Fifties. On his return, he wrote 
 to his father, to say that he was about to return to school. He did 
 return ; was the hero of the school for two months, and then again 
 ran away and tried the sea once more, from Glasgow to New York, in 
 a cargo steamer. Finally, his father had to renounce his ambitious 
 schemes, in spite of the early consecration and setting apart, 
 and got him entered as a middy in the service of a great line of 
 steamers. Now, at the age of twenty-two, he was second officer. 
 
 Such was the modesty of the young man tliat he omitted to 
 state many remarkable facts in his own life, though tliese redounded 
 greatly to his credit ; nor was it till afterwards that Lai discovered 
 how good a character he bore for steady seamanship and pluck, 
 how well he stood for promotion. Also, he did not tell her that lie 
 was the softest-hearted fellow in the world, though his knuckles 
 were so hard ; that he was the easiest man in the world to lead, 
 although the hardest to drive ; that on board he was always ready, 
 when off duty, to act as nursemaid, protector, and playfellow for 
 
40 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 any number of children ; that he was also at such times as good as 
 a son or a brother to all ladies on board ; that on shore he was ever 
 ready to give away all his money to the first who asked for it ; that 
 he thought no evil of his neighbour ; that he considered all women 
 as angels, but Lai as an archangel ; and that he was modest, 
 thinking himself a person of the very smallest importance on 
 account of these diificulties over books, and a shameful apostate 
 in the matter of the falling off from the early dedication. 
 
 When a young woman begins to take a real interest in the ad- 
 ventures of a young man, and, like Desdemona, to ask questions, 
 she generally lays a solid foundation for much more than mere 
 interest. Dido, though she was no longer in her premiere jeimesse, 
 is a case in point, as well as Desdemona. And every married per- 
 son recollects the flattering interest taken in each other by fiance 
 and fiancee during the early days, the sweet sunshiny days of their 
 engagement. 
 
 That Sunday night, after the talk in the churchyard, they went 
 back to the house, and Rex had supper with the captains, winning 
 golden opinions by his great and well-sustained powers over cold 
 beef and pickles. After this they smoked pipes and told yarns, 
 and Lai sat among them by the side of Rex, which was a joy to 
 him, though she was sitting on the arm of Captain Zachariasen's 
 wooden chair, and not his own. 
 
 On another occasion during that happy and never-to-be-for- 
 gotten three weeks. Rex carried the girl across the river and showed 
 lier his own ship lying in the East India Docks, which, she was fain 
 to confess, are fijier than the Commercial Docks. He took her all 
 over the great and splendid vessel, showed her the saloon with its 
 velvet couches, hanging lamps, gilt ornaments, and long tables in 
 the officers' quarters ; and midships, and the sailors' for'ard ; took 
 her down to the engine-room by a steep ladder of polished iron bars, 
 showed her the bridge, the steering tackle, and the captain's cabin, 
 in which he lowered his voice from reverence as one does in a 
 church. When she had seen everything, he invited her to return 
 to the saloon, where she found a noble repast spread, and the chief 
 officer, the third mate, the purser, and the doctor waiting to be 
 introduced to her. They paid her so much attention and deference ; 
 they said so many kind things about her courage and presence of 
 mind ; they waited on her so jealously ; they were so kind to her, 
 that the girl was ashamed. She was so very ignorant, you see, of 
 the power of beauty. Then a bottle of champagne, a drink which 
 Lai had heard of but never seen, was produced, and they all drank 
 to her health, bowing and smiling, first to her and then to Rex, 
 who blushed and hung his head. Then it appeared that every man 
 had something which he ardently desired her to accept, and when 
 Lai came away Rex had his arms full of pretty Indian things, 
 smelling of sandal-wood, presents to her from his brother-officers. 
 This, she thought, was very kind of them, especially as they had 
 never seen her before. And then Dick, the officers' steward, the 
 
TUB SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 41 
 
 deaf and dumb Malay whom she had helped to pull out of tha 
 water, came and kissed her hand humbly, in token of gratitude. 
 A beautiful and wonderful day. Yet what did the doctor mean 
 when they came away % For while the purser stood at one end of 
 the gangway, and the chief officer at the other, and the third mate 
 in the middle, all to see her safe across, the doctor, left behind 
 on board, slapped Kex loudly upon the shoulder and laughed, 
 saying : — 
 
 ' Gad ! Rex, you're a lucky fellow ! ' 
 
 How was he lucky ? she asked him in the boat, and said she 
 should be glad to hear of good luck for him. But he only blushed 
 and made no reply. 
 
 One of the things which she brought home after this visit was a 
 certain grey parrot. He had no particular value as a parrot. 
 There were many more valuable parrots alreadj^ about the house, 
 alive or stuffed. But this bird had accomplishments, and among 
 other things, he knew his master's name, and would cry, to every- 
 bod3r's admiration : ' Poor Rex Armiger ! Poor Rex Ai-miger ! ' 
 
 When Lai graciously accepted this gift, the. young man took it 
 as a favourable sign. She had already, he knew, sent away a dozen 
 captains at least, and he was only second mate. Yet still, wlien a 
 girl takes such a present she means — she surely means to make 
 some diflerence. 
 
 Then there was one day more — the last day but one before the 
 ship sailed — the last opportunity that Rex could find before they 
 sailed. He had leave for a whole day : the lading was completed, 
 the passengers were sending on their boxes and trunks ; the purser 
 and the stewards were taking in provisions — mountains of pro- 
 visions, with bleating sheep, milch cows, cocks and hens — for the 
 voyage. 
 
 All was bustle and stir at the Docks, but there was no work for 
 the second officer. He presented himself at Seven Houses at ten 
 o'clock in the morning, without any previous notice, and proposed, 
 if you please, nothing short of a whole day out. A whole day, 
 mind you, from that moment until ten o'clock at night. Never 
 was proposal more revolutionary. 
 
 ' All day long ? ' she cried, her great eyes full of surjDrise and 
 joy. 
 
 ' All day,' he said, ' if you will trust yourself with me. Where 
 shall we go ? ' 
 
 ' Where ? ' she repeated. 
 
 I suppose that now and then some echoes reach Rotherhithe of 
 the outer world and its amusements. Presumably there are natives 
 who have seen the Crystal Palace and other places ; here and there 
 might be found one or two who have seen a theatre. Most of 
 them, however, know nothing of any place of amusement what- 
 ever. It is a city without any shows. Punch and Judy go not 
 near it ; Cheap Jack passes it by ; the wandering feet of circus 
 horses never pass that way ; gipsies' tents have never been seen 
 
*t!? TRE CAPIAINS' ROOM. 
 
 there ; the boys of Rotherhithe do not know even the travelling 
 caravan with the fire-eater. To conjurers, men with entertain- 
 ments, and lecturers it is an untrodden field. When Lai came, in 
 a paper, upon the account of festive doings she passed them over, 
 and turned to the condition of the marlcets in South Africa or 
 Quebec as being a subject more likely to interest the captains. 
 Out of England there were plenty of things to interest her. She 
 knew something about the whole round world, or, at least, its 
 harbours ; but of London she was ignorant. 
 
 ' Where ? ' she asked, gasping. 
 
 ' There's the Crystal Palace and Epping Forest ; there's the 
 K^ational Gallery and Highgate Hill ; there's the top of St. Paul's 
 and the Aquarium ; there's Kew Gardens and the Tower ; there's 
 South Kensington and Windsor Castle ' — Rex bracketed the places 
 according to some obscure arrangement in his own mind — 'lots of 
 places. The only thing is where '? ' 
 
 ' I have seen none of them,' she replied. ' Will you choose 
 for me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he groaned. ' Here is a house full of great hulking 
 skippers, and she works herself to death for them, and not one 
 among them all has ever had the grace to take her to go and see 
 something ! ' 
 
 'Don't call them names,' she replied, gently; 'our people 
 never go anywhere, except to Poplar and Limehouse. One of 
 them went one evening to Woolwich Gardens, but he did not like 
 it. He said the manners of the people were forward, and he was 
 cheated out of half a crown.' 
 
 ' Then, Lai,' he jumped up and made a great show of preparing 
 for immediate departure with his cap ; ' then, Lai, let us waste no 
 more time in talking, but be ofl' at once.' 
 
 ' Oh, I can't ! ' 
 
 Her face fell, and the tears came into her eyes as she suddenly 
 recollected a reason why she could not go. 
 
 ' Why can't you r 
 
 ' Because— oh, because of the pudding. I can trust her with 
 the potatoes, and she will boil the greens to a turn. But the jiud- 
 ding I always make, and no one else can make it but me.' 
 
 The lady referred to was not her mother, but the assistant — the 
 ' service.' 
 
 ' Can't they go without pudding for once ? ' -' 
 
 Lai shook her head. 
 
 ' They always expect pudding, and they are very particular 
 about the currants. You can't think what a quantity of currants 
 they want in their pudding.' 
 
 ' Do you always give tliem plum-duff, then 1 ' 
 
 ' Except when they have roly-poly or apple dumplings. Some 
 times it is baked plum-dutt', sometimes it is boiled, sometimes with 
 sauce, and sometimes with brandy. But I think they would never 
 forgive me if there was no pudding.' 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 43 
 
 Rex nodded his head, put on his cap — this conversation took 
 place in the kitchen — and marched resolutely straight into the 
 Captains' room, wliere three of them were at that moment sitting 
 in conversation. One was Captain Zachariasen. 
 
 'Gentlemen,' he said, politely saluting; 'Lai wants a whole 
 holiday. But she says she can't take it unless you will kindly go 
 without your pudding to-day.' 
 
 They looked at each other. No one for a time spoke. The 
 gravity of the proposal was such that no one liked to take the 
 responsibility of accepting it. A dinner at P^ydquist's without 
 pudding was a thing hitherto unheard of. 
 
 ' Why,' asked Captain Zachariasen, severely — ' why, if you please, 
 Mr. Armiger, does Lai want a holiday to-day 1 And why cannot 
 she be content with a half -holiday ? Do I ever take a whole day ? ' 
 
 'Because she wants to go somewhere with me,' replied Rex, 
 stoutly ; 'and if she doesn't go tj-day she won't go at all, because 
 we sail the day after to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Under these circumstances, gentlemen,' said Captain Zacharia- 
 sen, softening, and feeling that he had said enough for the asser- 
 tion of private i^ights, ' seeing that Lai is, for tlie most part, an 
 obliging girl, and does her duty with a willing spirit, I think — 
 you are agreed with me, gentlemen '? ' 
 
 The other two nodded their heads, but with some sadness. 
 
 ' Then, sir,' said Captain Zachariasen, as if he were addressing 
 his chief ofhcer at high noon, ' make it so.' 
 
 'Now,' sjoid Rex, as they passed Rotherhithe parish church and 
 drew near unto Thames Tunnel Station, ' I've made up my mind 
 where to take you to. As for the British Museum, it's sticks 'and 
 stones, and South Kensington is painted pots ; the National Gallery 
 is saints and sign-boards ; the Crystal Palace is buns and boards 
 and ginger-beer, with an organ ; the IMonument of London is no 
 better than the crosstrees. Where we will go, Lai — where we will 
 go for our day out — is to Hampton Court, and we will have such a 
 day as j^ou shall remember.' 
 
 Tiiere had been, as yet, no word of love ; but he called her Lai, 
 and she called him Rex, which is an excellent beginning. 
 
 They did have that day ; they did go to Hampton Court. First 
 they drove in a hansom — Lai thought nothing could be more 
 delightful than this method of conveyance — -to Waterloo Station, 
 where they were so lucky as to catch a train going to start in three- 
 quarters of an hour, ancl by that they went to Hampton Court. 
 
 It was in the early days of the month of June, which in 
 England has two moods. One is the dejected, make-yourself-as- 
 miserable-as-you-can mood, when the rain falls dripping all the 
 day, and the leaves, which have hardly yet fully formed on the 
 trees, begin to get rotten before their time, and think of falling 
 off. That mood of Jime is not delightful. The other, which is far 
 preferable, is that in which the month comes with a gracious smile, 
 bearhig in her hands lilac, roses, laburnum, her face all glorious 
 
44 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 with sunshine, soft airs, and warmth. Then the young year 
 springs swiftly into vigorous manhood, with fragrance and sweet 
 perfumes, and the country hedges are splendid with their wealth of 
 a thousand wild flowers, and the birds sing above their nests. Men 
 grow young men again, lapped and wrapped in early summer ; the 
 blood of the oldest is warmed ; their fancies run riot ; they begin 
 to babble of holidays, to talk of walks in country places, of rest 
 on hill-sides, of wanderings, rod in hand, beside the streams, of 
 shady woods, and the wavelets of a tranquil sea ; they feel once 
 more — one must feel it every year again or die — the old simple 
 love for earth, fair mother-earth, generous earth, mother, nurse, 
 and fosterer — as well as grave ; they enjoy the sunshine. Sad 
 autumn is as yet far off, and seems much farther ; they are not yet 
 near unto the days when they shall say, one to the other : 
 
 ' Lo ! the evil days are come when we may say, ' ' I have no 
 pleasure in them." ' 
 
 The train sped forth from the crowded houses, and presently 
 passed into the fields and woods of Surrey. Res and Lai were 
 alone in a second-class carriage, and she looked out of the window 
 while he looked at her. And so to Hampton, where the Mole 
 joins the silver Thames, and the palace stands beside the river 
 bank. 
 
 I have always thought that to possess Hampton Court is a rare 
 and precious privilege which Londoners cannot regard with suffi- 
 cient gratitude, for, with the exception of Fontainebleau, which is 
 too big, there is nothing like it — except, perhaps, in Holland — 
 anywhere. It is delightful to wander in the cool cloisters, about 
 the bare chambers hung with pictures, and in the great empty hall, 
 where the Queen might dine eveiy day if she chose, her croAvn 
 upon her head, with braying of trumpets, scraping of fiddles, and 
 pomp of scarlet retainers. But she does not please. Then one 
 may walk over elastic turf, round beds of flowers, or down long 
 avenues of shady trees, which make one thmk of William the 
 Third ; or one may look over a wooden garden gate into what was 
 the garden in the times before Cardinal Wolsey found out this old 
 country grange and made it into a palace. Young people — espe- 
 cially young people in love — may also seek the windings of the 
 maze. 
 
 This boy Rex, with the girl who seemed to him the most 
 delightful creature ever formed by a benevolent Providence, en- 
 joyed all these delights, the girl lost in what seemed to her a dream 
 of wonder. Why had she never seen any of these beautiful places? 
 For the first time in her life, R-otherhithe, and the docks and ships 
 became small to her. She had never before known the splendour 
 of stately halls, pictures, or great gardens. She felt humiliated by 
 her strangeness, and to this day, though now she has seen a great 
 many splendid places, she regards Hampton Court as the most 
 wonderful and the most romantic of all buildings ever erected, and 
 I do not think she is far wrong. 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 45 
 
 One thing only puzzled her. She had read, somewhere, of the 
 elevating influences of art. This is a great gallery of art. Yet 
 somehow she did not feel elevated at all. Especially did a collec- 
 tion of portraits of women — all with drooping eyes and false smiles 
 and strange looks, the meaning of wliich she knew not — make her 
 long to hurry out of the room and into the fair gardens, on whose 
 lawns she could forget these pictures. How could they elevate or 
 improve the people i Art, you see, only elevates those who under- 
 stand a little of the technique, and ordinary people go to the 
 picture-galleries for the story told by each picture. This is the 
 reason why the contemjilation of a vast number of pictures has 
 hitherto failed to improve our culture or to elevate our standards. 
 But these two, like most visitors, took all for granted, and it must 
 be owned that there are many excellent stories, especially those of 
 the old sea-fight pictures, in the Hampton Court galleries. 
 
 Then they had dinner together in a room whose windows looked 
 right down the long avenue of Bushey, where the chestnuts were in 
 all their glory ; and after dinner Rex took her on the river. It 
 was the same river as that of Rotherhithe. But who would have 
 thought that twenty miles would make so great a change 1 ISTo 
 ships, no steamers, no docks, no noise, no shouting, no hammering. 
 And what a dilference in the boats ! They drifted slowly doAvn 
 with the silent current. The warm sun of the summer afternoon 
 lay lovingly on the meadows. It was not a Saturday. No one was 
 on the river but themselves. The very swans sat sleepily on the 
 water ; there was a gentle swish and slow murmur of the current 
 along the reeds and grasses of the bank ; crimson and golden leaves 
 hung over the river ; the flowers of the lilies were lying open on the 
 water. 
 
 Lai held the ropes and Bex the sculls ; but he let them lie idle 
 and looked at the fair face before him, while she gazed dreamily 
 about, thinking how she should remember, and by what things, 
 tliis wonderful day, this beautiful river, this palace, and this gentle 
 rowing in the light skifi'. As she looked, the smile faded out of her 
 face and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Why, Lai ? ' he asked. 
 
 She made no reply for a minute or two, thinking what reason 
 she might truthfully allege for her tears, wliich had risen unbidden 
 at the touch of some secret chord. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she said. ' Except that everything is so new 
 and strange, and I am quite happy, and it is all so beautiful.' 
 
 Rex reflected on the sujjerior nature of women who can shed 
 tears as a sign of happiness. 
 
 'I am so happy,' he said, ' that I should like to dance and sing, 
 except that I am afraid of capsizing the craft, when to Davy'3 
 locker we should go for want of your dingy, Lai.' 
 
 But they could not stay on the river all the evening. The sun 
 began to descend ; clouds came up from the south-west ; the wind 
 freshened ; a mist arose, and the river became sad and mysterious. 
 
46 THE CAPTAIXS' ROOM. 
 
 Then Rex turned the bows and rowed back. 
 
 The girl shuddered as she stepped upon the shore. 
 
 ' I shall never forget it,' she said ; ' never. And now it is all 
 over.' 
 
 ' Will you remember, with this day, your companion of the 
 day ? ' asked Rex. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied, with the frank and truthful gaze which went 
 straight to the young man's heart ; ' I shall never forget the day or 
 my companion.' 
 
 They went back to the palace, and while the shadows grew 
 deeper, walked in the old-fashioned garden of King William, be- 
 neath its arch of branches, old now and knotty and gnarled. 
 
 Rex was to sail in two days' time. He would have no other 
 chance. Yet he feared to break the charm. 
 
 ' We must go,' he said. ' Yes, it is all over.' He heaved a 
 mighty sigh. ' What a day we have had. And now it is gone, it 
 is growing dark, and we must go. And this is the last time I shall 
 see you, Lai.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she murmured ; ' the last time.' 
 
 Years afterwards she remembered those words and the thought 
 of ill omens and what they may mean. 
 
 ' The last time,' she repeated. 
 
 ' I supi^ose you know, Lai, that I love you ? ' said Rex, quite 
 simply. ' You must know that. But, of course, everybody loves 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she laid her hand upon his arm. ' Are you sure, quite 
 sure, that you love me ? You might be mistaken. Rex.' 
 
 ' Sure, Lai ? ' 
 
 ' Can you really love me 1 
 
 ' My darling, have not other men told you the same thing 1 
 Have you not listened- and sent them away 1 Do not send me 
 away, too, Lai.' 
 
 ' They said they Oh, it was nonsense. They could not 
 
 really have loved me, because I did not love them at all.' 
 
 ' And — and — me ? ' asked Rex, with fine disregard of grammar. 
 
 ' Oh, no. Rex. I do not want to send you away — not if you 
 really love me ; and. Rex, Rex, you have kissed me enough.' 
 
 They could not go away quite then ; they stayed there till they 
 were found by the custodian of the vine, who ignominiously led 
 them to the palace-gates and dismissed them with severity. Then 
 Rex must needs have supper, in order to keep his sweetheart witli 
 him a little longer. And it was not till the ten o'clock train that 
 they returned to town : Lai quiet and a little tearful, her hand in 
 her lover's ; Rex full of hope and faith and charity, and as happy 
 as if he were, indeed, ' rex orbis totius,' the king of the whole 
 world. 
 
 At half -past eleven he brought her home. It was very late for 
 Rotherhithe ; the captains were mostly in bed by ten, and all the 
 lights out, but to-night Mrs. Rydquist sat waiting for her daughter. 
 
THE SAILOR LAD FROM OVER THE SEA. 47 
 
 ' Mrs. Rydquist,' said the young man, beaming like a sun-god 
 between the pair of candles over which the good lady sat reading, 
 'she has promised to be my wife — Lai is going to marry me. The 
 day after to-morrow we drop down the river, but I shall be home 
 again soon— home again. Come Lai, my darling, my sweet, my 
 eueen,' he took her in his arms and kissed her again — this shame- 
 less young sailor — ' and as soon as I get my ship — why — why — 
 why ' he kissed her once more, and yet once more. 
 
 ' I wish you, young man,' said Lai's mother, in funereal tones, 
 ' a better fate than has befallen all the men who fell in love with 
 us. I have already given you my most solemn warning. You 
 rush upon your fate, but I wash my hands of it. IMy mother's 
 lost husband, and my husband, lie dead at the bottom of the sea. 
 Also two of my first cousins' husbands, and a second cousin's once- 
 removed husband. We are an unlucky family ; but, perhaps, my 
 daughter's husband may be more fortunate.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother,' cried poor Lai, ' don't make us down-hearted !' 
 
 ' I said, my dear,' she replied, folding her hands with a kind of 
 resignation to the inevitable, ' I said that I hope he may be more 
 fortunate. I cannot say more ; if I could say more I would say it. 
 If I think he may not be more fortunate, I will not say it ; nor 
 will I give you pain, Mr. Armiger, by prophesying that you will 
 add to our list.' 
 
 ' Never mind,' said Rex ; ' we sailors are mostly as safe at sea 
 as the landlubbers on shore, only people won't think so. Heart 
 up, Lai ! Heart up, my sweet ! Come outside and say good-bye.' 
 
 ' Look ! ' said Mrs. Rydquist, pointing cheerfully to the candle- 
 stick, when her daughter returned with tears in her eyes and Rex's 
 last kiss burning on her lips ; ' there is a winding-sheet, my dear, 
 in the candle. To-night a colhn popped out of the kitchen-fire. I 
 took it up in hopes it might have been a purse. No, my dear, a 
 coffin. Captain Zachariasen crossed knives at dinner to-day. I 
 have had shudders all the evening, which is as sure a sigii of graves 
 as any I know. Before you came home the furniture cracked three 
 times. No doubt, my dear, these warnings are for me, who am a 
 poor, weak creature, and ready and willing and hopeful, I am sure, 
 to be called away ; or for Captain Zachariasen, who is, to be sure, 
 a great age, and should expect his call every day instead of going 
 on with his talk and his rum and his pipe as if he was forgotten ; 
 or for any one of the captains, afloat or ashore ; these signs, my 
 dear, may be meant for anybody, and I would not be so pre- 
 sumptuous in a house full of sailors as to name the man for whom 
 they have come ; but, if I read signs right, then they mean that 
 
 young man. And oh ! my poor girl ' she clasped her hands as 
 
 if now, indeed, there could be no hope. 
 
 ' What is it, mother I ' 
 
 ' My dear, it is a Friday, of all the days in the week ! ' 
 
 She rose, took a candle, and went to bed, with her handkerchief 
 to her eyes. 
 
48 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 OVERDUE AND POSTED. 
 
 This day of days, this queen of all days, too swiftly sped over the 
 first and last of the young sailor's wooing. Lai's sweetheart was 
 lost to her almost as soon as he was found. But he left her so 
 happy in spite of her mother's gloomy forebodings, that she 
 wondered — not knowing that all the past years had been nothing 
 but a long preparation for the time of love — how could she ever 
 have been happy before 1 And she was only eighteen, and her 
 lover as handsome as Apollo, and as well-mannered. Next morning 
 at about twelve o'clock she jumped into her boat and rowed out 
 upon the river to see the ' Aryan ' start upon her voyage. The 
 tide was on the turn and the river full when the great steamer 
 came out of dock and slowly made her way upon the crowded water 
 a miracle of human skill, a great and wonderful living thing, which, 
 though even a clumsy lighter might sink and destroy it, yet could 
 live through the wildest storm ever known in the Sea of Cyclones, 
 tlu'ough which she was to sail. As the ' Aryan ' passed the little 
 boat Lai saw her lover. He had sprung upon the bulwark and 
 was waving his hat in farewell. Oh, gallant Rex, so brave and so 
 loving ! To think that this glorious creature, this god-like man, 
 this young prince among sailors, should fall in love with her ! 
 And then the doctor, and the purser, and the chief officers, and 
 even the captain, came to the side and took off their caps to her, 
 and some of the passengers, informed by the doctor who she was, 
 and how brave she was, waved their hands and cheered. 
 
 Then the ship forged ahead, and in a few minutes Rex jumped 
 down with a final kiss of his fingers. The screw turned more 
 quickly ; the ship forged ahead. Lai lay to in mid-stream, careless 
 what might run into her, gazing after her with straining eyes. 
 When she had rounded the point and was lost to view, the girl, 
 for the first time in her life since she was a child, burst into tears 
 and sobbing. 
 
 It was but a shower. Lai belonged to a sailor family. Was 
 she to weep and go in sadness because her lover was away doing 
 his duty upon the blue water 1 Not so. She shook her head, 
 dried her eyes, and rowed homewards, grave yet cheerful. 
 
 ' Is his ship gone ? ' asked her mother. ' Well, he is a fine lad 
 to look at, Lai, and if he is as true as he is strong and well-favoured, 
 I could wish you nothing better. Let us forget the signs and 
 warnings, my dear ' — tliis was kindly meant, but had an unpleasant 
 and gruesome sound — ' and let us hope that he will come back 
 again. Indeed, I do not see any reason why he should not come 
 back more than once.' 
 
OVERDUE AND POSTED. 49 
 
 Everything went on, then, as if nothing had happened. What 
 a strange thing it is that people can go on as if nothing had 
 happened, after the most tremendous events ! Life so changed 
 for her, yet Captain Zachariasen taking up the thread of her dis- 
 course just as before, and the same interest expected to be shown 
 in the timber trade ! Yet what a very different thing is interest 
 in timber trade compared with interest in a man ! Then she 
 discovered with some surprise that her old admiration of cajstains 
 as a class had been a good deal modified during the last three 
 weeks. There were persons in the world, it was now quite certain, 
 of culture superior even to that of a skipper in the Canadian trade. 
 And she clearly discovered, for the first time, that a whole life 
 devoted to making captains comfortable, providing them with 
 pudding, looking after their linen, and hearing their confidences, 
 might, without the gracious influences of love, become a very arid 
 and barren kind of life. Perhaps, also, the recollection of that 
 holiday at Hampton Court heljaed to modify her views on the sub- 
 ject of Rotherhithe and its people. The place was only, after all, 
 a small part of a great city ; the people were humble. One may 
 discover as much certainly about one's own people without becoming 
 ashamed of them. It is only when one reaches a grade higher in 
 the social scale that folk become ashamed of themselves. An assured 
 position in the world, as the chimney-sweep remarked, gives one 
 confidence. Lai plainly saw that her sweetheart was of gentler 
 birth and better breeding than she had been accustomed to. She 
 therefore resolved to do her best never to make him on that account 
 repent his choice, and there was an abundance of fine sympathy — 
 the assumption or pretence of which is the foundation of good 
 manners — in this girl's character. 
 
 It was an intelligent parrot which Rex had given her, and at 
 this juncture proved a remarkably sympathetic creature, for at the 
 sight of his mistress he would shake his head, plume his wings, 
 and presently, as if necessary to console her, would cry : 
 
 ' Poor Rex Armiger ! Poor Rex Armiger ! ' 
 
 But she was never dull, nor did she betray to anyone, least of 
 aU to her old friend Captain Zachariasen, that her manner of 
 regarding things had in the least degree changed, while the secret 
 joy that was in her heart showed itself in a thousand merry ways : 
 with songs and laughter, and little jokes with her caj)tains, so that 
 they marvelled that the existence of a sweetheart at sea should 
 produce so beneficial an effect upon maidens. Perhaps, too, in 
 some mysterious way, her happiness aftected the puddings. I say 
 not this at random, because certainly the fame of Rydquist's as a 
 house where comforts, elsewhere unknown, and at Limehouse and 
 Poplar quite unsuspected, could be found, spread far and wide, 
 even to Deptford on the east, and Stepney on the north, and the 
 house might have been full over and over again, but they would 
 take in no strangers, being in this respect as exclusive as Boodle's. 
 
 This attitude of cheerfulness was greatly commended by Captain 
 
 £ 
 
EO THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Zachariasen. 'Some girls,' he said, ' would have let their thoughts 
 run upon their lover instead of their duty, whereby houses are 
 brought to ruin and captains seek comfort elsewhere. Once the 
 sweetheart is gone, he ought never more to be thought upon till he 
 comes home again, save in bed or in church, while there is an egg to 
 be boiled or an onion to be peeled.' 
 
 The first letter which Rex sent her was the first that Lai had 
 ever received in all her life. And such a letter ! It came from the 
 Suez Canal ; the next came from Aden ; the next from Point de 
 Galle ; the next from Ca,lcutta. So far all was well. Be sure that Lai 
 read them over and over again, every one, and carried them about 
 in her bosom, and knew them all word for word, and was, after the 
 way of a good and honest girl, touched to the very heart that a man 
 should love her so very, very much, and sliould think so highly of 
 her, and should talk as if she was all goodness — a thing which no 
 woman can understand. It makes silly giiis despise men, and good 
 girls respect and fear them. 
 
 The next letter was much more important than the first four, 
 which were, in truth, mere rhapsodies of passion, although on that 
 very account more interesting than letters which combine matter- 
 of-fact business with love, for, on airiving at Calcutta, Rex found a 
 proposal waiting for liis acceptance. This offer came from the 
 Directors of the Company, and showed in what good esteem he was 
 held, being nothing less than the command of one of their smaller 
 steamers, engaged in what is called the country trade. 
 
 ' It will separate us for three years at least,' he wrote, ' and 
 perhaps for five, but I cannot afford to refuse the chance. Perhaps, 
 if I did, I might never get another offer, and everybody is congratu- 
 lating me, and thinking me extremely fortunate to get a ship so 
 early. So, though it keeps me from the giid of my heart, I have 
 accepted, and I sail at once. IMj' ship is named the " Philippine " 
 She is a thousand-ton boat, and classed 100 Al, newly built. She 
 is not like the " Ai-yan,-" fitted with splendid min'ors and gold and 
 paint and a great saloon, being built chieily for cargo. The crew 
 are all Lascars, and I am the only Englishman aboard except the 
 mate and the chief engineer. Yve are under orders to take in rice 
 from Hong-Kong ; bound for Brisbane, first of all ; if that answers 
 we shall continue in the countiy grain trade ; if not, we shall, I 
 suppose, go seeking, when I shall have a commission on the cargo. 
 As for pay, I am to have twenty pounds a month, with rations and 
 allowances, and liberty to trade — so many tons every voyage — if I 
 like. These are good terms, and at the end of every year there 
 should be something put by in the locker. Poor Lai ! Oh, my dear 
 sweet eyes ! Oh, my dear brown hair ! Oh, my dear sweet lips ! I 
 shall not kiss them for three years more. What are three years ? 
 Soon gone, my pretty. Think of that, ana heart up ! As soon as 1 
 can I will tiy for a Port- of -London ship. Then we will be married 
 and have a house at Gravesend, where you shall see me come up 
 etream, homeward bound.' With much more to the same effect. 
 
OVERDUE AND POSTED. 51 
 
 Three years — or it migJit be five ! Lai put down the letter, and 
 tried to make out what it would mean to her. She would be in 
 tliree years, when E,ex came home, one and twenty, and he would 
 be five and twenty. Five and twenty seems to eighteen what forty 
 seems to thirty, fifty to forty, and sixty to fifty. One has a feeling 
 that the ascent of life must then be quite accomplished, and the 
 descent fairly begun ; the leaves on the trees by the waj'side must 
 be ever so little browned and dusty, if not yellow ; the heart must 
 be full of experience, the head must be full of wisdom, the crown 
 of glory, if any is to be worn at all, already on the brows. The 
 ascent of life is like the climbing of some steep hill, because the 
 summit seems continually to recede, and so long as one is young in 
 heart it is never reached. Rex five and twenty ! Three years to 
 wait ! 
 
 It is, indeed, a long time for the young to look forward to. 
 Such a quantity of things get accomplished in three years ! Why, 
 in tlu'ee years a lad gets through his whole undergraduate course, 
 and makes a spoon or spoils a horn. Tliree years make up one 
 hundred and fifty-six weeks, with the same number of Sundays, in 
 every one of which a girl may sit in tlie quiet church and wonder 
 on what wild seas or in what peaceful haven her lover may be 
 floating. Three years are four summers in the course of three 
 yea.rs, with as many other seasons ; in three years there is time for 
 many a hope to spring up, fiourish for a while, and die ; for friend- 
 ship to turn into hate ; for strength to decay ; and for youth to 
 grow old. The experience of the long succession of human genera- 
 tions has developed this sad thing among mankind that we cannot 
 look forward with joy to the coming years, and in everything 
 unknown which will happen to us we expect a thing of evil. Three 
 years ! Yet it must be borne, as the lady said to the school-boy 
 concerning the fat beef, ' It is helped, and must be finished.' 
 
 When Mrs. Rydquist heard the news she first held up her 
 hands, and spread them slowly outwards, shaking and wagging her 
 head — a most dreadful sign, worse than any of those with which 
 Panurge discomfited Thaumast, Then she sighed heavily. Then 
 she said aloud : 
 
 ' Oh, dear, dear, dear ! So soon ! I had begun to hope that 
 the bad luck would not show yet ! Dear, dear ! Yet what could 
 be expected after such certain signs 1 ' 
 
 ' Why,' said Captain Zachariasen, ' as for signs, they may mean 
 anything or anybodj', and as for fixing them on Cap' en Armiger, 
 no reason that I can see. Don't be downed, Lai. The narrow seas 
 are as safe as the Mediterranean. In my time there were the 
 pirates, who are now shot, hanged,, and drowned, every man Jack. 
 No more stinkpots in crawling boats, pretending to be friendly 
 traders. You might row your dingy about the islands as safe as 
 Lime'us Reach. Lord ! I'd rather go cruising with your sweet- 
 heart in them watei's than take a twopenny omnibus along the Old 
 Kent Ptoad. Y^our signs, ma'am,' he said to Mrs. Rydquist, 
 
 £ 2 
 
52 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 politely, ' must be read other ways. There's Cap'en Biddiman ; 
 perhaps they're meant for him.' 
 
 Then came another letter from Singapore. Rex was pleased 
 with the ship and his crew. All was going well. 
 
 After six weeks there came another letter. It was from Hong 
 Kong. The ' Philippine' had taken on board her cargo of rice and 
 was to sail next day. 
 
 Rex wrote in his usual confident, hapjpy vein — full of love, of 
 hope, and happiness. 
 
 After that — no more letters at all. Silence. 
 
 Lai went on in cheerfulness for a long time. Rex could not 
 write from Brisbane. He would write when the ship got back to 
 Hong-Kong. 
 
 The weeks went on, but still there was silence. It was whis- 
 pered in the Captains' room that the ' Philipjjine ' was long over- 
 due at ]Moreton Bay. Then the whispers became questions whether 
 there was any news of her : then one went across to the oiBce of 
 the company, and brought back the dreadful news that the owners 
 had given her up ; and they began to hide away the ' Shipping and 
 Mercantile Gazette.' Then everybody became extremely kind to 
 Lai, studying little surprises for her, and assuming an appearance 
 of light-heartedness so as to deceive the poor girl. She went about 
 with cheerful face, albeit with sinking heart. Ships are often over- 
 due ; letters get lost on the way. For a while she still carolled and 
 sang about her work, though at times her song would suddenly stop 
 like the song of a bullfinch, who remembers something, and must 
 needs stay his singing while he thinks about it. 
 
 Then there came a time when the poor child stopped singing 
 altogether, and would look with anxious eyes from one captain to 
 the other, seeking comfort. But no one had any comfort to give 
 her. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen told her at last. He was an old man ; he 
 had seen so many shipwrecks that they thought he would tell her 
 best ; also it was considered his duty, as the father or the oldest 
 inhabitant of E^ydquist's, to undertake this task ; and as a wise 
 and discreet person he would tell the story, as it should be told, in 
 few words, and fjo get it over without beatings on and off. He ac- 
 cepted the dutj', and discharged himself of it as soon as he could. 
 He told her tlie story, in fact, the next morning in tlie kitchen. 
 
 He said, quietly : 
 
 ' Lai, my dear, the " Philippine" has gone to the bottom, and 
 — and don't take on, my pretty. But Cap'en Armiger he is gone, 
 too ; with all hands he went down.' 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' she asked. The news was sudden, but 
 she felt it coming ; that is, she had felt some of it — not all. 
 
 ' The insurances have been all paid up : the shij) is posted at 
 Lloyd's. My dear, I went to the iniderwriter's a month ago and 
 niore, and axed about her. Axed what they would underwrite her 
 for, and they said a hundred per cent. ; and then they wouldn't do 
 
OVERDUE AXD POSTED. 63 
 
 It. Not an atom of hope — gone she is, and that young fellow 
 aboard her. Well, my dear, that's done with. Shall I leave you 
 here alone to get through a spell o' crying 1 ' 
 
 ' The ship, ' said Lai, with dry eyes, ' may be at the bottom of 
 the sea, and the insurances may be paid for her. But Rex is not 
 drowned. ' 
 
 That was what she said : ' Rex is not drowned. ' 
 
 Her mother brought out her cherished crape — -she was a woman 
 whom this nasty, crinkling, black stuff comforted in a way — and 
 offered to divide it with her daughter. 
 
 Lai refused ; she bought herself gay ribbons and she decked 
 herself with them. She tried, in order to show the strength of her 
 faith, to sing about the house. 
 
 'Rex,' she said, stoutly, ' is not drowned.' 
 
 This was the most unexpected way of receiving the news. The 
 captains looked for a burst of tears and lamentation, after which 
 things would brighten up, and some other fellow might have a 
 chance. No tears at all ! No chance for anybody else ! 
 
 ' Ribbons ! ' moaned Mrs. Rydquist. ' Oh, Captain Zachariasen, 
 my daughter wears ribbons — blue ribbons and red ribbons — while 
 her sweetheart, lying at the bottom of the sea, cries aloud, poor lad, 
 for a single yard of crape ! ' 
 
 "Twould be more natural,' said Captain Zachariasen, 'to cry 
 and adone with it. But gals, ma'am, are not what gals was in my 
 young days, when so many were there as was taken off by wars, 
 privateers, storms, and the hand of the Lord, that there was no 
 time to cry over them, not for more than a month or so. And as 
 for flying in the face of Providence, and saying that a drowned man 
 is not drowned — a man whose ship's insm-ances have been paid, 
 and his ship actually posted at Lloyd's — why it's beyond anything.' 
 
 ' Rex is not dead,' said the girl, to herself, again and again. 
 ' He is not dead. I should know if he were dead. He would, 
 somehow or other, come and tell me. He is sitting somewhere — I 
 know not where it is — waiting for deliverance, and thinking — oh, 
 my Rex ! my Rex ! — thinking about the girl he loves.' 
 
 This was what she said. Her words were brave, yet it is hard 
 to keep one's faith up to so high a level as these words demanded. 
 For no one else thought there was, or could be, any chance. For 
 nearly three years she struggled to keep alive this poor ray of hope, 
 based upon nothing at all : and for all that time no news came from 
 the far East about her lover's ship, nor did anyone know where she 
 was cast away or how. 
 
 Sometimes this faith would break down, and she would ask in 
 tears and with sobbings what so many women bereft of their lovers 
 have asked in vain — an answer to her prayers. Ah ! helpless 
 ones, if her prayers were mockeries and her lover were dead in very 
 truth ! 
 
o4 THE CAPIAINS' ROOM, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PATIENCE OF PENELOPE. 
 
 The longer Ulysses stayed away from the rocky Ithaca the mora 
 numerous became the suitors for the hand of the lovely Penelope, 
 ■who possessed the art, revived much later by Ninon de I'Enclos, 
 of remaining beautiful although she grew old. That was because 
 Penelope wickedly encouraged her lovers — to their destruction — 
 and held out false hopes connected wich a simple bit of embroidery. 
 Why the foolish fellows, whose wits should have been sharpened by 
 the vehemence of their passion, did not discover the trick, is not 
 apparent. Perhaps, however, the climate of Ithaca was bracing 
 and the wine good, so that they winked one upon the other, and 
 pretended not to see, or whispered : ' He will never come, let us 
 wait.' 
 
 The contrary proved the case with the lass of Rotherhithe, 
 ^Mien, after two years or so, some of her old suitors ventured with 
 as much delicacy as in them lay to reopen the subject of courtship, 
 they were met with a reception so unmistakable, that they imme- 
 diately retired, baffled and in confusion ; some among them — 
 those of coarser mind — to scofi' and sneer at a constancy so unusual. 
 Others, those of greater sympathies — to reflect with all humility on 
 the great superiority of the feminine nature over their 0"i^Ti, since 
 it permitted a fidelity which they could not contemplate as possible 
 for themselves, and were fain to admire, while they regretted it. 
 
 Gradually it became evident to most of them that the case was 
 hopeless, and those captains who had once looked confidently to 
 make Lai their own, returned to their former habits of friendly 
 communications, and asked her advice and opinion in the matter of 
 honouralile proposals for the hands of other young ladies. 
 
 Three suitors still remained, and, each in his own way, refused 
 to be sent sway. 
 
 The first of these was Captain Holstius, whose acquaintance we 
 have already made. He was, of course, in the Norway trade. 
 
 Perhaps it is not altogether fair to call Captain Holstius a 
 Buitor. He was a lover, but he had ceased to hope for anything 
 except permission to go on in a friendly way, doing such offices as 
 laj"- in his power to please and help the girl whom he regarded^ 
 being a simple sort of fellow of a religious turn — as Dante regarded 
 Beatrice. She was to him a mere angel of beauty and goodness ; 
 in happier times she had been that rare and wonderful creature, a 
 merry, laughing, happy angel, always occupied in good works, such 
 as making plum -duft' for poor humanity ; now, unhappily, an angel 
 who endured suspense and the agony of long wailing for news 
 which would never come. 
 
THE PATIENCE OF PENELOPE. 56 
 
 For the good Norwegian, like all the rest, believed that Rex 
 was dead long ago. Captain Holstius was not a man accustomed to 
 put his thoughts into words ; nor did he, like a good many people, 
 feel for thoughts through a multitude of phrases and thousands of 
 words. But had he been able to set forth in plain language the 
 things he intended and meant, he would certainly have said some- 
 thing to this effect. I think he would have said it more simply, 
 and therefore with the greater force. 
 
 ' If I could make her forget him ; if I could substitute my own 
 image entirely for the image of tliat dead man, so that she should 
 be happy, just as she used to be when I first saw her, and if all 
 could be as if he had never known her. I should think myself in 
 heaven itself ; or, if by taking another man to husband, and not me 
 at all, she would recover her happiness, I should be contented, for 
 I love her so much that all I ask is for her to be happy.' 
 
 It is a form of disinterested love which is so rare that at this 
 moment I cannot remember any other single instance of it. Most 
 people, when they love a girl, vehemently desire to keep her for 
 themselves. Yet in the case of Captain Plolstius, as for marrying 
 her, that seemed a thing so remote from the region of probability, 
 that he never now, whatever he had done formerly, allowed his 
 thoughts to rest upon it, and contented himself with thinking what 
 he could do for the girl ; how he could soften the bitterness of her 
 misfortune ; how he could in small ways relieve the burden of her 
 life, and make her a little happier. 
 
 Lai accepted all he gave : all his devotion and care. Little by 
 little, because she saw Captain Holstius often, it became a pleasure 
 to her to have him in the house. He became a sort of brother to 
 her, who had never had that often unsatisfactory relative a brother, 
 or, at all events, a true and unselfish friend, much better than the 
 majority of brothers, who gave her everything and asked nothing 
 for himself. She liked to be with him. They walked together 
 about the wharves of the Commercial Docks in the quiet evenings ; 
 they rowed out together on the river in the little dingy, she sitting 
 in the stern gazing upon the waters in silent thouglit, while the 
 Norwegian dipped the sculls gently, looking with an ever in- 
 creasing sorrow in the face which had once been so full of sunshine, 
 and now grew daily more overcast with cloud. They spoke little 
 at such times to each other, or at any time ; but it seemed to her 
 that she thought best, most hopefully, about Rex when she was with 
 Captain Holstius. He was always a silent man, thinking that when 
 he had a thing to say there would be no difheulty in saying it, and 
 that if anyone had a thing to say unto him thej' could say it with- 
 out any stimulus of talk from himself. Fiu-tlier, in the case of 
 this poor Lai, what earthly good would it do to interrupt the girl 
 in her meditations over a dead lover by his idle chatter. 
 
 When they got home again she would thank him gently and 
 return to her household duties, refreshed in spirit by this com- 
 panionsliip in silence. 
 
P6 THE CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 It is a maxim not sufBciently understood that the most re- 
 freshing thing in the world, wlien one is tired and sorry, disap- 
 pointed or vexed, is to sit, walk, or remain for awhile silent with a 
 silent friend whom you can trust not to chatter, or ask questions, 
 or tease with idle observations. Pythagoras taught the same great 
 truth, but obscurely and by an allegory. He enjoined silence 
 among all his disciples for a term of years. This meant a com- 
 panionship of silence, so as to forget the old friction and worry of 
 the world. 
 
 The Norway ships come and go at quickly-recurring periods. 
 Therefore Captain Holstius was much at the Commercial Docks, 
 and had greater chances, if he had been the man to take advantage 
 of them, than any of the other men. He was also favoured with 
 the good opinion and the advocacy of Captain Zachariasen, who 
 lost no opportunity of recommending Lai to consider her ways and 
 ftt the same time the ways of the Norweegee. His admonition, we 
 have seen, produced no effect. Nor did Holstius ask for his media- 
 tion any longer, being satisfied that he had got from the girl all 
 the friendship which she had to ofter. 
 
 The other two suitors, who would not be denied, but returned 
 continually, were of coarser mould. They belonged to the very 
 extensive class of men who, because they desire a thing vehe- 
 mently, think themselves ill-used if they do not get it, fly into 
 rages, accuse Providence, curse the hour of their bii'th, and go dis- 
 traught. Sometimes, as in the case of the young Frenchman 
 whose story is treated by Robert Browning, they throw themselves 
 into the Seine, and so an end, because the joys of this world are 
 denied to the poor. At other times they go about glaring with 
 envious and malignant eyes. At all times they are the enemies of 
 honest Christian folk. 
 
 One of these men was Captain Nicolas Borlinder, whose ship 
 sailed to and fro from Calais to the Port of London, carrying casks 
 of sherry for the thirsty British aristocracy. It is not a highly- 
 paid service, and culture of the best kind is not often found among 
 the captains in that trade. Yet Nick Borlinder was a happy man, 
 because his standard was of a kind easily attainable. Like his 
 friends of the same service, he loved beer, rum, and tobacco ; like 
 them he loved these things in large quantities ; like them he de- 
 lighted to sit and tell yarns. He could also sing a good song in a 
 coarse baritone ; he could dance a hornpipe — only among brother 
 captains, of course — as well as any fo'k'sle hand ; and he had the 
 reputation of being a smart sailor. This reputation, however, 
 belonged to all. 
 
 It was an unlucky day for Lai when this man was allowed a 
 right of entry to Rydquist's. For he immediately fell in love with 
 her and resolved to make her his own^Mrs. Borlinder — which 
 would have been fine promotion for her. 
 
 He was a red-faced, jolly-looking man of five and thirty, or 
 thereabouts. He had a blutf and hearty way ashore ; aboard ship 
 
THE PATIENCE OF PEXELOPE. 57 
 
 he was handy with a marlingspike, a rope's-end, a fist, a kick, or a 
 round, stimulating oath, or anything else strong and lough and 
 good for knocking do^vn the mutinous or quickening the indolent. 
 Behind his hearty manner there lay — one can hardly say con- 
 cealed — a nature of the most profound selfishness ; and it might 
 have been remarked, had any of the captains been students of 
 human nature — which is not a possible study, save on a very 
 limited scale, for sailors — that among them all Nick Borlinder was 
 about the only one who had no friends. 
 
 He came and went. When he appeared no one rejoiced ; while 
 he stayed he sang and laughed and told yarns ; when he went 
 away nobody cared. 
 
 Now, a skipper can go on very well as a bachelor up to the age 
 of thirty-five or even forty. He is supported by the dignity and 
 authority of his position ; he is sustained by a sense of his 
 responsibilities ; perhaps, also, he still looks forward to another 
 fling in port, for youthful follies are cherished and linger long in 
 the breasts of sailors, and are sometimes dear even to the gravity 
 of the captain. When a man reaches somewhere about thirty-five 
 years of age, however, there generally comes to him a sense of 
 loneliness. It seems hard that there should be no one glad to see 
 him when he puts into port ; visions arise of a cottage with green 
 palings and scarlet-runners, and, in most cases, that man is doomed 
 when those visions arise. 
 
 Captain Borlinder was thirty- one or so when he first saw Lai. 
 She was in her housekeeper's room making up accounts, and he 
 brought her a letter from a 'Rydquist's man,' introducing him and 
 requesting for him admission. She read the letter, asked him what 
 his ship was, and where she traded, and showed him a room in her 
 girlish, business-like manner. This was in the year eighteen 
 hundred and seventj^-six, shortly before she met Rex Armiger. 
 
 Captain Borlinder instantly, in her own room, at the very first 
 interview, fell in love with her, and, like many men of his class, 
 concluded that she was equally ready to fall in love with him. 
 
 All the next voyage out he thought about her. His experience 
 of women was small, and of such a woman as Lai Rydquist, such 
 a dainty maiden, he had no experience at all, because he had never 
 known any such, or even distantly resembling her. The talk of 
 such a girl, who could be friendly and laugh with a roomful of 
 captains, and yet not one of them would dare so much as to chuck 
 her under the chin — a delicate attention he had always heretofore 
 allowed himself to consider proper — was a thing he had never 
 before experienced. Then her figure, her face, her quickness, her 
 cleverness — all these things excited his admiration and his envy. 
 Should he allow such a treasure to be won by another man ? 
 
 Then he thought of her business capacity and that snug and 
 comfortable business at Rydquist's. What a retreat, what a 
 charming retreat for himself, after his twenty years of bucketing 
 about the sea ! He pictured himself a partner in that business—- 
 
68 THE CAPTAIKS' ROOM. 
 
 sleeijing partner, smoking partner, drinking partner, the partner 
 told off tr narrate the yarns and shove the bottle round. What a 
 place for a bluff, hearty, genuine old salt ! How richly had he 
 deserved it ! 
 
 He resolved, during that voyage, upon making Lai Rydquist 
 his owii as soon as he returned. They met with nasty weather in 
 the Bay, and a night or two on deck, wiiich he had alway previously 
 regarded as part of his profession and all in the day's work, became 
 a peg for discontent as he thought of the snug lying he might have 
 beside — not in — the churchyard in the Seven Houses. 
 
 The more he thought of the thing the more clearly he saw, in 
 his own mind, its manifest advantages. And then, because the 
 seclusion of the cabin and the solitude of the captain's position 
 afford unrivalled opportunities for reflection, he began to build up 
 a castle of Spain, and pictured to himself how he would reign as 
 king-consort of E,ydquist's. 
 
 ' The old woman,' he said, ' shall be the first to go. No useless 
 hands allowed aboard that craft. Her room shall be mine, where 
 I will receive my own friends and count the money. As for old 
 Zachariasen, he may go too, if he likes. We shall get more by a 
 succession of captains than by feeding him all the year round. 
 And as for the feeding, it's too good for the money ; they don't 
 want such good grub. And the charges are too low ; and the 
 drinks ridiculous for cheapness. And as for Lai, she'd make any 
 house go, with her pretty ways.' 
 
 About this point a certain anxiety crossed his mind, because 
 the girl herself rather frightened him. In what terms should he 
 convey his intentions 1 And how would she receive them ? 
 
 When he got back to London he hastened to propose to Lai. 
 He adopted the plain and hearty manner, with a gallant nautical 
 attitude, indicating candour and loyalty. This manner he had 
 studied and made his own. It was not unlike the British tar of 
 the stage, except that the good old ' Shiver my timbers ! ' with the 
 hitch-up of the trousers, went out before Nick Borlinder's time. 
 Now it must be remembered that this was very shortly after young 
 Armiger's departure. 
 
 ' What you want, my hearty,' said Captain Borlinder, ' is a 
 jolly husband, that's what you want ; and the best husband you 
 can have is a sailor.' 
 
 Lai was accustomed to propositions of this kind, though not 
 always convej-ed in language so downright, having already refused 
 four and twenty captains, and laughed at half a dozen more, who 
 lamented their previous marriages for her sake, and would have 
 even seen themselves widov,'ers with resignation. 
 
 ' Wliy a sailor, Captain Boilinder 1 ' 
 
 ' Because a sailor is not always running after your heels like a 
 tame cat and a puppy-dog. He goes to sea, and is out of sight ; 
 he leaves you the house to yourself ; and when he comes home 
 again he is ahvaj-s in a good temper. A sailor ashore is easy, con- 
 tented, and happy-go-lucky.' 
 
THE PATIENCE OF PENELOPE. 59 
 
 ' It certainly would be sometliing,' said Lai, ' always to have i, 
 good-tempered husband.' 
 
 'A sailor for me, says you,' continued the Captain, warming to 
 his work. ' That's right ; and if a sailor, quartermaster is better 
 than able seaman ; mate is better than quartermaster. Wherefore, 
 skipper is better than mate ; and if skipper, why not Nick Bor- 
 linder ? Eh ! Why not Nick Borlinder ? ' 
 
 And he stuck his thumbs in his M-aistcoat-pockets, and looked 
 irresistible tenderness, so that he was greatly shocked when Lai 
 laughed in his face, and informed him that she could not possibly 
 become Mrs. Borlinder. 
 
 He went away in great indignation, and presently hearing about 
 Hex Armiger and his successful courtship, first declared that he 
 would break the neck of that young man as soon as he could get a 
 chance, and then found fault with his own eyes because he had not 
 struck at once and proposed when the idea first came into his head. 
 Lost ! and all for want of a little pluck. Lost ! because the 
 moment his back was turned, this young jackanapes, no better 
 than a second mate in a steamer, cut in, saw his chance, and 
 snapped her up. 
 
 For two voyages he reflected on the nature of women. He 
 said to himself that out of sight, out of mind, and she would very 
 likely forget all about the boy. He therefore resolved on trying 
 the effect of bribery, and came offering rare gifts, consisting 
 princij^ally of an octave of sherry. 
 
 Lai accepted it graciously, and set it up in the Captains' room, 
 where everybody fell to lapping it up until it was all gone. 
 
 Then Lai refused the donnr a second time. So the sherry was 
 clean thrown away and wasted. Much better had made it rum for 
 his own consumption. 
 
 We know what happened next, and none rejoiced more cor- 
 dially than Captain Borlinder over his rival's death. 
 
 When a reasonable time, as he thought, had elapsed, he 
 renewed his offer with effusion, and was indignantly, even scorn- 
 fully, refused. He concluded that he had another rival, probably 
 some fellow with more mcuiey, and he looked about him and made 
 more guarded inquiries. He could find no one likely to be a rival 
 except Captain Holstius, who appeared to be a poor religious crea- 
 ture, not worth the jealousy of a lusty English sailor ; and later on, 
 he discovered that a certain American captain called Barnabas B. 
 Wattles, who came and went, having no ship of his own, and yet 
 always full of business, was certainly a rival. 
 
 Captain Wattles puzzled him, because, so far as he could see, 
 Lai was no kinder to liim than to himself. Always there was 
 present to his mind that vision of himself the landlord or pro- 
 prietor of Bydquist's, counting out the money in the front parlour 
 over a pipe and a cool glass of i-um and water, while Lai looked 
 after the dinners and made out the bills. 
 
 ' Bills ! ' he thought. ' Yes ; they should be bills with a profit 
 ill them, too, when he was proprietor ! ' 
 
60 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Rage possessed his soul as the time went on and he got no 
 nearer the attainment of his object. He could not converse with 
 the girl, partly because she avoided him, and partly because he had 
 nothing to say. Worst of all, she told him when he ventured once 
 more to remark that a jolly sailor — namely, Nick Borlinder — would 
 restore her to happiness, tliat if he ever dare to propose such a 
 thing again he would no longer be admitted to Rydquist's, but 
 might stay aboard his own ship in the London Docks, or find a 
 house at Poplar. Fear of being sent to Poplar kept him quiet. 
 
 There remained the third suitor. Captain Barnabas B. Wattles. 
 
 When he made the acquaintance of Lai, a skipper without a 
 ship, it was in the year eighteen hundred and seventy-seven. He was 
 an American by birth, hailing, in fact, from the town of Portsmouth, 
 New Hampshire, and he was always full of business, the nature of 
 which no man knew. He was Cjuite unlike the jovial Nick Bor- 
 linder, and indeed, resembled the typical British tar in no respect 
 whatever. For he was a slight, spare man, with sharp features and 
 hairless cheek. He was not, certainly, admitted to the privileges 
 of Rydquist's, but he visited when his business brought him to 
 London, and sat of an evening in the Captains' room drinking with 
 anyone who would offer gratuitous grog ; at other times he was 
 fond of saying that he was a temperance man, and went away 
 without grog rather than pay for it himself. 
 
 He first came when Lai was waiting for that letter from Rex 
 which never came. He learned the whole story ; and either did 
 not immediately fall in love, like the more inflammable Borlinder, 
 being a man of prudence and forethought, else he refrained from 
 speech, even from the good words of courtship. But he came 
 often ; by speaking gently, and without mention of love and mar- 
 riage, he established friendly relations with Lai ; he even ventured 
 to speak of her loss, and, with honeyed sympathy, told the tales of 
 like disasters, which always, ended fatally, to American sailors. 
 When she declared that Rex could not be drowned, he only shook 
 his head with pity. And, in speaking of those early deaths at sea 
 which had come under his own observation, he assumed as a matter 
 of course, that the bereaved woman mourned for no more than a 
 certain term, after which time she took unto herself another sweet- 
 heart, and enjoyed perfect happiness ever afterwards. He thought 
 that in this way he would familiarise her mind with the idea of 
 giving up her grief. 
 
 ' When she reflected,' he would conclude his narrative, 'that 
 cryin' would not bring back any man to life again, she gave over 
 cryin' and looked about for consolation. She found it. Miss Lai, 
 in the usual quarter. As for myself, my own name is Barnabas, 
 which means, as perhaps you have never heard, the Son of 
 Consolation.' 
 
 With such words did he essay to sap the fidelity of the mourner, 
 but in vain, for though there were times when poor Lai would 
 doubt, despite the fervent ardour of her faith, whether Rex might 
 
THE PATIENCE OF PENELOPE. 61 
 
 not be really dead and gone, there was no time at all when she ever 
 wavered for a moment in constancy to his memorj'. Though 
 neither Borlinder or Barnabas Wattles could understand the thing, 
 it was impossible for Lai ever to think of a second lover. 
 
 He would talk of other things, but always came back to the 
 subject of consolation. 
 
 Thus one evening be began to look about him, being then in 
 her own room. 
 
 ' This,' he said, ' is a prosperous concern which you are run- 
 ning, Miss Lai. I guess it pays ? ' 
 
 Yes ; Lai said that it paid its expenses, and more. 
 
 ' And you've made your little pile already out of it ? ' 
 
 Yes, said Lai, carelessly, there was money saved. 
 
 His eyes twinkled at the thought of handling her savings, for 
 Captain Wattles was by no means rich. He forgot, however, that 
 the money belonged to her mother. 
 
 'Now,' he went on, with an insinuating smile, ' do you never 
 think the time will come when you will tire of running this 
 ho— ten ' 
 
 Lai said she was too busy to think of what might happen, and 
 tliat, as regards the future, she said, sadly, she would rather not 
 tlunk about it at all, the past was already too much for her to 
 think about. 
 
 'Yes,' he said, 'that time will come. It has not come yet, 
 INIiss Lai, and, therefore, I do not say, as I am ready to say. Take 
 me and let me console you. My name is Barnabas, which means, 
 as perhaps you do not know, the Son of Consolation.' 
 
 ' It would be no use at all,' said Lai ; ' and if we are to remain 
 friends. Captain Wattles, you will never speak of this again.' 
 
 ' I will not,' he replied, ' until the right moment. Then, with 
 your little savings and mine, we will go back to the States. I 
 know what we will do when we get there. There's an old ship- 
 building yard at Portsmouth which only wants a few thousand 
 dollars put into it. We will put our dollars into that yard, and we 
 will build ships.' 
 
 'You had better give up thinking of such nonsense,' said Lai. 
 
 ' Thought is free. Miss Lai. The time will come. Is it in 
 nature to go on crying all your life for a man as dead as Abraham 
 Lincoln ? The time will come.' 
 
 ' Enough said, Captain Wattles,' Lai said. It was in her own 
 room, and she was busy with her accounts. ' You can go now, 
 and you need not come back any more unless you have something 
 else to say. I thought you were a sensible man. IMost American 
 captains I know are as sensible as Englishmen and Norwegians.' 
 
 Captain Wattles rose slowly. 
 
 ' Wal,' he said, ' you say so now. I expected you would. But 
 the time will come. I'm not afraid of the other men. As for Cap'en 
 Borlinder, he is not fit company for a sweet young thing like you. 
 He would beat his wife, after a while, that man would. He drinks 
 
62 THE CAPTAIN.^ ROOM. 
 
 nobblers all day, and swaps lies with any riff-raff who will stand in 
 a bar and listen to him. You will not lower yourself to Cap'en 
 Borlinder. As for the Norweegee, he is but a poor soft shell ; you 
 might as well many a gell. I shan't ask you yet, so don't be 
 afraid. When your old friends drop away one by one, and you 
 feel a bit lonesome with no one to talk to, and these bills always on 
 your mind, and the house over your head like a cage and a j^rison, I 
 shall look in again, and you will hold out your pretty hand, and 
 you will sweetly say : ' ' Cap'en Wattles, you air a sailor and a 
 temperance man ; you subscribe to a missionary society and have 
 once been teacher in a Sunday-school ; you have traded Bibles 
 with natives for coral and ivory and gold-dust ; you air smart ; you 
 air likewise a kind-hearted man, who will give his wife her head in 
 everything, with Paris bonnets and New York frocks ; your name 
 is Barnabas, the Son of Consolation." . . . Don't run away, Miss 
 Lai. I've said all I wanted to say, and now I am going. Business 
 takes me to Liverpool to-night, and on Thursday I sail again for 
 Baltimore.' 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE MESSAGE FKOM THE SEA. 
 
 It was, then, in October, eighteen hundred and seventy-nine, that 
 Dick, the Malay, made his appearance and told his tale. Having 
 told it he remained in the house, attaching himself as by right to 
 Lai, whose steward he became as he had been steward to Rex. 
 
 The thing produced, naturally, a profound sensation in the 
 Captains' room, whither Dick was invited to repeat his performance, 
 not once, but several times. 
 
 It was observed that, though substantially the same, the action 
 always differed in the addition or the withdrawal of certain small 
 details, the interpretation of which was obscure. One or two facts 
 remained certain, and were agreed upon by all : an open boat, a 
 long waiting, a rescue, either by being picked up or by finding 
 land, and then one or two fights, but why, and with whom, was a 
 matter of speculation. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen remained obstinate to his theory. There 
 was a widow, there was a marriage, there was a baby, there were 
 conjugal rows, and finally a prison in which Rex Armiger still 
 remained. How to fit the pantomime into these wonderfid details 
 was a matter of difficulty which he was always endeavouring to 
 overcome by the help of the more obscure gestures in the mum- 
 micking. 
 
 The general cheerfulness of the house was naturally much 
 elevated by this event. It was, indeed, felt not only that hope 
 had returned, but also that honour was conferred upon Rydquist'a 
 by so mysterious and exciting a revelation. 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. P3 
 
 This distinction became more generally recognised when the 
 Secretary and one of the Directors of the Indian Penins'jla,r Line 
 came over to see the Malay, hoping to get some light thrown upon 
 the loss of their ship. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen took the chair for the performance, so to 
 speak, and expounded the principal parts, taking credit for such 
 mummicking as no other house could offer. 
 
 The Director learned nothing definite from the pantomime, but 
 came away profoundly impressed with the belief that their officer, 
 Captain Armiger, was living. 
 
 The Malay, now domesticated at Seven Houses, was frequently 
 invited of an evening to the Captains' room, where he went through 
 his performance — Captain Zacliariasen always in the chair — for 
 every new comer, and was a, continual subject of discussion. Also 
 there were great studyings of charts, and mappings out of routes, 
 with calculations as to days and probable number of knots. And 
 those who had been in Chinese and Polynesian waters were called 
 upon to narrate their experiences. 
 
 The route of a steamer from Hong-Kong to Moreton Bay is well 
 known, and easily followed. Unfortunately, the Malay's pantomime 
 left it doubtful of what nature was the disaster. It might have 
 been a piratical attack, though that was very unlikely, or a fii'e on 
 board, or the striking on a reef. 
 
 ' Her covu-se,' said Captain Holstius, laying it down with Lai for 
 the fiftieth time, 'would be — so — E.S.E. from Hong-Kong, north 
 of Lucon here ; then due S.E. between the Pelews and Carolines, 
 tlirough Dampier Straits, having New Guinea to the starboard. 
 Look at these seas, Lai. Who knows what may have happened ? 
 And how can we search for him over three thousand miles of sea, 
 among so many islands ? ' 
 
 How, indeed ! And yet the idea was growing up strong in both 
 their minds that a seaix-h of some kind must be made. 
 
 And then came help, that sort of help which owv pious ancestors 
 called Providential. What can we call it ? Blind chance ? That 
 seems rather a long drop from benevolent Providence, but it seems 
 to suit a good many people nowadays almost as well — more's the 
 pity. 
 
 Two months after the Malay's appearance, while winter was 
 upon us and Christmas not far off, Avhen the churchyard trees were 
 stripped of leaf, and the vine about the window was trimmed, the 
 garden swept up for the season, and the parrots brought indoors, 
 and Ryd([uist's made snug for bad weather, another person called 
 at the liDUse, bringing with him a message of another kind. It was 
 no other than the Doctor of the 'Aryan,' Rex's old ship. He bore 
 something round, wrapped in tissue paper. He carried it with 
 great care, as if it was something very precious. 
 
 The time was evening, and Lai was in her room making up 
 accounts. In the Cajitains' room was <a full assemblage, numbering 
 Captain Zachariasen. Captain Borlinder, who purposed to spend liia 
 
€4 TJTE CAPTAIXS' ROOM. 
 
 Christinas at Rydquist's and to consume much grog, Captain 
 Holstius, Captain Barnabas B. Wattles, whose business had again 
 brought him to London, and two or three captains who have no- 
 thing to do with this history except to fill up the group in the room 
 where presently an important Function was to be held. 
 
 At present they were unsuspicious of what was coming, and they 
 sat in solemn circle, the Patriarch at the head of the table, getting 
 thn.uigh the evening, all too quickly, in the usual way. 
 
 'This was picked up,' the Doctor said, still holding his treasure 
 in his hands as if it was a baby, ' in the Bay of Bengal, by a country 
 ship sailing from Calcutta to Moulmein ; it must have drifted with 
 the currents and the wind, two thousand miles and more. How it 
 contrived never to get driven ashore or broken against some boat, 
 or wreck, or rock, or washed up some creek among the thousands 
 of islands by which it floated, is a truly wonderful thing.' 
 
 ' Oh, what is it ? ' she cried. 
 
 He took off the handkerchief and showed a common wide- 
 mouthed bottle, such as chemists use for elTervescing things. 
 
 ' It contains,' he said, solemnly, ' poor Rex Armiger's last letter 
 to you. The skipper who picked it up pulled out the cork and 
 read it. He brought it to our office at Calcutta, where, though it 
 was written to you, we were obliged to read it, because it told how 
 the ' ' Philippine " was cast away ; for the same reason our officers 
 read it.' 
 
 ' His last letter ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; his last letter. It is dated three years ago. We cannot 
 h'^pe — no, it is impossible to hope — that he is still alive. We 
 should have heard long ago if he had been picked up.' 
 
 'We have heard,' said Lai. She went in search of the Malay, 
 with whom she presently returned. ' We have heard. Doctor. 
 Here is Rex's steward, who came to us two months ago.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! it is the dumb Malay steward, who was with 
 him in the boat.' 
 
 ' Yes. Now look, and tell me what you read.' 
 
 She made a sign to Dick, who went through, for the Doctor's 
 instruction, the now familiar pantomime. 
 
 ' What do you think. Doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Think 1 There is only one thing to think. Miss Rydquist. He 
 has escaped. He is alive, somewhere, or was when Dick last saw 
 him, though how this fellow got away from him, and where he 
 is ' 
 
 ' Now give me his letter.' 
 
 It was tied round with a green ribbon — a slender roll of paper, 
 looking as if sea-water had discoloured it. 
 
 The Doctor took it out of the bottle and gave it her. 
 
 ' I will read Rex's letter,' she said, quietly, 'alone. Will you 
 wait a little for me. Doctor ? ' 
 
 She came back in a quarter of an hour. Her eyes were heavy 
 hith tears, but she was calm and assured. 
 
TRE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 65 
 
 *T thank God, Doctor,' she said ; ' I thank God most humbly 
 for preserving this precious bottle and this letter of my dear Rex — 
 my poor Rex — and I thank you, too, and your brother-officers, 
 whom he loved, and who were always good to him, for bringing it 
 home to me. For now I know where he is, and where to look for 
 him, and now I understand it all.' 
 
 ' If he is living we will find him,' said the Doctor. ' Be sure 
 that we will find him.' 
 
 ' We will find him,' she echoed. ' Yes, we will find him. Now, 
 Doctor, consider. You remember how they got into the boat ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — ofi" the wreck. The letter tells us that.' 
 
 ' Dick told us that two months ago, but we could not altogether 
 understand it. How long were they in the boat l ' 
 
 ' Why, no one knows.' 
 
 ' Yes, Dick knows, and he has told us. Consider. They were 
 left, when this bottle was sent forth like the raven out of the avk, 
 with no food. They sat in the boat, waiting for death. But they 
 did not die. They drifted — you saw that they made no attempt; to 
 row — for awhile ; they grew hungry and thirsty ; they passed two 
 or three days with nothing to eat. It could not have been more, 
 because they were not so far exhausted but that, when land appeared 
 in sight, they still had strength to row.' 
 
 ' Go on,' cried the Doctor. ' You are cleverer than all of us.' 
 
 'It is because I love him,' she replied, 'and because I have 
 thought day and night where he can be. You know the latitude 
 and longitude of the wreck ; you must allow for currents and wind ; 
 j'ou know how many days elapsed between the wreck and the writing 
 of the letter. Now let us look at the chart and work it all out.' 
 
 She brought the chart to the table, and pointed with her finger. 
 
 ' They were wrecked,' she said, 'there. Now allow five days 
 for drifting. Where would they land 1 Remember he says that 
 the wind was S.W.' 
 
 ' Why,' said the Doctor, ' they may have landed on one of the 
 most westerly of the Caroline Islands, unless the current carried 
 them to the Pelews. There are islands enough in those seas.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied ; ' it is here that we shall look for him. Now 
 come with me to the Captains' room.' 
 
 She walked in, head erect and paper in hand, followed by the 
 Doctor, and stood at Captain Zachariasen's right — her usual place 
 when she visited the captains in the evening. 
 
 ' You, who are my friends,' said Lai, bearing in one hand the 
 chart and in the other the precious letter, ' will rejoice with me, for 
 I have had a letter from Rex.' 
 
 ' When was it wrote and where from 1 ' asked Captain Zachariasen. 
 
 ' It is nearly three years old. It has been tossing on the sea, 
 driven hither and thither, and preserved by kind Heaven to show 
 that Rex is living still, and where he is.' 
 
 Captain Wattles wliistled gently. It sounded like an involun- 
 tary note of incredulity. 
 
 F 
 
66 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Lai spread the chart before Captain Zachariasen. 
 
 ' You can follow the voyage,' she said, ' while I read you this 
 letter. It is on the back of one from me. It is written with a lead 
 pencil, very small, because he had a great deal to say and not much 
 space to say it in — my Rex ! ' 
 
 Her voice broke down for a moment, but she steadied herself 
 and went on reading the message from the sea. 
 
 ' "Anyone who picks this up," it begins, "will oblige me by 
 sending it to Miss Rydquist, Seven Houses, Rotherhithe, becavise 
 it tells her of the shipwreck and perhaps the death " — But you know, 
 all of you,' Lai interposed, 'that he survived and got to land, else 
 how was Dick able to get to England? — "of her sweetheart, the 
 undersigned Rex Armiger, Captain of the steamer ' Philippine, ' 
 now lying a wreck on a reef in latitude 5 "30 N. and longitude 
 133 '25, as near as I could calculate." 
 
 ' "My dearest Lal, — I write this in the captain's gig, where I 
 am floating about in or about the above-named latitude and longi- 
 tude, after the most unfortunate voyage that ever started with good 
 promise. First, I send you my last words, dear love, solemnly, 
 because a man in a boat on the open seas, with no provisions and 
 no sail, cannot look for anything but death from starvation, if not 
 by drowning. God help you, my dear, and bless you, and make 
 you forget me soon, and tind a better husband than I should ever 
 have made. You will take another man " ' 
 
 ' Hear, hear ! ' said Captain Borlinder, softly. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Captain Wattles, reproachfully. ' Captain Armiger 
 was a good man and a prophet.' 
 
 ' "You will take another man,'" Lal repeated. 'Never ! ' she 
 cried, after the repetition, looking from one to the other, ' Never ! 
 Not if he were dead, instead of being alive, as he is, and wondering 
 why we do not come to rescue him.' 
 
 ' The boy had his points,' said Captain Zachariasen, 'and a good 
 husband he would have made. Just such as I was sixty years ago, 
 or thereabouts. Get on to the shipwreck, Lal, my dear.' 
 
 ' " It was on December the First that we set sail from Calcutta. 
 The crew were all Lascars, except Dick my Malay steward, the 
 chief officer, who was an Englishman, and the engineer. We made 
 a good passage under canvas, with auxiliary screw, to Singapore, 
 and from thence, in ballast, except for a few bales of goods, to 
 Hong-Kong. Here we took in our cargo of rice, and started, all 
 well, on January the Fourteenth, eighteen hundred and seventy- 
 seven. The mate was a good sailor as ever stepj^ed on a bridge, 
 and the ship well found, new, and good in all respects. 
 
 ' " We had fair weather across the China Sea and in the straits 
 north of Lu^on until we came to the open seas. Here a gale, 
 which blew us off our course to N.E., but not far, and still in clear 
 and (jpen sailing, with never a reef or an island on the chart. We 
 kept steam up, running in the teeth of the wind, all sails furled. 
 When the wind moderated, veering from S.E. to S.W. (within a 
 
THE MESSAGE FRO 31 THE SEA. 67 
 
 point or two), we made the Pelew Islands to the starboard bow, 
 and came well in the track of the Sydney steamers. If you look at 
 the chart you will find that here the sea is open and clear ; not 
 a shoal nor an island laid down for a good thousand miles. Where- 
 fore, I make no doubt that after inquiry I should have my certifi- 
 cate returned to me, in spite of having lost so good a ship. 
 
 ' " On Sunday, at noon, the wind having moderated, we found 
 we had made two hundred and twenty-seven knots in four and 
 twenty hours. 
 
 ' " We were, as I made it, in latitude 5"30 N. and longitude 
 133 '25, as near as I could calculate. At sunset, which was at six 
 twenty-five, v/e must have made some sixty miles more to the 
 S.W., so that you can lay down the spot on the map. The wind 
 was fresh, and the sea a little choppy, but nothing of any conse- 
 quence in open water. At eight I turned in, going watch and 
 watch about with the mate, and at five minutes past eight I suppose 
 I was fast asleep. 
 
 ' "It was, I think, a little after six bells, that I was awakened 
 by the ship striking. I ran on deck at once. We were on a reef, 
 and by the grating and the grinding of her bottom I guessed that it 
 was all over. I'm sorry to say that in the shock the mate seems to 
 have been knocked overboard and drowned, because I saw him no 
 more. The ship rolled from side to side, grinding and tearing her 
 bottom upon the reef. The men ran backwards and forwards cry- 
 ing to each other. There was no discipline with them, nor could I 
 get them to obey orders. The engineer went below and reported 
 water gaining fast. He and I did our best to keep the crew in 
 hand, but it was no use. They lowered the boats and pushed ofi", 
 leaving behind only the engineer, and Dick the steward, and 
 myseU. They were in too great a hurry to put provisions on board, 
 so that I greatly fear they must have perished, unless they have 
 been picked up by some steamer. 
 
 ' "All that night we stayed on deck, we three, expecting every 
 moment that she would break her back. The cargo of grain was 
 loose now, and rolled with the ship like water. Her bows were 
 high upon the rocks, and I believe we were only saved because she 
 was lodged upon the reef as far aft as the engine-room. In the 
 darkness the engineer must have slipped his hold and fallen over- 
 board, I don't know how. Then there was only Dick and me. 
 
 ' " In the morning, at daybreak, the look-out was pretty bad. 
 The reef is a shoal, with nothing but a fringe of white water round 
 it to mark where it lies. It is now, I reckon, about seventeen feet 
 below the surface of the water, but I take it to be a rising reef, so 
 that eveiy year will make it less, and I hope it will be set down at 
 once on the chart. My mate was gone and my engineer, the boats 
 and their crews were out of sight, or, may be, capsized, not a aail 
 upon the sea. But there was the captain's gig. 
 
 ' "When we got afloat, my purpose was to keep alongside the 
 poor wreck until we had got enough victuals to last a week or two, 
 
 f2 
 
68 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 and some running tackle whereby we could hoist some sort of a 
 sail. But, my dear, we hadn't time, because no sooner had we 
 lowered the boat and put in a few tins, with a bottle half full of 
 brandy and a keg of water, than she parted amidships, and we had 
 no more than time to jump into the boat and shove olf. 
 
 ' ' ' There we were then, with no oars, no mast, no sail, no 
 rudder even, and provisions for two or three days. 
 
 ' " We have now been floating a week. We drifted first of all 
 in a nor'- westerly direction, so near as I could make out, so long as 
 the poor wreck remained in sight. Since then I know not what our 
 course has been. There is a strong current here, I suspect, from 
 the short time we took to lose sight of her, and there has been a 
 good breeze blowing from the S.W. for three days, 
 
 ' ' ' We have now got to the end of our provisions ; the last drop 
 of water has been drunk ; the last biscuit eaten. Poor Dick sits 
 opposite to me all day and all night, he cannot speak, but he 
 refused his share of the last ration for my sake.' 
 
 Here Lai broke down again, and Captain Zachariasen said some- 
 thing strong, which showed that his admiration for a generous 
 action was greater than his religious restraint. 
 
 ' "We spend the day in looking for a sail ; at night we take 
 watch about. There remains only a little brandy in the hiiel of 
 the bottle. We husband that for a last resource. We have 
 fashioned a couple of rough oars oui of two planks of the boat. 
 
 ' " I have kept this a day longer. No sail in sight. We have had 
 two or three drops of brandy each. They are the last. Now I must 
 commit this letter to the sea in the bottle. Oh, my dear Lai, my 
 pretty tender darling ! I shall never, never see you any more. 
 Long before you get this letter I shall be drifting about in tliis boat 
 a dead man. I pray Heaven to bless you " ' 
 
 Here Lai stopped and burst into tears. 
 
 ' Kead no more,' said Captain Holstius, ' the rest concerns your- 
 self alone.' 
 
 Lai kissed her letter, folded it tenderly, and laid it in her 
 bosom, 
 
 ' The rest only concerns me,' she repeated, and was silent awhile. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen, meantime, was at work upon the chart. 
 
 'I read this story somewhat different,' he said. 'You can't 
 always follow a mummicker in his antics, and I now perceive that 
 I was wrong about the baby. The widow I stick to. Nothing could 
 be plainer than the widow, though, of course, it was not to be 
 expected that he'd make a clean breast of it in that letter, which 
 otherwise does him credit. Lai, my dear, you are right. If Dick 
 is alive, then his master is alive. Question is, where would he get 
 to, and where is he now 1 ' 
 
 They were all silent, waiting the conclusion of the Patriarch 
 before any other ventured to speak. He was bending over the 
 chart, his right thumb as the position of the reef, and his fore- 
 finger acting as a compass. 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 69 
 
 ' I calculate from the position of the reef, which is here, and 
 the run of the currents, and the direction of the wind, that they 
 drifted towards the most westerly of the Caroline Islands.' 
 
 It hardly required patriarchal wisdom to surmise this fact, 
 seeing that these islands are the nearest places north-west of the 
 reef. 
 
 ' And next ? ' asked Lai. 
 
 ' Next, my pretty, they were taken ofi" of that island, but I do nut 
 know by whom, and were shipped away to some prison, but I don't 
 know where, and there Cap'en Ai-miger is still lying, though what 
 for, as there was seemingly no baby and no chucking overboard, 
 we mortals, who are but purblind, cannot say.' 
 
 Then Captain Holstius spoke again. 
 
 ' I think we might have in the IVIalay and go through the play 
 acting again. May be, with tliis letter before us, we may get 
 more light.' 
 
 The Doctor now showed Dick the bottle. He seized it, grinned 
 a recognition, and, on a sign from the girl, began the story again at 
 that point. 
 
 First, leaning over the imaginary side of the boat, he laid it 
 gently on the floor. 
 
 'Thereby,' said Captain Zachariasen, solemnly, ' committing the 
 letter to the watery deep, to be carried here and driven there while 
 the stormy v/inds do blow, do blow. Amen ! ' 
 
 Then Dick became pensive. He sat huddled up, with his elbows 
 on his knees and his head in his hands, looking straight before him. 
 For the time, as always in this performance, of which he never 
 tired, he was Rex himself ; the same poise of the head, the same 
 look of the eyes ; he had put off the Malayan type, and sat there, 
 before them all, pure Caucasian. 
 
 'Creditable, my lad,' said Captain Zachariasen. 'I think you 
 can, all of you, understand so far, without my telling.' 
 
 They certainly could. 
 
 Then the Malay sprang to his feet and pointed to some object 
 in the distance. 
 
 ' Sail ho ! ' cried Captain Borlinder. 
 
 Then he sat down again and began the regular motion of his 
 arm, which the Patriarch had mistaken for rocking the baby. 
 
 ' This,' said the Venerable, ' is plain and easy. Land it is. 
 not a sail — why 1 Because, if the latter, they would wave their 
 pocket-handkerchiefs ; if the former, they would h'ist sail or out 
 sculls. If the mummicker had been as plain and easy to under- 
 stand the first time, we shouldn't have gone astray and sailed on 
 that wrong tack about the baby.' 
 
 With the help of the letter the pantomime became perfectly 
 intelligible. The whole scene stood out plainly before the eyes 
 of all. They were no longer in the Captains' room at Seven 
 Houses, Rotherhithe ; they were somewhere far away, east of New 
 Guinea, watching two men in a little boat on a sea where there waa 
 
70 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 no sail nor any smoke from passing steamers. Low down on the 
 horizon was a thin streak, which a landsman would have taken for 
 a cloud. The two men with straining faces were rowing with 
 feverish eagerness, encouraging each other, and ceasing not, though 
 tlie paddles nearly fell from their hands with fatigue. 
 
 ' Oh ! Rex, Rex ! ' cried Lai, carried away by the acting. 
 ' Rest awhile ; oh, rest ! ' 
 
 But still they paddled on. 
 
 Then came the scene of the struggle and the binding of the 
 arms, and the march up country. Next the release and the quiet 
 going up and down ; and then the second struggle, with another 
 capture, and a second binding of arms. 
 
 ' See, Lai,' said Cai^tain Holstius, pointing triumphantly to the 
 actor ; ' who is bound this time 1 ' 
 
 Why, there could be no doubt whatever. It was not Rex, but 
 the Malay. 
 
 ' This is the worst o' mummicking now,' said the Patriarch, as 
 if pantomime was a recognised instrument in the teaching and 
 illustration of history. 'You're never quite sure. We've had to 
 give up the baby with the chucking overboard. I was sorry for 
 that, because it was so plain and easy to read. And now it seems 
 as if it was the poor devil himself that got took off to gaol. Was 
 his hair cut short, do you remember, Lai, when he came here two 
 months ago ? I can't quite give up the prison, neither, so beauti- 
 ful as it reeled itself out hrst time we did the mummicking. 
 You're a stranger, sir,' he addressed the Doctor, ' and you knew 
 Cap'en Armiger. What do you think ? For my own part — well, 
 let's hear you, sir.' 
 
 'There cannot be a doubt,' said the Doctor, 'that the man 
 personated Armiger, and no other, until the last scene, and that 
 there he became hiras,eK intentionally. He exaggerated himself. 
 He walked differently ; he carried his head differently. There was 
 a fight of some kind, and the Malay, not Armiger at all, was taken 
 prisoner.' 
 
 ' What is your opinion. Captain Borlinder ? ' asked Lai, anxious 
 to know what each man thought. 
 
 'My opinion,' said Captain Borlinder, with emphasis, 'is this. 
 They got ashore ; no one can doubt that. Very well, then. 
 Where ? Not many degrees of longitude from the place where 
 they were wrecked. Who were the people they fell among ? The 
 natives. That's what I read so far. Now we go on to the fight at 
 the end. A better fight I never saw on the stage, not even at the 
 Pavilion Theatre, though but one man in it. As for Captain 
 Armiger, he was knocked on the head. That is to me quite 
 certain. Knocked on the head with a stick, or stuck with a knife, 
 according to the religion and customs of them natives, among 
 whom I never sailed, and therefore do not know their ways. It's 
 a melanclioly comfort, at all events, to know the manner of his 
 end. Next to looking forward to a decent burial, people when 
 they are going to be knocked on the head die more comfortable if 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 71 
 
 they know that other people will hear how they came to be knocked 
 on the head — whether a club, or a boat-hook, or a bo'sn's cut- 
 lash.' 
 
 ' 1 think, sir, ' said the Doctor, ' that you are perfectly wrong. 
 There is nothing whatever to show that Armiger was killed.' 
 
 But then he did not know that Captain Borlinder spoke accord- 
 ing to the desire of his own heart. 
 
 Then Lai turned to the only man who had not yet spoken : 
 
 ' And what is your opinion. Captain Wattles ? ' 
 
 ' I think,' replied Barnabas the Consoler, ' that Cap'en Armiger 
 landed on some island, and worried through the first scrimmage. 
 I know thera lands, and I know that their ways to strangers may 
 be rough. If you get through the ftrst hearty welcome, which 
 means clubs and knives and spears mostly, there's no reason why 
 you shouldn't settle down among 'em. There's many an English 
 and American sailor living there contented and happy. P'raps 
 Cap'en Armiger is one of them.' 
 
 ' Not contented,' said Lai, ' nor yet happy.' 
 
 Captain Wattles went on : 
 
 ' On the other hand, there's fights among themselves and 
 drunken bouts, and many a brave fellow knocked on the head 
 thereby.' 
 
 ' Do yot speak from your own knowledge ? ' asked the Doctor. 
 
 ' I was once,' he replied, unblushingly, ' a missionary in the 
 Kusaie station. Yes, we disseminated amongst us the seeds of 
 civilisation and religion among those poor cannibals. I also 
 traded in shirts and trousers, after they had been taught how to 
 put them on. They are a treacherous race : they treasure up the 
 recollection of wrongs and take revenge ; they are insensible to 
 kindness and handy with their arrows. 1 fear that Cap'en Armiger 
 has long since been killed and eaten. They probably spared the 
 Malay on account of his brown skin, as likely to disagi'ee.' 
 
 Then Captain Holstius rose and spoke. 
 
 'Friends all,' he said, 'and especially Captain Borlinder and 
 Captain Wattles, here is a message come straight from Captain 
 Armiger himself, though now nigh upon tlirf^ years old. And it 
 comes close upon the heels of that other message brought us 
 by this poor fellow, who gave it as he knew best ; though a 
 difficult message to read in parts. Now we know, partly from 
 Dick and partly from the letter, what happened and how it 
 happened, and we are pretty certain that they must have 
 landed, as Captain Zachariasen has told us, in one of the islands 
 lying to the nor'-west of the spot where she struck.' Here he 
 paused. Captain Borlinder blew great clouds of tobacco and 
 looked straight before him. Captain Wattles listened with im- 
 patience. Then the Norwegian went on : 'I think, friends all, 
 that here we have our duty plain before us. Here are three men in 
 this room, Captain Borlinder, Captain Wattles, and myself, wIkj 
 have been in love with Lai, who is Captain Armiger's sweetheart, 
 and therefore has no right to listen to us so long as there, is any 
 
72 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 hope that he is alive. If no hope, why, I do not say myself that 
 she lias no right ' 
 
 ' iS^o right, Captain Holstius,' said Lai; 'no right to listen to 
 any other man, wliatever happens.' 
 
 ' Very well, then. But for us who love her in a respectful way, 
 and desire nothing but her happiness, there is only one duty, and 
 that is ' 
 
 Here Captain Wattles sprang to his feet. 
 
 ' To go in search of him. That is what I was going to propose. 
 Miss Rydquist, I promise to go in search of Cap' en Armiger. If 
 he is alive I will bring him home to you. If he is dead, I M'ill bring 
 you news of how and when he died. I ask no reward. I leave 
 that to you. But I will bring you news.' 
 
 This was honestly and even nobly spoken. But the effect of 
 the speech was a little marred by the allusion to reward. What 
 reward had Lai to offer, except one ? and she had just declared that 
 to be impossible. 
 
 Then Captain Borlinder rose, ponderously, and slapped his 
 chest. 
 
 ' Nick Borlinder, Lai, is at your service. Yours truly to com- 
 mand. He hasn't been a missionary, nor a dealer in reajh-me-down 
 shirts, like some skippers, having walked the deck since a boy. 
 And he doesn't know the Caroline Islands. But he can navigate a 
 ship, or he can take a passage aboard a ship. Where there's mis- 
 sionaries there's ships. He will get aboard one of them ships, and 
 he will visit those cannibals and find out the truth. Lai, if Cap'en 
 Armiger is alive, he shall be rescued by Nick Borlinder, and shall 
 come home with me arm-in-arm to the Pride of Rotheihithe. If 
 he isn't alive, why — then ' 
 
 He sat down again, nodding his head. 
 
 Lai turned to Captain Holstius. 
 
 'Yes,' he said; 'I thouglit this brave Englishman and this 
 brave American would see their duty plain before them. I will 
 go in search of him, too, Lai. I know not yet how ; but I shall 
 find a way.' 
 
 ' Gentlemen.' said Lai, ' I have nothing to give you except my 
 gratitude. Nothing at all. Oh ! who in the world has ever had 
 kinder and nobler friends than I ? ' 
 
 Slie held out her two hands. Captain Wattles seized the right 
 and kissed it with effusion, murmuring something about Barnabas, 
 the Son of Consolation. Captain Borlinder followed his example 
 with the left, though he had never before regarded a woman's hand 
 as a proper object for a manly kiss. He took the opportunity to 
 whisper that, in all her troubles, Nick Borlinder was the man to 
 trust. 
 
 ' Now,' said Captain Holstius, 'there is no time to be lost ; we 
 all have things to arrange, and money to I'aise. Shall we all go 
 together, or sliall we go separate ? ' 
 
 ' Separate,' said the Son of Consolation. 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 73 
 
 ' Separate,' cried Borlinder, firmly. 'If the job is to be done, 
 let ME do the jcb single-handed.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Captain Holstius ; ' then how shall we go ? ' 
 
 ' We will go,' said Captain Wattles, ' in order. First one, and 
 then another, to give eveiy man a fair chance and no favour. And 
 to get that fair chance we will draw straws. Longest straw first, 
 shortest last.' 
 
 He retired and returned with three straws in his hand. 
 
 * jVow, Borlinder,' he said, 'you shall draw first.' 
 
 Borlinder took a straAv, but with hesitation. 
 
 The Doctor, who was rather short-sighted, thought he detected 
 a little sleight-of-hand on the part of Captain Wattles at this 
 moment. But he said nothing. Captain Holstius then drew. 
 Again the Doctor thought he observed what seemed to be tamper- 
 ing with the oracle of the straw. 
 
 On the display of the straws it was found that the longest straw 
 was Captain Borlinder's ; the shortest, that of Captain Holstius. 
 The order of search was therefore, first. Captain Borlinder. He 
 heaved a great breath, struck his hands together, and smote his 
 chest with great violence and heartiness. You would have thought 
 he had di-awn a great prize instead of the right to go first on an 
 extremely expensive voyage of search. The next was to be Captain 
 Wattles. The third and last, Captain Holstius. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen called for glasses round to drink health and 
 success to the gallant fellows going out on this brave and honour- 
 able quest. 
 
 Outside the house, presently, two of the gallant seekers stood 
 in discourse. 
 
 'You don't think. Wattles,' asked Borlinder, 'that he's really 
 alive 1 ' 
 
 'I can't say,' replied the ex-missionary. 'I shouldn't like, 
 myself, to be wrecked on one of those islands. You see, theres 
 been a little labour traffic in those parts, and the ungrateful people, 
 who don't know what's good for them, are afraid of being kid — I 
 mean recruited. And they bear malice. But I suppose he's one of 
 the sort that don't easily get killed. I shall be going Sydney- way 
 about my own business next year, or thereabouts, I expect, so it's 
 all in my day's work to make enquiries. As for you ' 
 
 ' As to me, now, brother ? ' Captain Borlinder spoke in his most 
 insinuating way. ' As to me, now ? Come, let's have a drink.' 
 
 'As to you,' said the Consoler, after a drink at his friend's ex- 
 pense, ' I'm sorry for you, because you've got to go at once, and 
 you've got no experience. Among cannibals, a man of your flesh 
 is like a prize ox at Christmas.' 
 
 Captain Borlinder turned pale. 
 
 ' Yes — that is so. They would put you in a shallow pit, with 
 a few onions and some pepper, cover all up snug with stones, and 
 make a fire on top till you were done to a turn ! ' 
 
 Captain Borlinder shuddered. 
 
74 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 ' You are going first, you are, like a brave Briton. I will tell 
 you a little story. There was once a man who promised to go over 
 Niagara in an india-rubber machine of his own invention. A 
 beautiful machine it was, shut up tight, with air-holes so as the 
 man inside could breathe free and open when so disposed.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Wal, sir, he was cert'n'y bound to go. But after looking at 
 the Falls a bit, he concluded to send a cat over first.' 
 
 ' Well 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, Cap'en Borlinder, the cat went over and that man is still 
 waiting below the Horseshoe Fall for the critter to turn up again.' 
 
 Captain Borlinder looked after his friend with pale cheeks and 
 apprehensive heart. What did it mean — this parable of the cat and 
 Niagai'a % 
 
 Now, after the glass round was drank, and the three men gone, 
 the Doctor found his way round the table and looked under it on 
 the floor, and there found two short bits of straw lying on the 
 carpet. He picked them up and considered. ' What did he do it 
 for % ' he asked. ' Longest first. They were, I suppose all the 
 same length, so that the man with the red face should go first. 
 Easy then, to nip bits ofi" the straw and make the Norway man 
 take the shortest. What did he do it for ? ' And the knowledge of 
 this fact made him uneasy, because it looked as if the search for 
 Ai-miger would not be altogether fair. 
 
 CHAPTER YH. 
 
 CAPTAIN BORLlNDEK AMONG THE CANTSTIBALS. 
 
 When Captain Borlinder sought the privacy of his own chamber 
 that evening, he gave way to meditations of a very unpleasant and 
 exasperating nature. Was ever a man more forced into a hole than 
 himself % Was ever proposition more ridiculous ? Why, if, as 
 Holstius truly said, they were all after the same girl, what the 
 dickens was the good of going out of the country, all the way to the 
 Eastern Seas, at enormous expense, to say nothing of the danger, 
 in order to find and bring home the man who would cut them all 
 out and carry the girl away ? He would rather figlit for the girl ; 
 he should like, he thought, to fight for the girl. That slow and 
 easy Norweegee would pretty soon knock under, though the little 
 Yankee would be more difficult to tackle. But actually to go and 
 look for the man ! Why, since he was happily disposed of, and if 
 not dead, then missing for three years, what madness to disturb so 
 comfortable and providential an arrangement ! As for such dis- 
 interestedness as tc desire the happiness of any woman in the world 
 
CAPTAIN BORLINDER AMONG CANNIBALS. 75 
 
 as the first consideration, that was a thing too high for Nick 
 Borlinder's understanding, a dark saying, a flight into unattainable 
 heights, which appeared to him pure unmitigated nonsense. Should 
 his own happiness, should any man's happiness, be wrecked to save 
 that of any woman, or man either, on the whole earth ? What is 
 the happiness of another to a man who cannot himself be hapj^y ? 
 
 Who, thought honest Nicholas, without putting the thought into 
 words, is the most important person, the central person, of the 
 whole universe ; the person about whom the stars do revolve, for 
 whom the sun shines and the rain falls, for whose protection govern- 
 ments exist, for whom all people who on earth do dwell continually 
 toil, so that this person may receive good things urithout cessation ? 
 Who is it, but — moi meme ? Was, then. Captain Borlinder to 
 labour and be spent for the promotion of another's happiness ? 
 Was he to give up his ship in order to find a uian who would destroy 
 his own best chance of good fortune? The thing appeared moie 
 preposterous every moment ! 
 
 ' Who, in fact,' he asked, giving full vent to his feelings, ' but a 
 Norweegee could be such an enoriuous, such an incredible ass ? ' 
 
 Then he remembered again the Yankee's apologue. 
 
 ' Sniggerin' beast,' he said : ' I hate him ! I wish he'd fall over- 
 board of a dark night and blowin' great guns. What did he 
 mean ! I'm to be the cat to go over among the cannibals, am I ? ' 
 
 Then a beautiful and comforting thought crossed his mind. 
 
 'I know now,' he said, ' what I ought to have replied. I should 
 ha%^e said there was a man cleverer than that man. For he promised 
 to go over the Falls in a bathing machine, or a sewing-machine, or a 
 reaping-machine, or something, and he went away and presently 
 he came back and said he'd done it.' 
 
 This happy repartee pleased him so much that he repeated it 
 twice, and then sat down and thought it over with intentness. 
 
 ' Why,' he said, to himself, reasoning as a Christian of the 
 highest principle, ' man was told to stand out of the reach of 
 temptation, and if I were to meet that man I might be tempted to 
 knock him on the head. If it wasn't for Holstius and Wattles I 
 would knock him on the head. But to kill a fellow for other 
 fellows to reap the advantage of it, it doesn't seem quite worth 
 while. Still, there's the temptation, and I oughtn't to go anigh of 
 it. As for searching for him, again. Where am I to look for him ? 
 Am I to land on every island and pass the word for Cap'en Armiger 1 
 Naked black savages don't know about Cap'en Armiger. Ate him 
 up, no doubt, long ago. Am I to put up a signal at every port for 
 Cap'en Armiger 1 Do these ignorant natives know a aignal when 
 they see one 1 Yery well, then. This Norweegee is all the bigger 
 fool.' 
 
 As for the allegory of the cat, again. He was himseK the cat. 
 Pleasant thing for a man of his position to be compared to the cat 
 which led the way over the Falls and was smashed and never 
 returned again ! Work that thing out as much as you please, and 
 
76 THE CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 it always comes to this, that he, Nick Borlincler, was to go out first, 
 get devoured by the cannibals, and never get back again. 
 
 Then the Yankee, liimself out of the way, would try another 
 way. 
 
 ' I shan't go at all,' he murmured. ' Yah ! for cheating and 
 dishonesty give me a Yankee ! I shall pretend to have been 
 there ! ' 
 
 ' As for finding him,' he went on with his meditations, * it's a 
 thousand to one that you don't light on the island where he put 
 foot ashore ; and if you do find him, a million to one at least that 
 he's dead — and all the journey, with the expense of it, for nothing. 
 
 ' To say nothing of risk and danger. Shipwreck : I suppose 
 that goes for nothing. Fever : I suppose we needn't reckon that. 
 Oh, no, certainly not. Sunstroke : that never kills in tropical 
 climates, does it 1 Oh, no : don't reckon that. Natives : they 
 are a mild and dovelike race, ain't they 1 Everybody knows that ! 
 Don't reckon natives.' 
 
 It was, after all, very well to propose a pretended voyage, but 
 what would the Yankee do ? And what did he really mean about 
 the cat and the india-rubber ball ? 
 
 This doubt puzzled him not a little. The plan he proposed to 
 himself was simple — beautiful in its simplicity. But he could not 
 help feeling that his American cousin had some other and some 
 deeper plan, by means of which he would himself be circumvented 
 and anticipated. 
 
 Nothing more disturbs the crafty and subtle serpent, or more 
 fills him with virtuous indignation, than the suspicion that hid 
 brother serpent is more crafty and more subtle than himself. 
 
 Everybody knows how the two burglars, friends in private but 
 strangers in profession, met one night in the same house, proposing 
 independent research. 
 
 His plan involved no expense, no danger, no possible privations. 
 It was nothing more nor less than to wait awhile, and then to 
 present himself with the report of a pretended voyage. 
 
 At first he thought he would so far give in to the outward 
 seeming of things as to get a substitute to take command of his ship 
 for a certain S2:)ace, spending that time on shore in some secluded 
 spot. This plan, however, involved a considerable amount of 
 expense, with the necessity of much explanation to his employers. 
 It therefore seemed to him best to go on just the same — to take his 
 ship from the London Docks to Cadiz as usual, and back again, to 
 give Rotherhithe a wide berth, and then, after a certain decent 
 interval, to present himself at Seven Houses with a narrative. 
 
 Seven weeks to Hong-Kong, seven weeks back, eight weeks for 
 the search — say six months in all. 
 
 Having roughly drawn out his plan of action, and considered in 
 broad outlines the leading features of the narrative. Captain 
 Borlinder purchased a fcAV sheets of paper, on which to set down 
 the account of his voyage, which he intended should be a masterly 
 
CAPTAIN BORLINDEB AMOXG CANNIBALS. 77 
 
 performance. He then, without waiting for the Christmas festivi- 
 ties, though nigh at hand — and no such pudding anywhere as at 
 Rydquist's — presented himself at Eotherhithe to take farewell 
 before he started on his long and dangerous journey. 
 
 This haste to redeem his promise could not fail, he thought, of 
 producing a favourable impression. 
 
 He carried a red pocket-handkerchief, as if that contained all 
 the luggage required for a hardy mariner even with such a journey 
 before him. fie had tied a string, with a jack-knife at the end of 
 it, round his waist, like a common sailor. He had a profoundly 
 shiny hat, and his face was set to an expression of as deep sympathy 
 as he could command. 
 
 '1 know,' he said, in his lowest tones, 'that to look for Cap'en 
 Armiger in the Eastern Seas will very likely be a mighty tough 
 job ; but I've passed my word to tackle that job, and when Nick 
 Borliiider's word is passed to do a thing, that thing has got to be 
 done, or the reason why is asked, pretty quick. Same as if I was 
 in command of my own ship. For, sezi to myself, before ever the 
 Norweegee up and spoke, or the Yankee pretended to have meant 
 it— but I am slow to speak, though amazing quick to think— 1 sez, 
 "What we three men have got to do in this business is to look 
 after Lai's happiness." That I sez after you read that most 
 affecting letter, before the talk begun, and speaking in a whisper, 
 as a man might say, down his baccy-pijje. " Nothing else consarns 
 us now. It is that which we have to look after. The way to look 
 after it is to make quite sure that Cap'en Armiger is gone, and the 
 way he went, and where his remains remain ; or else, if he is not 
 gone, but he still alive-and-kicks, wherever that may be, then to 
 bring him home." ' 
 
 'Thank you. Captain Borlinder,' said Lai, thinking that the 
 Patriarch's dislike to this good and disinterested man was founded 
 on prejudice ; and, indeed, the meaning was quite plain, though 
 the language was a little mixed. 
 
 'There's a many islands in the Eastern Seas,' continued 
 Nicholas the Brave. ' I've been looking at them in the charts. 
 There's thousands of islands— say ten thousand, little and big. 
 Say every one of those islands has to be searched. If we give a 
 month to each island all round, counting little and big, that wiU 
 make close upon nine hundred years. If it's only a fortnight, four 
 hundred years. What's four hundred years to a determined man ? 
 I shall search among them islands, if it's four hundred or nine 
 hundred years, till I find him.' 
 
 ' But this will cost a great deal. Captain Borlinder, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Never mind about the cost, ' he replied, grandly. ' If it was 
 ten times as much I'd never grudge it. We will say good-bye now. 
 Perhaps I shall come home, with news, in a year, or even less. 
 Perhaps it may be forty years before I come home again. Perhaps 
 I shall bring liim home in a few months, well and hearty ; perhaps 
 in about fifty years, with never a tooth to his head. But never 
 
78 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 you fear. Pluck up. Say to yourself : " Nick Borlinder, as never 
 puts his hand to nothing but he carries that thing through, has got 
 this job in hand." Perhaps I may come with news that you don't 
 want. But there — we will not talk of that. If I never come 
 home at all, but get, maybe, devoured by sharks, cannibals, and 
 alligators, besides being struck with sunstroke, fever, rheumatics, 
 and other illnesses, and knocked on the head with clubs, and shot 
 with poisoned arrows, so that there's an end, then, Lai, you will 
 perhaps begin to think kind of a man who loved you so dear, that 
 he went all that way alone to look for Cap'en Armiger, also with 
 the Lord. For women never know the value of a man until he's 
 gone.' 
 
 This said, he shook hands, wagging his head mournfully, but 
 smiting his chest as if to repress the gloomy forebodings of his 
 soul, and the manly sobs that choked further utterance. 
 
 Captain Holstius also went away, and Captain Wattles, who 
 made no further allusion to the letter or the pledge he had made, 
 also returned to Liverpool, whither, he said, business called him. 
 
 Then Lai was left alone with the letter of Rex to read and read 
 a ;ain, and she never doubted that Captain Borlinder, true to his 
 w ird, was on his way to the far East, to begin the search for her 
 loit lover. 
 
 One man, however, doubted very much, but in a vague way. 
 It was the Patriarch. 
 
 ' Lai, my pretty,' he said, ' I mistrust two of them three chaps — 
 the Yankee first, and Nick Borlinder next. As to Cap'en Wattles, 
 he's told me over and over again that he wants to get back to the 
 Pacific. It isn't hunting for Cap'en Armiger will take him back 
 there. And as for Cap'en Borlinder, it's my opinion, my dear, 
 that he means to make a voyage there and a voyage back, whereby 
 to clear the cobwebs from his brain and the wrinkles from his eyes, 
 and to gain experience. What then ? Will either of them bring 
 him back ? Do they want him back ? Think, my dear. No ; 
 they want him dead. The more dead he is the better they will 
 be pleased. And if I was Cap'en Armiger, my pretty, and 1 was 
 to see either of them brave master-mariners sailing up a creek 
 with no one else in sight, I would sit snug, or I would prepare for 
 a fight. My dear, they may talk, but they don't want him back ! 
 The only man who means honest is the Norweegee. As for him, 
 he loves the very ground you tread upon, and I think he'd rather 
 be your father than your husband, which, to be sure, was never a 
 sailor's way when I was young ; and that, my dear, is seventy, and 
 soon will be eighty, years ago : which proves the Fifth Command- 
 ment and shows how much I honoured my father and my mother — 
 all the more because I never saw neither of them since ten years 
 old.' 
 
 Captain Borlinder, dropping down the river on his next voyage, 
 passed the Commercial Docks with a light and jocund heart. He 
 
CAPTAIN BORLINDER AJIOXG CANXIBALS. 79 
 
 was about to earn the gratitude of the girl he loved at a cheap 
 rate — namely, at the cost of remaining out of her sight on the 
 next occasion of his return to the Port of London. His love was 
 not of that ardent and absorbing kind which prevents a man from 
 feeling happy unless he is in the presence of the object of his 
 affections. Quite the contraiy. Captain Borlinder was happier 
 away from the young lady, because conversation with her was 
 carried on under considerable constraint. Once safely mamed, 
 that constraint, he felt, would be removed, and expressions, now 
 carefully guarded, might be again freely used. If a married man's 
 house is not his own quarter-deck, what is it ? thought the Captain, 
 who, despite the culture of many centuries and the religion of hia 
 ancestors, retained the ideas of marital authority common among 
 primitive men. He is now married, however, though not to Lai, 
 and has learned to think quite otherwise. 
 
 The weather was favourable across the Bay, and with all sail 
 set, a rolling sea, and a fresh breeze, the Captain stood aft and 
 began to consider the shaping of his narrative. 
 
 He was a good hand at a yarn. But then to write a yarn is, if 
 you please, much more difficult than to spin one. The pen is a 
 slow, tedious instrument. We want, in fact, something more rapid 
 with which to interpret our thoughts. While we are painfully 
 setting down one thing, the next, equally important, escapes us 
 and is forgotten. 
 
 Captain Borlinder felt this, and therefore, very wisely, resolved 
 upon not writing anything until he had thoroughly mastered the 
 whole story and told it to liimself half a dozen times over. Thus 
 great novelists, I believe, get the whole of their situations clearly 
 in theu' mind, with the grouping of the characters, before writing 
 a word. And it would be an admirable plan if certain lady novelists 
 would also foMow the Captain's method, and write notliing before 
 they are almost word-perfect with their story. 
 
 His crew were amazed at the behaviour of their skipper, both 
 outward and homeward bound. For he paced the quarter-deck all 
 day long, gazing at sky and sea. He struck strange attitudes ; he 
 shook his head ; he swore at himself sometimes ; he left the 
 navigation of the ship to the mate ; he seemed to be perpetually 
 repeating words. 
 
 These things were strange. He was not drunk. He even 
 seemed to drink less than usual ; and, if he had got a touch of 
 ' horrors,' as sometimes happens to sailors after a spell ashore, they 
 were manifested in a most unusual manner. 
 
 On the voyage to Cadiz and back the Captain restricted himself 
 to mental composition. We all know how difficult it is to describe 
 a place which you have never seen. One would like to see a 
 competitive young man's description, say of iElotherhithe, which 
 nobody but myself has ever visited. That difficulty is, of course, 
 lessened when your readers are equally ignorant, but immensely 
 increased by the consideration that perliaps they know the place. 
 
so IHE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Now, certainly Lai had not seen any of the islands of Micro- 
 nesia, or Polynesia. The contemplation of the chart whereon the 
 countless islands of the Pacific lie dotted among the coral-reefs, the 
 shoals and atolls of that great sea, only filled her mind with vague 
 thoughts of palm-trees, soft winds, and brown natives. In those 
 seas sailed the ships she had heard of, the whalers, the schooners 
 trading from island to island. On those dots of dry land lived 
 men, of whom she had heard, who had grown grey in these lati- 
 tudes, who cared no more to return to England, who had learned 
 native ways and native customs. Though Lai had never travelled, 
 she knew a great deal more than Captain Borlinder, and it might 
 be embarrassing for him to be asked questions ai'ising out of her 
 superior knowledge. 
 
 Again, there was Captain Zacha,riasen. Nobody knew where 
 that old man had not been in his long life of sixty years' sailing 
 upon the sea. In his garrulous way, he laid claim to a knowledge 
 of every port under the sun. Now, supposing he had actually 
 visited the place fixed on by himself for the scene of Captain 
 Armiger's exile and death. This, too, would be embarrassing. 
 
 It is true that Nick Borlinder was not one of those who place 
 truth among the highest duties of mankind, but rather considered 
 the search for enjoyment, in all its branches, as a duty immensely 
 superior and, indeed, a duty to be ranked foremost among those 
 imposed on suffering humanity. Yet the worst of lying is that you 
 have got to be consistent in order to be believed. Random lying 
 helps no man. It is a mere amusement, a display of cleverness, 
 intellectual fireworks, the indulgence of imagination. The story, 
 therefore, must be constructed in accordance, somehow, with pos- 
 sible facts. 
 
 The romancer had provided hiniscvf, not only with a few sheets 
 iA paper, but with a map, and over this he pored continually, 
 seeking a likely spot for the scene of his Fabulous History. But it 
 M'as not till his second return voyage that he found himseK so far 
 advanced with the story as to begin committing it to writing. 
 
 It is interesting to record further that the Captain on returning 
 to London sought a booksellers shop, and enquired after any work 
 which treated of the Eastern Seas. He obtained a second-hand 
 copy of an old book — I think by Captain Mundy — and then learned 
 that the island of New Guinea, which he easily found on the map, 
 was entirely unknown, and had hardly ever been visited. He 
 therefore resolved to make New Guinea the scene of Rex Armiger's 
 landing. At all events. Captain Zachariasen would be unable to 
 put him to shame in the matter of New Guinea. 
 
 He made three voyages to and from Cadiz, bringing home a 
 vast quantity of sherry, Portugal plums, raisins, oranges, and other 
 things, and taking out I know not what, except that what he took out 
 was not worth so much as what he brought home. And as this 
 appears to be the case with everj' ship which leaves a British port, 
 we must be working our way gaily through the national saving.s 
 
I 
 
 CAPTAIN BOBLINDEB AMONG CANNIBALS. 81 
 
 and shall all very shortly take refuge in the national workhouse, 
 so that the dreams of the Socialist will be realised, and all shall be 
 on the same level. This is a very delightful prospect to contem- 
 plate, and the position of tilings reflects the highest credit on both 
 sides of the House. 
 
 It was on October 14, 1879, that Dick, the Malay, came back 
 and told his tale. It was in December following that the Doctor 
 of the ' Aryan ' brought the message from the sea. On January 2, 
 Captain Borlinder took his farewell, and sallied forth on that 
 desperate quest to the Eastern Seas, the description of which was 
 written between Cadiz and London. 
 
 No news came to E,otherhithe all the winter. The ' Aryan ' 
 returned, and the Doctor came to say that the Company were making 
 enquiries among the ships trading with the islands for news of a 
 W"hite man cast away ujDon one of them. No news had yet been 
 received. 
 
 It was on June 8, 1880, that Captain Borlinder returned from 
 the East. 
 
 He bore in his hand the same red silk pocket-handkerchief 
 with which he had started, he wore the same blue clothes, in the 
 same state of preservation, because they were his best ; the same 
 shiny hat. 
 
 He presented himself in the kitchen because it was in the fore- 
 noon, and Lai was engaged in her usual occupation — namely, the 
 daily pudding. The Patriarch, as usual, sat in the armchair sound 
 asleep. 
 
 She dropped her work and turned pale, seeing that he was 
 alone. 
 
 ' Alone ! ' she cried. 
 
 ' Alone,' he answered, in the deepest and most sepulchral notes 
 wliich his voice contained. 'Alone,' he repeated. 'I have been 
 a long voyage, and have come back — alone. But not empty-handed. 
 No ; I have brought you news. Yes ; bad news, I grieve to say.' 
 
 She sat down and folded her hands, prepared for the worst. 
 
 'Go on,' she said ; ' tell me what you have to tell.' 
 
 At this juncture Captain Zacharias en awoke and rubbed his eyes 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! ' he said ; ' here's one of them come back. Well, 1 
 thought he would be the first. What cheer, mate ? ' 
 
 ' Bad,' replied the traveller. 
 
 ' Wliere's Cap'en Armiger 1 ' 
 
 Captain Borlinder pointed upwards, following the direction of 
 his finger with one eye, as if that eye of faith could readily discern 
 Rex among the angels. 
 
 ' I thought he'd say that ; I told you so, Lai, my dear. Keep 
 your pluck up, and go tell Cap'en Holstius and Cap'en Wattles. 
 They must hear the news too,' 
 
 ' They here ? ' 
 
 Captain Borlinder changed colour. He had not thought of thia 
 possibility. 
 
 a 
 
S2 THE CAPTAiyS' ROOM. 
 
 • In this very house, both of them,' replied the Patriarch. 
 * Cap'en Wattles he's been backwards and forwards between Liver- 
 pool and New York and London all the time, with his business, 
 and Cap'en Holstius, he's just brought to port as fine a cargo of 
 white deal as you ever see. Yes, they're both about.' 
 
 At this point they entered and shook hands. 
 
 'And now,' continued the old man, 'let us be comfortable. 
 Keep your pecker up, Lai, my dear, and give me a pipe. So I told 
 you what he would say, Lai. What a thing it is to have the wisdom 
 of fourscore ! Now, my hearty, pay it out. ' 
 
 'I have set down on paper,' Captain Borlinder began, 'a Nar- 
 rative — ahem ! — a Narrative of my adventures since I started to find 
 Cap'en Armiger. If you please, I will read my Narrative.' 
 
 He lugged his precious manuscript out of his pocket, unrolled 
 it, coughed solemnly, and began to read it. 
 
 ' Stop,' interrupted the Patriarch ; ' did you try Moreton Bay % ' 
 
 'No, I did not.' 
 
 Captain Zachariasen shook his head mournfully. 
 
 ' Go on, my lad, go on,' he sighed ; ' I doubt it's no good.' 
 
 'Now, Venerable, keep your oar out,' said Captain Borlinder, 
 impatiently. ' You and your Moreton Bay ! Lemme go on.' 
 
 He looked round him half ashamed of reading his own literary 
 eflbi't, spread the manuscript upon his knees, flattening it out, and 
 smoothing down the dogs' ears. Then he began. He was, un- 
 fortunately, unacquainted with the rules of punctuation, so that 
 his reading was hardly up to the Third Standard, the point at 
 which, I believe, most school children stop. But the matter was 
 clear and precise, so that the manner mattered little. 
 
 ' I set sail,' he said, ' on January 3 from Southampton aboard 
 the P. and 0. steamer " Batavia," bound for Singapoi-e, a second- 
 class passenger. 
 
 ' We navigated the Bay of Biscay, the weather being fine and 
 the sea smooth. We had light showers and a breeze ofi" Malta. 
 We passed through the Canal and down the Red Sea — the weather 
 being warm for the time of year, but cloudy, with much rain — to 
 Aden. From Aden we sailed in a furious gale of wind to Point de 
 Galle, and from Galle with a fair breeze and a smooth sea to Sin- 
 gapore, where we brought up all standing six weeks after leaving 
 Southampton. 
 
 ' At Singapore I began to look about me, making enquiries, but 
 asking no questions for fear of arousing suspicion.' 
 
 ' What suspicion \ ' asked Captain Z^ichariasen. 
 
 The reader hesitated. Then he read the passage over again. 
 
 'For fear of arousing suspicion.' 
 
 It was a phrase he had encountered somewhere or other in a 
 somewhat limited course of reading, and he set it down, thinking 
 that it sounded rather Avell. 
 
 ' What stispicion ? ' 
 
 ' If you don't keep your oar out,' he answered, ' we shall nevei 
 get along.' 
 
CA PTATN BORLIXDER AMOXG CAXXIBALS. 83 
 
 ' What suspicion ? ' repeated Captain Zachariasen. ' Suspicion 
 that you wanted to make away with the lad when you found 
 hnu ? ' 
 
 'If you was five and forty years younger, my Patriarch,' re- 
 turned the traveller, ' I'd let you know what suspicion. IS ow, 
 Lai, if you'll believe me, my suspicion was that some one else 
 beside me might tackle this job, and so spile it. I wanted it 
 finished ofi" workmanlike. Sol cast about. Hold your old jaw, 
 will you ? ' 
 
 He mm-mured something more in his throat which rumbled and 
 echoed about the room like suppressed thunder. 
 
 ' First, I went around the public-houses and hung about the 
 bars.' Captain Zachariasen grunted. ' But nothing could I learn. 
 Then I sat upon the wharf and went about the shipping. Mighty 
 civil, well-spoken skippers they were, as a rule, but they could tell 
 me nothing, though some of them knew the "Philippine," and one 
 or two remembered Cap'en Ai'miger. It will be a comfort to you, 
 Lai, to reflect that they all spoke well of him as a good sailor, who 
 could carry his drink like a man.' Here Captain Zachariasen again 
 grunted. ' So I saw what I had all along suspected, that I should 
 have to go upon the search myself. First, therefore, I picked up 
 such information as a man can come by as to the currents and the 
 winds. This done, I laid down the supposed course of the boat, 
 with such winds and such cui'rents, on the chart. Now, you must 
 know that Cap'en Armiger made a great mistake. So far from the 
 current being N.E., and the wind S.W., the current sets in strong 
 S.W. And the prevalent wind, less it's a monsoon or a cyclone, is 
 S.W. too. What the devil are you grunting at now ? ' This is to 
 Captain Zachariasen, who was making this sign again. 
 
 ' Go on, my lad. Go on heavin'. Sooner we get to the bottom 
 of the page the better.' 
 
 ' Very well, then. Grunt and I beg your pardon, Lai. 
 
 He's enough to make a bishop swear. Where was I ? Oh I a 
 cyclone, in S.W. too. What did I do then ? Laid down on the 
 map the place where that boat w^ould likely make the land, and 
 then I cast about to get a ship which would land me on that very 
 identical spot. Suz'e enough there was a boat in harbour just 
 about to sail.' 
 
 ' What trade might she have been in ? ' asked the Patriarch. 
 
 ' Coal trade,' he replied, promptly. ' I took a passage, bar- 
 gained to be disembarked and called for again in tliree weeks' time, 
 and we set sail. Beautiful sailing it is in those seas, and one of 
 these winter evenings, Lai, when you and me have got nothing to 
 do, I will tell you such j'arns of they islands as w411 make you long 
 for to go there yourself. Our course was south of Borneo, and so 
 into the narrow seas, through the Macassar Straits, north of 
 Celebes and Gillolo, and so along the north-west of New Guinea, 
 where I'd made up my mind to find Cap'en Armiger. If you've 
 got a xhart anywhere about, any of you, you might follow.' 
 
 q2 
 
84 TIJE CAFTAIl^^S BOOM. 
 
 'Never mind the chart, my lad,' said Captain Zachariasen ; 
 'go on.' 
 
 ' Nobody, before me and Cap'en Armiger, had ever landed on 
 that desolate coast. They set me ashore with six foot or so of 
 baccy, a pipe, a box of lucifers, a bottle of rum, a gun, and a 
 small fishing-net. That, I thought, would be enough to carry me 
 along for a spell, while I made my enquiries. 
 
 ' I found the natives black but friendly. They appeared not to 
 be cannibals. They greatly admired my appearance and manners. 
 They invited me to stay among them with the gun and be their 
 king. And, altliough I was obliged to refuse, they were civil, and 
 answered all my questions to the best of tlieir capacities, which 
 are naturallj'^ limited.' 
 
 Another grunt. 
 
 ' After a bit I discovered that I had not been mistaken in my 
 conclusions. Three years before, or thereabouts — because you 
 cannot expect naked savages to be as accurate as us truth-telling 
 Christians — a white man and a Malay had been washed ashore in 
 an open boat. 
 
 ' Directly I heard that I pricked up my ears. There might 
 have been two diti'erent white men come ashore in an open boat, 
 but not two paii's of white man and Malay man. That seemed 
 impossible. So I up and enquired at once where they were. 
 
 ' They told me that at landing there was a fight, but that they 
 were taken up-country after the fight with their arms bound to 
 their sides.' Here Captain Borlinder stopped. ' You remember, 
 Venei'able, ' he said, ' how you intex'preted that scrimmage shown 
 by the dumb man ? You were quite right. ' 
 
 The Venerable grunted again. 
 
 'Of course,' the discoverer resumed, 'I made haste to find out 
 which way they were taken, and it was not long before I started 
 following their track, led by a native boy who knew the country 
 well, having been born and brought up there.' 
 
 ' Where were the rest of the natives born and brought up ? ' 
 asked Captain Zachariasen. 'Go on, brother. Reel it out.' 
 
 ' The first day ' Captain Borlinder turned suddenly pale, 
 
 as if a weak point had been discovered in his armour, and went on 
 reading rapidly. ' The fii'st day we made five-and-twenty miles, as 
 near as I could reckon, going in a bee-line across country, over 
 hills and valleys where lions, bears, tigers, hytenas, leopards, 
 elephants, and hippopotamuses roamed free, seeking whom they 
 may devour ; cross rivers where crocodiles sat with open jaws 
 snapping at the people as they passed by.' 
 
 ' It is hot, I suppose, in these latitudes ? ' said Captain 
 Zachariasen. 
 
 ' Hottish,' replied the traveller. ' I was given to understand 
 "iL^at it was their summer. Hottish walking. IVIade a man relish 
 his rum and water. And I found a pint of cold water with a jack- 
 towel refreshing on a Saturday night. The next day we made 
 
CAPTAIN BORLINDER AMOXG CANNIBALS. 85 
 
 thirty knots of sandy desert, where there were camels and os- 
 triches, and never a drop of water to make a cup of tea with. The 
 third day we crossed a mountain, twenty-iive thousand feet high, 
 on the sides of which were bears, wolves, and pemmican. From 
 the summit we obtained a si)lendid view right across the China 
 Seas, and with my glass I could easily make out Hong-Kong. 
 
 ' On the fourth day, after doing thirty miles good, and living 
 for a week on the bark of trees and wild roots, we passed through 
 a thick forest inhabited solely by monkeys and snakes, after which 
 we emerged upon a town, the like of which I had never expected 
 to find in the heart of New Guinea. It appeared to consist of a 
 million and a haK of people, as near as I could learn. They go 
 dressed in white cittton knee-breeches and turbans ; they smoke 
 cigaiettes and drink Jamaica rum ; their manners are pleasant and 
 their ways hos]iitable. 
 
 ' As soon as they saw that a white man had arrived, they 
 flocked round me and began to ask questions. These I satisfied to 
 the best of my power and requested to be taken to the king. 
 They led me, or rather carried me, shouting along the streets, to 
 the Royal Palace, which is a trifle bigger than the Cxystal Palace, 
 and all made of solid gold. 
 
 ' The, king is a young man, who Avears his crown both day and 
 night He is always surrounded by his guards, and has to be 
 approached on bended knees. 
 
 ' After the usual compliments, he invited me to tell him what 
 1 came for. 
 
 ' I replied that I was sent by the most beautiful girl in Rother- 
 hithe — at this lie seemed pleased, and said he wished she had come 
 herself — in order to discover what had become of her sweetheart, 
 named Rex Arm.iger, wrecked upon his majesty's coast in the 
 year 1876. 
 
 ' I confess that I felt sorry, when I had put the question, but 
 then I had come all the way on purpose to put it. For the king 
 and all his courtiers immediately burst into tears. 
 
 ' I then learned the whole story. 
 
 ' Cap'en Ai-miger had, in fact, landed on this shore, as I ex- 
 pected and calculated. He had been separated from his steward 
 Dick in a scrimmage on the coast, and had been brought inland to 
 be presented as a captive to the king. At the court he made him- 
 self at once a great favourite, being a good shot, which pleased his 
 majesty, and a good dancer which pleased the ladies. He lived 
 three years with them in great favour with everybody, and at the 
 end, though this you will hardly credit, engaged to be married to 
 the king's sister, being by that time in despair of ever getting 
 away. 
 
 ' Unfortunately, only the week before I arrived, he was killed 
 and devoured by a lion, and the princess was gone off her royal 
 chump. 
 
 ' I am truly sorry to be tlie bearer of such bad news, Lai. You 
 will own that 1 done my best. 
 
?5 THE CAPTAINS' EOOM. 
 
 ' The rest of my log, how I got away, and how I came here 
 again, would not interest you now. You will, perhaps, like to 
 hear them yarns in the long winter evenings when we have got 
 nothing else to do. 
 
 ' As for poor Cap'en Armiger, I brought away with me one relic 
 of him — the last cap he ever wore. The king sent it to you by my 
 hands. He said a great many civil things about my courage in 
 coming all that way to hnd my friend, and I had to promise to go 
 back again. However, that is nothing. Here, then, is Cap'en 
 Ajmiiger's cap — the cap of the Company.' 
 
 He untied the handkerchief and took out a cap with a gold 
 band and a couple of anchors in silver embroidery upon the front. 
 It was a uniform cap, that of the Indian Peninsular Company. 
 
 Lai received it, and turned it over in her hand, but with some 
 doubt, stimulated by Captain Zachariasen's grunts. 
 
 The old man reached out his hand for the cap, examined it 
 carefully, tried it on his own head, and grunted again. 
 
 ' What are you grunting for now 1 ' asked Cajjtain Borlinder in 
 great uneasiness. 
 
 ' Gentlemen, ' said Captain Zachariasen to the other two, ' tell 
 me what you think ? ' 
 
 Captain Holstius made answer, like the country gentleman who 
 read Gulliver's Travels, that he did not believe a word of it. And 
 why ? Because no one who had read accounts of those latitudes 
 could reconcile Captain Borlinder's narrative with the tales of other 
 travellers. 
 
 Captain Wattles shook his head. 
 
 ' Coarse work,' he said. 'Very common, and coarse work.' 
 
 Upon this Captain Borl'nder lost his temper, and behaved like 
 an ofhcer of his rank when in a rage upon his own quarter-deck. 
 
 ' You shouldn't ha' thought, brother,' said the old man, holding 
 out the cap and examining it witli contempt, ' that a man of four- 
 score and odd could be taken in by such a clmnsy jemmy as yourn, 
 I'd ha' spun a better yai'n myself, by chalks. Two things shall set 
 you right. First, my lad, this cap, which I suppose, you bought 
 on your way in Houndsditch, is the cap of a boy of thirteen, a 
 midshipmite. Now, Cap'en Armiger, like me, had a big head. We 
 may tuss the cap into the tire, Lai, my pretty, because it isn't your 
 sweetheart's cap, and never was.' He did toss it into the fire, 
 where it was immediatelj' consumed, all except the gold lace which 
 twisted into all shapes. ' Look at him ! ' he added. ' Sails in 
 gaily with a boy's cap in one hand and a yard and half of lies, made 
 up Lord knows where, in the other. Another thing.' Captain 
 Borlinder at this juncture, because he had, in fact, bought that cap 
 in Houndsditch, presented every appearance of discomfiture. 
 ' When he landed among the blacks, all alone, what language did 
 he talk with them ? English? He knows no other. What do you 
 say, Cap'en Wattles ? ' 
 
 ' Coarse work. Coarse and clumsy work.' 
 
CAPTAIX BOnLIXBER AMOXG CAXXTBALS. 87 
 
 Captain Borlinder replied in general terras, and endeavouring 
 to bluster it out, that this was hard for a man to bear, this was, 
 after going through all he had gone through. 
 
 But here Captain Wattles gave him the coup de grace. 
 
 ' I can tell all of you where that precious narrative was written. 
 For I made it my business to enquire at the London Docks. He 
 has been all the time aboard his own ship, and he has made three 
 voyages to Cadiz and back since January. If you doubt, go and 
 ask his people.' 
 
 This was an unexpected one. Captain Borlinder reeled. 
 
 Then Lai rose in her wrath. 
 
 ' Go ! ' she cried. ' You are not fit to be undei' the same roof 
 with honest people, Go, impudent liar ! Oh, that men can be so 
 wicked ! He has kept my Rex for six long months more in hia 
 captivity. Go ! let us never see your face again.' 
 
 She clenched her hands and pointed to the door with as threaten- 
 ing a gesture as Medea might have employed. 
 
 Captain Borlinder hastened to obey. He crammed the I^arra- 
 tive in his pocket, and his shiny hat upon his head, and walked idrth, 
 saying never a word. And although he has never since set foot 
 upon the southern shores of the Port of London, I think he still 
 sometimes feels over again the humiliation of that moment. 
 
 ' And now,' said Captain Wattles, ' it is my turn. We have lost 
 more than six months, it is true. I have settled all my business, 
 and I have got command of a ship which trades among the islands, 
 a Sj'dney schooner. I meant to tell you this to-day, not expecting 
 to find this — this lying lubber here. Why, there ain't a lad of ten 
 in the States that wouldn't put together a better story than that 
 Coarse and clumsy work.' 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES. 
 
 The next turn, therefore, fell to Captain Wattles. He, for his 
 part, took leave in a quiet and business-like manner, making no 
 protestations. 
 
 ' I shall be,' he said, * off and on about the Carolines, where we 
 expect to find him. He is not in the regular track of the traders, 
 else you would have heard from him. He is on none of the islands 
 touched for pearl and beche de mer — that we may be quite certain 
 of ; therefore, I shall try at those places which are seldom visited. 
 If I find him, good ; if not, I will let you know. 1 don't pretend 
 to waste my time in looking for a man and nothing else ; I am 
 going to trade on my own account, and look about me the while. 
 News runs from island to island in an astonishing waj-, and we 
 
S8 TRE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 shall likely hear about him. That's all I have to say, Miss Lai, 
 and here's my hand upon it. Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, 
 will act up to his name.' So he, too, disappeared. 
 
 Then, for a while, the house resumed its usual aspect, and 
 things went on as before. A letter came in due course from Cap- 
 tain Wattles. He had arrived at Sydney and was preparing for 
 departure. Then no more letters. 
 
 The time passed slowly. Captain Holstius was away with his 
 ship. The life and light seemed to have gone from the girl. Only 
 the old man was left to cheer her continually, and Dick to raise 
 her courage . 
 
 ' I shall live, Lai, my dear,' he said, ' to see Cap'en Ai-miger 
 come home again. I have no doubt of that ; and, pretty, I've 
 been tliinking about the mummicker and the end of his story. 
 Somehow, I doubt whether it wasn't him, and not the Cap'en, they 
 took off to prison. I wish I could trust that Yankee chap ; he's 
 worse than the other. Now if the Norvveegee could go ' 
 
 As for Barnabas, there was something in his cold and quiet way 
 which impressed those who made his acquaintance. Such men, 
 when they are on the right side, make good generals ; when they 
 are on the wrong, they provide the picturesque element of history. 
 Thus in the sixteenth century he would have been invaluable as a 
 buccaneer, being full of courage and as cool as a melon ; also, 
 under favourable conditions, he might have developed a fine 
 religious fanaticism, under the influence of which he would have 
 hated a Spaniard and a Papist more than even Sir Walter Raleigh 
 hated him. In the seventeenth century he would have found scope 
 as a pirate, with Madagascar, the West-Indian and Floridan Keys, 
 the harbours of Eastern Africa, and nearly all the ports of South 
 America for refuge ; and the navies of tlie world, with the rich 
 galleons of Spain, and the East-Indiamen of England for his booty ; 
 and all the rogues and murderers afloat, actual or possible, longing 
 to become part of his crew. In tlie eighteenth century the trade 
 of pirate fell into disrepute, by reason of the singularly disagree- 
 able end wliich happened to many of its followers. Happily, that 
 of privateer took its place. In the present century, men like 
 Barnabas B. Wattles have gone filibustering ; have carried black 
 cargoes from the West Coast across the Atlantic ; and have gone 
 blockade-rr.nning to Charleston and Galveston. All these exciting 
 pursuits have come to an end ; and there would seem, at first sight, 
 little for a sailor to find ready for a willing hand to do, except 
 perfectly legal pursuits. 
 
 There is not much. Still, there is always something. A man 
 may carry Chinese coolies to Trinidad, Peru, or Cuba. Under 
 what pretences he inveigles them aboard, what promises he makes 
 them, and how much he gets for each, no one, outside the trade, 
 which is a limited company, knows or can discover. You miglit 
 sooner hope to learn the secrets of the Royal Arch. Again, you 
 may ship coolies for Re'union. They are British subjects, but they 
 
THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES. 89 
 
 are taken on board at Pondicheriy, which is a French settlement. 
 And the like mystery surrounds each transaction in Hindoo flesh. 
 Lastly, there is a delightful pastime still carried on in Polynesia, 
 known as the Labour Traffic. Opinions differ as to the beneficial 
 results of a few years of cooliedom in Queensland. For whereas 
 some authorities say that the Polynesian leams the blessings of 
 second-hand reach-me-downs, with a smattering of Christianity, 
 with which to astonish his relatives, the Browns, on his return ; 
 others declare that the extra garments are discarded as soon as he 
 lands, the rudiments of the Christian faith forgotten, and only the 
 taste for rum remains. I know not which is right, because in 
 order to decide the point, one ought to live along with native Poly- 
 nesians, or with Australian colonists, in order to hear both sides 
 of the question, and no controversialist has as yet done that. One 
 thing, however, is quite certain, that the coolies embark for various 
 reasons, among which no one has as yet pretended to find a desire 
 to toil on the Queensland cotton and sugar estates. Toil of any 
 kind is, indeed, the last thing which these children of the 
 Equatorial Pacific desire. Rest is what they love, or, if any 
 exercise, then a languid swim in tepid waters, a dance in the 
 evening, and the joyous cup. Now to ship these innocents and to 
 bring them to the market where they may be hired is a profitable, 
 albeit a dangerous, pursuit. 
 
 It is never a fault of the American adventurer that he too care- 
 fully considers the danger. Where there are dollars to be picked 
 up there is generally danger. The round earth may be map^^ed 
 out m different belts of fertility, so far as dollars are concerned. 
 Where they most abound and may most readily be gathered there 
 is such a crowd, with so much fighting and struggling, or there 
 are so many perils from climate, crocodiles, settlers, snakes, na- 
 tives, and sharks, that it is only the brave man who ventures 
 thither, and only the strong man who comes home in safety, 
 bringing with him the treasures he has fought for. Barnabas B. 
 Wattles was brave and strong, and he knew the islands of old, 
 where he had sojoui'ned, though certainly not, as we have once 
 heard him state, as a missionary. He now saw his way to a neat 
 stroke of business combined with love. He would prove, not 
 clumsily, as did his rival, but prove beyond a doubt, the death of 
 Rex Armiger. Then he would return, cany off the girl with the 
 money, which he supposed belonged to her, forgetting tlie existence 
 of Mrs. Rydquist, and get back to America, where he knew of a 
 certain dry dock, to possess which was the dream of his soul. It 
 may be also stated that he firmly believed that the man was dead, 
 and to find Rex Armiger alive was the last thing which he expected. 
 
 Yet this, as you will see, was exactly what he did find. 
 
 He took command of his trading schooner, loaded her with the 
 things which Polynesians love, such as gaudy cottons, powder, 
 tobacco, rum, and strong perfumes, and set sail. 
 
 It is not my purpose to follow the voyage of the ' Fair JMarla' 
 
00 TTTE CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 across the Pacific Ocean, nor to tell of the various adventures which 
 befel her captain, and the trade he did. Wherever he touched he 
 made enquiries, but he could hear nothing of a young white man 
 cast ashore in an open boat. No one knew or had heard of any 
 such jetsam. 
 
 At last he began to think his search would lead to nothing, and 
 that all trace of the man was lost. This he regretted, because he 
 was unfeignedly anxious to send home or bring h(jme proofs of 
 li.s death ; so anxious that he had grown perfectly certain that 
 Rex was dead. 
 
 It came to pass, however, after many days that he sighted an 
 island, an outlying member of a group at which he knew that 
 traders never touch, because it was too small a place and lay out 
 of the usual track. 
 
 It is very well known that a large number of the Caroline 
 Islands are composed of certain coral formations called atolls. 
 These consist of a round ring of rock just appearing above the 
 surface, enclosing a shallow lagoon, whose diameter varies from a 
 few yards to a hundred miles, in which lie islands, some of them 
 large islands with hills, streams, and splendid woods of cocoa-palm, 
 bread-fruit, durian, and pandang ; whose islanders lead, or would 
 lead if they knew how, delightful lives in fishing in their smooth 
 waters, eating the fruits which Heaven sends, and doing no kind of 
 work. Others there are, small atolls with small lagoons, whose 
 islets are mere rocks on which grow nothing but the universal 
 pandang, the screw palm, which serves the people for everything. 
 iSuch was this. It was too insignificant even to have a name ; it 
 was distant about two hundred miles from the group of which it 
 might be supposed to be a member ; it was simply laid down on 
 the chart as a ' shoal,' and had, perhaps, never been visited by any 
 ship since its first discovery. 
 
 Moved by some impulse, perhaps a mere curiosity as to the 
 capabilities of trade and the possibility of pearls, Captain Wattles 
 steered towards this low-lying land. 
 
 When his boat lay upon the shallow waters within the reef he 
 found a group of the inhabitants of the principal islet gathered 
 upon the beach. They were of the brown Polynesian race, and 
 were apparently preparing for a hostile reception. 
 
 Among them stood, passive, a man almost as brown as them- 
 selves, but with fair hair and blue eyes. He was a white man ; he 
 was a young white man ; he was evidently no common beach-comber ; 
 and Captain Wattles immediately recognised, without any doubt, the 
 man of whom he was in search. He was dressed in rags ; the sleeves 
 were torn from his jacket and his bare arms were tattooed ; his 
 trousers had lost most of their legs ; he wore some kind of sandals 
 made of the pandang leaf ; his beard was long, his hair was hanging 
 in an unkempt mass ; his head was protected from the sun by an 
 ingenious arrangement of another leaf of the same tree. It could 
 be no other than Rex Armiger. 
 
THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES. 91 
 
 A strange feeling, akin to pit}', seized on Captain Wattles. He 
 repressed it, as unworthy of himself. But he did at first feel pity 
 for him. 
 
 The white man stood among the natives afraid to excite their 
 suspicion by running before them to meet the boat : yet his eager- 
 ness was visible in his attitude, in the trembling of his lips, in the 
 way in which he looked upon the boat. 
 
 He carried a short lance in his hand like all the rest. 
 
 Captain Wattles rowed within hailing distance of the shore. 
 Then he stood up. 
 
 ' White man, ahoy ! ' 
 
 The white man said something to his companions, and stepped 
 forward, but in a leisurely manner, as if he was not at all anxious to 
 speak the boat. 
 
 He came to the water's edge and sat down. 
 
 'I am an Englishman,' he said, speaking slowly, because he 
 was speaking a language he had not used for three years. ' I am 
 an Englishman. My name is Ai-miger. I was the captain of the 
 Indian Peninsular ship "Philippine," wrecked on a shoal three 
 years or so ago. I have been living since among these people.' 
 
 ' Do you know their lingo ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Then tell them I am harmless and I want to row nearer land.' 
 
 Rex turned to the men and addressed them in their own 
 language. 
 
 They all sat down and waited. 
 
 ' You may come nearer,' he said ; ' but make no movement that 
 may alarm them, and do not attempt to land. They are suspicious 
 since two years ago a ship came down from the Ladrone Islands 
 avd kidnapped twenty of them, including a Malay, cast away 
 with me.' 
 
 Here then was the interpretation of Dick's second pantomimic 
 fight. He did not escape, he was kidnapped. How he got away 
 from the Ladrone Islands, how he found his way to England, re- 
 mains a matter hitherto undiscovered. 
 
 Captain Wattles brought uji his boat within a few yards of the 
 beach, but in deep water, holding his men in readiness to give 
 way. 
 
 Sitting in the stern he Avas able to talk freely with Rex, who 
 stood at the very edge of the water waiting for an opportunity to 
 leap on board. 
 
 ' So,' said Captain Wattles, ' you are Cap'en Armiger, are you?' 
 
 Rex was astonished at the salutation. 
 
 ' Why 1 Do you know me ? ' 
 
 ' You see I know your name, stranger. I confess I am sorry to 
 find you. I thought you were dead. I hardly calculated that I'd 
 find you, though I certainly did promise to keep one eye open for 
 you.' 
 
 ' What promise ? ' asked Rex. 
 
v)2 THE CAPTAIN'S' ROOM. 
 
 ' I promised "We'll come to that directly. No-sv, whaL are 
 
 those black devils dancing about for 1 ' 
 
 The natives had jumjjed to their feet, and were now shaking 
 clubs and spears in a threatening way. 
 
 ' They want my assurance,' Res said, ' that you are not a 
 black-birder.' 
 
 ' Honest trading schooner,' replied Captain Wattles. ' Tell 
 tliem they may come aboard and see for themselves. What have 
 they got to sell ? ' 
 
 ' What should we have on this little island 1 We live on kabobo. 
 Do you want to buy any 1 What is your name ? ' 
 
 ' Barnabas B. Wattles, cap'en of the " Fair Maria," lying yonder. 
 Guess you'd like to be aboard her. Well, business first. Let's 
 trade something. Got no turtle 1 ' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 '' No Mche cle mer ? IS o copra ? ' ' 
 
 ' We have nothing.' 
 
 'Yery well, then,' said Captain Wattles. 'After business, 
 pleasure. Mate, I guess you are tired of this gem of the sea — eh ? ' 
 
 ' So tired,' replied Rex Armiger, ' that if you had not turned up 
 I believe I should have made a raft out of the pandang leaves and 
 tried my luck.' 
 
 ' Then I'm devilish glad we came,' said Captain W^attles. ' The 
 more so as I have a little bargain to propose before you come aboard 
 my craft.' 
 
 ' Any bargain that's fair.' 
 
 'I guess this is c^uite fair and honourable,' the Captain went on. 
 ' You have been a beach-comber upon this island for nigh upon 
 three years. Three years is a long time. The gell you were in 
 love with has likelj' got tired of waiting. Your name is ■m.'ote ott' 
 the books ; your ship is lopg since posted ; your friends have put 
 on mourning for you ' 
 
 ' What's the good of so much talk ? ' interrupted Rex. ' I want 
 to be taken off this island. What's your bargain ? ' 
 
 'Fair and easy, lad. Let me have my talk out.' Captain 
 Wattles looked at him with a curious expression. ' Why, you are 
 as good as dead already.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I mean this. There's one or two men who would like you to 
 be dead. I'm one of those. "N'SHiat's more, I ain't goin', for my 
 part, to be the means of restoring you to life. No, sir. I don't 
 exactly wish you dead, and yet I don't want to see you alive in 
 England.' 
 
 This was said with great decision. 
 
 Rex listened with amazement. 
 
 ' What harm have I ever done to you, man ? ' he cried. ' You 
 wish me dead 1 ' 
 
 ' There's no use keeping secrets between us two,' continued the 
 Btrange trader. ' Look here, three years ago, before you gut cum- 
 
TRE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES. 93 
 
 mand of the "Philippine," you were in love with a certain young 
 lady who lives at Rotherhithe.' 
 
 ' Go on. For God's sake, go on.' 
 
 ' That sweet young thing, sir, whom it's a privilege to know 
 and a pride to fall in love witli, peaked and pined more than a bit, 
 thinkin' about you and wonderin' where you were.' 
 
 ' Poor Lai ! dear Lai ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, she was real faithful and kindhearted, that gell. Her 
 friends, and especially her mother, who takes a kind of pleasure in 
 reckoning ujj the dead men she knows located at the bottom of the 
 briny, gave you up. But she never gave you up. No, never.' 
 
 ' Poor Lai ! dear Lai ! ' 
 
 The tears stood in the castaway's eyes as he sat and listened. 
 Behind him the men of the island stood like wild beasts on the 
 alert, waiting for the moment of flight or attack. And also like 
 wild beasts, they were never certain whetlier to fly or to fight. 
 
 ' jSTo one like that gell, sir, no one,' continued Captain Wattles ; 
 ' which is all the more reason why other fellows want to cut in. ' 
 
 Rex began to understand. 
 
 ' Among other fellows is myself, Barnabas B. Wattles. Very 
 good. Now you see why I would rather hear tliat you were dead 
 than alive, and why I'm darned disappointed to meet you here. 
 However, you are on about as desolate a place as I know of, 
 that's one comfort.' 
 
 The fact brought no comfort to Rex, but quite the reverse. 
 
 ' Mate, I want to tell you the whole story fair and above board. 
 I will tell you no lies. Therefore, you may trust what I say. And 
 first let me know how you came here, and all about it.' 
 
 Rex told his story. It was all as Lai had divined from Dick's 
 action. They sighted the island, being then half dead with hunger, 
 and with difficulty managed to paddle themselves ashore. They 
 were seized by the natives, and a consultation was held whether 
 they should be killed. They were spared. 
 
 Life on that island is necessarily simple. The people live en- 
 tirely on kabobo, which is a sort of rough bread made of the 
 pandang nut. They have no choice, because there is nothing else 
 to live upon. It is the only tree that grows upon this lonely land. 
 Kabobo is said to be wholesome, but it is monotonous. 
 
 Rex explained briefly that he had learned to talk with them, and 
 won by slow degrees their confidence ; that he had taught them a 
 few simple things, and he was regarded by them with some sort of 
 aflection ; that, after a year's residence on the island, a ship came 
 in sight, but did not anchor. That a boat put ofl", manned by an 
 armed crew, who, when the people came down to meet them, half 
 disposed to be friendly, attacked them, killed some, and carried olT 
 others, among whom was the Malay. This made them extremely 
 suspicious. Since that event nothing had happened ; nothing but 
 the slow surge of the wave upon the reef and the sigh of the wind 
 in the pandang trees. 
 
94 TKE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 ' Now that you have come,' Rex concluded, ' you who know— 
 her,' he added cheerfully, though his heart was hea\y ui thinking of 
 the bargain, ' you will take me off this island — for her sake.' 
 
 ' For her sake ? ' echoed Captain Wattles. ' Man alive ! It is 
 for her sake that I won't do no such silly thing. No, sir. You 
 understand that she thinks you're alive. Very good then. Bein' 
 a faithful gell, she keeps her word with you. Once she knows you 
 are dead, why there will be a chance for another chap. And who 
 60 likely as the man who came all the way out here to discover that 
 interestin' fact ? See, pard ? ' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' cried Rex. ' Do you mean that you will leave 
 me here and say I am dead ? ' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I am coming to, Cap'en Armiger. I take 
 it, sir, that you air a sensible man, and I have been told that you 
 know better than most which way that head of yours is screwed on. 
 You can understand what it is to be in love with that most beauti- 
 ful creature. What you've got to do is to buy your freedom.' 
 
 ' How am I to buy my freedom ? ' 
 
 'I've thought of this meeting, sir,' — this was a happy invention 
 of the moment — ' and I considered within myself what would be 
 best. The easiest way out of it, the way most men would choose, 
 would be to get up a little shindy with those bro^vn devils there 
 and to take that opportunity of dropping a bead into your vitals. 
 That way, I confess, did seem to me, at first sight, the best. But 
 why kill a man when you needn't 1 I know it's f aolish, but I 
 should like to go back to that young creature without tliinking that 
 she'd disapprove if she knew.' 
 
 Rex sprang to his feet. The man who lay there in the stern of 
 the boat, six feet from the shore, his head upon his hands, calmly 
 explaining why he did not murder him, was going back to England 
 to marry Lai — his Lai. To. marry her ! He threw up his arms 
 and was speechless with rage and horror. 
 
 Behind him the savages stood grouped, waiting for any sign from 
 him to fly or rush upon the strangers with their spears. 
 
 The day was perfectly calm, the sea was motionless in the land- 
 locked water, and, in the calm and peace of the hot noonday, the 
 words fell upon liis brain like words one hears in a ghastly dream 
 of the night. 
 
 ' Yes,' the man went on, ' I want to do what is right, and this is 
 my proposal, Cap'en Armiger. I know you can be trusted, because 
 I've made enquiries. Some Englishmen can lie like Rooshans, but 
 some can't. You, I am told, are one of that sort who can't. Promise 
 me to drop your own name, not to go back to England for twenty 
 years at least, never to let out that you are Rex Armiger, to stay 
 in these seas, and I'll take you aboard my schooner and land you 
 at Levuka or Honolulu, or wherever you please. Come, you may 
 even go to Australia if you like. As for names, I'll lend you mine. 
 You shall have the name of my brother, Jacob B. Wattles, now in 
 
THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES 95 
 
 A.braham's bosom. He won't mind, and if he does, it don't 
 matter. As for work, there s plenty to get and plenty to do among 
 these islands. There's the labour traffic ; there's pearl-fishing ; 
 there's trading. You may live among them, marry among them ; 
 turn beach-comber for life ; you may get to Fiji and run a plantation 
 Cap'en Armiger, if I were you, I would rather not go back. 
 
 ' As for this place, now, I don't suppose a man grows to get a 
 yearning for kabobo for a permanence, and on this darned one- 
 horse island there doesn't seem much choice outside the pandang 
 tree. Likewise, those young gentlemen with their toothpicks are 
 not quite the company you were brought up to, I reckon. Whereas, 
 except for the missionaries, who spoil everything, I don't suppose 
 there's better company to be got anyAvhere in this world than you'll 
 find in this ocean when I land you on an island worth the name. At 
 
 Honolulu, for instance, there's nobblers and champagne, and . 
 
 Wal, I'd rather live there, or in one or two other islands that 
 I know; than anywhere in Europe or the States. And so would 
 you, come to look at things rightly.' 
 
 Rex still kept silence, pacing on the narrow beach. 
 
 ' As for being dead, you've been dead for three years, so that 
 can't be any objection. Wliy, man, I give you life ; I resurrect 
 you. Think of that ! 
 
 ' As for being altered, j-ou are so changed that your own mother 
 would not know you again. No fear of any old friends recognising 
 you. And, so far as a few dollars go to start with, say the word 
 and you shall have them, with a new rig-out.' 
 
 Still Rex made no reply. 
 
 ' There is my offer, plain and open. I'm sorry for you, Cap'en 
 Armiger, I re'Uy am, because she's o\it an' out the best set-up gell 
 that walks. But two men can't both have her. And I mean to be 
 the man that does — not you. And all is fair in love.' 
 
 ' And if I refuse your oiTer 1 ' 
 
 ' Then, Cap'en Armiger, you stay just where you now happen 
 to be. And a most oncomfortable location, Now, sir, make no 
 error. Since the day that you landed on this island, have you 
 seen ary a sail on the sea ? No. Ships don't come here. Even 
 the Germans at Yap know that it's no manner of good coming 
 here. You are out of the reach of hurricanes, so you can't expect 
 so much as a wreck. You are hundreds of miles from any land ; 
 you have got no tools to make a raft, and no provisions to put 
 aboard her if you could make one ; you are altogether lonely, and 
 hopeless, and destitute. R^obinson Crusoe hadn't a more miserable 
 look-out. As for that young lady, you have no chance, not the 
 least mite of a chance, sir, of seeing her ever again. You have 
 lost her. Why, then, give her another chance, and let me say you 
 are dead. Cap'en, you can write — that's another of my conditions 
 — a last dying will and testament on a bit o' paper, which I will 
 Bend her. Come, be reasonable.' 
 
96 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Rex stood still, staring blankly before him. On the one hand, 
 liberty and life — for to stay upon the island was death ; on the 
 other, perhaps a hopeless prison. 
 
 Yet— Lai Rydquist ! If she mourned him as one dead, would 
 it hurt to let her mourn until she forgot him ? He shuddered as he 
 thought of her marrying the cold-blooded villain before him. Per- 
 haps she would never marry anyone, but go on in sadness all hei 
 days. 
 
 I am happy to say that the third course open to him — to give 
 his parole and then to break it — did not occur to him as possible. 
 
 He decided according to the nobler way. 
 
 ' Go without me,' he said. And then, without a word of re- 
 proach or further entreaty, he left the beach and walked away, and 
 was lost among the palm-trees standing thickly upon the thin and 
 sandy soil. 
 
 Captain Wattles gazed after him in admiration. 
 
 ' There goes,' he said, ' one of the real old sort. Bully for the 
 British bulldog yet ! ' 
 
 The group of savages stood still, looking on and wondering. 
 They suspected many things : that their white prisoner would run 
 away with the boat ; that the crew might fire upon them or try to 
 kidnap them. They also hoped a few things, such as that the 
 white cajitain would give them things, fine beads, fine coloured 
 stuffs, or rum to get drunk with. Yet nothing happened. Then 
 Captain Wattles, seeing that Rex Armiger had disappeared, be- 
 thought him of something. And he began to make signs to the 
 Idack fellows and to show them from the stern of his boat things 
 wonderful and greatly to be desired, and at the same time he gave 
 certain directions to his crew. 
 
 Thereupon the savages, moved with the envy and desire of those 
 things, did with one accord advance a few yards nearer. 
 
 Captain Wattles spread out more things, holding them up in 
 the sun for their admiration, and making signs of invitation. 
 
 They then divided into two groups, of whom one retreated and 
 the other advanced. 
 
 Captain Wattles next displayed a couple of most beautiful knives, 
 the blades of which, when he opened them, flashed in the sun in a 
 most sm'prising manner. And he pointed to two of the islanders, 
 young and stalwart fellows, and invited them by gestures to come 
 into the water and take these knives. 
 
 The crew meantime remained perfectly motionless, hands on 
 oars. Only those experienced in rowing might have observed that 
 their oars were well forward ready for the stroke. 
 
 The advanced group again separated into two more groups, of 
 which one consisting of a dozen of the younger men, including the 
 two invited, advanced still nearer, until they were close to the 
 water's edge, and the others retreated further back. All of them, 
 both those behind and those in front, remained watchful and sus- 
 picious, like a herd of deer. 
 
THE QUEST OF CAPTAIN WATTLES. 97 
 
 Presently the two singled out plunged into the water and swam 
 out to the boat. At first they swam round it, while Captain 
 Wattles continued to smile pleasantly at them and to exhibit the 
 knives. Also the crew dipped their oars without the least noise, 
 and with a half stroke, short and sharp, not moving their bodies, 
 got a little way upon the boat. The swimmers, with their eyes 
 upon the knives, did not seem to notice this manoeuvre. Nor did 
 they suspect though the oars were dipped again and the boat fairly 
 moving. 
 
 For just then they made up their minds that Captain Wattles 
 ■was a kind and benevolent person, and they swam close to the stern 
 of the vessel and held up their hands for the knives. 
 
 It is very well known that the Polpiesian natives have long and 
 thick black hair, which they tie up in a knot at the top of their 
 heads. 
 
 What, then, was the surprise of these two poor fellows to find 
 their top-knots grasped, one by Captain Wattles, and the other by 
 his interpreter, and their own heads held under water till they 
 were half drowned, while the crew gave way and the boat shot out 
 to sea. 
 
 There was a wild yell of the natives on shore, and a rush to tlie 
 water. But the boat was too far out for missiles to reach or shouts 
 to terrify. 
 
 'Now,' said Captain Wattles, when the half -drowned fellows 
 were hauled up the ship's side, ' we didn't exactly want this kind o' 
 cargo, and I had hoped to have stuck to legitimate trade. Wal ! 
 this will make it very awkward for the next ship which touches 
 here, and I don't think it will add to Captain Armiger's popularity. 
 After all,' he added, ' I doubt I was a fool not to finish this job 
 and have done with it. Who knows but some blundering ship may 
 find out the place by mistake and pick him up '] ' 
 
 When the ' Fair Maria ' returned to Sydney, some months later, 
 the verj' first thing Captain Wattles did was to put into the post a 
 bulky letter. 
 
 Like Captain Borlinder he had written a Narrative. Unlike 
 that worthy's story, this had all the outward appearance of vrai- 
 semblance. I would fain enrich this history with it at length, but 
 forbear. Yet it was a production of remarkable merit, combining 
 so much that was true with so much that was false. 
 
 As a basis we may recall the history, briefly touched upon, of 
 the kidnapping by the ship from the Ladrones. 
 
 This story put Captain Wattles upon the track of as good a tale 
 of adventure, ending with the death of Rex Armiger, as was ever 
 told. Some day, perhaps, with changed names, it may see the 
 light as a tale for boys. 
 
 The local colouring was excellent, and the writer's knowledge of 
 the natives made every detail absolutely correct. It ended by au 
 appeal, earnest, religious, to Lai's duties as a Christian. No 
 
 H 
 
98 TBE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 ■R-oman, said Captain Barnabas, was allowed to mourn beyond a 
 term ; nor was any woman (by the Levitical law) allowed to con- 
 sider herself as belonging to one man, should that man die. 
 Wherefore, he taught her, it was her bounden duty to accept the 
 past as a thing to be put away and done with. 
 
 'We forget,' he concluded, 'the sorrows of childhood; the 
 hopes and disappointments of early youth are remembered no more 
 by healthy minds. So let it be with the memory of the brave and 
 good man who loved you, doubtless faithfully as you loved him. 
 Do not hide it, or stifle it. Let it die away into a recollection of 
 sadness endured with resignation. I would to Heaven that it had 
 been my lot to touch upon this island, where he lived so long, 
 before the fatal event which carried him off. I would that it had been 
 my privilege to bring him home with me to your arms. I cannot 
 do this now. But when I return to England, and call at Seven 
 Houses, may it be my happiness to administer that consolation 
 which becomes one who bears my Christian-name.' 
 
 This was very sweet and beautiful. Indeed, Captain Wattles 
 had a poetical spirit, and would doubtless have written most sweet 
 verses had he turned his attention to that trade. 
 
 After the letter was posted, he was sitting in a verandah, his 
 feet up, reading the latest San Francisco paper. Suddenly he 
 dropped it, and turned white with some sudden shock. 
 
 His friends thought he would faint, and made haste with a 
 nobbier which he drank. Then he sat up in his chair and said 
 solemnly : 
 
 ' I have lost the sweetest gell in all the world, through the 
 darndest folly ! Don't let any man ask me what it was. I had 
 the game in my own hands, and I threw it away. Mates ! I shan't 
 never — no, never — be able to hold my head up again. A nobbier ? 
 Ten nobblers ! ' 
 
 The letter reached England in due course, and, for reasons 
 which will immediately appear, was opened by Captain Zachariasen. 
 He read it aloud right through twice. Then he put it down, and 
 the skin of his face wrinkled itself in a thousand additional crow's 
 feet, and a ray of profound wisdom beamed from his sagacious 
 eyes, and he said slowly : 
 
 ' Mrs. Eydquist, ma'am, I said at first go off that Ididn't trust 
 that Yankee any more than the Borlinder lubber. Blame me if 
 they ain't both in the same tale. You and me, ma'am, will live 
 to see ! ' 
 
 ' I hope we may. Captain Zachariasen ; I hope we may. Last 
 night I lay awake three hours, and I heard voices. We have yet 
 to learn what these voices mean. Winding-sheets in candles I 
 never knew to fail, but voices are uncertain.' 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIIT H0L8TIUS. 99 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIUS. 
 
 The clumsy cheat of Captain Borlinder brought home to Lai the 
 sad truth that nobody, except herself and perhaps Captain Holstius, 
 believed Rex cotild still be living, Even the Doctor of the 
 'Aryan,' who called every time the ship came home, frankly told 
 her that he could not think it possible for him to be anywhere near 
 the track of ships without being heard of. The Company had sent 
 to every port touched by Pacific traders, and to every missionary 
 station, asking that enquiry shoxild be made, but nothing had been 
 heard. All the world had given him up. There came a time when 
 anxiety became intolerable, with results to nerve and brain which 
 might have been expected had Lai's friends possessed any acquain- 
 tance with the diseases of the imagination. 
 
 ' I must do something,' she said one day to Captain Holstius, 
 who remonstrated with her for doing too much. ' I must be work- 
 ing ; I cannot sit still. All day I think of Rex — all night I see 
 Rex — waiting on the shore of some far-oH" land, looking at me with 
 reproachful eyes, which ask why I do not send someone to take 
 him away. Li my dreams I try to make him understand — alas ! 
 he will not hear me, and only shakes his head when I tell him that 
 one man is looking for him now, and another will follow after.' 
 
 Captain Holstius, slowly coming to the conclusion that the girl 
 was falling into alow condition, began to cast about, in his thought- 
 ful way, for a remedy. He took a voyage to Norway to think 
 about it. 
 
 Very much to Lai's astonishment, he re-appeared a month 
 later, without his ship. He told her, looking a little ashamed of 
 himself, that he had come by steamer, and that he had made a 
 little plan which, with her permission, he would unfold to her. 
 
 ' I drew the shortest straw,' he said ; ' otherwise I should have 
 gone long ago. Now, without waiting for Captain Wattles, who 
 may be an honest man or he may not be ' 
 
 'Not be,' echoed the Patriarch. 
 
 ' I mean to go at once.' 
 
 Lai clasped her hands. 
 
 'But there is another thing,' he went on. *Lal, my dear, it 
 isn't good for you to sit here waiting ; it isn't good for you to be 
 looking upon that image all day long as well as all night.' 
 
 ' It never leaves me now,' she cried, the tears in her eyes. 
 ' Why, I see him now, as I see him always while you are talking — 
 while we are all sitting here.' 
 
 Indeed, to the girl's eyes, the figure stood out clear and distinct. 
 
 ' See ! ' she said, ' a low beach with palm-trees, such as you read 
 h2 
 
100 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 T'l me about last year. He is on the sands, gazing out to sea> 
 His eyes meet mine. Oh, Rex — Rex ! how can I help you 1 What 
 can I do for you ? ' 
 
 Captain Holstius shuddered. It seemed as if he, too, saw this 
 vision. 
 
 Captain Zachariasen said that mummicking was apt to spread in 
 a family like measles. 
 
 ' Then, Lai dear,' said Captain Holstius, ' hear my plan. I 
 have sold my share in the ship. 1 got a good price for it — three 
 hundred pounds. I am ready to start to-morrow. But I fear that 
 when I am gone you will sit here and grieve worse because I shall 
 not be here to comfort you. It is the waiting that is bad. So,' — 
 he hesitated here, but his blue eyes met Lai's with an honest and 
 loyal look — ' so, my dear, you must trust yourself to me, and we 
 will go together and look for him.' 
 
 ' Go with you 1 ' ' 
 
 ' Yes ; go with me. With my three hundred pounds we can 
 get put from port to port, or pay the captain of a trader to saU 
 among the Carolines with us on board. I daresay it will be rough, 
 but ship captains of all kinds are men to be trusted, you know, 
 and I shall be with you. You will call me your brother, and I 
 shall call you my sister, if you like.' 
 
 To go with him ! Actually to sail away across the sea in quest 
 of her lover ! To feel that the distance between them was daily 
 growing less ! This seemed at first sight an impossible thing, more 
 unreal than the vision of poor Rex. 
 
 To be sure such a plan would not be settled in a day. It was 
 necessary to get permission from Mrs. R-ydquist, whose imagination 
 would not at first rise to the Platonic height of a supposed brother- 
 hood. 
 
 She began by saying that it was an insult to the memory of her 
 husband, and that a daughter of hers should go off in broad day- 
 light was not what she had expected or hoped. She also said that 
 if Lai was like other girls she would long since have gone into 
 decent crapes and shown resignation to the will of Heaven. That 
 fair warning with unmistakable signs had been given her ; that, 
 after all, she was no worse off than her mother ; with more to the 
 same effect. Finally, if Lai chose to go away on a wild goose 
 chase, she would not, for her part, throw any obstacle in the way, 
 but she supposed that her daughter intended to marry Captain 
 Holstius whether she picked up Rex or not. 
 
 ' He ought, my dear,' said Captain Zachariasen, meaning the 
 Norweegee, ' to have been a naval chaplain, such is liis goodness of 
 heart. And as gentle as a lamb, and of such are the kingdom of 
 heaven. You may trust yourself to him as it were unto a bishop 8 
 apron. And if 'twill do you any good, my pretty, to sail the salt 
 aeas o'er in search of Mm, who may be for aught we know, but we 
 hope he isn't, lying snug at the bottom, why take and up and go. 
 Aa for the Captains, I'll keep 'em in order, and with authority to 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN R0LSTIU8. 101 
 
 give a month's warning, I'll sit in the kitchen every morning and 
 keep 'em at it. Your mother can go on goin' on jiist the same with 
 her teapot and her clean handkerchiefs.' 
 
 This was very good of the old man, and in the end he showed 
 himself equal to the task, so that Rydquist's fell off but little in re- 
 putation while Lai was away. 
 
 As for what people might say, it was very well known in Rother- 
 hithe who and of what surt was Lai Pv.ydquist, and why she was 
 going away. If unkind things were spoken, those who spoke them 
 might go to regions of ill repute, said the Captains in discussion. 
 
 How the good fellows passed round the hat t(^ buy Lai a kit 
 complete ; how Captain Zachariasen discovered that he had a whole 
 bag full of golden sovereigns which he did not want, and would 
 never want ; how it was unanimously resolved that Dick must go 
 with them ; how the officers of the ' Aryan ' for their share provided 
 the passage-money to San Francisco and back for this poor fellow ; 
 how the Director of the Company, who had come with the Secre- 
 tary to see the 'mummicking,' heard of it, and sneaked to Rother- 
 hithe unknown to anybody with a purse full of bank-notes and a 
 word of good wishes for the girl ; how everybody grew amazingly 
 kind and thoughtful, not allowing Lai to be put upon or worried, 
 so that servants did what they ought to do without being looked 
 after, and meals went on being served at proper times, and 
 the Captains left ofT bringing things that wanted buttons ; how Mrs. 
 Rydquist for the first time in her life received supernatui'al signs 
 of encouragement ; and how they went on board at last, accom- 
 panied by all the Captains — these things belong to the great 
 volumes of the things unwritten. 
 
 All was done at last, and they were in the Channel steam- 
 ing against a head wind and a chopping sea. They were second- 
 class jiassengers, of course ; money must not be wasted. But what 
 mattered rough accommodation ? 
 
 All the way across to New York on the ' Rolling Forties ' they 
 had head winds and rough seas. Yet what mattered bad weather ? 
 It began with a gale from the south-west in the Irish Sea, which 
 bucketed the ship about all the way from the Mersey to Queens- 
 town. The sailors stamped about the deck all night, and there 
 was a never-ending yo-ho-ing with the dashing and splashing of 
 the waves over the deck. The engines groaned aloud at the work 
 they were called upon to do ; the ship roiled and pitched without 
 ceasing ; the passengers were mostly groaning in their cabins, and 
 those who could get out could get no fresh air except on the com- 
 panion, for it was impossible to go on deck ; everything was cold, 
 wet, and uncomfortable. Yet there was one glad heart on board 
 who minded nothing of the weather. It was the heart of the girl 
 who was going in quest of her lover ; so that every moment brought 
 them nearer to him, what mattered for rough weather ? Besides, 
 Lai was not sea-sick, nor was her companion, as by profession for- 
 bidden that weakness. 
 
102 TBE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 When they left Queenstown the gale, which had been south- 
 west, became north-west, which was rather worse for them, because 
 it was colder. And this gale was kept up for their benefit the 
 whole way across, so that they had no easy moment, nor did the 
 ship once cease her plunging through angry waters, nor did the 
 sun shine upon them at all, nor did the hddles leave the tables, 
 nor were the decks dry for a moment. Yet what mattered wind 
 and rain and foul weather 1 For every moment brought the girl 
 nearer to her lost lover. 
 
 When Lai stood on the rolling deck, clinging to the arm of 
 Captain Holstius, and looked across the grey waters leaden and 
 dull beneath the cloudy sky, it was with a joy in her heart which 
 lent them sunshine. 
 
 ' I see Rex no longer in my dreams,' she said ; ' what does 
 that mean ? ' 
 
 ' It means, Lai,' replied Captain Holstius, who believed pro- 
 foundly that the vision was sent direct by Providence, ' that he is 
 satisfied, because he knows that you are coming.' 
 
 Some of the passengers perceiving that here was an extremely 
 pretty girl, accompanied by a brother — brothers are not generally 
 loth to transfer their sisters to the care of those who can appreciate 
 them more highly — endeavoured to make acquaintance, but in vain. 
 It was not in order to talk with young fellows that Lai was crossing 
 the ocean. 
 
 Then, the voyage having passed through like a dream, they 
 landed at New York, and another dream began in the long journey 
 across the continent among people whose ways and speech were 
 strange. 
 
 This is a journey made over land, and there was no more en- 
 durance other than that of patience. But it is a long and tedious 
 journey which even the ordinary traveller finds weary, Avhile to 
 Lai, longing to begin the voyage of search, it was well-nigh intole- 
 rable. Some of the passengers began to remark this beautiful girl 
 with eyes that looked always westward as the train ploughed on its 
 westward way. She spoke little with her companion, who was not 
 her husband and did not seem to be her brother. But from time 
 to time he unrolled a chart for her, and they followed a route upon 
 the ocean, talking in undertones. Then these passengers became 
 curious, and one or two of them, ladies, broke through the American 
 reserve towards strangers and spoke to the English girl, and dis- 
 covered that she was a girl with a story of surpassing interest. She 
 made friends with these ladies, and after a while she told them her 
 story, and how t]ie man with whom she travelled was not her brother 
 at all, and not even her cousin, but her very true and faithful friend, 
 her lover, more loyal than Amadis de Gaul, who had sold all that he 
 had and brought the money to her that she might go herself to seek 
 her sweetheart. And then slie told what reason she had to believe 
 that Rex was living, and pointed to the INIalay who iiad brought the 
 message from the sea, and was as faithful to her as any bull-dog. 
 
FEE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIUS. 103 
 
 They pressed her hands and kissed her ; they wished her God- 
 speed upon her errand, and they wondered what hero this lover of 
 hers could be, since for his sake, she could accept without offer of 
 reward the service, the work, the very fortune of so good and un- 
 selfish a man. 
 
 He was no hero, in truth, poor Res ! nor was he, I think, so 
 good a man as Captain Holstius ; but he was her sweetheart, and 
 she had given him her word. 
 
 Yet, although she talked, although the journey was shortened 
 by the sympathy of these kind friends, it was like the voyage, a 
 strange and unreal dream ; it was a dream to be standing in the 
 sunshine of California ; a dream to look upon the broad Pacific ; a 
 dream that her brother stood beside her with thoughtful eyes and 
 parted lips, looking across the ocean on which their quest was to be 
 made. 
 
 'Yes, Lai,' he murmured, pointing where westward lie the 
 lands we call Far East, ' yonder over the water, are the Coral Islands. 
 They are scattered across the sea for thousands of miles, and on 
 one of them sits Captain Armiger. Doubt not, my dear, that we 
 shall find him.' 
 
 Now it came to pass that the thing for which a certain English 
 girl, accompanied by a Norwegian sea-captain, had come to San 
 Francisco became noised abroad in the city, and ex^en got into the 
 papers, and interviewers called upon Captain Holstius begging for 
 particulars, which he supplied, saying nought of his own sacrifices, 
 nor of tho money, and how it was obtained. 
 
 The story, dressed up in newspaper fashion, made a very pretty 
 column of news. It was copied, with fresh dressing up, into the 
 New York papers, and accounts of it, with many additional details, 
 all highly dramatic, were transmitted by the various New York 
 correspondents — all of whom are eminent novelists — to the London 
 papers. The story was copied from tliera by all the country and 
 colonial papers, whence it came that the story of Lai's voyage, and 
 the reason of it became known, in garbled form, all over the 
 English-speaking world. But, as a great quantity of most interest- 
 ing and exciting things, including the Irish discussion, have hap- 
 pened during this year, public interest in the voj'age was not 
 sustained, and it was presently forgotten, and nobody enquhed 
 into the sequel. 
 
 This, indeed, is the fate of most interesting stories as told by 
 the papers. An excellent opening leads to nothing. 
 
 But the report of her doings was of great service to Lai in San 
 Francisco. In this wise. Among those who came to see the beautiful 
 English girl in search of her sweetheart was a lady with whom she had 
 travelled from New York, and to whom she had told her story. This 
 lady brought her husband. He was a ricli man just then, although 
 he had recently'' spent a winter and spring in Europe. A financial 
 operation, which was to have been a Bonanza boom, has since then 
 Eniaslied him up j but he is beginning again in excellent heart, 
 
104 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 none the worse for the check, and is so generous a man that he 
 deserves to make another pile. He is, besides, so full of courage, 
 resource, quickness, and ingenuity that he is quite certain to make 
 it. Also, he is so extravagant that he wUl most assuredly lose 
 it again. 
 
 ' Miss Rydquist,' he said, ' my wife has told me your story. Be- 
 lieve me, young lady, you have everybody's profound sympathy, 
 and I am here, not out of curiosity, because I am not a press man, 
 but to tell you that perhaps I can be of some help to you if you 
 will let me.' 
 
 'My dear,' said his wife, interrupting, 'we do not know yet 
 whether you will let us help you, and we are rather afraid of ofier- 
 ing. May we ask whether — whether you are sure you are rich 
 enough for what may turn out a long and expensive voyage ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Lai, ' I do not know. Captain Holstius sold his 
 share in a ship, and that brought in a good deal of money, and 
 other friends helped us, and I think v/'e have about five hundred 
 pounds left.' 
 
 ' That is a good sum to begin Avith,' said the American. ' Now, 
 young lady, is yom- — your brotlier what is reckoned a smart sailor ? ' 
 
 'Ohj'^es.' Lai was Ciuite sure about this. ' Everybody in the 
 Commerciid Docks always said he was one of the best seamen 
 afloat.' 
 
 ' So I should think. Now then. A week or two ago — so that it 
 seems providential — ^I liad to take over a trading schooner as she 
 stands, cargo and all. She's in the bay, and you can look at her. 
 But — she has no skipper.' 
 
 'Now,' said his wife, 'you see how we might help you, my 
 dear. My husband does not care where his ship is taken to, nor 
 where she trades. If it had not been for this accident of your 
 arrival, he wordd have sold her. If Captain Holstius pleases, he 
 can take the command, and sail wherever he pleases.' 
 
 This was a piece of most astonisliing good fortune, because it 
 made them perfectly independent. And, on the other hand, it was 
 not quite like accepting a benefit and giving nothing in return, be- 
 cause there was the trading which might be done. 
 
 In the end, there was little profit from this source, as will 
 be seen. 
 
 Therefore they accepted the offer with grateful hearts. 
 
 A few days later they were sailing across the blue waters in a 
 ship well manned, well found, and seaworthy. With them was a 
 mate who was able to interpret. 
 
 Then began the time which will forever seem to Lai the longest and 
 yet the shortest in her life, for every morning she sighed and said, 
 ' Would that the evening were here ! ' and every evening she longed 
 for the next morning. The days were tedious f*nd the nights were 
 long. Now that they are all over, and a memory of the past, she 
 recalls them one by one, each with its little tiny incident to mark 
 and sepiu-ate it from tlie rest, and remembers all, with every hour. 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN EOLSTIUS. 105 
 
 Baying, 'This was the fortieth day before we found him,' and 
 * Thirty days after this day we came to the island of my E,ex.' 
 
 The voyage, after two or three days of breeze, was across a 
 smooth sea, with a fair wind. Lai remembers the hot sun, the 
 awning rigged up aft for her, the pleasant seat that Captain Holstius 
 arranged for her, where she lay listening to the plash of the water 
 against the ship's side, rolling easily with the long waves of the 
 Pacific, watching the white sails filled out, while the morning 
 passed slowly on, marked by the striking of the bells. 
 
 It seemed, day after day, as her eye lay upon the broad stretch 
 of waters, that they were quite alone in the world ; all the rest was 
 a dream ; the creation meant nothing but a boundless ocean, and a 
 single ship sailing slowly across it. 
 
 In the evening, after sunset, the stars came out — stars she had 
 never seen before. They are no brighter, these stars of the 
 equator, than those of . the North. They are not so bright ; but, 
 seen in the cloudless sky from the deck of the ship, they seemed 
 brighter, clearer, nearer. Under their light, in the silence of the 
 night, the girl's heart was lifted, while her companion stood beside 
 her and spoke, out of his own fulness, noble thoughts about great 
 deeds. She felt humbled, yet not lowered. She had never known 
 this man before ; she never suspected, while he sat grave and 
 silent among the other Captaius, how his brain was like a well 
 undefiled, a spring of sweet water, charged with thoughts that only 
 come to the best among us, and then only in times of meditation 
 and solitude. 
 
 Thinking of those nights, she would now, but for the sake of 
 Rex, fain be once more leaning over the taffrail, listening to the 
 slow and measured words of this gentle Norweegee. 
 
 As for Dick, he knew perfectly what they left England for, and 
 why they came aboard this ship. At night, when they got into 
 warm latitudes, he lay coiled up on deck, for'ard ; all day long he 
 stood in the bows, and gazed out to sea, looking for the land where 
 they were cast ashore. 
 
 It matters little about the details of the voyage. The first land 
 they made was Oahu, one of the Sandwich Islands. They put in 
 at Honolulu and took in fresh provisions. Then they sailed again 
 across a lonely stretch of ocean, where there are no islands, where 
 they hailed no vessel, and where the ocean soundings are deepest. 
 
 Then they came into seas studded with groups of islands most 
 beautiful to look upon. But they stayed not at any, and still Dick 
 stood in the bows and kept his watch. Sometimes his face would 
 light up as he saw, far away, low down in the horizon, a bank of 
 land, which might have been a cloud. He would point to it, gaze 
 patiently till he could make it out, and then, as if disapj)ointed, 
 would turn away and take no more interest in it. 
 
 If you look at a map you will perceive that there lies, north of 
 New Guinea, a bi'oad open sea, some two thousand miles long, and 
 five cr six hundred in breadth. The sea is shut in by a group of 
 
106 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 islands, great and small, on the south, and another group, all small, 
 on the north. There are thousands of these islands. No one ever 
 goes to them except missionaries, ships in the hedie de mer trade, 
 and ' blackbirders.' On some of them are found beach-combers, 
 men who make their way, no one knows how, from isle to isle, who 
 are white by birth, but Polynesian in habits and customs, as 
 ignorant as Pagans, as destitute of morals and culture as the 
 savages among whom they live. They have long since imparted 
 their own vices to the people, and, as a matter of course, learned 
 the native vices. They are the men who have relapsed into bar- 
 barism. All over the world there are found such men ; they live 
 among the lands where civilised men have been, but where they 
 do not live. On some of these islands are missionary stations with 
 missionary ships. 
 
 It was among these islands that they expected to find their 
 castaway, or at least to hear something of him. And first C^aptain 
 Holstius put his helm up for Kusaie, where there is a station of 
 the American mission. 
 
 Kusaie, besides being a missionary station, occupies a centi-al 
 situation among the Carolines ; if you look at the map you will see 
 that it is comparatively easy of access for the surrounding islands 
 Unfortunately, however, communication between is limited, iu 
 the harbour there lay the missionary schooner, and a brig trading 
 in beche de mer. She had returned from a cruise among the 
 western islands. However, she had heard nothing of any such 
 white man living among the natives. Nor could the missionaries 
 help. Thpy knew of none Avho answered at all to the description 
 of Pi.ex. But there were many places where they were not per- 
 mitted to land, the people being suspicious and jealous ; and there 
 were other places where traders had set the people against them so, 
 that they were sullen and would give no information. There was 
 a white man, more than one white man, living among the islands 
 in the great atoll of Hogoleu. There was a white man who had 
 lived for thirty years on Lugunor, and had a grown-up family of 
 dusky sons and daughters. There were one or two more, but they 
 were all old sailors, deserters at first, who had run away from their 
 ships, and settled down to a life of ignoble ease under the warm 
 tropical sun, doing nothing among the people who were contented 
 to do nothing but to breathe the air and live their years and then die. 
 
 One of them, an old beach-comber of Kusaie, who knew as much 
 as any man can know of this great archipelago, gave them advice. 
 He said that it was very unlikely a castaway would be killed even 
 by jealous or revengeful islanders. No doubt he was living with 
 the natives, but the difticulty might be to get him away ; that the 
 temper of the people had been greatly altered for the worse by the 
 piratical kidnapping of English, Chilian, and Spanish ships ; and 
 he warned them, wherever they landed, to go with the utmost show 
 of confidence, and to conceal their arms, which they must, how- 
 ever, carry. 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN EOLSTIUS. 107 
 
 From Kusaie they sailed to Ponape, where the American 
 missionaries have another station. Here they stayed a day or two 
 on shore, and were hospitably entertained by the good people of 
 the station, their wives making much of Lai, and presenting her 
 with all manner of strange fruit and flowers. Here the girl, for 
 the first time, partly comprehended what beautiful places lie about 
 this world of ours, and how one can never rightly comprehend the 
 fulness of this earth which declareth everywhere the glory of its 
 Maker. There are old mysterious buildings at Ponape', the builders 
 of which belong to a race long since extinct, their meaning as long 
 since forgotten as the people who designed them. They stand 
 among the woods, like the deserted cities and temples of Central 
 America, a riddle insoluble. As Lai stood beside those mysterious 
 buildings with an old missionaiy, he told her how, thousands of 
 years before, there was a race of peoi:)le among these islands who 
 built great temples to their unknown gods, carved idols, and hewed 
 the rock into massive shapes, and who then passed away into 
 silence and oblivion_ leaving a mystery behind them, whose secret 
 no one will ever discover. Lai thought the man who t-jld her this, 
 the man who had spent contentedly fifty years in the endeavour to 
 teach the savages, who now dwelt here, more marvellous and more 
 to be admired than these mysterious remains, but then she was no 
 archfeologist. 
 
 Then with more good wishes, again they put out to sea. 
 
 They were now in the very heart of the Caroline Archipelago. 
 Nearly every day brought them in sight of some island. Dick, the 
 Malay, in the bows, would spring to his feet and gaze intently 
 while the land slowly grew before them and assumed definite 
 proportions. Then he would sit down again as if disappointed, and 
 shake his head, taking no more interest in the place. But, indeed, 
 they could not possibly have reached the island they sought. That 
 must be much farther to the west, somewhere near the Pelew Islands. 
 
 ' See, Lai,' said Captain Holstius for the hundredth time over 
 the chart, ' if Pex was right as to the current and the wind, he 
 may have landed at any one of the Uliea Islands, or on the Swedes, 
 or perhaps the Pliilip Islands, but I cannot think that he drifted 
 farther east. If he was wrong about the currents, which is not 
 likely, he may be on one of the Pelews, or on one of the islands south 
 of Yap. If he had landed on Yap itself, he would have been sent 
 home in one of the Hamburg ships, long ago. Let us try them all.' 
 
 For many weeks they sailed upon those smooth and sunny 
 waters, sending ashore at every islet, and learning nothing. 
 Lapped in the soft airs of the Pacific, the ship sailed slowly, making 
 from one island to another. Lai lay idly on the deck, saying to 
 herself, as each land came in sight, ' Haply we may find him here.' 
 But they did not find him, and so they sailed away, to make a 
 fresh attempt. 
 
 Does it help to name the places where they touched ? You may 
 find them on the map. 
 
108 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 They examined every islet of the little groups. They ventured 
 within the great lagoon of Hogoleu, a hundred niilcf across, where 
 an archipelago of islets lies in the shallow land-locked sea, clothed 
 with forest. The people came oli' to visit them, paddling in canoes 
 of sandal-wood ; there were two or three ships put in for pearls 
 ■ and 6cc/(e An mer. Then they touched at the Enderby Islands, the 
 Royalist Islands, the Swede Islands, and the Uliea Islands. 
 
 'Perhaps,' said Captain Holstius, as they sighted every one, 
 ' he may have drifted here.' 
 
 But he had not. 
 
 To these far-ofT islands few ships ever come. Yet from time to 
 time there a]:)pears the white sail of a trader or a missionary 
 schooner, or the smoke of an English war-vessel. The people are 
 mostly gentle and obliging, when they recognise that the ship does 
 not come to carry them off as coolies. But to all enquiries there 
 was but one answer — that they had no white man among them, 
 unless it was some poor beach-comber living among them and one 
 of themselves. They knew nothing of any boat. Worse than all, 
 Dick shook his head at eveiy i^lace, and showed no interest in the 
 enquiries they prosecuted. 
 
 A voyage in these seas is not without danger. They are shallow 
 seas, where new reefs, new coral islands, and new shoals are 
 continually being formed, so that where a hundred years ago was 
 safe sailing, there are now rocks above the surface, and even 
 islands. There are earthquakes too, and volcanic erujjtions. There 
 are islands where plantations and villages have been swallowed up 
 in a moment, and their places taken by boiling lather ; in the seas 
 lurk great sharks, and by the shores are poisonous iish. The 
 people are not everywhere gentle and trustful ; they have learned 
 the vices of Europe and the treacheries of white men. They have 
 been known to surround a becalmed ship and massacre all on board. 
 Yet Captain Holstius went among them undaunted and without 
 fear. They did not offer him any injury, letting him come and go 
 unmolested. Trust begets trust. 
 
 So they sailed from end to end of this great archipelago and 
 heard no news of Rex. 
 
 Tlien their hearts began to fail them. 
 
 But always in the bows sat Dick, searching the distant horizon, 
 and in his face there was tlie look of one who knows that he is near 
 the place which he would find. 
 
 And one day, after many daj^s' sailing — I think they had been 
 out of San Francisco seventy-five days, they observed a strange 
 thing. 
 
 Dick began to grow restless. He borrowed the captain's glasses 
 and looked through them, though his own eyes were almost as good. 
 He rambled up and down the deck continually, scanning the 
 horizon. 
 
 ' See,' cried Lai, ' he knows the air of this place ; he has been 
 here before. Is there no land in sight 1 ' 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN IIOLSTIUS. 109 
 
 * None,' He gave her the glass. ' I see the line of sea and the 
 blue sky. There is no land in sight.' 
 
 Yet what was the meaning of that restlessness ? By some sense 
 unknown to those who have the usual five, the man who could 
 neither hear or speak knew very well that he was near the place 
 they had come so far to find. 
 
 Captain Holstius showed his companion their position upon the 
 chart. 
 
 ' We are upon the open sea, ' he said. ' Here are the Uliea 
 Isles two hundred miles and more from anywhere. A little more 
 and we shall be outside the shallow seas, and in the deep water 
 again. Lai, we have searched so far in vain. He is not in the 
 Carolines, then where can he be 1 Nothing is between us and the 
 Pelev/s excejjting this little shoal. 
 
 The charts are not always perfect. The little slioal, since the 
 chart was laid down, had become an atoll, with its reef and its lagoon. 
 
 It was earty morning, not long after sunrise. 
 
 While they were looking upon the chart, which they knew by 
 heart, the Malay burst into the cabin and seized Lai by the hand. 
 He dragged her upon the deck, his eyes iiasliing, his lips parted, and 
 pointed with both hands to the horizon. Then he nodded his 
 head and sat down on deck once more, imitating the action of one 
 who paddles. 
 
 Lai saw nothing. 
 
 The captain followed with his glasses. 
 
 ' Land ahead,' he said slowly, ' ofl' the starboard bow.' 
 
 He gave her the glasses. She looked, made out the land, and 
 then offered the glass to Dick, who shook his head, pointed, and 
 nodded again. 
 
 ' We have found the place,' cried Lai ; * I know it is — I feel it 
 is — Oh, Rex, Rex, if we should find you there ! ' 
 
 As the ship drew nearer, the excitement of the Malay increased. 
 It became certain now that he had recognised the place, of wliich 
 nothing could be seen except a low line of rock with white water 
 breaking over it. 
 
 The day was nearly calm, a breath of air gently floating the 
 vessel forward ; presently the rock became clearly defined ; a low 
 reef, of a horseshoe shape, surrounded, save for a narrow entrance, 
 a large lagoon of perfectly smooth water ; within the lagoon were 
 visible two, or perhaps three islands, low, and spparently with 
 little other vegetation than the universal pandang, that beneficent 
 palm of the rooks which wants nothing but a little coral sand to 
 grow in, and provides the islanders with food, clothing, roofs for 
 their huts, and sails for their canoes. 
 
 As soon as Dick saw the entrance to the lagoon he ran to the 
 boats and made signs that they should lower and row to the land. 
 
 'Let him have his way,' said the captain; 'he shall be our 
 leader nmy. Let us not be too confident, Lai, my dear, but I verily 
 believe that we have found the place, and, perhaps, the man.' 
 
110 IHE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 They lowered the boat. The first to jump into her was the 
 Malay, who seated himself in the bows and seized an oar. Then he 
 made signs to his mistress that she should come too. 
 
 They lowered her, and she sat in the stern. Then the captain 
 got in, and they pushed off. 
 
 ' What do you say, Lai ? ' asked Holstius, looking at her 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' I am praying,' she replied, with tears in her eyes. ' And I am 
 thinking, brother,' she laid her hand in his, ' how good a man you 
 are, and what reward we can give you, and what Rex will say 
 to you.' 
 
 ' I need no reward,' he said, ' but to know and to feel that you 
 are happy. You will tell Rex, my dear, that I have been your 
 brother since he was lost. Nothing more, Lai, never anything else. 
 That has been enough.' 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 ' Oh ! what shall I tell him about you ? what shall I not tell 
 him ? Shall I in very truth be able to tell him anything — to speak 
 to him again ? Kiss me, before all these men, that they may 
 know how much I love my brother, and how grateful I am, and 
 how I pray that God will reward you out of His infinite love.' 
 
 She laid her hand on his while he stooped his head and kissed 
 her forehead. 
 
 ' Enough of me,' he said ; ' think now of Rex.' 
 
 By this time they were in the mouth of the lagoon. The boat 
 passed over a bar of coral, some eight feet deep, and then the 
 water grew deeper. In this beautiful and remote spot Lai was to 
 find her lover. All the while the Malay looked first to the islands 
 and tlien back at his mistress, his face wreathed with smiles, and 
 his eyes flashing with excitemont. 
 
 The sea in this lagoon was perfectly, wonderfully transparent. 
 The flowers of the seaweeds, the fish, the great sea slugs — the 
 heches de mer — collected by so many trading vessels ; the sharks 
 moving lazily about the shallow water were as easily visible as if 
 they were on land. This small land-locked sea was, apparently, 
 about three miles in diameter, bounded on all sides by tlie ring of 
 narrow rocks, and entered by one narrow mouth. The islets, 
 which had been visible from the ship, were four in number. The 
 largest one, of irregular shape, appeared to be about a mile and a 
 half long, and perhaps a mile broad ; it was a low island, thinly set 
 with the pandang, the screw palm, which will grow when nothing 
 else can find moisture in the sandy soil ; there were no signs of 
 habitation visible. The other three islands, separated from the 
 larger one, and from each other, by narrow straits, were quite 
 small, the largest not more than two or three acres in extent. 
 
 The place was perfectly quiet ; no sign of life was seen or heard. 
 
 Dick pointed to the large island, which ran out a low bend of 
 cape towards the entrance of the lagoon. His face was terribly in 
 earnest, he laughed no longer ; he kept looking from the island to 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIUS. Ill 
 
 his mistress and back again. As tliey drew nearer, he held up his 
 finger to command silence. 
 
 The men took short strokes, dipping their oars silently, so that 
 nothing was heard but the grating of the oars in the rowlocks. 
 
 On rounding the cape they found a narrow level beach of 
 sand stretching back about a hundred feet. This was the same 
 place where, five months before, Captain Wattles held his confer- 
 ence with the prisoner. 
 
 ' Easy ! ' cried the captain. 
 
 The boat with her way on slowly moved on towards the shore. 
 
 There seemed on the placid bosom of the lagoon to be no current 
 and no tide, nor any motion of the waters. For no fringe of hang- 
 ing seaweed lay upon the rocks, nor was there any belt of the flot- 
 sam which lies round the vexed shores where waves beat and winds 
 roar. Sti-ange, there was not even the gentle murmur of the 
 washing wavelet, which is never still elewhere on the calmest day. 
 
 All held their breaths and listened. The air was so still that 
 Lai heard the breathing of the boat's crew ; the boat slowly moved 
 on towards the shore. The JMalay in the bows had shipped 
 his oar and now sat like a wild creature waiting for the moment to 
 spring. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' It was Lai who held up her finger. 
 
 There was a sound of distant voices. The place was not, then, 
 uninhabited. 
 
 The boat neared the shore. When it was but two feet or 
 so from the shelving bank, the Malay leaped out of the bows, 
 alighting on hands and knees, and ran, waving his arms, towards 
 the wood. 
 
 It was now five months since the offer of freedom was brought 
 to Rex and refused on conditions so hard. So far the prediction 
 of Captain Wattles was fulfilled ; no sail had crossed the sea within 
 sight of the lonely island, no ship had touched there. It was 
 likely, indeed, that the castaway would live and die there aban- 
 doned and torgotten. Rex kept the probability before his mind ; he 
 remembered Ptobinson Crusoe's famous list of things for which he 
 might be grateful ; he was well ; the place was healthy ; there 
 was food in sntticiency though rough; and he was not alone, though 
 perhaps that fact was not altogether a subject for gi'atitude. 
 
 The sun was yet in the forenoon, and Rex, inventor-general of 
 the island, while perfecting a method of improving the fishing by 
 means of nets made of the pandang fibre, was startled by the 
 rush of twenty or thirty of the people, seizing clubs and spears, 
 and shouting to each other. 
 
 The rush and the shout could mean but one thing — a ship in 
 eight. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, hesitated, and then went with them. 
 
 He saw, at first, nothing but a boat close to land, and a figure 
 running swiftly across the sandy beach. 
 
 What thay saw from the boat, was a group of very ferocious 
 
112 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 natives, yelling to one another and brandishing weapons, intent, 
 110 doubt, to slay and destroy every mother's son. They were 
 darker of Ime than most Polynesians ; they were tattooed all over ; 
 their noses and ears were pierced ajid stuck with bits of tortoise- 
 shell for ornament ; their abundant and raven-black hair was 
 twisted in knots on the top of their heads„ 
 
 And among them stood one with a long brown beard ; he wore 
 a hat made out of a palm-leaf ; his feet were bare ; his clothes were 
 shreds and rags ; his bare arms were tattooed like the islanders' 
 arms ; his hair was long and matted ; his cheeks, his hands, arms, 
 and feet were bronzed ; he might have passed for a native but for 
 his face and hair. 
 
 It was exactly what Captain Wattles had seen, but that the men 
 were fiercer. 
 
 When they saw from the boat the white man, they grasped 
 each other's hands. 
 
 ' Courage, Lai,' said Captain Holstius. ' Courage a.nd caution.' 
 
 Wh,en lies, among the natives, saw and recognised Dick, hia 
 faithful servant, running to greet him and kissing his hand ; when 
 he saw the people suddenly stop then- shouts, and gather curiously 
 about their old friend, who had been kidnapped long before with 
 their own brother, he stared about him as if in a dream. 
 
 Then Dick seized his master's hand and pointed. 
 
 A ship was standing ofl' the mouth of the lagoon ; a boat was on 
 
 the beach ; and in the boat But just then Captain Holstius leaped 
 
 ashore, and a girl after him. And then — then — the girl followed 
 the Malay and ran towards him with arms outstretched, crying : 
 
 'Rex! Rex!' 
 
 This must be a dream. Yet no dream would throw upon hia 
 breast the girl of whom he thought day and night, his love, his 
 promised wife. 
 
 ' Rex ! Res ! Do you not know me 1 Have you forgotten % ' 
 
 Tor a while, indeed, he could not speak. The thing stunned 
 him. 
 
 In a single moment he remembered all the past ; the long 
 despair of the weary time, especially of the last three months ; the 
 dreadful prospect before him ; the thought of the long years 
 creeping slowly on, unmarked even by spring or autumn ; tlie lone- 
 liness of liis hfe ; the gradual sinking deeper and deeper, unto the 
 level of the poor fellows around him ; living or dead no one would 
 know about him ; perhaps the girl he loved being deceived into 
 marrying the liar and villain who had sat in the boat and oflered 
 liim conditions of freedom — he remembered all these things. He 
 remembered, too, how of late he had thought that there might 
 come a time when it would be well to end everything by a plunge 
 in the transparent waters of the lagoon. Two minutes of struggle 
 and all would be over. Death seemed a long and conscious sleep. 
 To sleep unconscious and without a waking, is nothing. To sleep 
 conscious of repose, knowing that there will be no more trouble, ia 
 tlie imaginary haven of the suicide. 
 
1 
 
 THE GREAT GOOD LUCR OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIUs. 113 
 
 Then he roused Mmself and clasped her to his heart, crying : 
 ' IMy darling ! You have come to tind me ! ' 
 
 But how to get away '? 
 
 First, he took the ribbons from Lai's hat and from her neck, 
 and presented them to the cliief, saying a few words of friendship 
 and greeting. 
 
 The iinery pleased the man, and he tied it round his neck, 
 saying that it was good. The Malay he knew, and Rex he knevr, 
 but this phenomenon in bright-coloured ribbons he did not under- 
 stand. Could she, too, mean kidnapping. 
 
 Meantime the boat was lying close to the beach, and beside the 
 bow stood Captain Holstius, motionless, waiting. 
 
 'Lai,' said Rex. 'Go quietly back to the boat and get in. 
 Take Dick and make him get into the boat with you. I will follow. 
 Do nothing hurriedly. Show no signs of fear.' 
 
 She obeyed ; the people made no attempt to oppose her retm'n ; 
 Captain Holstius helped her into the boat. Unfortunately Dick 
 did not obey. He stood on the beach waiting. 
 
 Then Rex began, still talking to the people, to walk slowly 
 towards the boat. He was promising to bring them presents from the 
 ship ; he begged them to stay where they were, and not to crowd 
 round the boat ; he bade them remember the bad man who stole 
 two of their brothers, and he promised them to find out where they 
 were and bring them back. They listened, nodded, and answered 
 that what he said was good. 
 
 When he neared the boat they stood irresolute, grasping the 
 idea that they were going to lose the white man who had been 
 among them so long. 
 
 I believe that he would have got off quietly but for the zeal of 
 Dick, who could not restrain his impatience, but sprang forward 
 and caught his old master in his strong arms, and tried to carry liini 
 into the boat. 
 
 Then the islanders yelled and made for the beach all together. 
 
 No one but Lai could tell, afterwards, exactly what happened 
 at this moment. 
 
 It was this. Two of the islanders, who were in advance of 
 the rest, arrived at the beach just as Dick had dragged his master 
 into the boat. Captain Holstius had pushed her off and was 
 standing by the bows, up to his knees in water, on tlie point of 
 leaping in. In a moment more they would have bee.i in deep 
 water. 
 
 The black fellows, seeing that they were too late, stayed their 
 feet, and poised their spears, aiming them, in the blind rage of the 
 moment, at the man they had received amongst themselves and 
 treated hospitably — at Rex. But as the weapons left their hands, 
 Captain Holstius sprang into the boat, and standing upright, with 
 outstretched arms, received in his own breast the two spears which 
 would have pierced the heart of Rex. The action, though so swift 
 
 I 
 
114 T3E CAPTAINS' BOOM. 
 
 as to take but a moment, was as deliberate as if it had been deter- 
 mined upon all along. 
 
 Then all was over. Res was safely seated in the stern beside 
 his sweetheart ; Dick was crouching at his feet ; the boat was in 
 deep water ; the men were rowing theii' hardest ; the savages 
 were yelling on the beach ; and at Lai's feet lay, pale and bleed- 
 ing, the man who had saved the life of her lover at the price of his 
 own. 
 
 She laid his pale face in her lap ; she took his cold hands in her 
 own ; she kissed his cold forehead, while from his breast there 
 flowed the red blood of his life, given, like his labour and his 
 substance, to her. 
 
 He was not yet quite dead, and presently he opened his eyes — 
 those soft blue eyes which had so often rested upon her as if they 
 were guarding and sheltering her in tenderness and pity. They 
 were full of love now, and even of joy, for Lai had got back her 
 lover. 
 
 ' We have found him, Lai,' he murmured — ' we have found 
 him. You will be happy again — now — you have got your heart's 
 desire.' 
 
 What could she say ? How could she reply % 
 
 ' Do not cry, Lai dear. What matters for me — if — only — you — 
 are happy ? ' 
 
 They were his last words. 
 
 Presently he pressed her fingers ; his head, upon her lap, fell 
 over on one side : his breath ceased. 
 
 So Cajjtain Holstius, alone among the three, redeemed his 
 pledge. If Lai was happy, what more had he to pray for upon this 
 earth. What mattered, as he said, for him % 
 
 At sundown that . evening, when the ship was under way 
 again and the reef of the lonely unknown atoll low on the horizon, 
 they buried the Captain in the deep, while Rex read the Service 
 of the Dead. 
 
 The blood of Captain Holstius must be laid to the charge of his 
 rival ; the blood of all the wliite men murdered on Polynesian shores 
 must be laid to the charge of those who have visited the island in 
 order to kidnap the people, and those who have gone among them 
 only to teach them some of tJie civilisation out of which they have 
 extracted nothing but its vices. 
 
 As regards this little islet, the people know, in some vague way, 
 that they have had living among tliem a man who was superior to 
 themselves, who taught them things, and showed them certain 
 small arts, by which he improved their mode of life ; if ever, which 
 we hope may not be their )ate, tliey fall in with the beach-combers 
 of Fiji, Samoa, or Hawaii, they Avill easily perceive that Rex 
 Axmiger was not one of them. They will remember that he was a 
 person of such great importance that two chiefs came to see liim ; 
 one of them carried off two of their people, the other, with whom 
 was a great princess, carried off their prisoner himself. 
 
THE GREAT GOOD LUCK OF CAPTAIN HOLSTIl'S. 115 
 
 In a few years' time the story will become a myth. Some of 
 the missionaries are great hands at collecting folk-lore. They will 
 land here and will presently enquire among the people for legends 
 and traditions of the past. They will hear how, long, long ago 
 (many years ago), they had living among them a white person, 
 whose proper sphere — by birth — was the broad heaven ; how he 
 stayed with them a long time (many moons) ; how one after the 
 other white persuns came to see liim, both bad and good ; for some 
 kidnapped their people and took them away to be eaten alive ; how 
 at last a goddess, all in crimson, blue, and gold, came with a male 
 deity and took away their guest, who had, meantime, taught them 
 how to make clothes, roofs, and bread, out of the beneficent pan- 
 dang ; how the companion was killed in an unlucky scrimmage ; 
 and how they look forward for their return — some day. 
 
 The missionaries will write down this story and send it home ; 
 wise men will get hold of it, and discuss its meaning. They will 
 be divided into two classes ; those who see in it a legend of the 
 sun-god, the princess being nothing but the moon, and her com- 
 panion the morning star ; the other class will see in the story a 
 corruption of the history of Moses. Others, more learned, will 
 compare this legend with others exactly like it in almost all lands. 
 It is, for instance, the same as the tale of Guinevere returning for 
 Arthur, and will quote examples from Afghanistan, Alaska, Tierra 
 del Fuego, Borneo, the valleys of the Lebanon, Socotra, Central 
 America, and the Faroe Isles. 
 
 Five weeks later Lai was man^ied at San Francisco. The mer- 
 chant who lent her the schooner gave her a countiy house for her 
 honeymoon. 
 
 'She ought,' said Rex, 'to have married the man who gave her 
 hiniseK, all his fortune, and his very life. I am ashamed that so 
 good a man has been sacrificed for my sake.' 
 
 *No, sir,' said the Calif ornian ; 'not for your sake at all, but 
 for hers. We may remember some words about laying down your 
 life for your friends. Perhaps it is worth the sacrifice of a life to 
 hav^e (lone so good and great a thing. If there were many more such 
 men in the world, we might shortly expect to see the gates of Eden 
 open again.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately,' said Rex, ' there are more like Captain 
 Wattles.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; I am sorry he is an American. But you can boast 
 your Borlinder, who is, I believe, an Englishman.' 
 
 The account of Lai's return and the death of Captain Holstius 
 duly appeared in the San Francisco papers. It was accompanied by 
 strictures of some severity upon the conduct of Captain Barnabas 
 B. Wattles, who was compared to the skunk of his native countrj\ 
 
 It was this account, with these strictures, which the Son of 
 Consolation found in the paper after posting his packet of lies. 
 
 Further, a Sydney paper asked if the Captain Barnabas B. 
 
 i2 
 
116 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. 
 
 Wattles, of the 'Fair Maria,' was the same Captain Wattles who 
 behaved in the wonderful manner described in the Californian 
 papers. 
 
 He wrote to say he was not. 
 
 From further information received, it presently appeared to 
 everybody that he was that j)erson. 
 
 He has now lost his ship, and I know not where he is nor what 
 occupation he is at present following. 
 
 It remains only to suggest, rather than to describe, the joyful 
 return to Seven Houses. We may not linger to relate how Mrs. 
 Rydquist, who still found comfort in wearing additional crape to 
 her widow's weeds for Rex, now kept it on for Captain Holstius, 
 calling everybody's attention to the wonderful accuracy of her pre- 
 dictions : how Captain Zachariaseu first sang a Nunc dimittis, 
 lovidly proclaiming his willingness to go since Lai was happy again ; 
 and then explained, lest he might be taken at his word, that per- 
 haps it would be well to remain in order to experience the fulness 
 of wisdom which comes with ninety years. He also takes great 
 credit to himself for the able reading he had given of the mum- 
 micking. 
 
 The morning after their arrival. Rex, looking for his wife, 
 found her in the kitchen, making the pudding with her old bib 
 on, and her white arms flecked with flour, just as he remem- 
 bered her three years before. Beside her, the Patriarch slept in 
 the wooden chair. 
 
 ' It is all exactly the same,' he said ; ' yet with what a difi"erence ? 
 And I have had three years of the kabobo. Lai, yo" are going to 
 begin again the old housekeeping 1 ' 
 
 She shook her head and laughed. Then the tears came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' The Captains like this pudding,' she said. ' Let me please 
 them once more, Rex, while I stand here looking through the 
 Avindow, at the trees in the churchyard and through the open door 
 into the garden, and when I listen to the noise of the docks and 
 the river, and for the white sails beyond the church, and watch the 
 dear old man asleep there beside the fire, I cannot believe but that 
 I shall hear another step, and turn round and see beside me, with 
 his grave smile and tender eyes. Captain Holstius, standing as he 
 used to stand in the doorway, watching me without a word.' 
 
 Rex kissed her. He could hear this talk without jealousy or 
 pain. Yet it will always seem to him somehow, as if his wife has 
 missed a better husband than himself, a feeling which may be 
 useful in keeping down pride, vain conceit, and over masterfulness ; 
 vices which mar the conjugal happiness of many. 
 
 ' He could never have been my husband,' the young wife went 
 on in her happiness, thinking she spoke the whole truth ; ' not 
 even if I had never known you. But I loved him, Rex.' 
 
•LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ALL THE PEOPLE STANDING. 
 
 When tlie sun rose over northern England on a certain Sunday 
 early in I^^ay — year of grace 1764 — it was exactly four o'clock in 
 the morning. As regards the coast of Northumberland, he sprang 
 with a leap out of a perfectly smooth sea into a perfectly cloudless 
 sky, and if there were, as generally happens, certain fogs, mists, 
 clouds, and vapours lying about the moors and fells among the 
 Cheviots, they were too far from the town of Warkworth for its 
 people to see them. The long cold spring was over at last ; the 
 wallflower on the castle wall was in blossom ; the pale primroses 
 had not yet all gone ; the lilac was preparing to throw out its 
 blossoms ; the cuckoo was abroad ; the swallows were returning 
 with tumultuous rush, as if they had had quite enough of the sunny 
 south, and longed again for the battlements of the castle and tlie 
 banks of Coquet ; the woods were full of song ; the nests were full 
 of young birds, chirping together, partly because they were always 
 hungry, partly because they were rejoicing in the sunshine, and all 
 the living creatures in wood and field and river were hurrying, 
 flying, creeping, crawling, swimming, running, with intent to eat 
 each other out of house and home. 
 
 The eye of the sun fell upon empty streets and closed houses — 
 not even a poacher, much less a thief or burglar, visible in the 
 whole of Nortiiundierland ; and if there might be here and there a 
 gipsies' tent, the virtuous toes of the occupants peeped out from 
 beneath the canvas, with never a thought of snaring hares or 
 stealing poultry. Even in Newcastle, which, if you come to think 
 of it, is pretty well for wickedness, the night-watchmen slept in 
 their boxes, lanterns long since extinguished, and the wretches 
 wlio had no beds, no money, and slender Iropes for the next 
 day's food, slept on the bunks and stalls about the market. 
 Nothing stirred except the hands of the church clocks ; and 
 these moved steadily ; the quarters and the hour were struck. 
 But for the clocks, the towns might have been so many cities 
 
lis LET NOTHING YOU BTSMAY: 
 
 of the dead, each house a tomb, each bed a silent grave. The 
 Northumbrian folk began to get up — a little later than usual because 
 it was Sunday — first in the villages and farmhouses, next in the small 
 towns ; last and latest, in Newcastle, which was ever a lie-abed city. 
 
 WarlvAvortli is quite a small town, and a great way fx'om New- 
 castle. Therefore the people began to get up and dress about 
 tive. There were several reasons which justified them in being so 
 early. Even on Sunday morning pigs and poultry have to be fed, 
 cows to be milked, and horses to be groomed. Then there is the 
 delightful feeling, peculiar to Sunday morning, that the earlier you 
 get up, the longer you may lean with your shoulder against the 
 di)or-jiost. Some men, on Sundays and holy-d-ays, like to lie at 
 full-length upon the grass, and gaze into the depths of the sky, till 
 thirst impels them to rise and seek solace of beer. Some love to 
 turn them in their beds as a door turneth upon its hinges ; some 
 delight to sit upon a rail ; but the true Northumljrian loveth to 
 stand with his shoulder hitched against a door-post. The attitude 
 is one which brings repose to brain and body. 
 
 There is only one street in Warkworth. At one end of it is the 
 church, and at the other end is the castle. The street runs uphill 
 from church to castle. In the year 1764, the castle was more 
 ruinous than it showed in later years, because the keep itself stood 
 roofless, its stairs broken, and its floors fallen in — a great shell, 
 echoing thunderously with all the winds. As for the walls, the 
 ruined gateways, the foundations of the chapel, the yawning vaults, 
 and the gutted towers, they have always been the same since the 
 destruction of the place. The wallflowers and long grasses grew 
 upon the broken battlements ; bhtckberries and elder-bushes 
 occupied the moat ; the boys climbed up to perilous places by 
 fragments of broken steps ; the swallows flew about the lofty keep ; 
 *,he green woods hung- upon the slopes above the river, and the 
 winding Coquet rolled around the hill on which the castle stood — 
 a solitary and deserted place. Yet in the evening there was one 
 corner in which the light of a fire could always be seen. It came 
 from a chamber beside the great gateway — that which looks upon 
 the meadows to tlie south. Here lived the Fugleman. He had 
 fitted a small window in the wall, constructed a door, built up the 
 broken stones, and constituted himself, without asking leave of my 
 Lord of Northumberland, sole tenant of Warkworth Castle. 
 
 I think there has always been about the same number of people 
 and houses in Warkworth. If you reflect for a moment you will 
 perceive that this must be so, partly because there is no room for 
 any more on the river-washed peninsula upon which the town is 
 built, and partly because while the same trades are practised for 
 the same portion of country there must be the same number of 
 craftsmen, and no more. You may expect, for instance, in every 
 town, a shop where you can buy all the things which you must 
 have yet cannot make for yourself, such as sugar, treacle, tape, 
 cotton stufls, flannel, needles, and thread. Iii country towns the 
 
ALL THE PEOPLE STANDiJSO. 11& 
 
 number of things which can be made at home — and well made too 
 — is more than dwellers where there are shops for everything would 
 understand. In Warkworth, for example, there is a blacksmith — 
 a man of substance, because everybody wants him and would pay 
 him well ; there is a carpenter and wheelwright, also a man to be 
 respected, not only for his honourable craft, but also for the fields 
 and meadows which he has bought ; a tailor — but he is a starveling, 
 because most people in Northumberland repair, if they do w^x. 
 make, at home ; a cobbler, who has two apprentices and keeps both 
 at work, because nobody but a cobbler can get inside a boot, to 
 make or mend it ; and a barber, who also has two apprentices. 
 There is no baker, because all the bread is baked at home, which is 
 one, among many reasons, why country life in this eighteenth 
 century is so delightful ; there is no brewer, because everybody, 
 down to the cottager, brews his own beer — the old stingo, the 
 humming October, and the small beer for the maids and children. 
 Yet, for the sake of companionship, conversation, song, and the 
 arrangement of matches, there must be an ale-house, with a settle 
 r(mnd three sides of the room and another outside ; and for the 
 quality there must be an inn. There need be no place for the 
 buying and selling of butter, eggs, milk, or cream, because people 
 who have no cows are fain to go without these luxuries, or else to 
 beg and borrow. There need be no butcher, because the farmers 
 kill and send word to the gentry when beef or mutton may be had. 
 There is no apothecary, because every woman in the parish knows 
 what are the best simples for any complaint and where to find them . 
 There is no bookseller, because nobody at Warkworth ever wanted 
 to read at all, and very few know how ; one excepts the Vicar — 
 who may read the Fathers in Greek and Latin — and his Worship 
 ]\Ir. Cuthbert Carnaby, Justice of the Peace, who reads ' The 
 Gentleman's Magazine,' to which he once contributed a description 
 of Warkworth. There is, in fact, a singular contempt for literature 
 in the town, and it is, I believe, a remarkable Northumbrian 
 characteristic. There are no undertakers, because in this countv 
 people have grown out of the habit of dying, so that except in 
 Newcastle, where people fight and kill each ether, the trade can 
 only be carried on at a loss ; and there are no lawyers, because the 
 townsfolk of Warkworth desire to have nothing to di) with law, and 
 are only concerned with one of the many laws by which good order 
 is maintained in this realm of England — that, namely, which 
 forbids the landing of Geneva and brandy on the banks of the 
 Coquet without vexatious and tedious ceremonies, including 
 payment of hard money. If you, who live in great towns, consider 
 the trades, crafts, and mysteries by which men get a living in these 
 latter days, you will presently understand that most of them are 
 unnecessary for the simple life. 
 
 \Vhen the first comers had looked up the street and down the 
 street, straight through and across each otlier, and examined the 
 sky and inspected the horizon, and obtained all possible informa- 
 
120 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 tion about the weather, they gave each other the good-mornini,', 
 and asked for opinions on the subject of hay. Tlien one by one 
 they went back to their houses — which are of stone, having very 
 small windows with bull's-eye glass in leaden casements, and red- 
 tiled roofs — and presently came out bearing with them their break- 
 fast, such as two or three kned-cakes, or a chunk of three weeks' 
 old bread, or a slice of bread-and-dripping, or bread and fat pork, 
 or a pewter platter of bread and beef even, with a great pewter 
 mug of small ale. They consumed their Ijreakfast side by side in 
 good fellowship, standing on the cobble-stones or leaning against 
 the door-posts, taking time over it : first a moutliful and then a 
 drink, then a period of reflection, then a remark, and then another 
 mouthful, ^^hey mostly had the Northumbrian face, which I am 
 told is the Norwegian face — an oval shape, with soft blue eyes ; 
 with the face goeth a gentle voice and a slow manner of speech. 
 They are a folk born by nature with so deep a love of life that 
 they desire nothing better than to stretch out and prolong the 
 present. l^ime, who is an inexorable tyrant, will not allow so 
 much as a single moment to be stretched. Yet, by dint of slow 
 motion, slow speech, a steady clinging to old customs, never doing 
 to-day anything dilierent from what you did yesterday and the 
 day before, always talking the same talk at the same times, so 
 that every duty of each reason has its formula, wearing the same 
 clothes, eating the same food, sitting in the same place, and avoid- 
 ing all temptation to change, it is quite astonishing how the sem- 
 blance of sameness may be given to time so that the whole of life 
 shall seem, at the end of it, nothing but one delightful moment 
 stretched out and prolonged for thi'ee-score years and ten. 
 
 After breakfast, for two hours by the clock they fell to stroking 
 of stubbly chins and to wondering when the barber would be ready. 
 This could not be until stroke of nine at least, because he had to 
 comb, dress, and powder fu'st the Vicar's wig for Sunday. Heaven 
 forbid that the Church should be put off with anything short of a 
 wig newly combed and newly curled ! And next the wig of his 
 Worship Cuthbert Carnaby, Esquire, Justice of the Peace and 
 second cousin to his lordship the Earl of Northumberland, newly 
 succeeded to the title. Wluen this was done the barber addressed 
 himself to the chins and cheeks of the townsfolk, and tliis with 
 such dexterity and despatch that before the church-bell began he 
 had them all despjitched and turned off. And then their counte- 
 nances were glorious, and shone in the sun like unto the face of a 
 mirror, and felt as smooth to the enamoured finger as the chin and 
 clieek of a maid. Thus does Art improve and correct Nature. 
 The savage who weareth beard knows not this delight. 
 
 It was a day on which something out of the common was to 
 happen ; a day on which expectation was on tiptoe ; and when at 
 ten o'clock the first stroke of the church-bell began, all the boys 
 with one and the same design turned their steps — slowly at first, 
 and as if the business did not greatly matter, yet should be seen 
 
ALL THE PEOPLE STANDIXG. 121 
 
 into — towards the church-yard. They were all in Sunday best ; 
 their hair smooth, their hands white, tlieir shoes brushed and their 
 stockings clean ; they moved as if drawn by invisible ropes ; as if 
 they could not choose but go ; and whereas on ordinary Sundays 
 not a lad among them all entered the church till the very last toll 
 of the bell, on this day they made straight for the porch at the 
 first, and this, although they knew that if they once set foot 
 within it, they must pass straight on without lingering, into the 
 church, and so take their seats, and have half an hour longer to 
 wait in silence and good-behaviour, with liability to discipline. 
 For a rod is ever ready in church as well as at home, for the back 
 of him who shows himself void of understanding. The Fugleman, 
 who wielded that rod, was strong of arm ; and no boy could call 
 himself fortunate, or boast that he had escaped the scourge of 
 folly till the service was fairly done. 
 
 As regards the girls, who were still in the houses, at the first 
 stroke of the bell they, too, hastened to put the finishing touch, 
 with a ribbon and a white handkerchief, to the Simday frock. 
 And then, a good half an hour before the time, which was truly 
 wonderful, they, like the boys, hastened to the church. At the 
 first stroke of the bell the men, too, proceeded to equip them with 
 the Sunday church-going clothes, which were very nearly the same 
 in all weathers, to wit, every man wore his wide horseman's coat, 
 his long waistcoat with sleeves, his thick woollen stockings, and 
 his shoes, with steel buckles or without, according to tlieir station. 
 Thus attired they turned their faces all to the same point of tlie 
 compass, and heavily, yet with resolution and set purpose, rolled 
 down the hill into the church-yard. 
 
 Out in the fields, and in the fair meadows, and down the river- 
 side, and along the quiet country paths, and among the woods 
 which hang above the winding of the Coquet, the sound of the 
 bell quickened the steps of those who were leisurely making their 
 way to churi'h, so that every man put best foot for'ard, with a 
 ' Hurry up, lad ! Lose not this morning's sight ! Be in time ! 
 Quick, laggard ! ' and so forth, each to the other ; those who were 
 on horseback broke into a trot, and laughed at those who Avere 
 afoot ; the old women cried, alas ! for their age, by reason of which 
 limbs are stiff and f(_)lks can go no faster than they may, and so 
 they miglit be too late for the best part of the show ; the old men 
 cursed the rheumatism which stiffened their knees, and bent their 
 hi])s, and took the spring out of feet which would fain be elastic 
 still, wherefore they must perJiaps lose the first or opening scene. 
 And the boys and girls who were with them took hands, and in- 
 stead of walking with the respectful slow step which should mark 
 the Sabbath, broke away from the elders, and raced, with a whoop 
 and a holla, across the grass, a scandal to the mild-eyed kine, who 
 love the day to be hallowed and kept hol3^ 
 
 At Morwick Mill, Mistress Barbara Humble would not go to 
 church, though her brother did. ISTor would she let any other of 
 
1£2 'LET NOTHING YOU JDTS.VAY: 
 
 the household go, neither her man nor her maid, nor the stranger, 
 if any, that was within her gates ; but at half -past ten of the 
 clock she called them together, and read aloud the Penitential 
 Psalms and the Commination Service. 
 
 The show, meantime, had begun. At the first stroke of the 
 bell there walked forth from the vestry-room a little procession of 
 two. Fu'st came a tall spare man of sixty or so, bearing before 
 him a pike. He was himself as straight and erect as the pike he 
 cari'ied ; he wore his best suit, very magnificent, for it was his old 
 uniform kept for Sundays and holidays : that of a sergeant in the 
 Fourteenth, or Berkshire, Regiment of Foot, namely, a black 
 three-cornered hat, a scarlet coat, faced with yellow and with 
 yellow cuffs, scarlet waistcoat and breeches, white gaiters and 
 white cravat. On the hat was in silver the White Horse of hia 
 regiment, and the motto 'Nee aspera terrent.' He walked slowly 
 down the aisle with the precision of a machine, and his face was 
 remarkable, because he was on duty, for having no expression 
 whatever. You cannot draw a face or in any way present the 
 effigy of a human face which shall say nothing ; that is beyond the 
 power of the rudest or the most skilled artist ; but some men have 
 acquked this power over their own faces — diplomatists or soldiers 
 they are by trade. This man was a soldier. He was so good a 
 soldier that he had been promoted, first to be corporal, then to be 
 sergeant, and lastly to be Fugleman, whose place was in the front 
 before the whole regiment, and whose duty it was to lead the exer- 
 cises at the word of command with his pike. In his age and re- 
 tirement he acted as the executive officer in all matters connected 
 with the ecclesiastical and civic functions of the town, whether to 
 lead the responses, to conduct a baptism, a funeral, or a wedding, 
 to set a man in the stocks and to stand over him, to cane a boy for 
 laughing in chiurch, to put a vagrant in pillory and stand, beside 
 him ; to tie up an offendei" to the cart-tail and give him five dozen ; 
 or, as in the present case, to wrap a lad in a white sheet, and re- 
 main with him while he did public penance for his fault. He 
 was constable, clerk, and guardian of the peace. 
 
 The boy who followed him was a tall and lusty youth, past 
 sixteen, who might very well have passed for eighteen : a boy with 
 rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown hair ; but his eyes were down- 
 cast, his cheek was flushed with shame because he was clad from 
 head to foot in a long white sheet, and he was placed so clothed, 
 for the space of half an hour, while the bells rang for service in 
 the cliurch ponh, and then to stand up before all the congregation 
 to ask pardon of the people, and to repeat the Lord's Prayer aloud 
 in token of repentance. 
 
 The porch of Warkworth Church is large and square, fifteen 
 feet across, with a stone bench on either side. The boy was 
 stationed within the porch on the eastern side, and close to the 
 church door, so that all those who p^issed in must needs behold 
 haa. At his left hand stood the Fugleman, pike grounded and 
 
ALL THE PEOPLE STAXDINO. 123 
 
 head erect, looking straight before him, and saying nothing except 
 at the beginning, when discipline for a moment gave way to friend- 
 ship, and he murmured : ' Heart up, Master Ralph ! What odds 
 i« a white sheet ? ' 
 
 Then he became rigid, and neither spake nor moved. As for 
 the penitent, he tried to imitate the rigidity of his companion, but 
 with poor success, for his mouth trembled, and his eyes sank, and 
 his colour came and went as the people, all of whom he knew, 
 passed him with reproachful or pitying gaze. The church and the 
 porch and the churchyard were all eyes ; he was himself a gigantic 
 monument of shame. 
 
 When the boys walked^as slowly as they possibly could — 
 through the porch, they grinned and nudged each other. But for 
 the stern aspect of the Fugleman they would have laughed aloud 
 and danced with joy. They had, however, to move on and take 
 their places in the church, and those were few indeed who were so 
 privileged as to command a view through the open doors of the 
 porch and its occupants. 
 
 When the men of the village ranged themselves as in a small 
 amphitheatre round the porch, the younger ones, in a hoarse 
 whisi^er said each to his neighbour : ' Oho ! ha ! yah ! ' After 
 which they remained gazing with mouth agape. 
 
 The three interjections are capable of many meanings, and may 
 indicate a great variety of feeling. Here was a lad found out and 
 convicted on the clearest evidence and confession : he had made 
 fools of the whole town ; here he was before all, undergoing the 
 sentence pronounced upon him by his Worship, Mr. Carnaby ; and 
 a sentence so seldom pronounced as to make it an occasion for 
 wonder ; and the offender was not a gipsy or a vagrom man, or 
 one of themselves, but young Ralph Embleton of Morwick Mill ; 
 and the offence was not robb ng, or pilfering, or cheating, or 
 smugghng, or beating and striking, but quite an unusual and even 
 It romantic kind of offence, for which there was no name even ; 
 and an offence not falling within any law. Therefore their faces 
 were fixed in an immovable gaze, and their mouths remained wide- 
 open — some twenty or thirty mouths in all — like unto fly-traps. 
 
 Wlien the girls, for their part, walked through the poich tliey 
 looked at the offender with eyes of pity, and one or two shed tears, 
 because it seemed dreadful that this tall and handsome lad should 
 be compelled to stand up before all in guise so shameful. Yet he 
 had caused many to tremble in their beds. But the elder women 
 stopped as they passed and wagged their heads with frowns, and said : 
 ' oh, dear, dear ! . . . . Alack and alas ! . . . . Tut, tut ! . . . , 
 
 Fye for shame ! . . . . This is the end of wickedness Ah, 
 
 hinneys ! . . . . Oh ! oh ! . . . . Look you now. . . . Heigh, 
 laddie ! did a body ever hear the like 1 ' and so forth, with grateful 
 rustle of skirts, and so virtuously into the church. A noble 
 example, indeed, for their own boys. Better one such illustration 
 of the punishment which overtakes offenders than fifty patterns of 
 
124 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 the peace and tranquillity in wliich the good man begins and ends 
 his days. Yet we humans are so foolish and perverse that we 
 sometimes find vice attractive and the ways of virtue monotonous, 
 and give no heed even to the most dreadful examples. 
 
 Towards the close of the ringing there entered the church, 
 ■walking majestically through the lane formed by the rustics, Mr. 
 Cuthbert Carnaby, Justice of the Peace, with IMadam his good 
 lady. He was attired in a full wig and a purple coat with laced 
 ruflies, laced cravat, a tlowered silk waistcoat, and gold buckles in 
 his shoes; in his hand he carried a heavy gold-headed stick, and 
 under his arm he bore his laced hat ; his ample cheeks were red, 
 and red was his double chin. Though Iris bearing was fall of 
 authority, his eyes were kind, and when he saw the boy standing 
 in the porch, he felt inclined to remit the remainder of the punish- 
 ment. 
 
 'So, Ralph,' he said, stopping to admonish him, 'thy father 
 "was a worthy man ; he hath not lived to see this. But courage, 
 boy, and do the like no mor.i. Shame attends folly. Thou art 
 young ; let this be a lesson. iLfter punislunent and repentance 
 Cometh forgiveness ; so cheer up, my lad.' 
 
 ' Ralph,' said his wife, with a smile in her eyes and a frown on 
 her brow, ' I could find it in my heart to flog thee soundly, but 
 thou art punished enough. Ghosts indeed ! and not a maid would 
 go past the castle after dark for fear of this boy ! Let us hear no 
 more about ghosts.' 
 
 She shook her finger — they both shook their fingers — she 
 adjusted her hoop, and entered the church. The boy's heart felt 
 lighter ; Mr. Carnaby and Madam would forgive him. His Wor- 
 ship vrent on, bearing before him his gold-headed stick, and walked 
 up the aisle to liis pew, a large room within the chancel, provided 
 with chairs and cushions, curtains to keep ofl' the draught, and a 
 fireplace for winter. 
 
 After Mr. Carnaby there walked into the porch a man dressed 
 in good broadcloth with white stockings, and shoes with silver 
 buckles. And his coat had silver buttons, wliich marked loim for 
 a man of substance. His cheeks were full and his face fiery, as if 
 he was one who, although young, lived well, and his eyes were 
 small and too close together, which made him look like a pig. It 
 was Mathew Humble, Ralph's cousin and guardian. 
 
 At sight of him the boy's face flushed and his lips parted ; but 
 he restrained himself and said nothing, while the Fugleman gave 
 him an admonitory nudge with his elbow. 
 
 The man looked at Ralph from top to toe, as if examining into 
 the arrangements, and anxious to see that all was properly and 
 scientifically cai'ried out. 
 
 ' Ta-ta-ta ! ' he said with an air of dissatisfaction. ' What is 
 this? Call you this penance? "\Miere is the candle? Did his 
 Worship say nothing about the candle ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied the Fugleman with shortness. 
 
ALL THE PEOPLE STANDTyG. 125 
 
 * He ought to have carried a candle. Dear me ! tliis is irregular. 
 
 This spoils all. But Ah !— bareheaded ' — he stnod as far back 
 
 as the breadth of the porch would allow, so as to get the full effect 
 and to observe the picture from the best point of view — ' in a long 
 white sheet ! Ah ! bareheaded and in a long white sheet ! Oh, 
 what a disgraceful day ! These are things. Fugleman, which end 
 in the gallows. For 311 Embleton, too ! If the old man can see it 
 Avhat will he think of the boy to whom he left the mill ? And to 
 beg pardon ' — he smacked his lips with satisfaction — ' to beg pardon 
 of the people ! Ah, and to repeat the Lord's Prayer in the church — 
 the Lord's Prayer — in the church aloud ! the Lord's Prayer — in 
 the church — aloud — before all the people ! Ah. ! Dear me — dear 
 me ! ' 
 
 He wagged his head, as if he could not tear himself away from 
 the spectacle of so much degradation. Then he added with a smile 
 of perfect satisfaction a detail which he had forgotten : 
 
 ' Standing, too ! The Lord's Prayer — in the church — aloud — • 
 before all the people — standing ! This is a pretty beginning, 
 Fugleman, for sixteen years.' 
 
 If the Lord's Prayer in itself were something to be ashamed of 
 he could not have spoken with greater contempt. The boy, how- 
 ever, looking straight up into the roof of the porch, made no 
 answer nor seemed to hear. 
 
 The speaker held up both hands, shook his head, sighed, and 
 slowly withdi'ew into the church. 
 
 Then there came down the street an old lady in a white cap, a 
 wliite apron, a shawl, and black mittens, an old lady with a face 
 lined all over, with kind soft eyes and white hair, but her face was 
 troubled. Beside her walked a girl of twelve or thereabouts, 
 dressed in white frock and straw hat trimmed with white ribbon, 
 and white cotton mittens, and she was crying and sobl)ing. 
 
 ' Thou mayest stand up in the church, ' said the old lady, ' when 
 he repeats the Lord's Prayer, but not beside him in tlie porch.' 
 
 'But I helped liim,' she cried. 'Oh, I am as bad as he ! 1 
 am worse, because I laughed at him and encouraged him.' 
 
 ' But thou hast not been sentenced,' said the old lady. ' It is 
 thy punishment, cliild — and a heavy one — to feel that PLalph bears 
 thy shame and his own too.' 
 
 ' I was on one side of the hedge when Dame Ridley dropped 
 her basket,' the child went on, crying more bitterly. 'I was on 
 one side and he was on the other. Oh ! oh ! oh ! She said there 
 were two ghosts — I was one.' 
 
 When they reached the porch the girl, at sight of the boy in 
 the sheet, ran and threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, 
 and cried loud enough for all within to hear : 
 
 ' Oh, Ralph, Ralph, it is wicked of them ! ' 
 
 These words were heard all over the churc-li, and Mathew 
 Humble sprang to his feet, as if demanding that the speaker should 
 be carried oil" to instant execution for contempt of court. All eyes 
 
126 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 were turned upon his Worship's pew, and 1 know not what would 
 have happened, because his periwig was seen to be agitated and 
 the gold head of his stick appeared above the pew ; but luckily 
 just then the bells clashed all together, frightening the swallows 
 about the tower so that they flew straight to the castle and stayed 
 there, and the Vicar came out of the vestry and sat down in the 
 reading-desk, and, as was his custom, surveyed his church and 
 congregation for a few minutes before the service began. 
 
 It is an old church of Norman work, in parts patched up and 
 rebuilt from time to time by the Percies, but there are no monu- 
 ments of them. The Vicar's eyes fell upon a plain whitewashed 
 building, provided with rows of ancient and worm-eaten benches, 
 worn black by many generations of worshippers. The choir and 
 the music sat at the west end. In front of the chancel was a square 
 space in which was set a long stool. While the Vicar waited the 
 Fugleman marched up the aisle, followed by the boy in the sheet, 
 and both sat on this stool of repentance. Then the Vicar rose — he 
 was a benignant old man, with white hair — and began to read in a 
 full and musical voice how sinners may repent and find forgiveness. 
 But the people thought he meant his words to apply this morning 
 especially and only to the boy in the sheet. This made them feel 
 surprisingly virtuous and inclined to sing praises with a glad heart. 
 So, too, with the lessons, one of which dealt with the fate of a 
 wicked king. All the people looked at the boy in the sheet, and 
 felt that under another name, it was his own story told before- 
 hand, proi^hetically ; and when they stood up to sing in thanks- 
 giving, their gratitude took the form of being glad that they were 
 not upon the stool. When the Psalms were read the people paid 
 unusual attention, letting the boy have the benefit of all the peni- 
 tential utterances, but taking the joyous verses to themselves. And 
 the Litany they regarded as composed, as well as read, exclusively for 
 this convicted sinner. Among the elder ladies there was hope that 
 the oflended ghosts might — some at least — be present in the church 
 and see this humiliation, which would not fad to dispose their 
 ghostlinesses to a benevolent attitude, and even infiuence the 
 weather. 
 
 It seemed to the boy as if that service never would end. To 
 the congregation it seemed, on account of this unusual episode, as if 
 there never had been a service so short and so exciting. 
 
 When the Commandments had been recited, Ralph almost 
 expected to hear an additional one, ' Thou shalt not pretend to be a 
 ghost,' and be called on to pray, all by himself, for an inclination 
 of the heart to keep that injunction. But the Vicar threw away 
 the opportunity and ended as usual with the tenth command- 
 ment. 
 
 He gave out the psalm, and retired to pi^t on his black gown. 
 The music — consisting of a violin, a violoncello, and a clarionet — 
 struck up the tune, and the choir, among whom Ralph ought to 
 have been, henuned and cleared their voices. The Northumbrians, 
 
ALL THE PEOPLE STANDIXG. VIl 
 
 as is wel] known, have good voices and good ears. The tune was 
 * Warwick,' and the psalm was that which began : 
 
 Lord, in the morninsi thou shalt hear 
 Mj' voice ascend to thee. 
 
 The boy trembled because the words seemed to refer to the part 
 he was about to play. His own voice would, inmiediately, be asceiKi- 
 ing high, but all by itself. He saw the face of his cousin, Mathew 
 Humble, fixed upon him with ill-concealed and malignant joy. 
 Why did Mathew hate him with such a bitter hatred '^ Also he saw 
 the face of the girl who had been his partner ; her eyes were full 
 of tears ; and at sight of her grief his own eyes became humid. 
 
 He did not take any part at all in the hymn. 
 
 When it was finished the Vicar stood in his pulpit waiting ; liis 
 Worship stood up in his pew, his face turned towards the culpjrit ; 
 in his hand his great gold-headed cane. All the people stared at 
 the culprit with curious eyes, as boys stare at one of their com- 
 panions when he is about to be flogged. Just then the girl left lier 
 seac and stepped deliberately up the aisle, and stood beside the boy 
 in the sheet. And the congregation murmured wonder. 
 
 The Fugleman touched the boy's shoulder and brought his pike 
 to 'tention. 
 
 ' Say after me,' he said aloud. Then to the congregation he 
 added : ' And all the people standing.' 
 
 *I confess my fault,' he began. 
 
 ' I confess my fault,' repeated boy and girl together. 
 
 ' And am heartily sorry, and do beg forgiveness.' 
 
 And then the Lord's Prayer. 
 
 The boy spoke out the words clearly and boldly, and with his 
 was heard the girl's voice as w^ell, but both were nearly drowned by 
 the loud voice of the Fugleman. 
 
 It was over then. All sat down ; the girl beside Ralph on the 
 stool of repentance, and the sermon began. 
 
 The sermon which the Yicar read had nothing to do with tlie 
 penance just performed ; it was a learned discourse, which would 
 be afterwards published, showing the Divine origin of the Hier- 
 archj' ; it was stuffed full of references to the Fathers, and convic- 
 tion was conveyed to hearers' hearts (in case the arguments were 
 difficult to follow) by quotations of Greek in the original. His 
 Worship fell fast asleep ; all the men in the church followed his 
 example ; the boys pinched and kicked each other, safe from the 
 Fugleman for once : the women and the girls alone kept their eyes 
 open, because they had on their best things, and with fine clothes 
 go good manners, and the feminine sex loveth above all tilings to 
 feel well dressed and therefore compelled to be well behaved. Even 
 the Fugleman allowed his eyelids to drop, but never relinquished 
 his pike ; and the girl, holding Ralph fast by the hand, wondered 
 if they would ever, as long as they lived, these two, recover from 
 the dreadful disgrace of that morning. 
 
128 ^ LET NOTHING TO U DISMAY: 
 
 When the Vicar had drubbed the pulpit to the very end of his 
 manuscript, and the service was over, the tliree stood up again and 
 remained standing till the people were all gone. 
 
 ' Come, lass, ' said the Fugleman when the church was empty, 
 'we can all go now. Off with that rag. Master Ralph.' 
 
 He unbent ; his face assumed a human expression ; he laid 
 d nvn the pike. 
 
 ' What odds, I say, is a white sheet 1 Wliy, tliink 'twas a show 
 for the lads which they haven't had for many a year. And May 
 righ gone already, and never a man in the stocks yet, and the 
 ])ilIory rotting for want of custom, and never a thief flogged nor a 
 bear-baiting. If it 'twasnt for the cocks of a Sunday afternoon and 
 the wrestling, there would have been nothing for the poor fellows 
 but your ghosts to keep 'em out of mischief. And, lad,' he pointed 
 in the direction of the mill, ' your cousin means more mischief. 
 It was him that laid the information before his Worship.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Ralph, clenching his fists. 
 
 'Aye, him it was, and his Worship thought it mean, but he 
 was bound to take notice, for why, says his Worship, "he can't let 
 this boy frighten all the maids out of their silly senses. Yet, for 
 his own cousin and his guardian " that's what his Worship said.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' Again Ralph clenched his fists. 
 
 ' Should I, an old soldier, preach mutiny 1 Never. But seeing 
 that your cousin is no rightful officer of yourn, nor yet commissioned 
 to carry pike in your company, why I, for one ' 
 
 'What, Fugleman?' 
 
 'I, for one, if I was a well-grown boy, nigh upon seventeen, the 
 next time he gave orders for another six dozen, or even three dozen, 
 I would ask him if he was strong enough to tie up a mutineer.' 
 
 The boy nodded his head. 
 
 ' Cousin thof he be,' continued the Fugleman, ' captain or lieu- 
 tenant is he not.' 
 
 The boy had by this time divested himself of his sheet, and 
 stood dressed in a long brown coat and plainly-cut waistcoat ; he, 
 too, wore silver buckles to his shoes, like his cousin, but not silver 
 buttons ; his hair was tied with a black ribbon, and liis hat was 
 plain, without lace or ornament. 
 
 When his adviser had finished, he walked slowly down the 
 empty church, hand-in-hand with the girl. 
 
 In the porch he stopped, threw his arm round her neck, and 
 kissed her twice. 
 
 'No one but you, Drusy,' he said, 'would have done it. I'll 
 never forget it, never, as long as I live. Go home to Granny, my 
 dear, and have your dinner.' 
 
 ' And will you go home, too, Ralph 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, I am going home. I've got to have a talk with IMathew 
 Humble.' 
 
 Left alone in the church, the Fugleman sat dowoi irreverently 
 on the steps of the pulpit, and laughed aloud. 
 
 ' Mathew Humble,' he said, ' is going to be astonished.' 
 
THE ASTONISiniEXT OF MATIIEW HUMBLE. 129 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE ASTONISHMENT OF MATHEW HTTMBLE. 
 
 By this time the people had dispersed quadrivious — that is to say, 
 north, south, east, and west ; and were making their way home- 
 wards, their appetites for dinner keener than usual. Penance, 
 considered as a Sunday show, hath no fellow ; it is even superior to 
 the stocks, which is a week-day show. You may not pelt a man in 
 a white sheet with rotten eggs, it is true ; but the same objection 
 applies to the stocks. Of course, it cannot compare with a good 
 pillory, which is rare, especially when eggs are plentiful and rotten 
 apples lying under every tree ; or with a really heartfelt whipping 
 of a vagabond or gipsy at the cart-tail, which is, unfortunately, 
 rarer still. Among simple people there is a feeling that the greater 
 the pain endured by the subject, the greater is the pleasure of the 
 onlooker. Just in the same way did the Roman ladies discuss 
 among themselves before the play whether it was more desirable to 
 see Hercules — represented by the young Herr Hermann newly 
 arrived from the Rhine— bvuming to death in a shirt of pitch ; or 
 Sca3vola — done to the life by that gallant captive, Owen ap Rice, 
 from Britain — thrusting his bare arm into a clear fire and keeping 
 it there till the hand was burnt off ; or Actfeon — played with spirit 
 by Joseph Ben Eleazar, the swift-footed Syrian — puisued and torn 
 to jjieces by the hounds of Dian. 
 
 Ralph walked quickly j)ast some of these groups, who fell back 
 to right and left, and looked at him curiously. On ordinary 
 Sundays he would have a pleasant word with all, a kiss for the 
 children, and a challenge for the boys. To-day he passed them 
 without a word, with head erect, eyes flashing, and clenched list. 
 He was not thinking of salutations ; he was thinking what he 
 should do : how he should begin his mutiny : what would be the 
 issue of the fight. Whatever the result, there would be joy in 
 bringing, if only for once, hand, fist, or stick into contact with the 
 face or figure of his cousin. It was he, was it, who informed 
 against him to his Worship 1 It was no other than his cousin who 
 had compassed this most disagreeable of mornings. And now, 
 doubtless, he waited, with a great cane, his arrival at home, in 
 order to administer another of those ' corrections ' of which he was 
 so fond. Hitherto, Ralph had submitted quietly ; but he had 
 been growing ; he was within a month of seventeen ; was it to be 
 endured that he should be beaten and flogged like a child of ten, 
 because his cousin hated him '] 
 
 The girls, as he strode past them regardless, looked at hi/n 
 with great pity, because they knew — everybody knew — what awaited 
 liim. And Mathew Humble such a hard man ! Poor lad ! Yet 
 
 K 
 
!30 'LET XOTIIIXG YOU DIS:>IAY: 
 
 those who mock spirits and fairies never fail to have cause for 
 repentance in the long run ; and punishment had fallen swiftly 
 upon Ralph. Perhaps, after this, he would respect the things 
 which belong to the other world. 
 
 Heavens ! one might as well sit among the ruins of Dunstan- 
 burgh after dark and pretend to be the Seeker ; or within the chapel 
 of Dilston at midnight and pretend to be Lady Derwentwater'u 
 troubled spirit ; and then hope to escape scot-free. Yet, poor lad ! 
 and Mathew so hard a man ! 
 
 What Ralph said to himself — justifying rebellion, because he 
 was a conscientious lad — was this : ' His Worship said that the 
 penance would be enough ; who was Mathew, then, to override the 
 decision of the court % Also, he was past the age of Hogging, being 
 now able to hold his own against most — whether at quarterstaff, 
 singlestick, or wrestling — young men older than himself ; lastly, 
 since Mathew had played this trick, he wanted revenge. But 
 
 ]Mathew was his guardian ; very well, then let him learn But 
 
 here he broke down, because he could not, for the moment, think 
 of any lesson which his own rebellion would be likely to teach his 
 cousin. 
 
 When Ralph left the fields and turned into the lane leading 
 down to the river, he began to look about among the trees and 
 underwood as if searching for something. Presently he espied a 
 long pliant alder-branch in its second year of growth which seemed 
 promising. He cut it to a length of about three feet, trimmed off 
 leaves and twigs, and balanced it critically with a tentative flourish 
 or two in the air. 
 
 'As thick as my thumb,' he said, 'and as heavy as his cane. 
 Blow for blow, Cousin Mathew. This will curl round his shoulders 
 and leave its marks upon .his legs. ' 
 
 Morwick Mill stands upon the River Coquet, about two miles 
 from Warkworth. You can easily get to it by following the banks 
 of the river, which is perhaps the best way, though sometimes you 
 must off shoes and stockings, and wade across knee-deep to the 
 other side. 
 
 The mill consists of a square house upon the edge of the river, 
 v.ith a great wheel on one side ; and almost all the water of the 
 river is here diverted so as to form a sufficient power for the 
 mill-wheel. At the back of the mill, which is also a substantial 
 dwelling-house, is a great careless garden, with pigsties and linneys 
 for cattle, and vegetables, and fruit-trees ; and at the side are two 
 or three cottages, where live the people employed at the mill. All 
 the fields which lie sloping up from the river-side belong, as well, 
 to the owner of the mill. The owner at this moment was no other 
 than the scapegrace Ralph ; and his cousin, Mathew Humble, was 
 his guardian, who had nothing at all in the world of his own but a 
 little farm of thirty acres. Tlie thought of this great inheritance, 
 compared with his own meagre holding, filled the good guardian's 
 heart with bitterness, and his arm, when it came to correction, 
 
THE ASTONISHMJ^NT OF MATHEW HUMBLE. 131 
 
 with a superhuman strength. He would be guardian for four years 
 more : then he would have to give a strict account of his guardian- 
 ship ; and the burden of this obligation, though he had only held 
 the post for two years, filled him with such wrath and anxiety that 
 he was fain, when he did think upon it, which was often, to pull 
 the cork out of a certain stone jar and allay his anxieties with a 
 dram of strong waters. He was very anxious, because already the 
 accounts were confused ; the stone jar was always handy ; therefore, 
 he had become swollen about the neck and coarse of nose, which 
 was a full and prominent feature, and flabby, as well as fiery, about 
 the cheeks. In these times of much drinking many men become 
 penduloiis of cheek and ruddy of nose at forty or so, but few at 
 six-and-twenty. Mathew was not, at this time, much more than 
 six-and-twenty ; say ten years older than Ralph. 
 
 The kitchen, dining-room, and sitting-room of Morwick Mill 
 was a large low room, with one long window. At the sides of the 
 rov.m, and between the great joists, were hanging sides of bacon 
 and hams, besides pewter-pots and pewter-dishes, brightly polished 
 wooden platters, china cups, brass vessels, whips, bridles, a loaded 
 blunderbuss, cudgels, strings of onions, dried herbs of every kind, 
 and all the thousand things wanted for the conduct of a household. 
 At one end was a noble fire of logs burning in an ample chimney, 
 and before the fire a great piece of beef roasting, and now, to 
 outward scrutiny and the sense of smell, ready to be dished. A 
 middle-aged woman, full, comely, and good-natured of aspect, was 
 engaged in preparation for that critical operation. This was 
 Prudence, who had lived at the mill all her life. 
 
 She looked up as Ralph appeared in the doorway, and shook 
 her head, but more in pity than in reproach. And she looked 
 sideways, by way of friendly warning, in the direction of the table, 
 at which sat another woman of ditferent appearance. She was, 
 perhaps, five or six and thirty, with thin features and sour 
 expression, not improved by a cast in her eye. This was Barbara, 
 sister of Mathew Humble, and now acting in the capacity of 
 mistress of Morwick Mill, for her brother was not married. She 
 had open before her the Bible, and she had found a most beautiful 
 collection of texts appropriate to the case of Fools in the Book of 
 Proverbs. The table was laid for dinner, with pewter plates and 
 black-handled knives and steel forks. The beer had been drawn, 
 and stood in a great brown jug, foaming with a venerably silver 
 head. Ralph observed without astonishment that the plate set for 
 him contained a piece of dry bread, ostentatiously displayed. It 
 was to be his dinner. 
 
 This i^leasing maiden, Barbara, who regarded the boy with an 
 affection almost as great as her brother's, that is to say, with a 
 malignity quite uncommon, first pointed with her lean and skinny 
 forefinger to the jiage before her, and read aloud, shaking her head 
 reproachfully : 
 
 '"As a man who casteth firebrands, arrows, and death, so is 
 
 K 2 
 
132 'LET NOTHIXG YOU DIS3IAY: 
 
 the man that deceiveth liis neighbour, and saith, Am I not io 
 sport ? " ' 
 
 Solomon must surely have had Ralph in his mind. 
 
 Then she pointed with the same finger to a dr)or opposite, and 
 said, a smile of satisfaction stealing over her countenance : 
 
 ' Go to your guardian. Go to receive the w-ages of sin.' 
 
 ' Those,' said Ralph, with a little laugh, feeling confidence in 
 his alder-branch, ' are not a flogging, on this occasion, but a 
 fight.' 
 
 Before she heard his words, or had begun to ask herself what 
 tliey might mean, because she was so full of Ratisfaction with her 
 texts, he had flung his hat upon a chair, and gone to the next 
 room. If Barbara had been observant, she might have remarked, 
 besides these extraordinary words, a certain brightness of the eyes 
 and setting of the mouth which betokened the spirit of resistance. 
 
 The inner room was one occupied and used by Mathew alone. 
 It contained all the papiers, account-books, and documents con- 
 nected with the property and business of the mill. Here, too, was 
 the stone jar already referred to. The decks had been, so to speak, 
 cleared for action, that is to say, the table was thrust into the 
 corner, and upon it lay the sacred instrument with which Mathew 
 loved to correct his ward. This promoter of virtue, or dispenser of 
 consequences, was a strong and supple cane, than which few instru- 
 ments are more highly gifted with the power of inflicting tortiure. 
 Ralph knew it well, and had experienced on many occasions the 
 full force of this wholesome equality. He saw it lying ready for use, 
 and he reflected cheerfully that the alder-branch, partly up his left 
 sleeve and partly in his coat-pocket, would be more supple, equally 
 heavy, and perhaps more efficacious regarded simply as a pjain 
 producer. 
 
 When the boy appeared, Mathew rose and removed liis wig and 
 coat, because the work before him was likely to make him warm. 
 He then assumed the rod, and ordered Ralph to take ofl" liis coat 
 and waistcoat. 
 
 ' This day,' he said, ' you have disgraced your family. I design 
 that you shall have such a flogging as you will not readily forget.' 
 He then remembered that he would be more free for action without 
 his waistcoat. A man can tlirow more heart into his work. ' Such 
 a flogging,' he repeated as he removed it, ' as you will remember 
 all your life.' 
 
 ' "Well, cousin,' said Ralph, ' Mr. Carnaby said that the penance 
 was the punishment. I have done the penance.' 
 
 ' Silence, sir ! Do you dare to argue with your guardian ? ' He 
 now began to roll up his shirt-sleeves so as to have his arms quite 
 bare, which is an additional advantage when one wants to put out 
 all one's strength. ' I sliall flog the flesh off" your bones, you young 
 villain ! ' 
 
 But he paused, and for a moment his jaws stuck, and he was 
 speechless, for his cousin, instead of meekly placing himself in po- 
 
THE ASTONISHMENl' OF MATIIEW HUMBLE. 133 
 
 Bition to receive the stupendous flogging intended for him, was 
 facing him, resolution in his eyes, and a weapon in his hands. 
 
 ' Flogging for flogging. Cousin Mathew,' said Ralph ; ' flesh for 
 flesh. Strip my bones, I strip yours.' 
 
 JNIathew now observed for the first time — it was a most unfor- 
 tunate moment for making the discovery— that Ralph was a good 
 two inches taller than himself, that his arm was as stout, and thai 
 his weapon was of a thickness, length, and pliability which might 
 make the stoutest quail ; also he remarked that his shoulders were 
 surjjrisingly broad, and his legs of length and size quite out of the 
 common. And it even occurred to him that he might have to 
 endure hardness. 
 
 'Flesh for flesh,' said Ralph, poising the alder-branch. 
 
 ' Villain ! Would you break the Fifth Commandment? ' 
 
 Ralph shook his weai^on, making it sing merrily and even 
 thirstily through the air, but made no reply. 
 
 ' Lay down the switch.' 
 
 Ralph raised it above his head as one who is preparing to strike. 
 
 ' Down on your knees, viper, and beg for pardon.' 
 
 'Flesh for flesh, JMathew,' said Ralph. 
 
 ' You will have it then, young devil. I will kill you ! ' 
 
 Mathew rushed upon his cousin, raining blows as thick as hail 
 upon him. For the moment his weight told and the boy was 
 beaten back. Swish. ' Viper ! ' Swish — swish — 'twas a terrible 
 cane. ' I will teach you to rebel.' Swish — swish — 'twas a cane of 
 a suppleness beyond nature. ' I will give you a lesson.' Swish — 
 swish. ' I will break every bone in your body. ' Swish — the end 
 of the cane found out every soft place — there were not many — 
 upon Ralph's body. 
 
 But then the tables were turned, for the boy, recovering from 
 the first confusion, leaped suddenly aside, and with a dexterous 
 movement of the left foot caused his cousin to stumble and fall 
 heavily. He struggled, struck, kicked, and lashed out — but he 
 did not get up again. A very important element in the fight was 
 strangely overlooked by Mathew before he began to attack. It 
 was this, that whereas he was liimself out of condition, the boy 
 was in splendid fettle, sound of wind as well as limb. So furious 
 was Mathew's first assault that, brief as was its duration, no sooner 
 was he tripped up than he perceived that his wind was gone, and 
 though he could kick and struggle, yet if he half got up he was 
 quickly knocked down again. And while he kicked and struggled, 
 this young viper, this monster of ingratitude, was administering 
 such a punishment as even he, Matliew, had never contemplated 
 for Ralph. 
 
 ' Have you had enough % ' cried the boy at last, out of breath. 
 
 ' I will murder you, I will Oh, Lord ! ' For the punish- 
 ment began again. 
 
 ' Stripping of flesh,' said R-alph. ' This you will remember, 
 cousin, all your life.' 
 
134 ^ LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 The alder-branch was like a flail in the lad's strong arm. Tlie 
 rapidity, the precision, the delicate perception of tender places, 
 took away the sufferfcr's breath. There was no sound place left in 
 the whole (i Mather's body. 
 
 ' Have you had enough ? ' cried Ralph. 
 
 ' I will flay you alive for this — I will. Oh, oh ! I have had 
 enough.' 
 
 'Then,' said- Ralph, with one final efibrt, the efTect of which 
 would be, by itself, felt for a week and more, 'get up.' 
 
 Mathew rose, groaning. 
 
 ' We have had the last of punishments,' said the boy. 'I will 
 fight you any day you please, but I will take no more punishments 
 from you.' He threw down his stick, and put on his coat and 
 waistcoat, with some tenderness, however, for the first part of the 
 battle had left its marks. 
 
 Now outside, the two women were listening, one with com- 
 placency, and the other with pity. And the first was ready with 
 the Bible still open at the Book of Proverbs, which contains quite 
 an armoury of texts good to hurl at a young transgressor. The 
 second, with one ear turned to the door of INlatliew's room, went 
 on dishing the beef, which she presently placed upon the table. 
 
 There was unusual delav in the sound which generally followed 
 Ralph's visits to that room. JSo doubt Mathew was commencing 
 with a short Commination Service. Presently, however, there 
 was a great trampling of feet, with the swish, swish of the cane — ■ 
 Mathew's first charge. 
 
 ' Lord ha' mercy ! ' cried Prudence. 
 
 ' "The rod and reproof give wisdom," ' read her mistress from 
 the Book. 
 
 Then they heard a heavy fall, followed by a heavier, faster, 
 mi 'Ve determined swishing, hissing, and whistling of the instrnment, 
 till the air was resonant with its music, and it was as if all the boys 
 \\\ Northumberland were being caned at once. 
 
 ' Lord ha' mercy ! ' repeated Prudence. ' He'll murder the boy.' 
 
 '"A reproof,"' read the other from her place, ' " entereth 
 more into a wise man than a hundred stripes into a fool." ' 
 
 There was a pause, and then a sound of voices, and then 
 another terrific hailstorm of blows. 
 
 Both women looked aghast. Was the punishment never to 
 end? 
 
 Then Prudence rushed to tlie door. 
 
 ' Mistress,' she cried, ' you may look on while the boy is cut to 
 pieces — I can't and won't.' 
 
 Slie opened the door. Heavens ! what a sight was tliat which 
 met her astonished eyes. The boy, cut and bruised about the face, 
 was standing in the middle of the room, smiling. Tlie man was 
 on his hands and knees, slowly rising ; his shirt was torn off his 
 back : his shoulders were cut to pieces ; he was covered witli weala 
 
THE ASTONISHMENT OF MATHEW HUMBLE. 135 
 
 and bruises ; his face, scarred and seamed with Ralph's cruel alder- 
 branch, was dreadful to look upon. He seemed to see nothing ; 
 he groaned as he lifted himself up ; he staggered where he stood. 
 
 Presently he put on his coat with many groans and muttered 
 curses, and Prudence observed that all the while he regarded the 
 lad with looks of the most extreme terror and rage. Presently 
 she began to understand the situation. 
 
 ' Are you hurt, Master Ralph ? ' she asked. 
 
 'No ; but Mathew is,' said Ralph. 
 
 ' Mathew,' cried his sister, as the victim of the rebellion staggered 
 into the room, ' what is this ? ' 
 
 He sank into his armchair with a long deep groan, and made 
 no reply. 
 
 'Why, what in the world, Master Ralph ?' asked the servant. 
 
 But the lad had gone. He went upstairs to his own room ; 
 made up a little bundle of things which he wrapped in a hand- 
 kerchief, picked out the thickest and heaviest of his cudgels, and 
 then returned to the kitchen. 
 
 ' Give me my dinner,' he said. 
 
 Barbara had brought out her brother's wig and put it on now, 
 but he still sat silent and motionless. He was in such an agony of 
 pain all over, and his nervous system had sustained so terrible a 
 shock that he could not speak. 
 
 'Give me my dinner,' Ralph repeated. 
 
 Barbara pointed to the crust of bread. She was appalled by 
 this nmtiuy, but she preserved some presence of mind, and she 
 remembered the bread. Then she sat down again before the Bible 
 and began to read, like a clergyman while the plate goes round. 
 
 '" It is as sport to the Fool to do mischief." ' 
 
 Prudence, the beef being already served, laid a knife and fork 
 for each. 
 
 '"A Fool's mouth,"' Barbara said, as if she was quoting 
 Solomon, ' " calleth for roasted beef and a stalled ox. Bread and 
 water until submission and repentance." ' 
 
 The young mutineer made no verbal reply. But he dragged 
 the dish before liis own plate, and began to carve for himself, 
 largely and generously. 
 
 ' Mathew ! ' cried Barbara, springing to her feet. 
 
 ' Let be — let be,' said Mathew ; ' let the young devil alone. I 
 will be even with him somehow. Let be.' 
 
 ' Not the old way, cousin,' replied Ralph with a nod. He then 
 helped himself to about a pint or so of the good old October, and 
 began, his appetite shai'pened by exercise, to make the beef dis- 
 appear in large quantities. Mathew looked on, saying nothing. 
 The silence terrified his sister. What did it mean ■? And slie 
 perceived, for the tirst time, that their ward had ceased to be a 
 boy and must henceforth be treated as a man. It was a fearful 
 thought. She shut her Bible and sat back with folded hands, 
 H^aiting the issue. 
 
136 ' LET NOTHIXG YOU BISJIAY: 
 
 In course of time even a hungry boy of seventeen has had 
 enough. Ralph lifted his head at last, took another prolonged 
 pull at the beer, and told Barbara, politely, that he had enjoyed a 
 good dinner. 
 
 Then he turned to his cousin and addressed him with a certain 
 solemnity. 
 
 ■ Cousin,' he said, 'you have always hated me, because my 
 uncle left the mill to me instead of to yourself. Yet you knew 
 from the beginning that his design was for me to have it. I have 
 done you no wrong. You have never lost any opportunity of 
 abusing me before my face and behind my back. You became, 
 unhappily for me, my guardian. You have never neglected any 
 chance of flogging and beating me, if you could find a cause. As 
 regards the gliost business, I was wrong. I deserved punishment, 
 but was it the province of a cousin and a guardian to go and lay 
 information before the Justice of the Peace 1 I shall be seventeen 
 come next month. In four years this mill and the farm will be 
 my own. But if I remain with you here I can expect nothing but 
 hatred and ill-treatment as far as you dare. You have given me 
 ploughboy's work without a plougliboy's wage, and often without 
 a ploughboy's food. As for flogging, that is finished, because I 
 think you have no more stomach for another fight.' 
 
 Mathew made no reply whatever, but sat with his head upon 
 his hands, breathing heavily. 
 
 ' I am tired of ill-treatment,' Ralph went on, ' and I shall go 
 away.' 
 
 ' Whither, boy ? ' asked Barbara. 
 
 'I know not yet. I go to seek my fortune.' 
 
 'Go, if you will,' said ]\Iathew ; 'go, in the devil's name ; go, 
 whither you are bound to go : long before four years are over vou 
 will be hanging in chains.' 
 
 Ralph laughed and took up his bundle. 
 
 ' Farewell, Prudence,' he said ; ' thou wast ever kind to me.' 
 
 The woman threw her arms about his neck and kissed him with 
 tears, and prayed that the Lord might bless him. And, as he walked 
 forth from the house, the voice of Barbara followed him, sapng : 
 
 ' " A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the 
 Fool's back."' 
 
 The Fugleman was sitting in the sun before his door in the 
 castle, smoking a pipe and inclined to be droM^sy, when Ralph 
 appeared with his startling news. 
 
 As regards the flogging, the old soldier made light of it. 
 Nothing can be done in the arniy without the cat. Had not he 
 himself once received three hundred all by a mistake, because tliey 
 were meant for another man, who escaped. Did he, therefore , bear 
 malice against his commanding officer ? Xo. But the villainy of 
 !Mathew, first to lay information and then to make an excuse for a 
 flogging just for plci^sure, and to gratify his own selfish desire to 
 
THE ASTONISBMEXT OF MATHEW BU2IBLE. 137 
 
 be continually flogging, why, tliat justified the mutiny. As for the 
 details of the tight, he blamed severely the inexperience in strategy 
 shown by first knocking down the enemy. He should have expected 
 better things of Ralph, whose true policy would have been to harass an 
 annoy his adversary by feints, dodges, and unexpected skirmishes. 
 This would not only have fatigued him, but, considering his short- 
 ness of breath, would have worn him out so that he would in the 
 end have fallen an easy prey, and been cudgelled without resistance 
 till there was not a sound place left. Besides, it would have made 
 the light more interesting, considered as a work of art. 
 
 However, doubtless the next time — but then he remembered 
 that the boy was going away. 
 
 ' To seek my fortune. Fugleman,' Ralph said gaily. ' Look after 
 Drusy for me, while I am aAvay.' 
 
 ' Aye — aye,' the Fugleman replied ; ' she shall come to no harm. 
 And as for money, Master Ralph % ' 
 
 ' I've got a guinea,' he replied, ' which my uncle gave me three 
 years ago.' 
 
 ' A guinea won't go far. Stay, Master Ralph.' He went into 
 his room and came back with a stocking in his hand. ' Here's all 
 I've got, boy. It is twenty guineas. Take it all. I shall do very 
 well. Lord ! what with the rabbits and the pheasants— — ' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Ralpli, ' I will not take your savings neither.' 
 
 But, presently, being pressed, he consented to take ten guineas 
 on the understanding that when he came back (his fortune made) 
 the Fugleman was to receive twenty. And then they parted with 
 a mighty hand- shake. 
 
 Half-way down the street Ralph passed Sailor Nan, who was 
 sitting on a great stone beside her door, smoking her short black pipe. 
 
 ' Whither bound, my lad "? ' she asked. 
 
 'lam bound to London,' he replied. 'lam ofl" to seek my 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' Come here, I will read thy fortune.' 
 
 Like most old women, Nan could read a lad's fortune in the 
 lines of his hand, or by the cards, or by the peeling of an apple. 
 
 ' A good cruise,' she said, ' with fair wind aft and good weather 
 for the most part. But storms belike on leaving port. There's a 
 villain, and fighting and foreign parts, and gold, and a good wife. 
 Go thy ways, lad. Art no poor puss-faced swab to fear fair fighting. 
 Go thy ways. Take and give. Trust not too many. And stand 
 by all old shipmets. Go thy ways.' 
 
 He laughed and left her. Yet he was cheered by her kindly 
 prophecy . 
 
 He crossed the old bridge and presently found himself outside 
 the green palings of Dame Hetherington's house. The girl who 
 had joined him in church was in the garden. He whistled, and she 
 came running. 
 
 ' I am come to say good-bye, Drusy,' he said ; ' I am running 
 away.' 
 
138 *LET NOTniNG YOU DISMAY' 
 
 ' Oh, Ralph, whither ? And you have a cruel blow upon you? 
 face.' 
 
 'I have fought Mathew,' he said, 'and I have beaten him. This 
 scar upon my face is nothing compared with the scars over his. 1 
 believe he is one large bruise. But I can no longer endure his ill- 
 treatment and Barbara's continual reproaches. Theiefore I am 
 resolved to remain no longer, but shall go to London, there to seek 
 my fortune as thy father did, Drusy.' 
 
 They talked for half an hour, she trying to persuade him to 
 stay, and he resolved to go. Then he went with her into the 
 house, where he must needs tell all the story to Dame Hetherington, 
 who scolded him, and bade him get home again and make sulmiis- 
 sion, but he would not. 
 
 Then Drusilla remembered that her father would gladly aid any 
 lad from Northumberland, and sat down and wrote a letter very 
 quickly, being dexterous with her pen, and gave it to Ralph 
 to carry. 
 
 'You will find him,' she said, 'at the sign of the Leg and Star 
 in Cheapside. Forget not that address. Stay, I will write it outside 
 the letter. Give it him with my respect and obedience. Oh, 
 Ralph, shall you be long before you have found your fortune and 
 are back to us ? ' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Ralph, ' I know not what may be my fortune. I go 
 to find it, like many a lad of old.' 
 
 Then, after many fond farewells, Ralph kissed her and trudged 
 away manfully, while Drusy leaned her head over the garden-gate 
 and wept and sobbed, and could not be consoled. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW RALPH SOUGHT FOKTUXE. 
 
 A YOUNG man's walk from Warkworth all the way to London 
 cannot fail to be full of interest and adventure. There is, however, 
 no space here to tell of the many adventures which befell this lad 
 upon his journey. As for bad roads, he might have expected them, 
 except that he was young and ignorant and expected nothing, so 
 that each moment brought him some surprise, and each day tauglit 
 him some new experience. As for the people to be met upon tlie 
 roads, probably, had he known what to expect, he would have 
 stopped short and sought fortune at Newcastle, Durham, or York, 
 rather than have pressed on to London. But he was brave and 
 full of hope. As to the roadside inns and the bedroom companions, 
 he was astonished afterwards that he managed to get through all 
 without having his weasand cut for the sake of his scanty stock of 
 guineas, so desperate were some of the villains whom he encountered. 
 Nevertheless, even among the most desperate of rogues, there is 
 
ffOW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE. 1:^9 
 
 hesitation about murder, and even about robbina; lads and persons 
 of tender years. 
 
 He stowed away his money within his waistcoat, keeping in his 
 pocket nothing but two or three shillings for the daily wants ; yet 
 it seemed as if every man that he met had sinister designs upon 
 him. If it was a solitary gipsy lying on the grass by the wayside, 
 he rose to meet the boy as he went by, and Ljoked higliway robbery 
 with resolution, yet refrained when he met equal resolution in the 
 eyes of the waj' farer, and a stout stick in strong hands, and broad 
 shoulders. If itwasapair of soldiers on the way to join their regiment, 
 they stopped him, being two brave and gallant dare-devil heroes, and 
 
 recommended the turning out of pockets, or else . They swore 
 
 terribly, these brave fellows, but a back-hander right and left witli 
 the cudgel, and then a light pair of heels, relieved tlie wayfarer of 
 this danger, and left the heroes swearing more terribly than before, 
 and lamenting the waste of good front teeth. 
 
 When he got near Durham he fell upon a party of pitmen out 
 of work, and therefore parading the road, which is the manner oi 
 pitmen, one knows not what for except for mischief. These gentle- 
 men of the underground, who have neither religion nor education, 
 and are, in fact, more savage and heartless than North-American 
 savages, began to set upon the boy out of pure sport, as if they felt 
 that somebody must be damaged in order to keep up their own 
 spirits. They handled him roughly, not for the sake of robbing 
 him, but because he was young and unprotected, just as on Sundays 
 they throw at cocks ; and it would have gone badly with him but 
 for one among them who seemed to be a leader, and with many 
 frightful imprecations bade his fellows let tlie boy alone. So they 
 went on their godless way, and he went his, not much the worse for 
 a roll in the dust. 
 
 As for the nmunted highwaymen, they passed him or met him, 
 riding in splendour, and scorned to fly at such small game as a 
 countiy boy walking along the road. Substantial farmers riding 
 home from market and tradesmen with money in their pockets 
 were their prey. But Ralph met them in the evenings at the 
 country inns, where they hardly pretended to disguise their pro- 
 fession, and bragged and swaggered among the admiring rustics 
 over their punch, as if there were no such things as gallows and 
 rope. 
 
 Worse than tlie highwayman was the common foot-pad, the 
 cowardly and sneaking villain who would rob a little child of a six- 
 pence—aye, and murder it afterwards to prevent discovery, and 
 feel no remorse. When these road vagab(jnds accosted the boy 
 it was with intent to rob him, even of the coat upon his oack ; 
 whereupon he either fought or else ran away. He fought so 
 bravely with so stout a heart and so handy a cudgel, and he ran 
 so fast, that he came to no harm ; more than that, he left 
 behind him on the road half-a-score desperadoes at least, who 
 bore upon their gloomy countenances for life the marks of his 
 
140 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 cudgel, and swore to have his blood whenever they might meet 
 with him again. 
 
 The road was not, however, a long field of battle for the lad, 
 like his Progress to Christian the Pilgrim, nor did he meet with 
 ApoUyon anywhere. There were waggoners to talk with, friendly 
 hawkers, whom the people call muggers, and faws, or tinkers, who 
 are too often robbers and pilferers ; also farmers, their wives and 
 daughters, cattle-drovers, carriers, honest sailors, who would scorn 
 to rob upon the highway, on their way to join shi^), and pleasant 
 Ijctle country towns every eight or ten miles, where one could rest 
 and talk, and drink a tankard of cool small beer. Then, as it was 
 early summer, when there are fairs going on in many places, the 
 roads in some parts were full of the caravans and the show people, 
 whom Ralph found not only a curious and interesting folk, but also 
 friendly, and inclined to conversation with a stranger who was not 
 a rival ; who was ready to offer a tankard ; who admired without 
 stint or envy the precious things they had to show, and who 
 watched with delight unbounded and belief profound, the curious 
 tricks, arts, artifices, and accomplishments by which they secured a 
 precarious livelihood. In this way Pi^alph was so fortunate as to 
 make personal acquaintance with the Pig-faced Lady, the Two- 
 headed Calf, the Bous Potamos of Amphibious Beef (stuffed, but a 
 most prodigious monster), and the Italian who played the pipe with 
 his hands, the cymbals with his elbow, the triangle with his knees, 
 and the bells with his head, while he made a most ingenious set of 
 fantoccini dance with his right foot. All this the wonderful Italian 
 would do, and he was not proud. Then there was tlie accomplished 
 Posture Master, who had no joints at all in any of his limbs, but 
 only flexible hinges turning every way, and could put arms, legs, 
 head, fingers, and toes in any position he pleased. He had a 
 monkey who had been taught to imitate him, but with stiffness. 
 Ralph also was presented to an Albino or Nyctalope, a most illus- 
 trious lady, -vr'th hair a silvery white, and skin of incomparable 
 clearness, but uncertain of temper ; there were the wrestlers, 
 boxers, and quarterstaff players, honest fellows and staunch 
 drinkers, who went round from fair to fair to display their skill, 
 fight with each other like Roman gladiators, and pick up the 
 prizes ; there were the conjurers and magicians, who palmed 
 things wherever they pleased as if they were helped by a devil or 
 two ; the seventh son, who read the future for all comers, and 
 whose boast was that he was never wrong ; the bear-leaders and 
 badger-baiters ; the flyer through the air, who made nothing of 
 descending from a steeple-top on a rope with fireworks on his 
 hands and feet ; the dancers on the tight or slack rope ; the 
 thrower of somersaults ; the itinerant cock-fighter, who would fight 
 his cock against all comers for a guinea a side ; the horse-dealer ; 
 the quack doctor, and his Merry- A.ndrew ; the pedlar with his 
 pack ; the cheap book-seller, and the ballad-crier, with many more 
 of the great tribe of wanderers. Ralph walked with them along 
 
ROW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE. 141 
 
 bhe road, and heard their stories. He also learned some of the 
 strange language in which they talked to each other when minded 
 not to be understood by the bystanders. 
 
 When they came to their destination, and set up their canvas 
 booths, he stayed too, and enjoyed the fun of the fair. At seven- 
 teen there is plenty of time to make your fortune, and why grudge a 
 few days spent in watching the humours of a country fair ? To be 
 sure it cost some money, but he had still a good many of his 
 guineas left, and no one could think a shilling or two ill-spent if 
 one could see Pizarro acted in the most enthralling manner, or hear 
 the most charming singer in the whole world, dainty with ribbons, 
 and a saucy straw hat, sing, "Twas a Pretty Little Heart,' or ' Ben 
 Bowsprit,' or 'Ned, You've no Call to Me.' Besides, there were 
 the sports. Ralph played the cudgels one day and got a broken 
 head, and won a ' plain hat, worth sixteen shillings,' but no one 
 would give him more than four shillings and twopence for it ; also 
 he tried a fall, but was thrown by one mightier than himself in the 
 Cumberland back-stroke ; and he bowled for a cheese but did not 
 win ; and he longed to run in a sack but thought it beneath the 
 dignity of a full-grown man. Also, there were lotteries ; you could 
 put in and draw everywhere all day long ; there were prizes of sis- 
 pence, and prizes of ten pounds : he put in : sometimes he won, 
 but oftener he lost, which is generally the waj' with sportsmen and 
 those who wait ujjon the Goddess of Chance. At this Capua, or 
 Paradise of Pleasures, which was then, and is still, called 
 Grantham, Ralph had well-nigh taken a step which would have 
 made his stoiy much less interesting to us, though perhaps fuller of 
 incident. For he made acquaintance — being a youth of innocent 
 heart, and apt to believe in the lonesty and virtue of everybody — 
 with the company of players. Now it happened, first, that the 
 troop Avere sadly in want of a young actor, if only to pjlay up 
 to the manager's daughter ; and secondly, that this young lady, 
 who was as beautiful as the day and as vivacious as Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle (she afterwards became a most famous London actress, and 
 married an aged earl), cast eyes of favour on the handsome lad, 
 longed very much for him to play Romeo to her Juliet, or Othello 
 to her Desdemona, or any other part in which the beauty of a 
 handsome woman is set ofl' by the beauty of a handsome fellow, a 
 thing which very few actresses can understand : they think, which 
 is a great mistake, that it is better for them to be the only well- 
 favoured creature on the stage. Wherefore the manager took 
 Ralph aside privately, and oflered him refreshment, either ale, or 
 rumbo, or Barbadoes water, with tobacco if he chose, and had 
 serious conversation with him, providing all his victuals and those 
 as abundant as the treasury would allow, and a salary — say live 
 shillings a week, to begin in a few months, as soon as he had 
 learned to act, and to teach him the rudiments ; and the honour 
 and glory of playing principal parts ; and his own daughter to play 
 up to ; and a possible prospect of appearing at Drury Lane. 
 
142 * LET NOTHING YOU BISMAY: 
 
 It was a tempting offer ; the stage — even the stage in a barn — 
 seemed splendid to the lad ; the voice and manner of the manager 
 were seductive ; more seductive still was the voice of his daughter. 
 When she lifted her great eyes and met his he trembled and could 
 not say her nay ; when she laid her pretty hand upon his, and 
 begged him to stay with them and be her Romeo, what could he 
 reply ? Yet he remembered in time that he was on his way to seek 
 h.s fortune ; that the troop were obviously out at elbows, all 
 horribly poor, and apparently badly fed ; that to fall in love with 
 an actress was not the beginning he had contemplated ; and that 
 Drusy, for her part, would certainly not consider a strolling actor's 
 life as the most honourable in the world. He took a resolution : 
 he would think no more upon those limpid eyes ; he hardened his 
 heart ; he would fly. He did fly ; but not before the young 
 actress, who was already beyond his own age, and ought to have 
 known better, had laid her arms round his neck, and kissed fare- 
 well, with many tears, to her first love who would not love her in 
 return. But her father was not displeased, and said, speaking more 
 from a business point of view than out of paternal tenderness, that she 
 would act the better for the little disappointment, and that it does 
 them good, when they are young, to feel something of what they 
 are always pretending. Said it put backbone into their attitudes, 
 and real tears in their eyes. Nothing on the stage so difficult 
 as real tears, except a blush, which cannot be had for love or 
 money. 
 
 T'l'^s it happened that it was four or five weeks before Ralph 
 got to London. 
 
 He arrived by way of Highgate. He reached the top of 
 Higligate Hill at four in the afternoon. Here he sat down to rest, 
 and to look upon the city he had come so far to see. There had 
 been rain, but the clouds had blown over, leaving a blue sky, and 
 a bright sun, and a clear air. He saw in the distance the towers 
 and steeples of London ; his long journey was done ; the fortune he 
 came to seek was — where was it % All the long way from Wark worth 
 it seemed to him that when he reached London he would immedi- 
 ately find that thing known as fortune in some visible and tangible 
 form, waiting to be seized by his strong young hands. Yet now 
 that he saw before him the City of the Golden Pavement it seemed 
 as if, perhaps — it was a chilling thought — he might not know or 
 recognise, or be able to seize this fortune when he actually saw it. 
 What is it like — Good Fortune % In other words, he began for the 
 first time to experience the coldness of doubt which sometimes falls 
 upon the stoutest of us. His cheek was by this time burned a 
 deeper brown ; his hands were dyed and tanned by the June sun ; 
 his coat and waistcoat were stained with travel and with rain ; his 
 shoes were worn tlnrough the soles ; in his pocket jingled the last 
 two of his eleven guineas. When they were gone, he reflected with 
 dismay, what would have to be done 1 But it was not a time to sit 
 and think. Every fortune must have its beginning ; every young 
 
now BALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE, 143 
 
 adventurer must make a start ; every Dick Whittington must enter 
 the City of London. He rose, seized his bundle, and set off down 
 the hill, singing to keep up his spirits, with as much alacrity as if 
 he were only just starting on his way from Warkworth, and as if 
 his heart was still warmed by the recollection of his cousin's bruises. 
 The way from Highgate to London lies along a pleasant road 
 between tall hedges. On either side are fields and woods, and here 
 and there a gentleman's seat or the country box of a successful 
 citizen. Presently the boy reached Highbury, where the road 
 bends south, and he passed Islington, with its old church and its 
 narrow shady lanes thick with trees. On his right he saw a great 
 crowd in a garden, and there was music. This was Sadler's Wells. 
 Soon after this he arrived at Clerlvenwell Green, and so by a maze 
 of streets, not knowing whither he went, to Smithfield, where he 
 found himseK in the midst of the crowd which fills all the streets 
 of the city from dawn till night. Such a crowd, men so rough, he 
 had never seen before. They seemed to take pleasure in jostling 
 and hustling each other as they went along. It gave occasion for 
 profane oaths, strange threats, the exhibition of courage, and tlie 
 provocation of fear. If they carried loads they went straight ahead, 
 caring nothing who was in the way. Some were fighting, some 
 were swearing, some were walking leisurely, some were hastening 
 along as if there was not a moment to be lost. There were open 
 shops along one side ; on another side was a great building, but 
 what it was Puilph knew not. The broad open space was covered 
 with pens and hurdles for cattle, and at the corners were booths 
 and carts from which all kinds of things were sold. A man in a 
 long black gown, with a tall hat and a venerable white beard, stood 
 upon a platform in one place, a clown beside him, holding some- 
 thing in his hand and bawling lustily. When he was silent the 
 clown turned somersaults. Ralph drew nearer and listened. He 
 was selling a magic balsam which cured wounds as well as diseases. 
 ' Only yesterday, gentlemen,' the quack was saying, ' at four in the 
 afternoon, a young nobleman was brought to me run through the 
 body. He bought the balsam, gentlemen, and is already recovered, 
 though weak from loss of blood.' 'Buy ! buy ! buy ! ' shouted the 
 clown. The people looked on, laughed, and went their way. Yet 
 some stayed and bought a box of the precious ointment. Then 
 there was a woman selling gin from a firkin or small cask on a cart. 
 Her customers sat upon a stool and drank this dreadful stuff, 
 ■which, as tut; ingenious Hogarth has shown, makes their cheeks 
 pale and their eyes dull. And there was a stall in which well- 
 dressed city ladies sat eating sweetmeats, march pane, and China 
 oranges, while outside stood a cow, and a woman beside her crj^ing, 
 'A can of milk, ladies! A can of red cow's milk!' The boy 
 looked about uere a while, and passed on, wondering what great 
 holiday was going. He knew not where he was, but that he was in 
 London town. He was to find the sign of the ' Leg and Star ' in 
 Cheapside. Perhaps he would see it as he walked along. If not, 
 
144 'LET NOTHING YOU DIS3IAY.' 
 
 he would ask. Meantime the novelty of the crowd and the noise 
 of the streets pleased him, and he walked slowly with the rest. 
 He would wait until there passed some gentleman of grave 
 appearance of whom he could ask the way. But he was in no 
 hurry. He went on, and although he knew not where he was, he 
 walked through Giltspur Street, past Cock Lane (where afterwards 
 appeared the ghost). On his left he saw Newgate, and so through 
 Great Old Bailey to Ludgate Hill, where, indeed, for the magnifi- 
 cence of the people and the splendour of the shops he was indeed 
 astonished. There were few of the rude jostling people here. 
 IMost were gentlemen in powdered wigs, ruffles, and gold-headed 
 canes, being the better class of citizens taking the air in the 
 evening before supper, or ladies in hoops and silks, with gold 
 chains, fans, and gloves, walking Avith their husbands or their lovers, 
 very beautiful to behold. The shops, not yet shut for the day, had 
 all sorts of signs swinging from the wall. There were the ' Frying 
 Pan and Di-um,' the 'Hog in Armour,' the 'Bible and Swan,' the 
 ' Whale and Crow,' the ' Shovel and Boot,' the ' Razor and Strop,' the 
 ' Axe and Bottle,' the ' Spanish Galleon,' the ' Catherine Wheel,' and 
 a hundred others. But he saw not the sign of the 'Leg and Star.' 
 
 It was growing late. The boy was hungry and tired. He 
 looked in at a coffee-house, but the company within, the crowds of 
 fine gentlemen — some drinking coffee, wine, and brandy, and some 
 smoking pipes — and the gaily-dressed young women who stood 
 behind the counter, frightened him. He did not dare go in and 
 call for a cup of coffee ; besides, he had never tasted cofi'ee. Then 
 he passed a barber's shop, and thought he might ask of the barber, 
 because at W^arkworth the barber was everybody's friend, and 
 perhaps this city barber might take after so good an example. He 
 looked in at the open door, but quickly retreated. For within the 
 shop were two or three gentlemen in the hands of the apprentices ; 
 and one, whose bald head was wrapped in a handkerchief, was 
 singing some song which began, ' Happy is the child whose father 
 has gone to the devil,' while the barber himself, with an apron on 
 and a white nightcap, sat in a chair playing an accompaniment on 
 a kind of guitar. So Ralph went on hisway, wondering what next 
 he should see in London, and where this fortune of his might be 
 found. Presently there came slowly along the street a venerable 
 gentleman in an ample wig and a full black gown. He seemed to 
 have a benevolent countenance. Ralph stopped him, and, pulling 
 olT his hat, ventured to ask this reverend divine if he would con- 
 descend to tell him the shortest way to the sign of the ' Leg and 
 Star ' in Cheapside. 
 
 ' Stay, young man,' said the clergyman ; ' I am somewhat hard 
 of hearing.' 
 
 He pulled out and adjusted very slowly an ear-trumpet, into 
 which Ralph bellowed his question. His reverence then removed 
 the instrument, replaced it in his pocket, and shook his finger at 
 the boy. 
 
BOW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE. 145 
 
 * So young, ' he said, ' yet already corrupted ! Boy, bethink 
 thee that Newgate is but in the next street.' 
 
 With these words he went on his way, and left the lad greatly 
 perplexed and humbled, and wondering what it was that he was 
 o\ip}>osed to have said. 
 
 It was, in short, seven of the clock when he found himself at 
 the place whither he was bound. He had been wandering for an 
 hour and a half, looking about him, and at last ventured to ask 
 the way of a servant-girl, who seemed astonished that he should 
 r/(.)t know so simple a thing as the most expeditious road to Cheap- 
 side, seeing that it was only the other side of Paul's. But she told 
 him, and he presently found himself in the broad and wealthy 
 street called Cheapside. 
 
 The ' Leg and Star ' was on the south side, between Bread Street 
 and Bow Church. It was a glover's shop, and because it was grow- 
 ing late, the boxes of gloves were now taken from the window, and 
 the apprentices were putting all away. Ralph stopped and looked 
 at the sign, then at the letter — which was not a little crumpled 
 and travel-stained — and again at the sign. Yes, it must be the 
 house, the sign of the ' Leg and Star,' in Cheapside. 
 
 At the door of the shop stood a tall and portly man, between 
 fifty and sixty years of age, with large red cheeks and double chin. 
 He was dressed in plain broadcloth and tye-wig, but he wore ruflJes 
 and neckcloth of fine white linen laced, as became a substantial 
 citizen. Ralph knew it could be none other than Mr. Hetherington, 
 wherefore he took ofi" his hat and bowed low. 
 
 ' W hat is thy business, young man ? ' asked the master glover. 
 
 ' Sir, I bear a letter from your honour's daughter, now staying 
 at Warkworth, in Northumberland.' 
 
 ' My daughter ! Then, prithee, boy, who are you ? ' 
 
 ' My name is Ralph Enibleton, and ' 
 
 ' Thou art the son, then, of my old friend, Jack Embleton ? 
 Come in, lad, come in.' He seized the boy by the arm and dragged 
 him into the house and across the shop to the sitting-room at tlie 
 back. ' Wife ! wife ! ' he cried. ' Here is a messenger from Drusy 
 with a letter. Give me the letter, boy. And this is young Ralph 
 Embleton, son of my old friend and gossip. Jack Embleton, with 
 whom I have had many a fight in the old days. Poor Jack ! poor 
 Jack ! Well, we live. Let us be thankful. Make tlie boy 
 welcome ; give him supper. Make him a bed somewhere. Wliat 
 art thou doing in this great place, lad ? So the letter — aye ! the 
 letter.' 
 
 He read the superscription, and slowly opened it and began to 
 read : 
 
 ' Dear and Hon'd Parents — The bairer of this is Raf e, who has 
 run away from cruell treetment, and wants to make his fortune in 
 London. He will tell you that I am w ell, and that I pray for your 
 helthe, and that you will be kind toRafe. — Your loving and dutiful 
 d'ter, 'Dkusilla.' 
 
 z. 
 
146 ^LET NOTHING TOU DISMAY: 
 
 ' So,' went on the merchant, ' cruel treatment. Who hath 
 cruelly ill-treated thee, boy ? ' 
 
 'I have run away, sir,' he said, 'from my cousin Mathew 
 Humble, because he seeks eveiy opportunity to do me a mischief. 
 And, since he is my guardian, there is no remedy but to endure or 
 to run away.' 
 
 ' Ah, Mathew Humble, who bouglit my farm. Sam Embleton 
 married his father's sister. Did your Uncle Sam leave Morwick 
 Mill to Mathew 1 ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; he left it to me.' 
 
 ' And Mathew is your guardian ? Yet the mill is your own, and 
 you have run away from your own property ? Morwick ]\Iill is a 
 pretty estate. It likes me not. Yet you would fain seek your 
 fortune in London. That is well. Fortune, my lad, is only to be 
 made by men of resolute hearts, like me.' He expanded as he 
 spoke, and seemed to grow two feet higher and broad in proportion. 
 • And strong arms, like mine ' — he hammered his chest as if it had 
 been an anvil, — ' and keen eyes, like mine. Weak men fail and 
 get trampled on in London. Cowardly men get set on one side, 
 while the strong and the brave march on. I shall be, without 
 doubt, next year, a Common Councilman. Strong men, clever 
 men, brave men, boy, march, I say, from honour to greater honour. 
 I shall become Alderman in two or three years, if Providence so 
 disposes. There is no limit to the exalted ambitions of the London 
 citizen. You would climb like me. You would be, some day, my 
 Lord Mayor. It is well. It does you credit. It is a noble ambition.' 
 
 Meantime a maid had been spreading the table Avith supper, and, 
 to say the truth, the eyes of the boy were turned upon the cold 
 meats with so visible a longing, that the merchant could not 
 choose but observe his hunger. So he bade him sit and eat. iN^ow, 
 while Ralph devoured his -supper, being at the moment one of the 
 hungriest lads in all England, the honest glover went on talking 
 in grand, if not boastful lanj;uage, about himself and his great 
 doings. Yet, inexperienced as he was, Ralph could not but 
 wonder, because, although the merchant was certainly past lifty 
 years of age, the great things were all in the future. He would become 
 one of the richest merchants in London ; he would be Lord Mayor; 
 he would make his daughter a great heiress ; he designed that she 
 should marry a lord at least. At this announcement Ralph blushed 
 and his heart sank. One of the reasons, said the merchant, why 
 he kept her still in iNorthumberland was that he did not wisn her 
 to return heme until they were removed to a certain great house 
 which he had in his mind, but ha,d not yet purchased. She should 
 go in silk and satin ; he would give such great entertainments that 
 even the king should hear of them ; London was ever the city for 
 noble feasting. And so he talked, until the lad's brain reeled for 
 thinking of all these splendours, and he grew sad in thinking how 
 far off Drusilla would be as, one by uue, all these grandeurs 
 became achieved. 
 
HOW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE. 147 
 
 Another thing he observed : that while the husband talked in 
 his confident and braggart way, the wife, who was a thin woman, 
 Bat silent and sometimes sighed. Why did she sigh ? Did she want 
 to live on in obscurity ? Had she no ambition ? 
 
 Then the merchant filled and lit a pipe of tobacco, and pro- 
 ceeded to tell Ealph how he would have to begin upon this ambitious 
 career in search of fortune. First, he would have to be an appren- 
 tice. 'I was myself,' said Mr. Hetherington, 'an apprentice, 
 though who would think it now ? ' As an apprentice, he would 
 sweep and clean out the shop, open it in the morning, and shut it 
 at night, wait upon the customers all day, run errands, obey duti- 
 fully his master, learn the business, watch his master's interests, 
 behave with respect to his betters, show zeal in the despatch of 
 work, get no holidays or playtime, never see the green fields except 
 on Good Fridays, take for meals what might be given him, whicli 
 would certainly not be slices off the sirloin, and sleep under the 
 counter at niglit. In short, the shop would be his work-room, his 
 parlour, his eating-room, and his bed-room. 
 
 The boy listened to his instructions with dismay. Was this the 
 road to fortune 1 Was he to become a slave for some years ? 
 But — after ? His apprenticeship finished, it appeared that he 
 might, if he could find money, open a shop, and become a master. 
 But most young men, he learned, found it necessary to remain in 
 the employment of their masters for some years, and in some cases 
 for the whole term of their natural lives. 
 
 He did not consider that he had already such a fortune as would, 
 if laid out with judgment, enable him to open a shop or to buy a 
 partnership. He forgot at the time that he was the owner of Mor- 
 wick Mill. It seemed to him, being so young and inexperienced, 
 that he had run away from his inheritance, and abandoned it to 
 Mathew. He, too, might therefore have to remain in a master's 
 employment. This was fine fortune, truly, to be a servant all yoin- 
 days. And the boy began already even to regret his Cousin 
 Mathew's blows and Barbara's cruel tongue. 
 
 His pipe finished, the merchant remembered that at eight his 
 club would meet, and therefore left the lad with his wife. 
 
 ' Boy,' she leaned over the table and whispered eagerly as soon 
 as her husband was gone, ' have you come up to London without 
 money to become a merchant ? ' 
 
 'Indeed, madam,' he replied, 'I know not what I may become.' 
 
 'Then fly,' she said; 'go home again. Follow the plough, 
 become a tinker, a tailor, a cobbler — anything that is honest. 
 Trade is uncertain. For one who succeeds a dozen are broke ; you 
 know not, any moment, but that you also may break. Your for- 
 tune hangs upon a hundred chances. Alas ! if one of these fail, 
 there is the Fleet, or may be Newgate, or Marshalsea, or White- 
 cross Street, or the King's Bench, or the Clink — there are plenty 
 of places for the bestowal of poor debtors — for yourself, and for 
 your wife and innocent children ruin and starvation.' 
 
 I. 2 
 
148 . * LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 ' Yei,' said Ralph, ' Mr. Hetherington is not anxious.' 
 
 ' He leaves anxiety,' she replied bitterly, ' to his wife.' 
 
 Then she became silent, and spoke no more to the boy, but sat 
 with her lips working as one who conversed with herself. And 
 from time to time she sighed as if her heart was breaking. 
 
 In the morning the merchant was up betimes, and began again 
 upon the glories of the city. 
 
 ' Art still of the same mind % ' he asked. ' Wilt thou be like 
 Whittington and Gresham, and me, also one of those who climb the 
 tree 1 ' 
 
 Then Ralph confessed with a blush — which mattered nothing, 
 so deep was the ruddy brown upon his cheek — that he found city 
 honours dearly bought at the price of so much labour and confine- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Then,' said his adviser in less friendly tones, ' what will 
 you do ? ' 
 
 Ralph asked if there was nothing that a young man may do 
 besides work at a trade or sit in a shop. 
 
 ' Why, truly, yes,' Mr. Hetherington replied with severity ; ' he 
 may become a highwayman, and rob upon the road, taking their 
 money from honest tradesmen and poor farmers — a gallant life 
 indeed, and so he will presently hang in chains, or be anatomised 
 and set up in Surgeons' Hall. There is the end of your fresh air 
 for you.' 
 
 ' But, with respect, sir,' Ralph persisted, ' I mean in an honest 
 way.' 
 
 ' If he is rich enough he may be a scholar of Cambridge, and 
 so take orders, or he may become a physician, or a lawyer, or a 
 schoolmaster, or a surgeon, and go to sea in His Majesty's ships 
 and lead a dog's life, or a, soldier and go a fighting ' 
 
 ' Let me be a soldier,' cried the boy. 
 
 ' Why, why % But j'ou must first get His Majesty's commission, 
 and to get this you must beg for letters to my Lord This and my Lord 
 That, and dangle about great houses, praying for their influence, 
 and bribe the lacqueys, and then perhaps never get your commis- 
 sion after all.' 
 
 This was discouraging. 
 
 'Rolling stones, lad,' said the great merchant,, 'gather no 
 moss. Better stand quiet behind the counter, sweep out the shop, 
 serve customers, and keep accounts, and perhaps some day be 
 partner and grow rich.' 
 
 But Ralph hung his head. 
 
 ' Then how can I help thee, foolish boy ? Yet, because I knew 
 
 thy father, and for Drusy's sake Stay, would you go to 
 
 India 1 ' 
 
 To India ! Little, indeed, of the great doings in India reached 
 the town of Warkworth. Yet Ralph had heard the Vicar talking 
 with Mr. Carnaby of Colonel Clive and the famous battle of Plassy. 
 To India ! His eye flashed. 
 
HOW RALPH SOUGHT FORTUNE. 149 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; I would •williniily go to India.' 
 
 ' My worthy friend, Mr. Nathaniel Silvertop, is in the service 
 of the Company. Come, let us seek his counsel.' 
 
 They walked, the boy being much astonished at the crowd, the 
 noise, and the never-ceasing business of the streets, down Cheap- 
 side, through the Poultry, past the new Mansion House and the 
 Royal Exchange, into Cornhill, where stands the Honourable East 
 India Company's House, a plain solid building, adorned with 
 ])illars of the Doric order. Mr. Hetherington led the way into a 
 great hall, where was already assembled a crowd of men who had 
 favours to ask of the directors, and finding a servant he sent hia 
 name to Mr. Silvertop. 
 
 Presently, for nothing was done in undignified haste in this 
 house, Mr. Silvertop himself — a gentleman of three score, and of 
 grave appearance — descended the stairs. To him Mr. Hetherington 
 unfolded his business. 
 
 Here, he said, was a young fellow from Northumberland, heir 
 to a small and j^retty estate, but encumbered for three or four years 
 to come with a guardian, whose aflection he appeared to have un- 
 fortunately lost, so that it would be well for both to remain apart; 
 but he was a young gentleman of roving tastes, who would fain 
 see a little of the world, and — but this he whispered — a brave 
 and bold fellow. 
 
 Mr. Silvertop regarded the lad attentively. 
 
 'Our writers,' he said solemnly, 'go out on small salaries. 
 They seldom rise above four hundred or five hundred pounds a 
 year at the most. Yet — mark this, young gentleman — so great o.re 
 their chances in India that they sometimes come home at forty, 
 or even less, with a hundred — aye, two hundred thousand pounds. 
 Think upon that, boy ! So great a tiling it is to serve this 
 Honourable Company.' 
 
 The boy's eyes showed no emotion. A dull dog, indeed, he 
 seemed to Mr. Silvertop, not to tremble at the mere mention of so 
 vast a sum. 
 
 'Leave him here, my good friend,' said Mr. Silvertop. '1 
 have business, but I will return and speak with him again. He 
 can walk in the hall and wait.' 
 
 Mr. Hetherington went his way, and Ralph waited. 
 
 After an hour or so, he saw Mr. Silvertop coming down the 
 stairs again. He was escorting, or leading to the door, or in some 
 way behaving in respectful and deferential fashion to a tall and 
 splendid gentleman, brave in scarlet, wearing a sash and a sword 
 and a gold-laced hat. At the foot of the stairs, Mr. Silvertop 
 bowed low to this gentleman, who joined a little group of gentle- 
 njen, some of them also in scarlet. He seemed to be the chief 
 among them, for they all behaved to him with the greatest respect. 
 Then Mr. Silvertop looked about in the crowd, and spying Ralph, 
 beckoned him to draw near and speak with him. 
 
 'So,' said Mr. Silvertop, 'you are the lad. Yes, I remember. * 
 
J 50 'LET NOTHING YOU BTSJIAY: 
 
 Ralph thought it strange that he should not remember, seeing that 
 it was but an hour or so since Mr. Silvertop had spoken last with 
 him. ' You are recommended by my friend Mr. Hetherington. 
 Well, I know not — we are pestered with applications for our writer- 
 ships. Every runaway ' — Ralph blushed — ' every out-at-elbows 
 younger son ' — the great gentleman in scarlet, who was close at 
 hand, here turned his head and looked at the lad with a little in- 
 terest — ' every poor curate's brat who can read and cypher wants 
 to be sent to India.' 
 
 ' You cannot, sir,' said the gentleman in scarlet, ' send too many 
 Englishmen to India. I would that the whole country was ruled 
 by Englishmen — yet not by quill-drivers.' 
 
 He added the last words in a lower voice, yet Ralph heard 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Silvertop bowed low, and turned again to the boy. 
 
 ' A writership,' he continued, ' is the greatest gift that can be 
 bestowed upon a deserving lad. Remember that, and if — but I 
 cannot promise. I would oblige my friend if I could— but I will 
 not undertake anything. With my influence — yet I do not say for 
 certain ; a writership is a greater matter than you seem to think — 
 I might bring thy case bef(jre the directors. Is thy handwriting 
 fair, and thy knowledge of figures absolute ? ' 
 
 Ralph blushed, because his handwriting was short of the clerkly 
 standard. 
 
 'I thank you, sir,' he said, 'but I love not writing. I would 
 rather carry a sword than a pen.' 
 
 'Ta-ta-ta,' replied Mr. Silvertop, whose influence lay wholly in 
 the mercantile department of the company. ' We waste our time. 
 A sword ! I know naught of swords. Go thy ways, boy — go thy 
 ways. Is London City, think you, a place for the carriage of 
 swords ! Go, take the king's shilling, and join a marching regi- 
 ment. I warrant you enough of swords and bayonets.' 
 
 Ralph bowed and turned away sadly. The gentleman in scarlet, 
 who had apparently been listening to the conversation, followed 
 him to the doors with thoughtful eyes. 
 
 ' A lad who would rather handle a sword than a pen,' he said. 
 ' Are there many such lads left in this city of trade and greed 1 ' 
 
 They looked, at the ' Leg and Star,' that day, for the return of 
 the young Northumbrian in time for dinner. But he came not ; 
 nor did he come at night ; nor did he ever come. No one knew 
 whither he had gone or what had become of him, and much Mr. 
 Hetherington feared that in this wicked town he had been enticed 
 by some designing wretch to his destruction. 
 
DBUSILLA'S STORY. 151 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 drusilla's story, 
 
 I WAS born in Cheapside, almost beneath the bells of Bow, on 
 October 5, in the year of grace 1753, being the fifth and youngest 
 child of Solomon Hetherington and Prudence his wife. My father 
 was a citizen and glover, a Member of the Honourable Companj' of 
 Glovers, his ambition being always to be elected, before becoming 
 Lord Mayor, Master of his Company. These ambitions are laud- 
 able in a city merchant, yet, alas ! they are not always attained, and 
 in my unhappy father's case they were very far from being reached, 
 as you shall presently hear. 
 
 There is, I am told, some quality in the London air which 
 causeth the city, in si)ite of much that is foolish as regards cleanli- 
 ness, to be a healthy place, and favourable to children. So that, 
 for my own part, though I was brought up in the very centre and 
 heart of the city, with no green fields to run in, nor any gardens 
 save those belonging to tlite Drapers' Company, I, as well as my 
 brothers and sisters, was a healthy and well-faring child up to the 
 age of eight, when I, with all my brothers and sisters, was afHicted 
 with that scourge of mankind, small-pox. This dreadful disease, 
 to the unspeakable grief of my parents, killed their four eldest 
 children, and spared none but myself, the youngest, and a girl. To 
 lose tlu'ee strong and promising boys, the hope of the house, aa 
 well as a girl of fourteen, already beginning to be useful, was a most 
 dreadful thing, and I wonder that my mother, who passionately 
 loved her boys, ever recovered cheerfulness. Indeed, until her dying 
 day she kept the annual recurrence of this day, which robbed her 
 of her children — for they all died on the same day — in prayer and 
 fasting and tears. Yet I was left, and, by further blessing of 
 Heaven, I recovered so far that, although I was weakly and ailing 
 for a long time, I was not marked by a single spot or any of those 
 ugly pits, which sometimes ruin many a woman's beauty and thereby 
 rob her of that choicest blessing, the love of a husband. So dif- 
 ferent, however, was I from the stout and hearty girl before the 
 small-pox, that my parents were advised that the best chance to 
 save my life — this being for the time their chief and even their 
 only hope — was to send me into the country, there to live in fresh 
 pure air, running in the sun, and fed on oatmeal porridge, good 
 milk, fat bacon, and new-laid eggs. 
 
 Then my father bethought him of his own mother who lived far 
 away indeed from London, namely at Warkworth, in Northumber- 
 land. And he jiroposed to my mother that they should take this 
 long journey, carrying me with them, and leave me for a while in 
 charge of my grandmother; which being done, and my health show- 
 
152 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 ins; signs of amendment, they were constrained to go back to their 
 i>\vn business, leaving me in good hands, yet with sorrowful hearts, 
 because they were going home without me. And for six or seven 
 years I saw them no more. 
 
 No girl, to be sure, had kinder treatment or more indulgent 
 governess than myself. My grandmother, Dame Hetherington — - 
 though not a lady by birth, but only a farmer's daughter — lived in 
 the house which stands outside the town, beyond the bridge, among 
 the trees. You may know it by its garden and green railings. It 
 is a small house, yet large enough for the uses and wants of an old 
 lady and a single serving-maid. She was then about seventy years 
 of age, but this is considei'ed young in Northumberland, and I have 
 seen many ladies from London and the south country, or even out 
 of Scotland, who at fifty were not so active. She lived upon an 
 annuity, forty pounds a year, which her son bouglit fur her when 
 he sold his father's farm of thirty acres ; it was bought by Mathew 
 Humble. As for the cottage, it was also my father's, and the Dame 
 lived in it, rent free. 
 
 It was the Dame, my grandmother, who taught me all household 
 things, such as to spin, to sew, to darn, to hem, to knit, to em- 
 broider, to bake and brew, to make puddings, cakes, jellies, and 
 conserves, to compound skilfully cowslip, ginger, and gooseberry 
 wine ; to clean, sweep, dust, and keep in order my own and all the 
 other rooms in the house. It was the Vicar's wife who undertook 
 — there being no school in the town, save a humble Dame's school- 
 to teach me reading, writing, cyphering, together with my Catechism 
 and the Great Scheme of Clu'istian Redemption, of which, being 
 the daughter of pious parents, I already possessed the rudiments. 
 There were not many books to read in the house, because my grand- 
 mother did not read ; but there were the Bible, the Apocrypha, the 
 Pilgrim's Progress, a book of Hymns and Pious Songs, and a 
 bundle of the cheap books which tell of Valentine and Orson, Dick 
 Whittington, the last Appearance of the Devil, and the latest 
 Examples of Divine Wrath against fools and profligates. 
 
 But because the Dame, my grandmother, was a wise woman, 
 and reflected that I was sent away from London in order to recover 
 my health and grow strong, I was allowed and encouraged to run 
 about in the open air as much as possible, so that, as this part of 
 England is quite safe, and there are here few gipsies (who mostly 
 stay on the other side of Cheviot) nor any robbers on the road — 
 nor, indeed, any road at all to signify — I very soon grew to know 
 the whole country within the reach of a hearty girl's feet. 
 
 There is plenty to see, though this part of Northumberland is 
 flat, while the rest is wild and mountainous. Firstly, there are the 
 ruins of the old castle, about which it is always pleasant for a child 
 to run and climb, or for a grown person to meditate on the vanity 
 of earthly things, seeing that this pile of ruins was once a great and 
 stately castle, and this green sward was once hidden beneath the 
 feet of fierce soldiers, who now are dust and ashes in the grave-yard. 
 
DRUSTLLA'S STORY. l.'>3 
 
 From the castle one looks down upon the Coquet, ■which would 
 ever continue in my eyes the sweetest of rivers, even were I to see 
 the far-famed Tiber, or the silver Thames, or the great Ganges, or 
 the mysterious Nile, or even the sacred Jordan. It winds round 
 the foot of the hill on which the castle is built. There is one spot 
 upon itn banks where I have often stood to watch the castle rising 
 proudly — albeit, in ruins — above the hill, and wholly reflected in 
 the tranquil waters below. It was my delight to scramble dowTi 
 the banks and to wander fearless along the windings of the tortuous 
 stream, watching the brightness of its waters, now deep, now broad, 
 now silent, now bubbling with the fish leaping up and disappearing, 
 and the woods hanging on the rising bank. If you sat quite quiet, 
 moving not so much as a finger, you might, if you were lucky, 
 presently see a great otter swimming along in the shadow of the 
 bank, and you would certainly see a water-rat sitting in the sun. 
 But if you move so much as an eyelid the rat drops into the water 
 like a stone. Or if you crossed the river, which you can very easily 
 do in some parts by taking oflf your shoes and stockings and wading, 
 you could go visit the Hermitage. There is the little chapel in 
 which the hapless solitary prayed, and the figure which he rudely 
 sculptured, and even the stone bed on which he lay and the steps 
 of the altar worn by his knees. But chilcb'en think little of these 
 things, and to me it was only a place where one could rest in cool 
 shade when the sun was hot, or seek shelter from the cold blast of 
 the winter wind. 
 
 Higher up the river was Morwick Mill, where Ptalph Embleton 
 lived with his uncle. 
 
 Or, again, if instead of crossing the bridge and going up to the 
 castle, you walked across the fields which lay at the back of the 
 garden — wild and barren fields covered with tufts of coarse grass — 
 you came, after half a mile or so of rough walking, to the sea-shore, 
 fringed with low sand-hills. It was an endless joy to run over these 
 hills and explore their tiny valleys and peaks of twenty feet high at 
 least. Or one could wander on the sands, looking at the waves, an 
 occupation which never tires, or watching sea-gulls sailing with 
 long white wings in the breeze, or the little oxbirds on the sands. 
 If you walked down instead of up the river, you came, after three 
 miles, to its mouth and the little town of Amble, where every man 
 is a fisherman. 
 
 Beyond the town, half a mile out to sea, lies the little island of 
 Coquet. Ralph once rowed me across the narrow channel, and we 
 explored the desert island and thought of Robinson Crusoe, which 
 he had read and told me. But this was before the time when we 
 took to pretending at ghosts. 
 
 In those days, which seem to have been so happy, and I dare 
 say were, Ralph was free, and could come and go as pleased 
 him best, save that he went every morning to the Vicar, who 
 taught him Latin and Greek, and sometimes remembered — br.t in 
 kindly moderation — the advice of Sokmiun. The reason of this 
 
154 LET NOTHING TOU DISMAY: 
 
 freedom was that his uncle, with whom he lived, loved the lad 
 greatly, and intended great things for him, even designing that 
 he should become a great scholar and go to Cambridge. For once 
 tliere was a member of his family who took to learning and rose 
 from being a poor scholar in that university, which has ever been a 
 kindly nurse or foster-mother of poor scholars, to be a Doctor of 
 Divinity and a Bishop. But my Ralph was never to be a Bishop, 
 nor even a Doctor of Divinity. And a sad change was to happen 
 at the mill. 
 
 Everybody was our friend in those days, from Mr. Cuthbert 
 Carnaby, Justice of the Peace, and the Yicar, down to Sailor Nan 
 and her lodger, Dan Gedge, the Strong Man. Everybody had a 
 kind word for Ralph, and nobody told me then how wicked it was 
 to ran about with a boy of such unnatural depravity. This, as you 
 will see, was to come. He was a tall boy for his years, and he was 
 six years older than mj'self, which proves how good-natured he 
 must have been, for few boys of fifteen or sixteen care for the com- 
 panionship of a girl of nine or ten. As for his face, it has always 
 been the dearest face in the world to me, and always will be, so 
 that I know not whether other people would call it a handsome 
 face. His eyes were eager, as if — which was the case — he always 
 wanted to be up and doing. They were blue eyes, because he was 
 a Northumberland lad, yet not soft and dreamy eyes, as is too 
 often the case with the people of the north. His face was oval and 
 his features regular. He carried his head thrown back, and walked 
 erect with both hands ready, as if there was generally a fight to be 
 expected, and it was well to be prepared. To be sure, Ralph was 
 one of those who love a tight and do not sulk if they are beaten, 
 but bide a bit and then on again. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons, who so ready as he at quarterstaff or 
 wrestling, or any of the manly sports 1 As regards the cock-fighting, 
 bull-baiting, and dog-fighting, with which our common peojde so 
 love to inflame their passions and to destroy their sensibility, 
 Ralph would none of it, because he loved dogs, and, indeed, all 
 animals. But at an otter-hunt he was always to the front. He was 
 not fond of books and school-learning, yet he loved to read of 
 foreign lands and of adventures. The Vicar lent him such books, 
 and he told me, long before I thought that he too would become 
 such an one himself, of Pizarro, Cortes, Raleigh, and Francis Drake 
 (not to speak of Robinson Crusoe and Captain Gulliver), and of 
 what great things they did and what fine places they visited. A 
 brave boy always, whose heart leaped uj) when he heard of brave 
 things. 
 
 All the tovm, I have said, were our friends. But of course we had 
 some who were more with us than others. For instance, what should 
 we have been without the Fugleman '] To those who do not know 
 him he was the chief terror of the town, being so stern and lean in 
 a[)pearance, so stifl' and upright, and, besides, othcially connected 
 with such things as stocks, whipping-post, pound, and jullor}- : 
 names of rebuke. To Ralph and to me he was a trusted and 
 
DRUSILLA'S STORY. 155 
 
 thoughtful friend, almost a playfellow. His room at the gateway 
 of the castle, to which he had fitted a door and a window of glass in 
 a wooden frame, was full of things curious and delightful. He had 
 eggs strung in long festoons round the walls, and could tell us where 
 to look for the nests in spring ; he had a ferret in a box ; he had 
 fishing-rods and nets ; he had traps for wild fowl, and for rabbits ; 
 he had a fowling-piece, and he could tell us stories without 
 end of his campaigns. Why, this brave fellow, who was for 
 thirty years and more in the Fourteenth Berkshire Regiment, 
 could tell us of the great review held on Salisbury Plain by 
 his Majesty King George the First, of pious memory. He could 
 tell us of the famous Siege of Gibraltar, when the regiment was 
 commanded by Colonel Clayton, and of the battle of Dettingen, 
 where that gallant officer was killed ; of CuUoden and the Young 
 Pretender. A brave regiment always and strong in Protestant 
 faith, though much given to drink, and only kept in paths of 
 virtue by strict discipline and daily floggings. 
 
 Had it not been for the Fugleman — and Sailor Nan, of whom 
 more anon — I for one should never have learned about foreign 
 places at all, any more than the rest of us in Warkworth. Now, 
 indeed, having heard him talk about them so often, I seem to know 
 the phlegmatic Dutch and the slow German, and the Frenchmen 
 with their love of glorj^, and the Spaniards with their Papistical 
 superstitions, and the cruel ways of the Moors, because the Four- 
 teenth were once at Tangiers. 
 
 Ralph, of course, knew much more than I, because he was more 
 curious, being a boy, and asked many more questions, being always, 
 as I have said already, thirsty for information concerning other 
 people. No one else in Warkworth had been abroad, not even 
 INIr. Carnaby, though gentlemen of good birth, like himself, some- 
 times made the grand tour in their youth, accompanied by tutors. 
 Yet Mr. Carnaby said that they often learned more wickedness 
 than good, and would have been better at home. No one else 
 talked about foreigners or knew anything of them, finding sufficient 
 subject for conversation in the weather and the events of the day 
 in town and country side. I do not except Sailor Nan, although 
 she had sailed over many seas, because a person who only goes to 
 sea remains always, it seems to me, in one spot. 
 
 Northumberland is enough, indeed, for the Northumbrians. 
 To begin with, there is no part of England where there is so much 
 left to be told by the old women, who are ever the collectors and 
 treasurers of things gone by and old stories. Why, men are as 
 wasteful of their recollections as of their money, and were it not for 
 the women, the j^ast would perish. It seems to me as if the Dame 
 could never come to an end with the tales she told me, the songs she 
 sang me (in a pretty voice still, though a little cracked with age), the 
 proverbs she had for every occasion, and the adventures of many people 
 with ghosts and fairies. There was the story of the Loathly Worm 
 of Bamborougli, to begin with, and the terrible tale of Sir Guy the 
 Seeker. I ha^•e stood amid the ruins of Dunstanburgh and 
 
156 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 wondered where might be the door through which he entered 
 when he found the beautiful lady. Then there was the story of 
 the farmer who found King Artliur and all his knights in an en 
 chanted sleep, under Sewing Shields Castle. He saw waiting for 
 the first comer a sword and a horn. He drew the sword, indeed, 
 but was too terrified to blow the horn. 
 
 Oh, woe betide tbat evil day 
 On which the witless win'ht was bom, 
 
 Who drew the sword, the gnrter cut, 
 But never blew the bu^de-hom 
 
 There was the story of the simple man of Ravensworth who 
 died, and was dead for twenty-four hours, during which he was 
 permitted to see both Heaven and Hell, and was sent back to earth 
 to tell the Bishop that he must prepare for death. There was the 
 story of the other simple countryman who had a dream of treasure. 
 In his dream he saw the place where the treasure lay. It was 
 in a triangular space made by three great stones beneath the 
 ground. That simple man was so foolish as to tell his dream. 
 Again the dream came to him. This time he got up early in the 
 morning and went out, spade in hand, to dig. Alas ! he was too 
 late. S')meone else had been there before him, guided by the 
 first dream, and all that was left was the triangular space made 
 by the three great stones. There was the other tieasure-stoty con- 
 nected with the name of Nelly the Knocker. Nelly the Knocker 
 was the ghost of an old woman. She came every evening at dusk, 
 and she stationed herself before a great stone standing by the 
 road-side near a farm. Here she knocked with a hammer. Every- 
 body had seen her— no one was afraid of her ; the rustics were so 
 used to her that they passed her without a shudder, though, of 
 course, no one ventured quite close to her ; her tapping was heard 
 a long way off. One day two men thought they would dig under 
 the st'.-ne, to see if anything was there. They dug, and they found 
 a great pot full of gold coins. So that Nelly the Knocker was 
 justified of her knocking. But she came no more. There was still 
 another story of treasure : how it lay buried under a great stone, 
 and how those who would dig for it were friglitened away by a 
 figitre in white which seemed to fly from under it, no one having 
 courage to remain after the appearance of that figure. There were, 
 lastly, the stories of the fairies who were brought into the country 
 by the Crusaders, never having been heard of before. I have since 
 wondered how they were brought : whether in boxes, or in cages, 
 or in what other way. Those of Northumberland have yellow hair ; 
 they live in chambers under green hills; they have a great day of 
 meeting every year — namely, on the eve of Roodsmass, caled by 
 some Hallowe'en. The chief mischief they do — it is, to be sure, a 
 very great mischief — is to steal the babies (wherefore at reaping- 
 time it is most dangerous to leave their little children under the 
 hedges) and to substitute changelings. 
 
DRUSILLA'S STORT. 157 
 
 ' My dear,' said the Dame, gravely, ' I have known such a 
 changeling. His name was Little Hobbie o' the Castleton ; he was 
 a dwarf, and wrathful by disposition, insomuch that he would draw 
 his gully upon any of the boys who oftended him. But his legs 
 were short, wherebj' he was prevented from the wickedness of 
 murder, or at least striking and wounding.' 
 
 There was also the Brown IVIan of the Moors, but one feared him 
 not at Warkworth, Avhere there are no moors. And there was the 
 fearful Ghost of Black Heddon, known as Silky, because she always 
 appeared dressed in silk ; a stately dajne, the sight of whom terrified 
 the stoutest. 
 
 These are only a few of the tales Avith Avhich my childish head 
 was filled, and though I know that scoft'ers may laugh, in an age 
 which afiects with incredible boldness to disbelieve even the most 
 sacred things, we of the country know very well that these things 
 are too well authenticated not to be true. As regards Silky, for 
 instance, the man was still living and could be spoken with when I 
 was a girl, who, being then a youth of tender years, proposed to 
 personate the figure in white Avhich sometimes stood or sat by the 
 bridge on the road to Edlingham from Alnwick. He put on a 
 sheet and sat upon the bridge, expecting to frighten passengers. 
 Lo ! beside him he saAv, suddenly, the real ghost, saying never a 
 word. And at sight of her he fell backwards over the bndge into 
 the water and broke his leg, so that he went halt to his dying day. 
 This ought to have been a warning both to Ptalph and myself : but, 
 alas ! it was not. 
 
 Sailor Nan, who lived in a cottage up the street between the 
 church and the castle, had seen many ghosts, but hers were sea- 
 ghosts, because, though she had sailed in a great many seas, she 
 had never been asliore — I do not count an hour's run among 
 grog-shops going ashore — in foreign parts, except at Portobello, 
 when that place was taken in the year 1739, when she Avas Avith 
 Admiral Burford, being also captain of the foretop, and at the time 
 about thirty-six years of age ; here, by reason of a Avouud, her sex 
 was discovered, so that they disrated her and sent her home. Her 
 memoiy being good and her recollections being copious, her house 
 was much frequented by young people Avho loved to hear how she 
 boarded the ' Santa Isabella' Avhen aboard the 'Dorsetshii'e,' under 
 Admiral Delaval, or how she Avas present at the famous cutting out 
 of the pirate, with the hangings at the yard-arm of the i)irate 
 captain and all his creAv, and how the ghost of the carpenter 
 (unjustly hanged) haunted the main deck. She was at this time — 
 I mean at the time when Ralph did penance — about sixty years of 
 age. She AA'ore a sailor's three-cornered hat, cocked, a thick 
 woollen Avrapper round her neck, and petticoats almost as short as 
 a sailor's. She wore also thick worsted stockings and men's shoes, 
 so that it was difficult to understand that she Avas a woman and not 
 a man. Her A'oice could be either rough and coarse like a sailor's, 
 or thin like a Avoman's, as she pleased ; I'ound her Avaist she tied a 
 
158 '■LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY. 
 
 cord, which had a knife at the end of it. She smoked tobaccx. 
 continually, and drank as much rum as ever she could get. She 
 lived chiefly by selling tansy cakes. After she was dismissed from 
 the navy she married twice. Her first husband was hanged for 
 selling a stolen pig at Morpeth Fair, and her second hanged himself 
 — some said on account of his wife's cudgel. ' Hinneys,' she would 
 Bay, ' it's a fine thing to dee your own fair death.' Her conver- 
 sation was full of strange sea oaths, and she was still as strong as 
 most men are at thirty, with thick brawny arms and sturdy feet, a 
 woman who feared no man. Besides her tansy cakes she told 
 fortunes to those who would give her silver, and she grew in her 
 garden, and sold, marsh and m.arigold. A tough, hardened old 
 woman, her face beaten and battered by all kinds of weather, who 
 sat outside her door on a big stone all day long, winter and summer, 
 rain, snow, frost, hail, east wind, south wind, sunshine, cloud, or 
 clear, smoking a black pipe of tobacco, and carrying in her hand 
 a stick with which she threatened the cliildren when they ran after 
 her, crying, ' Sailor Nan, Sailor Nan ; half a woman, half a man ! ' 
 But I do not think that she ever harmed any of them. People 
 came to see her from all the country-side, partly to talk with her, 
 because she was so full of stories, and partly to look at a woman 
 who had actually carried a ciitlass, handled pike and marlinspike, 
 been captain of the foretop, brandished a petty officer's rope's-end, 
 manned a boat, fought ashore side by side with the redcoats, and 
 valiantly boarded an enemy. In the end she lived to be a hundred 
 and eight, but she never altered or looked any older, or lost her 
 faculties, or drank less rum, or smoked less tobacco. 
 
 When Ralph was nearly fifteen a great and terrible misfortune 
 befell him. His uncle, Mr. Samuel Embleton, though not an old 
 man, died suddenly. After he was buried it was found that he had 
 left by will Morwick Mill and the farm, his household furniture, 
 his books, which were not many, and all the money he had in the 
 world, to Ralph as his sole heir. This inheritance proved at first 
 the cause of great unhappiness to the boy. For, unfortunately, the 
 will named Mathew Humble as the guardian and executor, to whom 
 the testator devised his best wig and his best coat with his second- 
 best bed and a gold-headed stick. Now it angered Mathew to 
 think that he, being also nephew and sister's son of Samuel 
 Embleton, of Morwick Mill, was left no part or portion of this 
 goodly heritage. It would seem that knowing his uncle's design to 
 send Ralph to Cambridge, and his hope that he would become a 
 credit to the family and a pillar of the Church, he had hoped and 
 even grown to believe firmly and to expect it as a right, that the 
 mill at least, if not the farm, or a portion of it, would be left to 
 him. It was, therefore, a bitter blow for him to find that he waa 
 left nothing at all except what he could make or save as guardian 
 of the heir and administrator of the estate, with free quarters at 
 the mill, for six years. Surely for a man of probity and common 
 sense that would have been considered a great deal. 
 
BRUSILLA'S STORY. \r,^ 
 
 He came, with his sister, who was as much disappointed a,s 
 nimself, in a spirit of rancour, malice, and envy. He regarded the 
 innocent boy as a supplanter. The first thing he did was to inform 
 him that he should have no skulking or idleness. He therefore 
 put a stop to the Latin and Greek lessons from the Vicar, and 
 employed the boy about the work of the place, giving him the 
 hardest and the most disagreeable tasks on the farm. For freedom 
 was substituted servitude ; for liberty, restraint ; for affection and 
 kindness, harsh language and continual floggings ; while Barbara 
 with her tongue, that ill-governed weapon of women, made him 
 feel, for the first time in his life, how idle, how useless, how greedy 
 a creature he was. The boy bore with all, as meekly as was his 
 duty, for quite two years. But he often came to me, or to the 
 Fugleman, with fists clenched, declaring that he would endure this 
 ill-usage no longer, and asking in wonder what he had done to 
 deserve it. And at such times he would swear to leave the mill and 
 run away and seek his fortune anywhere- — somewhere in the world. 
 It was always in his mind, from the first, when Matliew began his 
 ill-treatment, that he would run away and seek his fortune. In 
 this design he was strengthened by the example of my father, who 
 left the village when a boy of fourteen to seek his fortune, and 
 found — you shall hear presently what he found. I dissuaded him, 
 as much as I could, because it was dreadful for me to think of 
 being left without him, or of his running about the country helpless 
 and friendless. The Fugleman, who knew the world and had 
 travelled far, pointed out to him very sensibly that he would have 
 to endure this hardness for a very short time longer, that he was 
 already sixteen and as tall as most men, and could not for very 
 shame be flogged much more ; while, as for Barbara's tongue, he 
 declared that a brave man ought not to value what a woman said — 
 let her tongue run as free as the serjeant at drill of recruits — no 
 more than the price of a rope'? ^nd : and, again, that in five years' 
 time, as soon as Ralph was twenty-one, he would have the right to 
 turn his cousin out of the mill, which would then become his own 
 property, and a very pretty property too, where an old friend 
 would expect to find a pipe and a glass of Hollands or rum. And 
 he promised himself to assist at the ducking in the river which he 
 supposed that Ralph would give his cousin when that happy day 
 should arrive, as well as at the great feast and rejoicing which he 
 supposed would follow. The result of these exhortations, to which 
 were added those of my grandmother, was that he remained at 
 home, and when Mathew Humble cruelly belaboured him, he 
 showed no anger or desire for revenge, and when Barbara smote 
 him with harsh words and found texts out of the Bible to taunt 
 him with, he made no reply. Nor did he rebel even though they 
 treated him as if he were a common plough-boy and farm drudge, 
 instead of the heir to all. 
 
 I confess, and have long felt sincerely, the wickedness of the 
 thing which at length brought open disgrace upon poor Ralph and 
 
160 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 drove him aAvay from us. Yet, deserving of blame and punish- 
 ments as our actions were, I cannot but tliink that the conduct of 
 Mathew in bringing the chief culprit— he knew nothing of my 
 share or of the Fugleman's — before his Worship, Mr. Justice 
 Carnaby, was actuated more by malice than by an honest desire to 
 bring criminals to punishment. Besides, he had for some months 
 before this been spreading abroad wicked rumours about RalpL, 
 saying, among other false and malicious things, that the boy was 
 idle, gluttonous, lying, and even thieving, insomuch that the 
 Vicar, who knew the contrary, and that the boy was as good a lad 
 as ever walked, though fond of merriment and a little headstrong, 
 openly rebuked him for malice and evil-thinking, saying plainly 
 that these things were not so, and that, if they were so, Mathew 
 was much to blame in blabbing them about the country, rather 
 than trying to correct the lad's faults, and doing his best to hide 
 them from the general knowledge. Yet there are some who always 
 believe what is spoken to one's dispraise, and sour looks and un- 
 friendly faces were bestowed upon the boy, while my grandmother 
 was Avarned not to allow me to run wild with a lad of so notorious 
 a bad character. This is all that I meant when I said just now 
 that at first all were our friends. 
 
 When Ptalpli was gone I took little joy in anything until I got 
 my first letter from him, which was not for a very long time 
 afterwards. 
 
 Now, one day, as I was walking sorrowfully home, having sat 
 all the afternoon with the Fugleman, I saw Sailor Nan beckoning to 
 me from her stone outside the door. 
 
 ' Child,' she said, ' where's your sweetheart ? ' 
 
 ' Alack,' I replied, ' I know not, Sailor Nan.' 
 
 ' Young maids,' she went on, ' must not puke and pine because 
 they hear nothing for awhile of the lads they love. Be of good 
 cheer. Why, I read him his fortune myself in his own left hand. 
 Did my fortunes ever turn out wrong 1 As good a tale of luck and 
 fair weather as I ever read. Come, child, give me thy hand ; let 
 me read your lines too.' 
 
 It is strange how in the lines of one's hand are depicted before- 
 hand all the circumstances of life, easy to be read by those who 
 are wise. Yet have I been told that it is not enough to learn the 
 rules unless you have the gift. 
 
 'He will come back,' she repeated, after long looking into the 
 hand. ' Now, your own hand. Here is a long line of life — yet 
 not as long as my own. Here is the line of marriage — a good line ; 
 a happy marriage ; a fortunate girl — yet there will be trouble. Is 
 it an old man 1 I cannot rightly read. Something is in the way. 
 Trouble, and even grievous trouble. But all to come right in the 
 end.' 
 
 'Is my fortune,' J asked, 'connected with the fortune of 
 Ralph 1 ' 
 
 She laughed her rough, hoarse sea-laugh. 
 
DRUSILLA'S STORY. 161 
 
 ' If it is an old man, or if it is a young man, saj' him nay. 
 Bide your old love. If he press or if he threaten, say him nay. 
 Bide your old sweetheart. 
 
 ♦There was an old man came over the lea, 
 Heigho ! but I won't have 'un ; 
 
 Came over the lea, 
 
 A courtin' to me, 
 Wi' his old gray beard just newly shaven.' 
 
 She crooned out the words in a cracked and rusty voice, and 
 pushed my hand away roughly. Then she replaced her pipe in 
 her mouth and went on smoking the tobacco which was her chief 
 food and her chief solace, and took no further heed of me. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A SECOND WHITTINGTOIf. 
 
 It becomes not a young girl to pronounce judgment openly (what- 
 ever she may think) upon the conduct of her elders, or to show 
 resentment, whatever they may think fit to do ; so that when 
 Mathew Humble came to see my grandmother on certain small 
 affairs which passed between them — concerning the sale of a jiig, 
 or I know not what— it was my duty, though my heart was aflame, 
 to sit, hands in lap, quiet and mum, when I would rather. Heaven 
 knows, have been boxing his ears and railing him in such language 
 as I could command, for I certainly could never forget, while this 
 man, with the fat red cheeks and pig's eyes, was drinking my 
 grandmother's best cowslip wine, as if he had been the most virtu- 
 ous of men, that it was through him — though this my grandmother 
 knew not, for I never told her — that Ralph had been betrayed to 
 his Worship, and so been brought to public shame ; that it was 
 this man who had beaten the boy without a cause, and that it was 
 his sister who daily sought out hard words and cruel texts, as well 
 as coarse crusts, with which to torture my Ralph. I remembered, 
 as well, that it was this man who had been soundly cudgelled and 
 fl.ogged by the boy he had abused so shamefully. 
 
 'You have heard nothing, I dare say, Mr. Mathew,' asked the 
 Dame, for it was now two months after the poor lad's flight, ' of 
 our young runaway, whom we in this house greatly lament and 
 wish him well 1 ' 
 
 'Nothing as yet,' replied Mathew. Then he drank off the rest 
 of his glass, and went on with much satisfaction : ' I fear' — yet ha 
 looked as if he hoped — ' that we shall hear nothing until we hear 
 the worst, as provided by the righteous laws of this country. 
 ^Yhat, madam, can be expected of one so dead and hardened unto 
 
162 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 conscience as to offer violence and to turn upon his guardian, and 
 take him while off his guard and unawares with bludgeons and 
 cudgels ? ' 
 
 The whole town had heard by this time and knew very well 
 how Ralph, before his flight, refused to be flogged, and fought his 
 guardian and vanquished him, insomuch that grievous weais were 
 raised and bruises sad to tell of. It was Mathew's version that 
 he was taken by surprise. Otherwise, he said, it was nothing but 
 Heaven's mercy prevented him from grievously wounding and 
 hurting the boy, who ran away for fear and dared not come back. 
 Opinion was divided : for some called shame on Mathew for flog- 
 ghig so tall and strong a lad — almost a man — and others declared 
 that stripes, and those abundant and well laid on, alone could 
 meet the deserts of one guilty of bringing ghostly visitors into 
 discredit, because, should such practices continue, no ghost, even 
 one who came to tell of buried treasure, would be sure of his — 
 or her — reception, and might be scoffed at as an impostor, instead 
 of being received with terror and the fearful knocking together of 
 knees. 
 
 But mostly the general opinion was in favour of the boy and 
 his flight ; the folk rejoiced that Mathew had met his match ; and 
 our ignorance of Ralph's fate made the people remember once 
 more his many good qualities, his merry friendliness, his honest 
 face, and his blithe brown eyes, in spite of the ghost pretences- and 
 the stories spread abroad by his cousins. 
 
 ' That,' said my grandmother, in answer to Mathew, ' was 
 wrong, indeed. I had hoped that the lad would have returned, 
 made submission, received punishment, and been pardoned. He 
 Avas ever a boy of good disposition, and his uncle loved him, 
 Mathew — a thing which did, without doubt, prepossess you in his 
 favour.' 
 
 Mathew slowly put down his empty glass, and held up both 
 hands to show astonishment. 
 
 ' Good disposition ? This, madam, springs from your own 
 goodness of heart. Who in Warkworth doth not know that the 
 boy was already, so to speak, a man grown, so far as wickedness is 
 concerned 1 He of a good disj^osition 1 Alas, madam, your heart 
 is truly too full of kindness ! For the sake of Missy here — who 
 grows a tall lass — I am glad that he is gone, because he would have 
 taught her some of his own wickedness. Alas ! ' here he spread 
 his hands, ' the things that I could tell you if I would. But one 
 must spare one's cousin. Greediness, laziness, profligacy, luxury. 
 Ha ! but I speak not of these matters, because he was my cousin. 
 For his own sake, and because at his age an evil-disposed boy 
 cannot but feel the want of tliose paternal corrections which I 
 never spared, I grieve that he is no longer with us.' 
 
 ' JSTevertheless, Mr. Mathew,' said my grandmother, smiling, 
 * I cannot believe, even though you assure us, that Ralph was so 
 wicked as all this, and I hope, for the credit of your family, that 
 
A SECOND WEITTINGTON. 103 
 
 yovi will diligently spread abroad a better opinion. No one ia 
 hardened at sixteen.' 
 
 ' Except Ralph,' said Mathew, shaking his head. 
 
 ' And I for one shall continue to hope the best. He will re- 
 turn to us, Mr. Mathew, before long, penitent, and desirous t'f 
 pleasing his guardian, and you will then be able to correct your 
 judgment.' 
 
 ' I do not think he will ever return,' said his cousin. ' As fc r 
 being penitent, he must first take the punishment which awaits 
 
 him. As for desiring to please ' He stopped short, doubtless 
 
 remembering that alder-branch. 
 
 'If he does not return,' my grandmother continued, 'till after 
 he becomes of age, it will be your great happiness to hand over hJs 
 property, well husbanded and with careful stewardship.' Here 
 Mathew shut both his eyes and shook his head, but I know not 
 why. ' You will feel the pleasure of doing good to one who un- 
 dutifuUy offered you violence. He will be the opposite to the 
 man in the parable, for he will have left his talent tied up in a 
 napkin, and he will return and find it multiplied.' 
 
 ' Such as Ralph,' said Mathew, grimly, ' do not repent, ntsr 
 desire to please, nor return. He began with penance — public 
 penance — think upon that — and saying the Lord's Prayer aloud. He 
 will be advanced next — which is the regular course of such as him- — 
 to pillory. After penance, pillory. It is the regular thing. After 
 pillory, stocks ; after stocks, whipping-post or cart-tail ; after cart- 
 tail, burning in the hand. Lastly, he will be promoted to the 
 gallows.' He positively rubbed his hands together, and laughed at 
 this delightful prospect. Why did he wish his cousin hanged, I 
 wonder, unless that he would then get the mill \ 
 
 ' I trust not,' said the Dame. ' Meantime, you will guard his 
 property.' 
 
 ' His property ! ' his face grew quite black. ' His property ! 
 Why, if he comes back there will be something said about that iis 
 well. Ha ! His property ! Pla ! ' 
 
 ' But, surely, Mr. Mathew, his uncle bequeathed Morwick Mill 
 to Balph 'I ' 
 
 ' That, madam, has been the belief of the world. Neverthe- 
 less But I say nothing This is not the time for serious talk.' 
 
 When he was ffone, my grandmother, who seldom discussed 
 such high mutters with me, said : 
 
 ' Drusilla, I like it not. Doth Mathew Humble desire the death 
 of his cousin ? It would seem so. Pillory, stocks, whipping- 
 post, gallows 1 All for our Balph ? Why this passeth under- 
 standing ! And wherefore this talk of the world's belief 1 I like 
 it not, child.' 
 
 ' But you do not think, grandmother, that Ralph will ' 
 
 ' I think, child, that Ralj^h is a good lad, but headstrong, per- 
 haps, and impatient of control. Wherever he is I will warrant him 
 honest. Such boys get on, as your father got on. Some day, I 
 
 M 2 
 
164 * LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 make no doubt that lie will return. But as for Mathew Humble, 
 I like not his manner of speech.' 
 
 The same day she put on her bonnet and best shawl and went 
 to the house of Mr. Cuthbert Carnaby, from which I gathered — 
 my little wits jumping as fast as bigger ones — that she went to lay 
 the case before his Worship, which perhaps was the reason Avhy, 
 when Mr. Carnaby next met Mathew (it was after church on 
 Sunday), he informed him that it should be his own business to 
 watch that the mill and farm were properly managed in the 
 interests of the heir, and that a strict account would be reqiiired 
 when Ralph returned and came of age. Whereat Mathew became 
 confused, and stammered words incoherent about proving who was 
 the rightful heir. Yet, for the moment, nothing more was said 
 upon that subject. 
 
 The summer and the autumn passed, but no sign or letter came 
 from Ralph. The people in the town ceased, after the manner of 
 mankind, to think of the boy. He was gone and forgotten, yet 
 there were two or three of us who spoke and thought of him con- 
 tinually. First there was the Fugleman, who found his life dull 
 without the boy to talk with. He promised to make a collection 
 of birds' eggs in the spring as a present for him when he should 
 return. Then there was the old woman. Sailor Nan, who kept his 
 memory green. Lastly, there were my grandmother and myself. 
 We knew not, however, where he was, or anything about him, nor 
 could we guess what he was doing, or whither he had gone. 
 
 Twice in the year — namely, at Christmas or the New Year, and 
 at Midsummer— I had letters from my parents, to which I duly 
 replied. It was in May when Ralph ran away, so that they had 
 tliree letters from me that year. When my Christmas letters 
 arrived there was mention of our boy, but so strange a tale that we 
 could not understand what to believe or what the thing might 
 mean. 
 
 The letter told us that Ralph reached London safely in four or 
 five weeks after leaving us, having walked all the way, save for 
 such trifling lifts and helps as might be had for nothing on the road ; 
 he found out my father's shop ; he gave him the letter ; he slept in 
 the house, and was hosi^itably entertained. In the morning he 
 was taken by my father to the East India Company's great house 
 in Cornhill, and left there by him to talk with a gentleman about 
 the obtaining of a post in their service ; that, the conversation 
 finished, being dismissed by the gentleman with whom he had 
 taken counsel, Ralph left the office. Then he disappeared, and was 
 seen no more. Nor to the inquiries made was there any answer 
 given or any news of him ascertained. ' So wicked is this unhappy 
 town,' wrote my mother, ' that men are capable of murdering even 
 an innocent lad from the country for the sake of the silver buckles, 
 or the very coat upon his back. Yet there are other ways in which 
 he may have been drawn away. He loved not the thought of city 
 life J he may have taken the recruiting sergeant's shilling, or he 
 
A SECOXD WHITTINGTON. 165 
 
 may have been pressed for a sailor and sent to sea ; or, which 
 Heaven forbid, he may have been decoyed into bad company, and 
 now be in the company of rogues. Whatever the cause, he hath 
 disappeared and made no sign. Yet he seemed a good and honest lad.' 
 
 So perplexed were we with the strange and unintelligible intel- 
 ligence that, after turning it about in talk for a week, it was 
 resolved that we would consult Mr. Carnaby in the matter. It 
 would perhaps have been better if we had kept the thing to our- 
 selves. For this gentleman, though he kindly considered the case, 
 could do nothing to remove the dreadful doubt under which we lay, 
 except that he recommended us to patience and resignation, vii'tues 
 which, Heaven knows ! we women who stay at home must needs 
 continually practise. We should, I say, have done better had we 
 held our tongues, because Mr. Carnaby told the barber, who told 
 the townsfolk one by one, and then it was whispered about that 
 Ralph had joined the gipsies, according to some ; or been pressed 
 and sent to sea, according to others ; or had enlisted, according to 
 others ; with wild stories told in addition, born of imagination, idle 
 or malignant, as that he had joined a company of common rogues 
 and robbers ; or — but I scorn to repeat these things. Everybody, 
 however, at this juncture, remembered the wicked things said of 
 the boy by his cousin. As for Mathew himself, overjoyed at the 
 welcome news, which he received open-mouthed, so to speak, he 
 went about calling all his acquaintance to witness that he had long 
 since prophesied ruin and disaster to the boy, which, indeed, to the 
 fullest extent, a lad so depraved as to horsewhip his own guardian 
 richly deserved. As for coming back, he said, that was not likely, 
 and indeed impossible, because he was already knocked on the 
 head — Mathew was quite convinced of this — in some midnight 
 brawl, or at least fallen so low that he would never dare to return 
 among respectable people. These things we could not believe, yet 
 they sank into our hearts and made us uneasy. For where could 
 the boy be, and why did he not send us one letter, at least, to tell 
 us what he had done, and how he had fared ? 
 
 ' Child,' said my grandmother, ' it is certain that Ma'^hew does 
 not wish his cousin to return. He bears malice in his heart against 
 the boy, and he remembers that should he never come back the 
 mill will be his own.' Already he began to give himself the airs of 
 the master, and to talk of selling a field here and a field there, and 
 of improving the property, as if all was his. 
 
 ' He will come back,' said the Fugleman. ' Brave hearts and 
 lusty legs do not get killed. Maybe, he hath enlisted. Then he 
 may have gone a soldiering to America, or somewhere in the world, 
 and no doubt will get promotion — aye, corporal first, sergeant next, 
 and perhaps be made Fugleman. Or, maybe, as your lady mother 
 says, he hath been pressed, and is now at sea, so that he cannot 
 write. But, wherever he is, be sure he is doing well. Wherefore, 
 heart up ! ' 
 
 Well, to shorten the story, we got no news at all, and could 
 
166 'LET NOiniXG YOU DISMAY: 
 
 never discover for many years what had become of the boy. "When 
 four years had passed by without a word or Une from him, Mathew 
 grew horribly afraid because Ralph's one-and-twentieth birthday 
 drew near, and he thought the time was come when the heir would 
 appear and claim his own. What preparations he made to receive 
 him I know not. Perhaps a blunderbuss and a cup of poison. 
 But the day passed, and there was no sign of Ralph. Then, 
 indeed, Mathew became quite certain that he would no more be 
 disturbed and that the mill was his own. 
 
 As for myself, I sat at home chiefly with my grandmother, who 
 was now beginning to grow old, yet brisk and notable still. There 
 was a great deal to be done, and the days passed swiftly to indus- 
 trious hands ; yet not one so busy and not one so swift but I could 
 find time to think and to pray for Ralph. As for diversions, for 
 those who want them, there are plenty. Do not think that in our 
 little north-country town we have any cause to envy the pleasures 
 of town. Why, to begin with, there are the mummers at Christmas ; 
 all through the dark evenings the lads gamble at candle creel for 
 the stable-lanterns ; on New Year's Eve we sit up all night long 
 and keep the fire burning — it is dreadful bad luck to borrow fire 
 on a New Year's morning ; in the summer there comes the fair ; 
 on Sunday afternoons, for the young men there is wrestling, with 
 quarter-staff and cock-fighting. At harvest-time there is the March 
 of the Kii-n baby — 
 
 The master's corn is ripe and shorn, 
 We bless the day that he was born ; 
 Shouting a kirn — a Isirn — ahoa ! 
 
 with the feast afterwards and the cushion-dance, at which the old 
 Bong of ' Prinkham Prankham ' is always sung, and the girls are 
 kissed, a proceeding which seems never to fail in causing the live- 
 liest satisfaction to the m'en, though why they should wish to kiss 
 young persons for whom they do not feel any aff'ection, and perhaps, 
 even any respect, passes my poor comprehension. I have seen, on 
 these occasions, a gentleman kiss a dairymaid, and dissemble so 
 well that one might say he liked it. Besides these amusements, 
 the men had the excitement of the smuggling, whereof you will 
 hear more presently. 
 
 To look back upon, in spite of these amusements, it was a long 
 and dreary time of waiting. Yet still the Fugleman kept up my 
 heart, and Sailor Nan swore, as if she was still captain of the 
 foretop, that he would come home safe. I was young, happily, 
 and youth is the time for hope. And about the end of the sixth 
 year I had cause to think about other things, because my own 
 misfortunes began. 
 
 I had long observed in the letters of my dear parents a certain 
 difference, which constantly caused doubt and questioning ; for my 
 motlier exhorted me continually in every letter to the practice of 
 frugality, thrift, simple living, and the acquisition of housewifely 
 
A SECOND WIIITTIXGTOX. 167 
 
 knowledge, and, in short, all those virtues which especially adi irn 
 tlie condition of poverty. She also never failed to bid me reflect 
 upon the uncertainty of human aliairs and the instability of for- 
 tune ; and every letter fiu'nished examples of rich men becoming 
 poor, and great ladies reduced to beg their bread. My grandmother 
 bade me lay these things to heart, and I perceived that she was 
 disturbed, and she would have written to my father to ask if things 
 were going ill, but for two reasons. The first was that she could 
 neither read nor write, those arts not having been taught her in 
 her childhood ; and I testify that she was none the worse for want 
 of them, but her natural shrewdness even increased, because she 
 had to depend upon herself, and could not still be running to a 
 book for guidance. The second reason was that the letters of my 
 father, both to her and to myself, were full of glorious anticipation 
 and confidence. Yes ; while my mother wrote in sadness, he wrotf 
 in triumph ; when she bade me learn to scour pots, he commanded 
 me to study the fashions ; when she prophesied disaster, he pro- 
 claimed good fortune. Thus, he ordered that I was to be taught 
 whatever could be learned in so remote a town as Warkworth, and 
 that especial care was to be taken in my carriage and demeanour, 
 begging my grandmother to observe the depiirtment of Mistress 
 Carnaby, and to bid me copy her as an example ; for, he said, a 
 city heiress not uncommonly married with a gentleman of good 
 family, though impoverished fortunes ; that some city heiresses 
 had of late married noblemen ; that as he had no son, nor any 
 other child but myself, I would inherit the whole of his vast fortune 
 (I thought how I could give it all to Ralph), and, therefore, I must 
 study how to maintain myself in the position which I should shortly 
 occupy ; that he was already of the Common Council, and looked 
 before long to be made Alderman, after which it was but a step to 
 Sheriff first and Lord Mayor afterwards ; that he intended to build 
 or buy a great house worthy of his wealth ; and that he did not 
 wish me to return home until such time as this house was in 
 readiness, because, as one might truly say, his present dwelling 
 in Cheapside, though convenient for his business and the place 
 where liis fortune was made, was but a poor place, quite unworthy 
 of an heu'ess, and he wished that I should be seen nowhere until 
 he had prepared a fitting place for my reception ; that, in point of 
 beauty, he hoped and doubted not that I should be able to set off 
 and adorn the jewels and fine dresses which he designed presently 
 to give me ; and that he desired me especially to pay very par- 
 ticular attention not to seem quite rustical and country-bred, and 
 to remember that the common speech of Northumberland would 
 raise a laugh in London. With much more to the same effect. 
 
 I say not that my father wrote all this in a single letter, but in 
 several, so that all these things became implanted in my mind, and 
 both my grandmother and myself were, in spite of my mother's 
 letters, firmly persuaded that we were already very rich and con- 
 siderable people, and that my father was a merchant of the greatest 
 
168 *LET NOTHING TOU B ISM AT,' 
 
 renown — already a Common Councilman, and shortly to be Alder- 
 man, Sheriff, and Lord Mayor — in the City of London. Thia 
 belief was also held by our neighbours and friends, and it gave my 
 grandmother, who was, besides, a lady of dignified manners, more 
 consideration than she would otherwise have obtained, Avith the 
 title of Madam, which was surely due to the mother of so great 
 and successful a man. 
 
 Now the truth was this : my father was the most sanguine of 
 men, and the most ready to deceive himself. He lived continually 
 (if I may presume to say so without breaking the fifth command- 
 ment) in a fool's paradise. When he was a boy nothing would do 
 for him but he must go to London, refusing to till the acres which 
 would afterwards be his own, because he was ambitious, and 
 ardently desired to be another Whittington. See the dangers of 
 the common chap books, in which he had read the story of this 
 great Lord Mayor ! He so far resembled Whittington that he 
 went up to London (by waggon from Newcastle) with little in his 
 pocket, except a letter of recommendation from the then Vicar of 
 Warkworth to his brother, at the time a glover in Cheapside. How 
 he became apprentice — like Whittington — to this glover, how he 
 fell in love — like Whittington — with his master's daughter, how he 
 married her — like Whittington — and inherited the business, stock, 
 capital, goodwill, and all, may here only be thus briefly told ; but 
 by the death of his master he became actual and sole owner of a 
 London shop, whereupon my poor father's brain being always full 
 of visions, he was inflamed with the confidence that now, indeed, 
 he had nothing to look for but the making of an immense fortune. 
 Worse than this, he thought that the fortune would come of its 
 own accord. How a man living in the city of London could make 
 so prodigious a mistake I know not. Therefore he left tlie whole 
 care of the business to his wife and his apprentices, and for his 
 own part spent the day in'coflee-houses or on 'Change, or wherever 
 merchants and traders meet together. This made him full of great 
 talk, and he presently proceeded to imagine that he himself was 
 concerned in the great ventures and enterprises of which he heard 
 so raucii ; or, perhaps, because he could not actually have thought 
 himself a merchant adventurer, he believed that before long he 
 also should be embarking cargoes to the East and West Indies, 
 running under convoy of frigates safe through the enemy's priva- 
 teers. It was out of the profits of these imaginary cargoes that he 
 was to obtain that vast wealth of which he continually thought and 
 talked until, in the end, he believed that he possessed it. Mean- 
 time his poor wife, my mother, left in charge of the shop, and with 
 her household cares as well, found, to her dismay, that the re- 
 spectable business which her father had made was quickly falling 
 from them, as their old friends died, one by one, or retired from 
 trade, and no new ones coming in their places ; for, as I have been 
 credibly informed, the business of a tradesman or merchant in 
 London is so precarious and uncertain, that, unless it be constantly 
 
A SECOND WHITTINGTON. 169 
 
 watched, pushed, nursed, encouraged, coaxed, fed and flattered, it 
 presently withers away and perishes. 
 
 For want of the master's presence, for lack of pushing and 
 encouragement, the yearly returns of the shop grew less and less. 
 !No one knew this except my mother. It was useless to tell my 
 father. If she begged his attention to the fact, he only said that 
 business was, in the nature of things, fluctuating ; that a bad year 
 would be succeeded by a good year ; that large profits had recently 
 been made by tradex's to Calicut and Surinam, where he had 
 designs of employing his own capital, and that ventures to Canton 
 had of late proved extremely successful. Alas, poor man ! he had 
 no capital left, for now all was gone- -capital, credit, and custom. 
 Yet he still continued to believe that his shop, the shop which 
 came to him with his wife, was bringing him, every year, a great 
 and steady return, and that he was amassing a fortune. 
 
 One day — it was a Saturday evening in May — in the year 
 seventeen hundred and seventy, six years after the flight of Ralph 
 Embleton, when I was in my seventeenth year, and almost grown 
 to my full height, I saw coming slowly along the narrow road 
 which leads from the highway to Wark worth a country cart, and 
 in it two persons, the driver walking at the horse's head. I stood 
 at the garden-gate watching this cart idly, and the setting sun 
 behind it, without so much as wondering who these persons might 
 be, until presently it came slowly down the road, which here slopes 
 gently to the river and the bridge, and pulled up in front of our 
 gate. When the cart stopped a lady got quickly down and seized 
 my hands. 
 
 ' You are my Drusilla ? ' she asked, and without waiting for a 
 reply, because she was my mother and knew I could be no other 
 than her own daughter, she fell upon my neck in a passion of 
 weeping and sobbing, saying that she knew I was her daughter 
 dear, and that she was my most unhappy ruined mother. It was 
 my father who descended after her. He advanced with dignified 
 step and the carriage of one in authority. I observed that his 
 linen and the lace of his ruffles were of the very finest, and his 
 coat, though dusty, of the finest broadcloth. He seemed not to 
 perceive my mother's tears ; he kissed me and gave me his blessing. 
 He bade the carter, with majestic air, lead the ' coach' — he called 
 the country cart a coach — and take great care of the horse, which 
 he said was worth forty guineas if a penny ; but the horse Avas a 
 ten-year-old cart-horse, worth at most four guineas, as I knew very 
 well, because I knew the carrier. 
 
 Amazed at this extraordinary behaviour, I led my parents to 
 my grandmother, and then we presently learned the truth. My 
 father, if you please, was ruined ; he was a bankrupt ; his schemes 
 of greatness had come to nothing ; his vast fortune lay in his 
 imagination only ; he had lost his wife's money and his own. He 
 had returned to his native county, his old friends having clubbed 
 together and made a little purse for him, and his creditors having 
 
170 'LET NOTHING YOU DTS3IAY: 
 
 consented to accept what they could get and to give him a quittance 
 in full, because he was known to be a man of integrity ; otherwise 
 he might have been lodged in gaol, where many an unfortunate, 
 yet honest, man lieth in misery. 
 
 The disaster was more than my father's brain could bear. 
 Nothing more dreadful can happen to a merchant and one in trade 
 than to become a bankrupt. To lose his money is bad, but many 
 a man loses his all, yet does not become bankrupt, and so saves his 
 credit. A merchant's credit is for him what his honour is to a 
 soldier, his piety to a divine, her virtue to a woman, his skill to a 
 craftsman. My father, I say, could not bear it. First, as soon as 
 he fairly understood what had happened, he fell into a lethargy, 
 sitting in a chair all day in silence, and desiring nothing but to be 
 left alone. After a wliile the lethargy changed into a restlessness, 
 and he must needs be up and doing something — it mattered not 
 what. Then the restlessness disappeared and he became again his 
 old seK, as cheerful, as sanguine, as confident, with no other 
 change than a more settled dignity of bearing, caused by the belief, 
 the complete delusion, that now his fortune was indeed made ; that 
 he possessed boundless wealth, and that he was going to leave 
 London and to retire into the country, as many great merchants 
 used to do, in order to enjoy it. 
 
 He was perfectly reasonable on all other points ; he could talk 
 on politics or on religion, on London matters, on the aifairs of 
 Warkworth, or on the interests of the farmers ; but always on the 
 assumption of his own wealth. The broad fields everj'where he 
 believed to be his own. If he came with me, as he often did, when 
 I milked the cow, fed the pigs and the chickens, made the bread, 
 brewed the beer, or turned the chum, he laughed at what he was 
 pleased to call the condescension of liis heiress in doing this menial 
 work, and called me his pretty shepherdess. And sometimes he 
 entertained me with stories of how his fortune was made. Chiefly 
 I found his imagination ran upon Canton, with trade in tea and silk. 
 
 ' It is very well known,' he would say, ' that those who venture 
 in the Greek seas and the Levant run very heavy risks ; they are 
 more dangerous, my dear child, than many places much farther 
 away. I considered the Levant trade carefully, before embarking 
 my money in foreign ventures. I was always prudent, perhaps too 
 prudent. Yet the end hath justified me. Eh, Drusilla, hath not 
 the end justified me? ^^^ly, I have known a man on 'Change 
 worth this day a plum — a round plum, child — and to-morrow not 
 half that sum, by reason of losses in the treacherous Levant. But, 
 alas ! there are perils in every sea. Tempests and hurricanes 
 arise ; there are hidden rocks ; there are fires at sea ; ships are 
 becalmed — all these things we call the Hand of God ; there are 
 also pirates everywhere ; they lurk in the IMahometan ports of 
 Morocco, Algiers, Tripoli, and Tunis ; they hide in tlie fever- 
 Bmitten harbours of Madagascar — but men born to be hanged 
 laugh at fever ; they abound in the West Indies and in the ^Narrow 
 
A SEC AD ^VIIITTlXGTnX. 171 
 
 Seas. We are always at war witli some great power, and therefore 
 we have privateers to dread ; these, my dear, are more desperate 
 and blood-thirsty villains even than your murderous pirates. And 
 there is danger from mutiny aboard, whereby friends of my own — 
 substantial men, mark you, on 'Change — have lost many a noble 
 ship and precious cargo. We on 'Change think nothing of these 
 chances ; we are on the mountains one day and in the depths the 
 next. Yet, like the good old country to which we belong, we 
 weather the storm, and in the end grow rich. Rich ? Drusilla, my 
 child, we grow enormously rich. The Earl of Northumberland 
 himself, with all his acres, is not so rich as your father.' 
 
 My mother sp(jke of him, when he was not present, with a 
 bitterness which grieved me sore. But I knew not the troublf? she 
 had had, and the long anticipation of this trouble. It appeared, 
 indeed, as if a sound, though modest, business, with the certainty 
 of a competence, had been thrown away and wasted for want of a 
 little — only a little forethought and care. My father, at the best, 
 was only a simple glover with a small shop and two apprentices. 
 What could a ] >oor lad from Northumberland expect more % All 
 that a woman can do my mother had done. But in trade a woman 
 can do but little. She can serve, but she cannot go about and 
 make trade — she cannot persuade Merchant Adventurers to load 
 their ships with her wares. Yet, even with the memory of her 
 wi'ongs, and her ruined hopes, she was always gentle and forbearing 
 in the presence of her afflicted husband, careful to keep him happy 
 in his delusion, and tender with him, so that he should never feel 
 the mischief he had done. 
 
 As for our means, I dared not ask. But present!)^ I learned 
 that all we had was the annuity of forty pounds a year, which 
 Avould terminate with my grandmother's death, the cottage in 
 which we lived, and a slender stock of money, I knew not how 
 much, in my mother's hands. 
 
 Alas ! this was the end of my splendid hopes — of my father's 
 teiumphant letters ! I was indeed an heiress ! 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE LETTER AT LAST. 
 
 One must accept without murmuring the ordinances of Providence. 
 Murmuring avails nothing, and cannot restore things lost. The 
 hand which gives also takes away. The loss of that fortune, which 
 I knew only by hearsay, and expected without eagerness, affected 
 me but little in comparison with the burden of two more to keep 
 upon our forty pounds a year. I saw clearly that I must hence- 
 forth rise early and work late, and no more eat any bread of idleness. 
 We had a servant, but we now sent her away, my mother and I 
 
172 ' LET NOTHING TOU DISMAY: 
 
 doing all the house-work. In addition, I fed the poultry and 
 milked the cow. 
 
 The good old Fugleman came every day as soon as he heard of 
 our misfortunes and understood that I could no more go to the 
 castle of an afternoon, and became of very great service indeed, 
 for he kept the garden for us, and talked with my father, who, to 
 be sure, Avas best out of the house, where he was only in our way. 
 He also — which was kind of him — took the management of the pigs. 
 And I must also confess my great obligations to Mrs. Carnaby, 
 who, understanding the straits into which we were fallen, was so 
 good as to send me and persuade other ladies of this part of the 
 county to send me fine work to do, by means of which I earned 
 a little money, which went into the common purse and was useful. 
 My mother wept to think that I must rise at five, and, after doing 
 the house-work and the out-door work, making butter and sending 
 it away to be sold with eggs and cream-cheese and other little 
 things — it was not much we got, but something — to be compelled 
 to sit down in the afternoon to my needle, and work till nine at 
 night. But I was a tall strong girl ; work did me no harm. I should 
 have been happy but that I saw my grandmother grow daily weaker. 
 She sickened and began to fail when she saw her son, of whom she 
 was so proud, return a beggar to his native county, and when she 
 heard his poor deluded talk. A grievous sight it was to see the 
 poor old lady, once so strong and active, sit feeble in her chair 
 by the fireside, while her sad eyes followed her son as he j^roudly 
 walked to and fro in tlie room and told the tale of his investments 
 and his wealth. Sometimes I noted how my mother looked wist- 
 fully upon this spectacle of age and decay, and saw how her mouth 
 worked and her lips moved, and knew well that she was saying to 
 herself, ' Wlien she dies, what next ? ' And then I was fain to go 
 away into the garden, where they could not hear me, and cry over 
 troubles of the present and' fears of the future which seemed hard 
 to be borne. 
 
 ' Don't cry. Miss Drusy ' — yet the good old Fugleman, looked 
 as if he, too, would willingly shed a tear — ' don't cry ; think to 
 yourself that when the boy comes home all will go well again. 
 Merry as a wedding-bell shall we be then.' 
 
 ' Ah, when — when 1 ' 
 
 We had two visitors who came often. One of them was his 
 Worship Mr. Cuthbert Carnaby. He came, he said, in order to 
 profit by the experience and conversation of my father. 
 
 ' I know, child,' he said, ' and greatly commiserate, the dis- 
 order of his brain, yet I cannot but marvel at the extent of his 
 knowledge, the justice of his remarks, and the weight of his 
 opinion. It is indeed a marvel to me that one so richly endowed 
 by Providence with understanding should have so conspicuously 
 failed in the business of his life, Avhich was to grow rich.' 
 
 I take pleasure in quoting the testimony of so eminent an 
 authority to the great qualities possessed by my unfortunate father, 
 
THE LETTER AT LAST. 173 
 
 and it did one good to see them •walking in the garden, my fatiier 
 bearing himself with the deference due to a gentleman of good old 
 family, yet expecting equal deference to himself as a man of great 
 success and wealth, and both arguing on the politics and the 
 conduct of affairs with as much gravity as two plenipotentiaries or 
 ambassadors extraordinary. 
 
 Strange it was, indeed, to think that one was mad who could 
 converse so rationally, with such just estimate of things, with so 
 true a knowledge of their pi'oportion, so vast a fund of information 
 as to the state of trade all over the world, the value of gold, the 
 balance of profit, the growth of industries ; yea, and even the 
 power and prospects of foreign states, with their wants and their 
 dangers. Or that one could be mad who could set forth with such 
 lucidity the foundation of our Christian faith, and the arguments 
 for the doctrines taught in our churches. He was not only sane, 
 but he was a man worth listening to on all subjects — save one. 
 For he was fully possessed with the idea that he was as wealthy as 
 he had ever desired to be. His poor brain was turned, indeed, on 
 this point, and after a while I thought little of it, because we 
 became accustomed to it, and because it seemed a harmless craze. 
 Yet it was not harmless, as you will hear. Indeed, even an 
 innocent babe in arms may be made the instrument of mischief in 
 the hands of a wicked man. 
 
 Our second visitor was Mathew Humble. He came first, he 
 said, to pay his respects to my father. Then he began to come 
 with great regularity. But I perceived soon, for I was no longer a 
 child, but akeady a woman, that he had quite another object in 
 view, for he cast liis eyes upon me in such a way as no woman can 
 mistake. Even to look upon those eyes of his made me turn sick 
 with loathing. Why, if this man had been another Apollo for 
 beauty I would not have regarded him ; and so far was he from an 
 Apollo that a fat and loathsome Satyr more nearly resembled him. 
 
 He was already three or four and thirty, which I, being seven- 
 teen, regarded as a very great age indeed ; and most Northumbrian 
 folk are certainly married and the fathers of children already tall 
 before that time. 
 
 He was a man who made no friends, and lived alone with his 
 sister Barbara. No girl at all, so far as I know, could boast of 
 having received any attention from him ; he was supposed to care 
 for notliiug except money and strong drink. Every evening 
 he sat by himself in the room which overlooks the river, with 
 account-books before him, and drank usquebaugh. But he loved 
 brandy as well, or Hollands, or rum, or indeed anj'thing which was 
 strong. And being naturally short of stature he was grown fat and 
 gross, with red hanging cheeks, which made his small eyes look 
 smaller and more pig-bke, a double chin, and a nose which already 
 told a tale of deep potations, so red and swollen was it. WTiat girl 
 of seventeen could regard with favour — even if there were no image 
 of a brave and comely boy already impressed upon her heart— such 
 
174 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 a man as this, a mere tosspot and a drinker 1 And, worst of all, a 
 secret and solitaiy drinker — a gloomy drinker. 
 
 It was strange that, about the time when Ralph's disappearance 
 was first heard of, rumours ran about the toAvn that perhaps the 
 mill would turn out, after all, to be the property of Mathew 
 Humble ; that these rumours were revived at the approach of 
 Ralph's twenty-first birthday ; and that again, when Mathew first 
 began his approaches to me, the rumour was again circulated. By 
 the help of the Fugleman I traced these rumours to the barber ; 
 ;ind, still with his help — because every man must be shaved, and, 
 while being shaved, must talk — I traced these to none other than 
 I\Iathew himself. He had, then, some object to gain ; I knew not 
 ^vhat at the time. Later on I discovered that his design was to 
 make it appear— should Ralph ever return — that I had taken him 
 for a husband when I thought he was the actual master and owner 
 of all ; for I believe he allowed himself no doubt as to the result 
 of his offers. Doth it not seem as if the uglier, the older, the less 
 attractive a man is, whether in 2;)erson or in mind, the more certain 
 he becomes of conquering a woman's heart ? 
 
 The rumour on this occasion was more certain and distinct than 
 before. It was now stated that Mr. Embleton was discovered 
 to have made a later will, which had been proved, and was ready 
 to be produced, if necessary ; that in this will the testator, after 
 deploring the badness of heart manifested by his nephew Ralph, 
 devised the whole of his property to his nephew Mathew. The 
 barber, for his part, had no doubt of the truth of this report ; but 
 those who asked Mathew whether it was true, received mysterious 
 answers, as that time would show ; that in this world no one should 
 be certain of anything ; that many is the slip between cup and 
 lip ; that should an occasion arise the truth of the stoiy would be 
 tested ; such oracles as incline the hearers to believe all that has 
 been said — and more. Barbara, his sister, for her own part, showed 
 great willingness to answer any questions which might be put to 
 her. But she knew little ; her brother, she said, was a close man, 
 who sat much alone and spoke little. 
 
 And then the Fugleman told me a very strange stoiy indeed, 
 and one which seemed to bode no good to any of us. By this time 
 I so regarded Mathew that I could not believe he could do or design 
 aught but evil. This was wrong, but he was most certainly a man 
 of very evil disposition. 
 
 His own private business, the Fugleman told me — this was 
 nothing in the world, as I very well knew, but the snaring of 
 rabbits, hares, partridges, and other game on the banks of the river 
 ■ — led him sometimes past Morwick Mill, in the evening or late at 
 night. There was a room in the mill — the same room in Avhich 
 Mathew was vanquished and beaten — the Avindow of which looked 
 out upon the river, which is here a broad and shallow brook. The 
 bank rises steep on the other side, and is clothed with thick hanging 
 woods in which no one ever walked except the Fugleman, and he, 
 
THE LETTER AT LAST. 175 
 
 for those purposes I have jnst mentioned, always alone and after 
 sundown. Now his eyes were like unto the eyes of a hawk ; tliey 
 knew not distance ; they could see, quite far olF, little things as 
 well as great things ; and the Fugleman saw, night after night, that 
 JNIathew Humble was sitting locked up in his room, engaged in 
 writing or copying something. I believe that if the Fugleman had 
 known how to read, he would have read the writing even across the 
 river. Unhappily, he had never learned that art. Mathew waa 
 making a copy, the Fugleman said, of some other document. But 
 what that document was he could not tell. It was something on 
 large sheets of paper, and in big handwriting. He wrote veiy 
 slowly, comparing word for word with the papers which he seemed 
 copying. Once when there was a noise as of someone at the door, 
 he huddled all the papers together, and bundled them away in a 
 corner quickly and with an aflrighted air. He was therefore doing 
 something secret, which means something wicked. What could 
 it be ? 
 
 'Little he flunks,' said the Fugleman, 'that Master Ralph is 
 sure to come home and confound his knavish tricks, and trip up his 
 heels for him. Ah, I think I see him now, in lace ruffles and good 
 broadcloth, walking up the street with a line City Madam on his 
 arm.' 
 
 I should have been very well contented with the lace ruffles and 
 good broadcloth — indeed, I asked for nothing better — but I wanted 
 no fine City Madam at the mill. 
 
 Later on I learned what this thing was which he took so long to 
 copy, and which ga\e him so much anxiety. But it was like a tire- 
 ship driven back by the wind among the vessels of those who sent 
 it forth. 
 
 One morning when I was busy in the kitchen with household 
 work, and my mother was engaged upon the family sewing, Mathew 
 came and begged to have some conversation with her. He said 
 that, first of all, he was fully acquainted with her circumstances, 
 and the unhappy outlook before her, when my grandmother should 
 die and leave us all without any income at all ; that, being of a 
 compassionate heart, he was strongly minded to \\e\-p them ; and 
 that the best way, as well as he could judge, would h^ to make her 
 daughtei" Drusilla his wife. This done, he would then see that 
 their later years would be attended with comfort and the relief of 
 all anxiety. 
 
 At first my mother did not reply. She had no reason to love 
 Mathew, whose unkindness to his ward was well known to her. 
 Again, she had still some remains of family pride left — you do not 
 destroy a woman's pride by taking away her money. She thought, 
 being the daughter of a well-to-do London citizen, that her child 
 should look higher than a man who had nothing in the world of his 
 own but thirty acres of land, although he lived at the mill and 
 pretended to be its owner. And she very truly thought that the 
 man was not in person likely to attract so young a girl as myself. 
 
176 'LET NOTniXG YOU DISMAY: 
 
 But siie spoke him fair. She told him that I was young as yet, 
 too young to know my own mind, and that perhaps he had better 
 wait. He replied that he was not young, for his own jaart, and 
 that he would not wait. Then she told him that she should not, 
 certainly, force the inclinations of her daughter, but that she would 
 speak to me about him. 
 
 She opened the subject to me in the evening. No sooner did I 
 understand that Mathew had spoken for me than I threw myself 
 upon my knees to my mother, and implored her with many tears 
 and protestations not to urge me to accept his suit. I declared with 
 vehemence, that if there were no other man in the world, I could 
 not accept Mathew Humble. I reminded her of his behaviour 
 towards Ralph. I assured her that I believed him to be one who 
 sat drinking by himself, and a plotter of evil, a man with a hard- 
 ened heart and a dead conscience. 
 
 Well, my mother shed tears with me, and said that I should not 
 be married against my will ; that Mathew was not a good man, and 
 that she would bid him, not uncourteously, go look elsewhere. 
 This she did, thanking him for the honour he had proposed. 
 
 For some reason, perhaps because he did not really wish to 
 marry me, perhaps because he had not thoroughly laid out the 
 scheme of marrying me to revenge himself upon Ralph, Mathew 
 gave me a respite for the time, though I went in great terror lest 
 he might pester my mother or myself. Perhaps, which I think 
 more likely, he trusted to the influence of poverty and privation, 
 and was contented to wait till these should make me submissive to 
 his will. 
 
 However that may be, he said nothing more concerning love, 
 and continued his visits to my father, in whose conversation he took 
 so great a pleasure. Oh, villain ! 
 
 Things were in this posture, I being in the greatest anxietj^ and 
 fear that something terrible was going before long to happen to us, 
 when a most joyful and unexpected event happened. 
 
 It was in the month of May, seven years since Ralph's flight — 
 like the followers of Mohammed, I reckoned the years from the 
 Flight — that this event happened. 
 
 The event was this, that the Fugleman had a letter sent to him 
 — the first letter he ever received in his life. 
 
 I saw the post-boy riding down the road early in the afternoon ; 
 he passed by the house of Mr. Carnaby, where he sometimes 
 stopped, past our cottage, where he never stopped because there 
 was nobody who wrote letters to us, and over the bridge, his horse's 
 hoofs clattering under the old gateway. I thought he was going to 
 the vicarage, but he left that on his right and rode straight up the 
 street, blowing his horn as he went. I wondered, but had no 
 time to waste in wonder, who was going to get a letter in that 
 part of the town. The letter, in fact, was for no other than the 
 Fugleman. 
 
 Half an hour later the Fugleman, who had been at work in the 
 
TFTE LETTER AT LAST. 177 
 
 garden all the morning, came down the town again, and asked me^ 
 with respect to her ladyship, my mother — if I would give him five 
 minutes' talk. With him was Sailor Nan, because the thing was 
 altogether so strange that he could not avoid telling her about it, 
 and she came with him, curious as a woman, though bold and brave 
 as becomes an old salt. 
 
 "Tis a strange thing,' said the Fugleman, turning the unopened 
 letter over and over in his hand ; ' 'tis a strange thing ; here is a 
 letter which tells me I know not what — comes from I know not 
 where. I have paid 3s. 8c^. for it. A great sum. I doubt I was a 
 foul. It may mean money, and it may mean loss.' 
 
 ' Burn it, and ha' done,' said Sailor Nan. ' 'Tis from some land 
 shark. Burn the letter.' 
 
 ' I am sixty, or mayhap seventy years of age. Sixty, 1 must a- 
 be. Yes ; sure and certain, sixty. Yet never a letter in all my 
 days before.' 
 
 Now, which is very singular, not the least suspicion in our minds 
 as to tlie writer of the letter. 
 
 ' Is it,' I asked, ' from a cousin or a brother 1 ' 
 
 ' Cousin l ' he repeated, with the shadow of a smile across his 
 stiff lips. ' Why, I never had a father or a mother, to say nothing of 
 a brother or a cousin. When I first remember anything, I was 
 running in the streets with other boys. We stole our breakfast, 
 we stole our dinner, and we stole our supper. Where are they all 
 now, those little rogues and pickpockets, my companions ? Hanged, 
 I doubt not. What but hanging can have come to them ? But as 
 for me, by the blessing of the Lord, I was enlisted in the 14th 
 Line, and after a few hundreds taken mostly by three dozen doses, 
 which now are neither here nor there, and are the making of a lad, 
 I was flogged into a good soldier, and so rose as was due to merit. 
 A hearty tlu'ee dozen, now and then, laid on with a will in the cool 
 of the morning, works miracles. Not such a regiment in the ser- 
 vice as the 14th. And why 1 Because the colonel knew his duty 
 and did it without fear or favour, and the men were properly 
 trounced. Good comrades all, and brave boys. And where are 
 they ? Dead, I take it ; beggars, some ; fallen in action, some ; 
 broke, some ; in comfortable berths, like me, some. If all were 
 living, who would there be to send me a letter, seeing there wasn't 
 a man in all the regiment who could write 1 ' 
 
 Strange that not one of us even then guessed the truth. 
 
 It was a great letter, thick and carefully sealed, addressed to 
 'Fugleman Furlong, At his room in the Castle of Warkworth, 
 Northumberland, England.' It came from foreign parts, and the 
 paper was not only stained, but had a curious fragrance. 
 
 I broke the seal and tore open the covering of the letter. With- 
 in was another packet. Oh, Heavens ! It was addressed to 
 'Drusilla Hetherington, care of the Fugleman, to be forwarded 
 without delay. Haste — post haste ! ' 
 
 And then I knew without waiting to open the letter that it would 
 
178 *LET NOTHING TOU DISMAY: 
 
 be from none other than Ral])h. It must be from Ralph. After all 
 these years, we were to hear once more from Ralph. I stood pale and 
 tremblmg, nor could J for some moments even speak. At last I said ; 
 
 ' Fugleman — Nan — this letter is addressed to me. It is, I 
 verily believe, from Ralph Embleton. Wait a little, while I 
 read it.' 
 
 ' Read it — read it ! ' cried the old man. 
 
 Could I — ah ! merciful Heaven— could I ever forget the rapture, 
 the satisfied yearning, the blissful content, the gratitude, with which 
 I read that sweet and precious letter ? They waited patiently ; 
 even the rude and coarse old woman refrained from speech while I 
 read page after page. They said nothing though they saw the tears 
 falling doAvn my face, because they knew that they were tears of 
 happiness. 
 
 After seven long years, my Ralph was talking to me as he used 
 to talk. I knew his voice, I recognised his old imperious way, I 
 saw that he had not changed. As if he would ever change ! 
 
 When I had finished and dried my tears, they begged me to 
 read his letter to them. 
 
 ' ]\Iy dear, dear Girl ' — I told them that I could not indeed, 
 read all, but that I would read them what I could ; and this was 
 the beautiful beginning, in order that I should know at the outset, 
 so thoughtful he was, and for fear of my being anxious on the 
 point, that he loved me still, and had never forgotten me. ' My 
 dear, dear Girl, — It is nov six years since I bade you farewell at 
 your garden-gate and started upon my journey to London. Your 
 father has doubtless told you how I presented mj^self and with what 
 kindness he received me. I am very sure that you have not for- 
 gotten me, and I hope that you will rejoice to hear of my good 
 fortune' — Hope, indeed! Could he not be sure? — 'I have no 
 doubt also that he hath informed you of the strange good fortune 
 which befell me after he 'left me at the East India Company's 
 House, of which I told him by letter and special messenger, to whom 
 I gave, to ensure speed and safe delivery, one shilling.' (But it 
 would appear that this wicked messenger broke his word, and took 
 the shilling, but did nothing for it — a common thief, who deserved 
 to be hanged, like many another no more Avicked than himself. 
 Oh ! what punishment too great for this breach of trust, small as it 
 seemed ! See, now, what a world of trouble was caused by that 
 little theft.) ' It was truly by special Providence that, while Mr. 
 Silvertop talked with me, the great Captain who won the battle of 
 Plassy should have been standing near and should have overheard 
 Avhat passed. When 1 was bidden go my ways for a foolish boy 
 (because I did not wish to be a writer) and waste his time no longer, 
 I was much cast doAvn, tor now I began to fear that I must, like 
 the most of mankind, take Avhat was assigned to me by Providence 
 rather than Avhat I would like. And I could plainly see that there 
 remained only one choice tor nie ; namely, I must return to the 
 
THE LETTER AT LAST. 179 
 
 hated rule of my cousin who -would keep me as a plough-boy as long 
 as he could, or I must betake me to the task of sweeping cait and 
 serving a shop. And yet, what shop 1 But who would employ 
 me ? Therefore, I hung my head and stood irresolute without the 
 Company's house. Now, presently, the gentleman whom I had 
 seen within came forth with another officer, brave in scarlet. He 
 saw me standing sadly beside the posts, and inspired by that noble 
 generosity which has always distinguished this great man, he 
 clapped his hand upon my shoulder. 
 
 ' " So," he said, "you are the lad who loves a sword better 
 than a pen ? " 
 
 ' " If it please your honour," I replied. 
 
 ' " A sword means peril to life and limb," he said sternly ; "he 
 who goes a fighting in India must expect hard fare, rough sleeping, 
 rude knocks. He must ever be on the watch against treachery. 
 He must meet duplicity with equal cunning. He must obey blindly ; 
 he must never ask why ; if he is sent to die like a rat in a hole, he 
 must go without murmur or question. What ! you tliink— do 
 you ] — that to carry a sword is to flaunt a scarlet coat before the 
 ladies of St. James's ? " 
 
 ' "Nay, sir, with respect. I have read the lives of soldiers. I 
 would willingly take the danger for the sake of the honour. But 
 alas ! I must stay at home and sweep a shop." 
 
 ' " Wliat is thy birth, boy 1 " 
 
 ' I told him that, and satisfied him on other points, including 
 the reason of my flight, in which I trust that I was no more than 
 truthful. Then he said : 
 
 ' " I am Lord Clive," and paused as if to know whether I had 
 heard of liim. 
 
 ' You may be sure I was astonished, but I quickly doffed my 
 hat and made him my best country-bred bow. 
 
 ' " Mj^ lord," I said, "we have heard, even in Northmnberland, 
 of Plassy." 
 
 ' ' ' Good ! I went to India as a writer — a miserable quill-driving 
 writer. Think of that. WJiat one man has done another may do. 
 Now, boy, I sail tliis day for India. There will be more fighting, 
 a great deal more fighting. If you please you shall go as a cadet 
 with me. But there is no time to hesitate : I sail this day. Choose 
 between the shop-sweej^jing and the musket. You will light in the 
 ranks at first, but if you behave well the sword will come after. 
 Choose — peace and money-scraping at home like these smug-faced 
 fat citizens," he swept his hand with lordly contempt, "or fighting 
 and poverty, and perhaps death abroad. Choose." 
 
 ' "I humbly thank your lordship," I said, " I will follow you if 
 you will condescend to take me." 
 
 ' Then he bade me go straight to Limehouse Pool, where I should 
 find the sliip at anchor. I was to take a note to the purser who 
 would give me an outfit. 
 
 ' Thus, my dear Drusilla, did I find my fortune and sail to 
 112 
 
180 *LET NOTHING YOU BISMAY: 
 
 foreign parts under as brave and great a captain as this country 
 will ever see. 
 
 ' Our voyage lasted eleven months. There were three hundred 
 raw recruits on board, mostly kidnapped or inveigled under false 
 pretences by crimps and the scoundrels of Wappmg. When they were 
 first paraded, they were as beggarly-looking a lot as you would 
 wish to see, ragged, dirty, mutinous, and foul-mouthed. Yet in a 
 couple of months, by daily drill, by good food and sea air, by 
 moderate rations of rum, by sound flogging, by the continual dis- 
 cipline of the boatswain's rope's end and the sergeant's rattan, the 
 regimental supple-jack, and the ship's cat-o'-ninetails, they became 
 as promising soldiers as one would wish. As for me, I stood with 
 them in the drill and did my best. Of course I could not expect 
 his lordship to notice so humble a cadet as myself, but one evening, 
 when we were near the end of our voyage, he sent for me and 
 gave me a glass of wine, and kindly bade me be patient and of 
 good cheer, because, he said, young gentlemen of merit and courage 
 would be sure to find opportunities for distinction.' 
 
 Ralph then went on to describe the life of a soldier in India, 
 and to tell me — but this I leave out for fear of being tedious — how 
 he received his commission and how he got promotion. It is 
 sufficient to say that at the time he wrote, after six years of service, 
 he held the commission of a captain. Nor was that all. He had 
 been able to render such signal service to a certain Rajah, that this 
 prince, who was not ungrateful, and hoped, besides, for more such 
 services, took him one day into his treasure-house and bade him 
 help himself to all if he pleased. 
 
 ' My dear,' he continued, ' I knew not that the world contained 
 BO much treasure. Yet this Rajah is but a petty prince, and his 
 wealth is as nothing compared with that of many others. There 
 were diamonds in bags, uncut, whose worth I know not, and 
 diamonds in rings, sword-handles, and women's gauds ; there were 
 rubies, emeralds, sapphires, turquoises, opals, and all kinds of 
 precious stones strung rudely on common string as if they were but 
 pebbles. There were also gold and silver vessels of all kinds, and 
 there were casks full of gold coins. As I took out a handful I saw 
 that many of them were ancient, with Greek characters, perhaps 
 left in this country by that great soldier Alexander; When I had 
 surveyed these wonders I thanked him, and said that I should not 
 presume to take so much as a single gold coin from his treasure, 
 but that if it should please his Highness to ofler me a present, I 
 should accept it with gratitude, provided it was not too costly. He 
 laughed at these words, and when we came away I was so loaded 
 ■with gold that I fancied myself already a rich man. 
 
 ' Since this event it hath pleased Lord Olive to issue an order 
 which prohibits officers from accepting henceforth any presents at 
 all from the native princes. I cannot but feel grateful that the 
 order was not issued before my own good fortune. Doubtless his 
 t^lxoftllencv hath good reasons for tliis order, which places the 
 
THE LETTER AT LAST. 181 
 
 military service at a disadvantage compared with the writers, who 
 have great opportunities of making fortunes ; and I cannot but think 
 that it is a more noble thing to win a fortune at the point of the 
 sword, than by such arts as are daily practised by the writers and 
 civil servants of the Company. There are many Englishmen, and 
 many Frenchmen as well — but we are driving them out of the 
 country — who have become rich in the military service of the 
 Indian princes ; yet I shall not exchange my present masters so long 
 as the merchants — who think nothing of glory or of this country, 
 yet a great deal of their dividends — perceive that it is for their 
 safety, as well as for their credit, to extend their power ; and I 
 have a reasonable hope that the good fortune which hath hitherto at- 
 tended me may continue, so that I may return to my native country, 
 if only in my old age, amply provided. As regards the climate, I 
 have as yet experienced no great inconvenience from the heat. 
 The natives have learned to fear an Englishman rather than to 
 love him, which is, methinks, the thing we should most desire 
 when we have to rule over people as ignorant of the Christian 
 virtues, although not barbarous, like the naked blacks, but a most 
 ingenious, dexterous, and skilful people, and of subtle intellect, 
 yet slothful of body, lovers of rest, deceivers, regardless of truth, 
 for ever scheming plots and contriving subtleties, and more cruel 
 to prisoners than the Spanish Inquisition. The best amongst them 
 are followers of Mahomet, who make faithful servants and good 
 soldiers. It is a country where the ambition and jealousy of 
 princes are continually causing fresh wars to be undertaken, and 
 where a European may lead a life of adventure to his heart's 
 content.' 
 
 I was reading, as I have said, this letter aloud in presence of 
 my two faithful friends. Now when I spoke of the drill on board, 
 and the sergeant's rattan and the regimental supple-jack, the 
 Fugleman drew himself upright and shouldered the garden-spade, 
 because there was no pike at hand ; and when I read of the bos'n's 
 rope's end and the ship's cat-o'-nine tails. Sailor Nan cocked her hat 
 and stood with feet apart and hands upon her hips, and began, but 
 in a whisper, to murmur strange sea-oaths ; and when I read the 
 account of the fight in whicli Ralph's courage saved this grateful 
 Rajah — it was a most dreadful battle, in which hundreds of brave 
 feUov.rs and treacherous Hindoos were killed, so that to read it 
 made one's heai't cease to beat — the Fugleman, carried beyond 
 himself, executed capers with the spade which signified little to my 
 ignorant eyes, but which were, I believe, the movements with which 
 the trained soldier attacks with the bayonet, and the old sailor ivith 
 a mop-stick cut down her thousands, mighty curses rolling softly 
 from her lips like distant thunder. 
 
 If the beginning of the letter was delightful, judge how beautiful 
 was the end : 
 
 ' T have now, my dear, told you all that concerns myself. I 
 tiuppose you have long since left Warkworth and gone to live with 
 
IS2 <LET NOTHING YOU UISMAY: 
 
 your parents, to whom I beg to convey my respects and best wishes. 
 If, among your rich friends and the gaieties of the fashion ' — the 
 ' gaieties ! ' — ' you have found lovers (as, to be sure, you must) and 
 a husband, or one whom you have distinguished with your favour 
 and regard, you will remember that I shall ever be to you as a 
 brother ; for, lover or brother, T can never cease to love ' 
 
 ' A good lad ! ' said the Fugleman. 
 
 ' As ever trod the deck ! ' said the sailor. ' Go on, Miss 
 Drusy.' 
 
 ' And I am sure that you have grown up as tall and as beautiful 
 as an angel.' 
 
 ' She has,' said the Fugleman. 
 
 ' Taller, ye lubber,' said the sailor, ' and more beautiful an 
 angel than ever I clapped eyes on, nor never a Peg nor a Poll at 
 Sheerness or Deptford or the Common Hard to show a candle 
 alongside her. What's even a frigate in full sail compared with a 
 lovely woman ? ' 
 
 This enthusiasm for the loveliness of her own sex (unusual 
 among old women), I put down to her naval experiences and 
 familiarity with sailor talk, and went on quickly ; because, if Ralph 
 loved to flatter me, I ought not to let these poor people follow his 
 example. An angel ! But men are so. They cannot give enough ; 
 they lavish their praises, as they lavish the very fruits of their 
 labours, upon the women they love. We women measure our gifts 
 — except to our boys. I pass over, therefore, the fond words of a 
 lover about blue eyes and curling hair, and Nymphs in cool grots, 
 and soft smiles and other imaginary gifts and graces, all of which 
 my listeners applauded, nodding their heads. Oh ! he could say 
 what he pleased, he could imagine all the perfections, so that he 
 continued to tell me, 'as he did in this letter, how he thought upon 
 me daily, and loved me always more and more. 
 
 ' As for the address of this letter,' he said, ' I know not where 
 in London or elsewhere your father may now reside ; therefore I 
 forward it to the care of the Fugleman, with request that he Avill 
 send it to you at the earliest opportunity, and by a safe hand. 
 Will you, in return, inform him of my continued esteem and friend- 
 ship ? ' 
 
 '"Esteem and friendship !"' repeated the Fugleman. 'This 
 from a Captain ! Was ever such a boy ? ' 
 
 ' And if you find an opportunity, tell Sailor Nan that half her 
 fortune has come true.' 
 
 ' She replied that at her time of life it was odd if she couldn't tell 
 the fortune of a boy, and as for the present cruise, it was bound to 
 be a fairweather voyage. 
 
 Finally, my brave lover begged me to write to him and tell him 
 all that had happened since his departure, and subscribed himself, 
 with much love, Ralph Embleton. 
 
 When we had read the letter twice, which took us all the after- 
 noon, and cost me three hours' sewing, we took counsel together. 
 
IRE LETTER AT LAST. 183 
 
 First tliey were both for telling it about the town, and having a 
 bonfire, with the ringing of the church bells in a triple bob major, 
 but I was of opinion that it would be best to keep our own counsel 
 for awhile. Therefore I bound them both to secresy and silence. I 
 would let Mathew alone, and watch him. He should not know 
 anything, not even that Ralph was alive and prosperous ; and had 
 I kept this resolution, because my two friends were loyal and secret 
 as the gi'ave, it would have been better in the end for all of us, and 
 much better for Matliew. But, as the wise man said, ' Death and 
 life are in the power of the tongue.' 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 MATHEW'S FKIEXDLY OFFEPv 
 
 This letter made me, from one of the most unhappy of girls, the 
 most joyous. The immediate prospect of poverty— for the Dame 
 declined daily — the hard work wJiich began at daylight and ended 
 at bed-time, the certain knowledge that Mathew was not satisfied 
 with a simple refusal — these things, which had before filled my 
 mind with terror, now appeared like the imaginary spectres of the 
 night, which cease to alarm when the day has dawned. To me it 
 was more than the dawn of day ; it was the uprising of a glorious 
 sun of love and hope. Ralph loved me ; Ralph was well, pros- 
 perous and in high esteem ; Ralph was already wealthy ; Ralph would 
 come home, and all things would be well, whatever might happen 
 at the moment. Yet tiiis I could not tell to any. Mathew was not 
 to know ; my poor old grandmother was too old now, and too failing 
 of mind and body, to care for earthly things ; my father had clean for- 
 gotten the boy ; my mother would not greatly care to know ; nor would 
 it soothe her anxieties to feel that we had a protector separated 
 from us by the rolling seas and by a voyage of ten months or 
 more. What good would be his far-off treasures to us, she would 
 have asked, when what we want is beef for the pot and bread for 
 the board 1 As for my father's madness, it increased everj'; day, so 
 tliat now our cottage was a palace indeed, every meal was a banquet, 
 and the small beer of my brewing was champagne, port, Malaga, or 
 Imperial Tokay. But Mathew was too much with him, and it made 
 me uneasy to observe how lie complimented my father on his 
 wisdom, his resolution, and his wonderful success. 
 
 'In all respects, madam,' he said to my mother, 'I find your 
 husband most sensible and full of sound judgment. I have taken 
 his counsel, of late, in many private matters of importance.' 
 
 ' Then the Lord help you ! ' said my mother, sharply. 
 
 ' AVhat if he does exaggerate his private fortune ? ' Mathew 
 went on. ' It is a failing with many persons concerned in trade.' 
 
 ' If you mean this in kindness, sir,' said my mother, ' I thank 
 
184 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 you humbly for your good opinion of my poor distraught husband. 
 If you mean it in mockery, you are a most cruel man.' 
 
 ' Indeed, madam,' he replied, bowing, ' pray believe that I 
 mean it in kindness.' 
 
 He had no kindness at all in his nature. He designed these 
 words to cover his iniquitous purpose. 
 
 So he continued to come and go, and to walk with my father in 
 the garden, and whatever wild things my father said he would 
 accept gravely as if they were indeed words of wisdom. No one, 
 except myself, suspected him of sinister designs, and my father 
 disclosed to him the whole prodigious extent of his madness, so 
 that I could have cried with shame and humiliation, Mathew 
 knowing well, as all the world knew by this time, that we were 
 little better than the poorest in the parish. 
 
 ' The world, sir,' the poor gentleman would say, with a lofty 
 air, ' has yet to learn how great a benefactor a simple London 
 citizen may be. There have been many benefactors. I acknow- 
 ledge their greatness. But wait, sii', until my will is opened and 
 read. To you, friend Mathew, I have bequeathed a poor ten 
 thousand pounds — no more.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! ' He bowed and spread his hands. ' This is indeed 
 goodness.' 
 
 ' It is the duty of a rich citizen to discover merit and to reward 
 it — the plain duty. I am a London citizen, and am perhaps more 
 proud of this position than becomes a Christian. The bulk of my 
 fortune I have left to my daughter, whom I design in marriage for 
 some great nobleman. But I have not forgotten the poor of my 
 native parish, Mathew — no, no ; and you will find, when my will 
 is read, that schools, a hospital, marriage-portions for the girls, 
 and apprentice-money for the boys, will attest my remembrance of 
 this place.' 
 
 ' Sir, ' said Mathew, with a grin of contempt, ' you will be a 
 benefactor indeed.' 
 
 Now, before I answered Ralph's letter, which I kept for more 
 than a month in my bosom, reading it every day when I could 
 snatch a moment, Mathew came to me, and after a little preamble, 
 of which I am going to tell you, re-opened the distasteful subject 
 of his courtship. I was in the garden, gathering herbs for a mint- 
 juiep, when I saw him standing at the garden-gate. He looked so 
 jocund, he smiled so pleasantly, and he wore so self-satistied an 
 air, that I was quite certain some evil thing had happened. 
 
 ' Drusilla,' he said, ' I have heard certain intelligence. You 
 may depend upon its truth, which is confirmed in every particular. 
 I think that you should be the first to hear it, sad though it be, 
 yet what I could not but expect.' 
 
 'I suppose,' I said with a laugh, because I knew that he was 
 about to invent some wicked falsehood, ' I suppose you have got 
 something to tell me about Ralph, whom your cruel conduct drove 
 out into the world ?' 
 
BIATHEWS FBI END LT OFFER. 185 
 
 ' IS'ay,' he replied, looking darkly, yet with a smile, 'you may 
 say what you please ; you cannot ofiend me. I have just come 
 from Alnwick, where I sold four fat beasts. At the inn I fell in 
 with a strolling player, and talked with him over a glass about his 
 wandering life. Presently I asked him whether he had seen, any- 
 where upon his travels, especially in places where actors like him- 
 self, with profligates and thieves resort, such a lad as Ralph. It is 
 wonderful to relate that he remembered seeing the boy at a iDlace 
 called Grantham. It was about six or seven years ago. The 
 reprobate lad was making love — actually making love— to a young 
 actress. When my informant came across the party again, Ralph 
 had left them.' 
 
 At first I concluded that this was sheer fabrication, but after- 
 wards gleaned that it was to a certain extent true ; that is, that 
 Ralph had made the acquaintance of the actress and her family on 
 his way to London ; but there was no love-making. How could 
 there be, when he was already in love with me ? And what follows 
 Avas pure and clumsy invention. 
 
 ' He wandered about with them playing and acting,' Mathew 
 went on, ' for four or five years. Then he deserted them, or was 
 tm-ned out in disgrace — it matters not which — and, I am ashamed 
 to say' — but he looked delighted — 'took to the road, where he is 
 now known everywhere as Black Raljih, or Bloody Ralph.' 
 
 ' Are you quite sure of what you say ? ' 
 
 'As sure as I am that he will be hanged as soon as he is 
 caught.' 
 
 I know not by what means Mathew persuaded himself, if indeed 
 he did persuade himself, that Black Ralph, who was a notorious 
 highwayman about this time, and practised his wicked calling upon 
 the York Road, was Ralph Embleton. Yet he made so certain of 
 it that he told — under strict promise of secresy — the barber, who 
 told everybody, also under promise of secresy, and it was noised 
 abroad that the distinction of giving birth to the most bloodthirsty 
 villain in England belonged to Warkworth, and many people ad- 
 vised Mathew to go armed, and to provide his house with a loaded 
 blunderbuss, a bull-dog, and a few man-traps, because his cousin 
 would probably visit him with intent to murder as well as rob. 
 
 ' I suppose,' Mathew went on to me, ' that you will now give 
 up thinking of that young vagabond. A pretty girl like you 
 should throw your thoughts higher. Why, though your father's a 
 beggar, as one may say ' 
 
 ' He is not a beggar, so long as my grandmother lives.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that will not be much longer,' he replied with an 
 ugly grin. 'Now, Drusilla, listen to me. You know that I've 
 set my fancy upon you. I've been waiting just till you grew up, 
 and then for — for one or two little things to ripen which have now 
 ripened and turned out pretty well. Now that everything ia 
 ready, there is no reason to wait any longer. Ralph being a high- 
 wayman and certain to be hanged — — ' 
 
186 'LET NOTHING YOU DTSMAY: 
 
 'Then, Mathew,' I replied, 'I will wait until he is hanged, 
 and then you can talk to me again if you like. Now, go avray, and 
 leave me to my work.' 
 
 He went away for that time, and next morning his sistei 
 Barbara came. She was at first mysterious about sudden changes 
 of fortune, unexpected reverses, and the judgments of angered 
 Heaven. These things I did not then consider as pertaining to 
 myself, because I knew not how I had especially angered Heaven, 
 more, that is, than thoughtless youth may do at any time, and yet 
 obtain forgiveness by daily jirayer. She also added a certain ex- 
 hortation to kiss the rod, which I pass over. Then she launched 
 into praises of her brother. He was most industrious, she said ; 
 up early and to work before daybreak ; he was full of religion, 
 which surprised me very much to hear ; he was thrifty and had 
 already saved a large sum of money — this, I found afterwards, was 
 false ; he could provide a comfortable home, and happy, indeed, 
 she added, would be the woman on whom his choice should fall. 
 Added to this that he wss no longer young and scatter-brained, 
 but arrived at the sober age of three or four and thirty ; and that 
 Mathew's wife would have the advantage of her own society, help, 
 example, and admonition. 
 
 I told her that Mathew had got liis answer, and that I thought 
 it hard that a woman could not be supposed to know her own mind 
 in so important a matter. 
 
 ' What is your answer, then % ' she asked. 
 
 ' I will talk to Mathew on the subject again,' I replied, ' when 
 Ralph is hanged, since this is a thing which botli you and he desire 
 so vehemently.' 
 
 Two days afterwards Mathew himself met me as I was on my 
 way to the castle. He begged me to give him another hearing, 
 and, as I could not refuse so simple a thing, I led him by the path 
 below the castle to the bank of the river, where he could talk at 
 his ease and unheard. 
 
 First it was the same story. Would I forget the young villain 
 and marry him 1 He was so much in love with me, that he would 
 not say as some men — not so rich, mind you, as himself — would 
 say, that I might go hang myseK in my garters for aught he cared. 
 He would forgive my disrespect and impudence ; he would forget 
 the past altogether ; people should see that he was of a truly noble 
 and forgiving disposition ; he would give me another chance, 
 so great was liis generosity. Very well, then, would I marry him ? 
 
 I replied very gravely, that he had already received his answer. 
 When Ralph was hanged, and not before, I would listen to him. 
 Then I asked liim seriously why he thought so meanly of me as to 
 tiy this trumped-up story about playactors and highwaymen upon 
 me, and reminded him of what a truly wicked disposition he must 
 be, thus to glory and delight in the supposed wickedness of his 
 cousin, whose guardian he had been, and whose lands he now 
 occupied. 
 
MATHEWS FRIENDLY OFFER. 187 
 
 He grew angry at this plain-speaking, and began to swear, as is 
 the wont of such men. If kindness would not move me, he said, 
 something else should be tried. 1 thought I was free and indepen- 
 dent of him, did I ? I should see what power was in his hands, 
 and what miscliief he could do me. I was young and imprudent. 
 It chafed me to hear that he, and such a man as he, could do me 
 harm — as if the meanest wretch who ever lived cannot do harm — 
 and I told him what I ought to have kept a secret, that so long as 
 Halph lived, I should not want a protector ; and that so far from 
 his being a highwayman, I knew certainly that he was a prosperous 
 gentleman, already held m great honour, and respected by all. 
 
 He was so staggered by this intelligence that I thought he was 
 going to have some kind of tit. Consider how much it meant to 
 him : he would certainly have to give up the mill, and to render a 
 strict account of all his doings ; he would be reduced to the station 
 of a poor small farmer ; he would be robbed of his revenge ; and 
 he would be convicted as a slanderer and calumnious person, if 
 that mattered aught. 
 
 First he blustered and threatened. I dared, did I, to reproach 
 him : very good, I should see what things he could do ; I should 
 laugh the other side of my mouth. Did I refuse his offer? Very 
 well then. 1 should find out what his displeasure meant. And, 
 perhaps, before long, 1 should be sorry for the insult I had ofiered 
 him, and the proposal I had refused. He then flung away, 
 becoming at this point speechless, and indeed he looked so angry 
 that I was afraid he would have thrown me into the stream. 
 
 I went home, and said nothing to anybody about the business ; 
 but I was troubled in my mind, and greatly afraid that the man 
 would do some dreadful mischief if he could. 
 
 Well, he came again a third time to me. It was three days 
 later. If I was disquieted, I could see that he was more so. Hia 
 red cheeks were become pale, and his eyes were red. He was 
 quiet in his manner, and held out his hand. 
 
 'Drusilla,' he said, 'I was wrong the other day. You won't 
 marry me 1 Very well then. Never mind ; someone else will if I 
 want. ^Vliat matters one woman more than another, if you come 
 to think about it ■? What hurt me most wasn't your refusal, which 
 I don't care for not one brass farthing, but your saying that I 
 wanted Halph to go bad. That was cruel to such a cousin and 
 guardian as I was to that boy.' 
 
 ' Well, Mathew,' I said, ' if I was wrong, I pray you to forgive 
 me.' 
 
 ' I should lilce to know, on the contrarj^ that he was becoming 
 a credit to his family. I say,' he added, ' I should like to know it, 
 if you can assure me of the fact.' 
 
 ' Then you may depend upon the truth of my statement, 
 Mathew,' I said. ' He is already a credit to your family.' 
 
 ' How joyful a thing this is ! ' He folded his hands and raised 
 his eyes hypocritically to heaven. 'It shows that the many correc- 
 
188 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 tions I gave him produced their effect. I was a throwing of the 
 bread upon the waters. After many days, as one may say, it hath 
 come back to me.' 
 
 He spoke with a sweetness which did not deceive me. 
 
 ' And tliis prosperity, Drusilla. Who told you of it ? ' 
 
 ' That i must not say.' 
 
 ' Where, in what pLace, is the boy ? ' 
 
 ' That I shall not tell you.' 
 
 ' How is he employed, then 1 ' 
 
 'I must say nothing, Mathew. Do not ask me. It is veiy 
 certain that Ralph is alive, and that he is prospering. I shall 
 answer no more questions.' 
 
 ' I will ask other people, then.' 
 
 ' It is of no use,' I said hurriedly. ' There is no one knows 
 except me.' This was not true, but at the moment I was thinking 
 of my mother, who certainly did not know. 
 
 ' JSTo one knows except you ? ' he repeated. ' That is strange 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' ^t is very strange.' 
 
 ' And how long, ' he went on, ' is the mystery to be kept up ? ' 
 
 ' As long,' I replied, ' as j'our cousin pleases.' 
 
 Then his sweetness left him, and he fell again into a madness 
 of ■ftTath. He went away, however, when he found that I would 
 tell him nothing. 
 
 All this time I had not written my answer to Ralph's sweet 
 letter. The reason was that I feared my words would prove so 
 poor and weak compared with his noble language ; and I was afraid 
 besides that what I might say would oflend or disappoint him. 
 What maiden but would have been ashamed % Yet this business 
 with Mathew made me resolve to lose no time, and I began 
 seriously to consider Avhat I should say in reply to the long letter 
 which I carried in my bosom and read daily. In order to be undis- 
 turbed I carried paper and pen to the Fugleman's room at the 
 castle, and wrote my letter in the afternoons, whenever I could 
 snatch an hour from my work. Wliat was I to say in answer to 
 the many tender protestations of Ralph ? And how was I to speak 
 of Mathew 1 
 
 ' Tell him,' said the Fugleman, ' that Mathew is a villain. Last 
 Tuesday week there was a run to Coldstream — lace and brandy — 
 Mathew stood in and found the ponies. Yet he is a villain.' 
 
 ' And what about yourself ? ' I asked. 
 
 'As for me,' he said,. 'I always said that once the boy got his 
 foot on the lowest rung, it would not be long before he was on the 
 top of the ladder. Half-way up and more he is, I reckon by now. 
 So that I am not surprised to hear of his good fortune, and only 
 wish I was young enough to be his Fugleman. Tell him that first 
 of all. But Mathew is a villain. Next you may say that I'm well 
 and hearty, and likely to continue in the way of grace, such being 
 my constitution and my habits. IMathew, his cousin, is a desperate 
 
3IATHEWS FRIENDLY OFFER. 183 
 
 villain. Tell him that. You may tell him next, that if he still 
 regardeth eggs, I have got such a collection for him as can't be 
 matched. As for Mathew, he is a rogue and a villain. Fish, tell 
 him, are plentiful this year, and otters there be in plenty. Yester- 
 day I trapped a badger, and I know of a marten opposite the 
 Hermitage. The bii'ds are wild, but I had good sport with his 
 Worsliip last winter, and hope to do something by myself when the 
 nights ch'aw out. Say next, that I send him my faitliful respects 
 and humble good wishes ; and Mathew is a villain. And as for 
 your own pretty self, you sit down and tell him that there isn't a 
 straighter maid, nor one more beautiful, on the banks of Coquet ; 
 wliile, as for eyes and shape and rosy li}is ■' 
 
 'Indeed,' I cried, 'I shall tell him no such nonsense. No, I 
 will not tell him such nonsense.' 
 
 ' Why, he loves thee, sweetheart. Say it, child, to please him, 
 so lonely he is, and so far away from us. I wish he had thy picture 
 just now, with the pretty blushes on the cheeks and all. A girl 
 ought to be proud for such as liim to fall in love with her.' 
 
 ' Is he truly in love with me ? ' I said, with tears coming into 
 my eyes, because now that the words were spoken, I knew very 
 well how much I longed for that very thing, ' Why, he says he 
 wishes me happiness with my husband. As if I could take any 
 husband but Halph.' 
 
 ' Tliere — there,' he cried, ' tell him that. Tell him that, and it 
 will make him happy and bring him home.' 
 
 ' You think such a little thing as that would bring him home ? ' 
 
 ' There's one thing,' said the old man, 'which women can never 
 understand, and that's the strength and power of love. There was 
 a man in Lord Falkland's regiment — but I cannot tell thee all the 
 story. There was a young gentleman in the Fourteenth, when we 
 were stationed at Gibraltar, in love with a Spanish lady — but of 
 that another time. What did the soldier care that he got three 
 hundred the next day ? And as for the young gentleman, ho would 
 have done the same — and always said so — if another dozen of duels 
 was to come after it, and him to be pinked in every one. Cheer- 
 fully he would have done the same for sucii another charmer. Ah ! 
 he would, and more ; but women never understand.' 
 
 With these mysterious words did he encourage me as to the 
 force and vehemence among men, of the passion called love. 
 
 If Ralph was only home again, we should have a protector. I 
 thought of this and hesitated no longer. Yet it was an unmaidenly 
 thing which I did, and to this day I am uncertain as to whether I 
 was justified by all the circumstances. It was, besides, a dangerous 
 thing to do, because I am convinced that nothing more eftectually 
 turns aside the fancy of a man for a woman — which is a delicate 
 and tender plant, even at its strongest — than the thought that she 
 is lacking in the modesty and reserve which are the clioicest virtues 
 of a maiden. Yet I ran that danger, though I imperilled the most 
 precious thing to me in all the world, the heart of my Ralph. But 
 
IDO 'LET NOTHING YOU DTSJfAT: 
 
 there is a time to speak, as well as a time to keep silence. What I 
 said was this : — 
 
 ' Deae Ralph, — I have now received your letter, and I thank 
 you for it with all my heart. My father hath lost all in London, 
 and is now returned to his native place ; we are, therefore, poor 
 indeed, and have nothing to live upon except the annuity which he 
 long ago bought for my grandmother, who fails daily ; when she 
 dies we shall have nothing. Also my father is afflicted with a 
 strange belief that he is I'ich. This makes us unhappy. Mathew 
 hath spread abroad a rejjort that the mill is his, and not yours at 
 all, by reason of a second will, which nobody has seen except him- 
 self. I fear that you will have trouble with your cousin. The 
 
 Fugleman is well and hearty, and bids me tell you -.' Here I 
 
 set forth as many of the messages as I could remember. ' As re- 
 gards myself, he bade me say manj?- things, out of his kind heart, for 
 he loves me ; but I must not write them down. My dear Ralj^h, do 
 not say again that you want me to have a husband. I shall never 
 marry any husband, nor love any man, except yourself, if you still 
 continue to love me. Indeed, there is no moment of the day — if 
 you will not think me unmaidenly to confess this thing — when you 
 are out of my thoughts, and I pray night and morning for your 
 safety and speedy return. Mathew has asked me to marry him, and 
 is angered because I refused. He has spread abroad reports that 
 you are now a highwayman. Will you come back to us, dear 
 Ralph 1 I am in great sadness, and I am afraid that Mathew means 
 some mischief. Yet I would not mar your fortune by calling you 
 away from the work you have in hand. Mathew threatens me with 
 revenge, and Barbara, his sister, bids me read passages in the Holy 
 Scriptures which threaten woe to sinners. I am afraid what they 
 may do, though I cannot think that they can do us any evil. It 
 makes me unhappy to think that any can believe here that j^ou have 
 become a highwayman. Yet I keep your letter secret, and no one 
 knows where you are. The Fugleman says that a villain must have 
 rope enough to hang himself. Ah, Ralph, if you could come back 
 to us. But the quiet country would be tedious to you after your 
 splendours and the pleasure of an active life. But whether you 
 come home or whether you stay, you must always believe that I am 
 your loving ' Dkusilla. 
 
 ' P.S. — I forgot to beg that you may not take it ill that I have 
 written these words. For, indeed, you may be married, or at least 
 in love, with one more worthy than myself. And if that is so, I 
 wish both her and you many years of happiness and love, and shall 
 only ask her to let me love you still as my brother. How caa 
 Mathew presume to court a girl who has known Ralph ? ' 
 
iiS' IT TRUE? lai 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 IS IT TRUE ? 
 
 Now was Mathew pulled asunder with a grievous doubt and anxiety. 
 For not only might his enemy, as he considered him, appear at any 
 moment to demand a strict account, but he knew very well that if 
 he pushed on his suit or attempted any devilry with us, I might 
 send for Ralph and ask his protection. Yet could my story be 
 true ? How could I know, and I alone, of his welfare and the place 
 of his dwelling ? Was it possiljle, he thought, that such a secret, 
 if there was any secret, should be entrusted to the keeping of a 
 mere girl 1 If the boy was really doing well, why did he not return 
 on his twenty-hrst birth-day and claim his inheritance 1 So that 
 the more he thought about it, the more he tried to persuade himself 
 that the thing was false. And yet he was afraid ; I could see that 
 he was continually haunted by the fear of what might happen. He 
 sought me often and begged for information concerning his cousin. 
 Next, he tried my father, but his memory as regards the lad was 
 quite gone ; and my mother, but she took no interest in the sub- 
 ject, and said she knew nothing about the boy for her part. 
 
 ' Yet, ' said IMathew, ' your daughter pretends to know where he 
 is and what he is doing.' 
 
 ' Then,' replied my mother sharply, 'Lord help the man! go 
 and ask my daughter.' 
 
 ' But she v/iil not tell me.' 
 
 ' Then how can I ? Hark ye, Master Mathew, you come here 
 too often. My daughter hath given you her answer. She bears 
 no love to you ; she will have none of you. Go, then, and leave 
 us alone. We are poor enough, God knows, but not so poor as to 
 thrust husbands on our girl against her will. Leave us to ourselves, 
 good man, and iind another wife.' 
 
 jNIy dear and sacred letter arrived in May. It was in July that 
 I sent off my answer. I might look for a reply in sixteen, eighteen, or 
 twenty montlis — some time in the winter of the next year, seventeen 
 hundred and seventy-three. It seems a long time to an anxious 
 heart when one has to wait three weeks for an answer to a letter 
 sent to London. "Wliat, then, must be the patience of those who 
 have to wait nearly two years? Had I reflected further on the 
 perils of my lover's life, the daily risks of battle, wild creatures, 
 treacherous foes, and deadly fevers, I must have been a miserable 
 wretch indeed during those months of waiting. Yet I was sustained 
 by hope, which belongs to the time of youth, and looked for nothing 
 but such a reply from Ralph as would, I thought, remove every 
 care from my mind. 
 
 What a fond and foolish tnrl was I to think that a mere love- 
 
Il'2 'LET NOTHING TOTt DISMAY: 
 
 letter — ■w^liich was all I looked for — would be able to give us our 
 daily bread ! 
 
 After this, Mathew remained quiet again for three or four 
 months. That is to say, he came no more to the house. And so 
 we went on in our thrifty way — I engaged with my needle for such 
 ladies as would employ me, my mother watching my father, and 
 my grandmother sitting in her armchair beside the fire, for the 
 most part silent. Indeed, we were all silent except my poor 
 deluded father, who now added a new craze, for he announced one 
 morning very proudly that he had received a despatch from the 
 King himself, by which he learned that His Majesty had been 
 gi'aciously pleased to confer upon him the honour of knighthood, a 
 distinction which in the present day seems reserved for eminent 
 citizens of London rather than for soldiers, as of old. He was 
 now, therefore, Sir Solomon, and his wife was my lady. He also 
 terrified us greatly by saying that the new dignity would oblige 
 him to assume greater state and a more sumptuous manner of 
 living. Our banquets were sumptuous, truly, and worthy of a 
 knight and his lady. However, in the matter of diet and lodging 
 he v\'as easily satisfied, having been accustomed to plain fare and so 
 entirely carried away by his strange craze as to be persuaded in his 
 own mind that a herring was a turbot ; mutton-broth, turtle-soup ; 
 and a piece of roast mutton a haunch of venison. But now it was 
 impossible to disguise from our neighbours what, indeed, they had 
 long known, that my father was incurably mad. He expected 
 when he took the air of an afternoon to be saluted with the 
 respect due to Sir Solomon, and ha,ts ofi" from everybody, and was 
 pleased with obeisances which were meant in pity, if not in 
 ridicule. And in his presence my mother must be addressed as 
 my lady and spoken of as her ladyship, which made her hang her 
 head at first and look foolish until she became accustomed to the 
 vanity of the thing and found that it pleased him. For it is a 
 strange thing that if you humour a crazy person in his craze, 
 although you strengthen and confirm him in his belief, you make 
 him happy and satisfied with himself, whereas, if you argue or 
 contest it, or if you pass it over in contempt, you are apt to make 
 him uncomfortable and uneasy without convincing him at all of 
 his error. 
 
 So great, and reasonably great, was my suspicion of Mathew, 
 that I was certain he would do something to revenge himself upon 
 me, or to get me in his power. Yet I knew not — I could not 
 guess — what he would do, or in what way he could injure me, as 
 if the machinations of wicked men can ever be suspected and 
 guarded against ; as if the head of Mm who is desperately wicked 
 may not conceive, yea, and execute, things which an innocent girl 
 would believe incredible. The first alarm was caused by a visit 
 from Barbara, who came to see my mother and myself, together or 
 separately. She said she was a messenger from her brother, who, 
 whatever I might say or think, was the most forgiving and the 
 
IS IT TRUE? 1<)3 
 
 most long-snffering of men ; that he was perfectly prepared, if I 
 would make submission, ask pardon for the injurious things I had 
 said, and reveal what I knew of Ralph, viz. : where he was living, 
 what he was doing, and what were his intentions ; to pass over al], 
 and to take me once more into favour. 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' said my motlier. ' Does the man tliink he ia 
 the Great Bashaw ? Favour, indeed ! " 
 
 ' Beggars,' said Barbara, ' must not be choosers.' 
 
 At these words my mother flamed up, and asked Mistress 
 Barbara many questions relating to her birth, parentage, wealth, 
 religious professions, personal beauty, and so forth, leaving her no 
 time to answer any. This is, with respect to the memory of a kind 
 parent, a manner of speech common among women — even well-bred 
 City Bladams when tliey are angry. Finally, she said that there 
 had been quite enough said about Mathew's proposals, and that he 
 was to understand again, and once for all, that they were distasteful ; 
 upon which Barbara coughed, and said that she had delivered her 
 message, that she had no desire, for her own part, for the alliance, 
 which would certainly be as distasteful to herself as it was to 3Irs. 
 Hetherington, and more so, for her brother liad a right to look for 
 fortune, v/hich would be of much more use to him than a baby-face ; 
 that she was surprised, being a messenger of peace, and sent by a 
 man of substantial estate, as all the world knew, to be thus treated 
 by folk who were expected shortly to come upon the parish, and the 
 daughter to be glad of honest service and a crust. But enough 
 said. 
 
 ' Hoity-toity ! ' cried my mother. ' This is brave talking, 
 indeed, from plain millers and simple farmers. Is the world going 
 upside down ? ' 
 
 Barbara went away, but returned again a little before Christ- 
 mas. Mathew, she repeated, was of so Chi-istian ?v disposition that 
 he was still waiting for submission and to know where the boy was 
 to be found. She also held up her skinny finger in warning, and 
 when I laughed and refused either to make submission or tell Avhere 
 Pv,alph was living, she bade me tremble and read the first chapter 
 of the book of the Prophet Joel, applj'ing verses four to twelve to 
 my own case, especially the last clause, which on investigation 
 proved to be a prophecy that joy should wither aAvay from the tons 
 (if men. I laughed again, but I confess that I was disc^uieted. 
 What consequences ? I was soon to discover that the woman used 
 no idle threat, though I believe that she did not herself know 
 anything of the abominable plot which Mathew was contriving for 
 our destruction. 
 
 This, I say, was just before Christmas. We passed the season 
 of festivity in comfort, thanks to a gift from Mr. Carnaby of a 
 noble sirloin and some bottles of good wine for my fatlier ; but on 
 Twelfth Night my grandmother, who had become very feeble of 
 late, suddenly showed signs of impending change. This was a 
 t^'uly dreadful thing for us, not only for the loss of a good and 
 
 o 
 
]M 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 affectionate parent, which those who have faith ought not to lament, 
 but because at her death we should lose even the small income 
 wliich we had, and there would be nothing but the house. It was 
 with despairing looks that my mother and I sat by her bedside all 
 that night. In the morning she died, having been speechless for 
 some hours ; but, as happens often with the dying, she rallied just 
 before the end, and recovered for a moment the power of speech. 
 
 ' Child,' she whispered to me with her last breath, ' thou hast 
 been a good child. The Lord will reward thee. Be of good hope, 
 and never doubt that the boy will return to be thy protector and 
 thy guide.' 
 
 After her funeral I asked my mother if she had any money at 
 all. She told me that on leaving London some of their old friends 
 made up between them a purse of a hundred guineas in memory of 
 old times, but after payment of their small debts and the cost of 
 the journey from London, she had the sum of fifty-five guineas 
 put by for unforeseen wants — that we must live on this money as 
 long as it lasted, after which she supposed we must starve. 
 
 Fifty-five guineas ! Wliy, it would last us a year and a quarter 
 at least with prudence. Fifty-five guineas ! It was a little fortune 
 to us. It would keep us until I got a letter from Ralph. Wliere- 
 upon I told my mother to be of good cheer and to wait patiently 
 and hope for the best. She sighed, being never a woman of san- 
 guine disposition, and ignorant of those secret springs of happiness 
 within me which made me think lightly of present povertj". 
 
 And now you shall hear a plot of diabolical wickedness, which 
 for the time was successful. We all know that for a season sinners 
 are sometimes permitted to compass their own designs, but for 
 their surer undoing in the end. 
 
 Two days after the burial of the Dame, at a time when we 
 might be supposed to be overwhelmed by the calamity of being 
 left destitute, Mathew came to the cottage. He looked ill at ease, 
 and his eyes met mine shiftily, but he spoke out with boldness, 
 while he produced a leather pocket-book and turned over certain 
 papers within it. 
 
 ' I have come, madam,' he said, addressing my mother, but 
 looking at me, ' to inform you or your husband — it matters not 
 wliich — that I can no longer wait for the interest or the principal 
 of my money, and that you must be prepared to pay, or take the 
 consequences.' 
 
 ' What interest ? What money ? ' asked my mother. 
 
 ' Why,' he affected great surprise, ' is it possible that you are 
 going to deny the debt % ' 
 
 ' What means the man % ' my mother said impatiently. 
 
 ' Nay,' said Mathew, smiling, but looking like a hangdog villain 
 the while, ' this passes patience. I mean, madam, my loan to your 
 husband.' 
 
 ' What loan % ' she repeated ; ' and when ? ' _ 
 
 'Wliy,' said Mathew, 'if you pretend not to know, I am not 
 
IS IT TRUE? 195 
 
 obliged to tell you ; but since Well, I will tell you. I mean 
 
 this, madam : the sum of two hundred pounds advanced by me 
 to your husband, for which, and for security, he hath assigned me 
 a mortgage on this house.' 
 
 My mother was quite wise enough to know what was meant 
 by a mortgage. She asked, but with pale face, where was his 
 mortgage. 
 
 ]\Iathew unrolled a paper and laid it on the table. My mother 
 read it through hurriedly. Then she sank back in her chair and 
 covered her face with her hands, saying : 
 
 ' It is true, my child. Here is thy father's signature. This is 
 the last blow.' 
 
 Mathew rolled up the paper again and put it in his pocket. 
 
 ' Can you, madam,' he asked, ' pay me my money ? ' 
 
 * Go ask of the poor demented creature to whom you lent it, ' 
 she replied. 
 
 ' Then,' said Mathew, ' if the money be not forthcoming, I must 
 sell the house. Yet there is a way ' 
 
 ' Wliat way ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' You knoAY the way. You have only to tell me where the boy 
 is, and to many me.' 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 'And you, sir,' cried my mother, 'you who lend money to poor 
 madmen for the ruin of their house, you — a villain if ever there 
 was one — you think that I would give my daughter to such as you l ' 
 
 ' Very well, madam, very well,' said Mathew, unmoved. ' Very 
 likely the cottage will sell for as much as the mortgage. Perhaps, 
 if not, your husband may carry his extravagances to a gaol, as 
 provided by a righteous law.' 
 
 Here he lied, because, I believe, my father could be called upon 
 for nothing more than the house which was his security. 
 
 My mother pointed to the door, and Mathew went away, leaving 
 us bewildered indeed. Two hundred pounds ! Now, indeed, we 
 were ruined. But what had he done with the money ? 
 
 ' Mother,' I cried, ' it is a black and base conspiracy. IMy 
 father has never, since he came from London, possessed a single 
 sixpence. Think of it. If he had a penny we should have known 
 it. Try to remember if ever you saw the least sign of his having 
 money.' 
 
 No, there was none. He wrote no letters and received none ; 
 he bought notliing. His clothes, which were now old and worn, 
 were the same as those he wore when he returned home. On the 
 other hand, because he was of a generous heart, he was for ever 
 giving away what he called money in large sums by means of drafts 
 upon London bankers, which he would sign and press upon the 
 recipient with kind words. For instance, on my birthday he always 
 gave me an order for a himdred pounds on a piece of paper, signed 
 by his own hand, ' Sol. Hetherington,' bidding me, because I was a 
 good girl, go buy myself some finery and fallals. At Christmas, 
 
195 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 the New Year, Easter, Roodsmass, fair-time, and other times of 
 rejoicing, he would till his pockets with these valuable gifts, and 
 sally forth — first to the Vicar, with an olfering for the poor, saying 
 that it was little merit to give out of abundance, that the Lord 
 loveth a cheerful giver, that the poor we have always with us, that 
 a rich man must remember the fate of Dives, and that, for his part, 
 he would that the Church had all charities in her own hand, so 
 that schismatics, profligates, and persons without religion should 
 stai-ve, with other pithy and seasonable remarks. Having received 
 the Vicar's thanks, and a glass of usquebaugh to keep out the raw 
 air of the morning, he would proceed up the village street, the 
 boys and girls touching their caps and making curtsies to him, 
 while the barber and blacksmith would offer the compliments of 
 the season, with a hope that her ladyship was well. Then he 
 would pass the cottage of Sailor Nan, and would call her out and 
 press into her hand a folded paper, saying it was for Clu'istmas 
 cheer ; that she must rejoice, with a dish of good roast beef and 
 plum-porridge, and a great coal fire, and bidding her God speed, 
 would go on his charitable way, while some laughed and some 
 looked grave, and tears would fall from the eyes of the women to 
 think that one so good and generous should also be so poor. 
 
 Alas ! my father was one of those who could never become rich. 
 
 Even while we spoke of this, we heard outside the voice of my 
 father, as if to confirm our words : 
 
 ' Jt ill becomes men of substance, Mr. Carnaby, to allow poorer 
 parishioners to bear the burden of such tilings. I will myself 
 repair the roof of the church at my own charges. Nay, sir, permit 
 iTie to take no refusal in this matter. If it stand me in a thousand 
 pounds I will do it. Why, it is a lending unto the Lord ; it is a 
 good work.' 
 
 It happened that in some way I had more influence over my 
 father than anyone. That is to say, he would unfold his mind — 
 such as it was, poor man ! — to me with greater freedom than to my 
 mother, who could never make any show of interest or belief in his 
 magnificent designs and charitable schemes. I therefore tried to 
 learn from him, if I could, the truth of this business. After listen- 
 ing to a long story of his intentions as regards the church and the 
 endowment of tlie living of Warkworth, I tu)-ned the conversation 
 upon Mathew Humble, and asked my father if he had of late seen 
 and spoken with him. He said that Mathew now avoided rather 
 than sought his company, for which he knew no reason, except that 
 when you have obliged a man, it frequently happens that he keeps 
 out of your way — a thing, he said, of common experience in the 
 City, where young men, incautious men, and unlucky men often 
 obtain assistance in the prolongation of bills and in loans. 
 
 ' Since I have been of such great service,' he said, 'to Mathew 
 Humble, he seems to think that he must not come so often as he 
 did. A worthy man, ho-\vever, and, perhaps, he is moved by th-a 
 shame of taking assistance.' 
 
IS IT TRUE? 197 
 
 'Very likely, sir,' I said, wondering what thing, short of the 
 pillory, with the Fugleman and his pike beside it, would move 
 Mathew to shame. ' It is strange that men should thus court the 
 appearance of ingratitude. Did you ever, sir, borrow money, sums 
 of money, of Mathew Humble ? ' 
 
 ' Lend, you mean, Drusilla,' he replied, turning red with sudden 
 anger. 
 
 ' No, sir, I said borrow. Pray pardon me, sir, I had no 
 intention to offend.' 
 
 'But you have offended, child.' He puffed his cheeks, and 
 became scarlet with sudden passion. ' You have offended, I say. 
 Not offended 1 Do you know what you have said ? Have words 
 meaning for you 1 Should I, Solomon Hetherington, Knight, 
 known and venerated for my wealth, from Tower Hill to Temple 
 Bar, and from London Bridge to AVestminster, stoop to borrow — 
 to borrow, I say, paltry sums — for he could lend none but paltry 
 sums — of a petty farmer ? Not mean to offend ! Zounds ! the girl 
 is mad.' 
 
 ' Pray, sir, forgive me. I am so ignorant that I knew not ' 
 
 ' To be sure, my dear, to be sure. ' He became as quickly 
 appeased as he had been easily offended. ' She does not know the 
 difference betvi^een lending and borrowing. How should she 1 ' 
 
 ' And have j^ou lent Mathew much, sir ? ' 
 
 ' As for lending, I have, it is true, placed in his hands, from 
 time to time, sums of money for which I have no security and have 
 demanded no interest. But let tliat pass. I am so rich that I can 
 afford to lose. Let it pass. And whether he pays them back or 
 not, I do not greatly care.' 
 
 'You gave this money to him,' I said, 'by drafts upon your 
 bankers, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Why, certainly. You do not suppose that we Loiidon mer- 
 chants, hovt'ever rich we are, carry our money about with us. 
 That would indeed be a return to barbarous times.' 
 
 ' Then there was the paper that you signed in the presence of 
 an attesting attorney and of Barbara. What was that, fatlier ? ' 
 
 He laughed and made as if he were annoyed, though he appeared 
 pleased. 
 
 ' Tut, tut,' he said. ' A trifle — a mere trifle ; let an old man 
 have his little whims sometimes, Drusilla.' 
 
 ' But what was it, sir 1 ' I persisted. 
 
 ' Mathew would have me call it a mortgage, ' my father went 
 on. ' A mortgage, indeed ! Because he wished his sister not to 
 know. It was — ho, ho ! — a deed of gift, child. That is all. It was 
 when I assigned certain lands to him. A deed of gift. We called 
 it a mortgage, but I could not prevent showing Barbara by laughing 
 — ha, ha ! — that it was sometliing very different. In addition to 
 tlie money, I have bestowed upon him a field or so for the improve- 
 ment of his farm. The gain to him is great ; tlae loss is small to 
 me. A mortgage, we agreed to call it. IJa ! lia ! Duly signed 
 
198 ^LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 and ■witnessed. Your father, Drusilla, is not one to do tliinga 
 irregularly. Duly signed and witnessed.' 
 
 This conversation made it quite clear to me that Mathew had 
 contrived an abominable plot for our ruin. For the supposed deed 
 of gift which my father wished to sign, he substituted a real deed 
 of mortgage, in which my father was to acknowledge tliat he had 
 received two hundred pounds, for which he assigned his house for 
 security, and without, as afterwards appeared, any clause as to time 
 allowed after notice should be given of foreclosing. How far the 
 lawyer was concerned in this conspiracy I know not. Perhaps he 
 was innocent. Indeed, I am now inclined to believe that he was 
 innocent of any complicity. How far Barbara — perhaps she, too, 
 was ignorant of this wickedness. 
 
 All that night I lay awake turning the thing over in my mind. 
 I planned a thousand mad schemes : I would break into Mathew's 
 room and steal the papers. T would go round the town and pro- 
 claim his wickedness ; I would inveigle him into surrendering the 
 papers by a false promise of marriage ; I would seek the protection 
 of Mr. Carnaby. All these things I considered, but none of them 
 approved themselves on consideration, because a forger and a 
 cheat will always be ready, if he escapes punishment for the first 
 "iti'ence, to repeat his wickedness. Lastly, I resolved upon seeking 
 !DiIatthew ao the mill, where I could talk to him at greater 
 freedom. 
 
 I went there in the afternoon about two of the clock. When I 
 lifted the latch I saw Barbara sitting on the settle near the window 
 working. Before her, as usual, lay an open Bible. Strange ! that 
 one who was so hard and severe could draw no comfortable things 
 from a book which should be full of comfort. 
 
 She shook her long lean forefinger at me. 
 
 'I have known,' she said, ' for a long time the ruin that hangs 
 over your house. I saw your father sign the mortgage. He 
 laughed and called it a deed of gift, I remember. All ! good 
 money after bad. But my brother, who was foolish enough to lend 
 the money, was not so foolish as to let it go without security. A 
 deed of gift ! He is cunning, your father, and would deceive me 
 if he could, I doubt not.' She turned over the leaves and found 
 something that seemed to suit the occasion and my demerits. 
 ' " He hath made thy vine bare." My brotlier is full 'of compas- 
 sion. "He hath made it clean bare." Thy punishment hath 
 begun.' 
 
 ' I wish to see your brother alone.' 
 
 ' Do you come in peace or in enmity ? If in peace, you must 
 first make submission, and confess your deceits as rei'ards tlie boy, 
 who is surely dead. Nothing else will satisfy him. You can begin 
 with me. Where is the boy % ' 
 
 ' What I have to say is with your brother, not with you.' 
 
 ' Go, then ; but remember, when you are married, look not to 
 be mistress here. I shall continue to be the mistress as I have always 
 
IS IT TRUE? 19^ 
 
 been. If you come in enmity, then you have me to battle witli 
 and not my brother alone. Two hundred pounds is not a sum to 
 Vie given away for nought. Men are soft where a woman is con- 
 cerned ; Mathew may be a fool for your sake ; you may look to 
 wheedle him out of his papers. Ah, but you shall not. He may 
 be a fool, but I am behind. I am not soft ; your eyes will not 
 make a fool of me, Mistress Drusdla.' 
 
 She then bade me go within, where I should find her brother. 
 
 It was a cloudy afternoon, and, so early in the season, already 
 growing dusk : Mathew was seated before the fire, and on the 
 table a stone jar containing Hollands which he had already begun 
 to drink. 
 
 ' Pretty Drusilla ! ' he cried, astonished. ' Have you brought 
 the money 1 ' 
 
 'No,' I said. 'I come to learn if you are in earnest or in 
 jest.' 
 
 'In jest?' Then he swore a loud oath. 'See you, my lass; 
 if tliat money is not paid next week, your house will be sold. 
 Make your account of that. But if you comply with my condi- 
 tions, the papers shall be torn up.' 
 
 ' Then I am come to tell you, Mathew, that although I shall 
 not comply with your conditions, the cottage will not be sold.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because, first of all, that mortgage is false. I know now 
 what you did. You caused my father to sign one paper believing 
 it to be another. That is a fraud, and a hanging matter, lilaster 
 Mathew.' 
 
 He laughed, but uneasily, and he turned pale. Also, which is 
 hardly worth the noting, he swore a great oath. 
 
 ' It's a lie ! ' he cried. ' Prove it ! ' 
 
 ' I can prove it, when the time oomes. Meantime, reflect on 
 what I have said. It is a wicked and detestable plot. Reflect 
 upon this and tremble.' 
 
 He laughed again, but uneasily. 
 
 'There is another reason,' I said, 'why you will not sell tlie 
 cottage. It is this. You are afraid that Ralph may come home 
 and demand an account. Well, I can tell you this : that he will 
 not come home just yet. But, if you do this thing, as sure as I 
 am alive, Mathew, I will write to him and tell him all. I shall 
 tell him how you have persecuted me to marry you, not because 
 3'ou want me for your wife, and though you have had your answer 
 a dozen times over, but because you want to plague and spite your 
 cousin. I will tell him, next, how you have spread false reports 
 about another will, and how you have whispered that he is turned 
 highwajniian. And lastly, I will tell him how you have practised 
 upon the kind heart of a poor demented man, and made him sign 
 his name in testimony of your own foul plot and falsehood. I 
 will not spare you. I will tell him all. I will beg him to return 
 post haste, and to bring with him olficers of justice. Then, indeed, 
 
200 *LET NOTHING YOU DLSJIAY: 
 
 you may look for no mercy, nor for anything short of the assizes 
 and Newcastle Gaol.' 
 
 I spoke so resolutely, though, perhaps, through ignorance, I 
 spoke foolishly, that I moved him and he trembled. 
 
 Yet he blustered. He said that all women are liars, as is very 
 well known ; that the boy was long since dead and buried ; else 
 wlij^ did he not return to claim the property ? That, as for my 
 story, he did not value it one farthing ; while, as regards my 
 accusation, he would laugh. In fact, he did laugh, but not mirth- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Come, Drusilla,' lie said ; ' your father is welcome to the 
 money, for aught I care. I do not desire to sell the cottage. Sit 
 down and be friendly. Tell me all about the boy ; and look, my 
 lass' — his eyes were cunning indeed — 'look you. Write to the 
 boy ; tell him, if you will, about the money. Tell him that I am 
 willing not to press it if he will give reasonable assurance or security 
 of his own in exchange. Let him, for instance, give me a mort- 
 gage on the mill, and let him, since he is so prosperous, pay the 
 interest himself.' 
 
 This was a trap into which I nearly fell. But I saw in time 
 that he designed to find out in this way what he had to fear. 
 
 ' I have told you,' I said, ' what I shall do.' 
 
 ' Ah ! your story, I doubt, is but made up by woman's wit. 
 Drusilla, you are a cunning baggage. Come, now, give over ; stay 
 here and be my wife ; thou shalt be mistress in everything. As 
 for Barbara, I am tired of her sour looks. She scolds all day. 
 She may pack ; she makes the meals uncomfortable ; she may 
 vanish ; she stints the beer. We will keep house without her. 
 She finds fault from morning to night. She is a ' 
 
 ' You called me, Mathew 1 ' Barbara suddenly opened the door 
 and stood before us. Her eyes followed me as I went away with 
 malignity difficult to describe, and Mathew, sinking back into hia 
 chair, feebly reached out his hand for the jar of Hollands. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WISDOM or THE STKONG MAN. 
 
 When I went home I told my mother that for the present, at least, 
 we need not fear anything from Matthew. Of this I was quite 
 certain. My assui\ance that I would appeal to his cousin, the 
 doubt where ' the boy ' might be — there was no reason, for instance, 
 why he should not be at Newcastle, or at Rothbury, or at Hexliam, 
 or at Carlisle — to say nothing of my charge of fraud, went home to 
 liis guilty conscience. These things were sure, 1 thought, to deter 
 a man not naturally courageous, although his conscience might be 
 hardened, from tempting the vengeance of his injured cousin. 
 
THE WISDOM OF THE STROXG MAN. 201 
 
 So far was I right, that for the whole of the spring and summer 
 we had no further molestation from him, but continued in our 
 quiet course, spending as little money as we could, yet looking 
 forward to the time, now growing very near, when there would be 
 no more left to spend. As for myself, I may truly declare that my 
 faith was strong — I mean not the faith of a Clmstian, such as 1 
 ought to have held — but faith in my lover, so far away. He would 
 send me an answer. The answer, whatever it might be, would 
 Burely set all right. 
 
 ]\Iathew not only ceased to persecute us, but he ceased to desire 
 the conversation and company of my father. He came no more 
 even to church, as if conscious of his wickedness, and ashamed to 
 face honest people. He was rarely seen even in the town, and he 
 left me quite alone ; so that I began to think that repentance had 
 perhaps seized upon his soul. Alas ! Repentance knocks in vain at 
 the heart of such as Mathew. 
 
 Though, however, we saw him not, I heard, through my faithful 
 Fugleman, certain intelligence about him. Thus, he drank harder; 
 he neglected his business ; he quarrelled daily with his sister, who 
 reproached him for his drunken ways, and the neglect of his worldly 
 afiairs ; also, she continually urged him to recover the two hundred 
 pounds owed to him, as she thought, by my father. She hungered 
 and thirsted after this money, which, it seemed, she did not know 
 that her brother jDossessed. Why had he concealed from her, she 
 asked him with anger, that he had so much as two hundred pounds, 
 when he would not give her even money to buy things for the 
 house ? Let him get the money back. Was he mad to let interest 
 and all go 1 She let him have no peace ; she longed to have this 
 money ; perhaps she longed for our ruin as well. Then she con- 
 stantly threw in her brother's teeth the fact that if the boy was 
 not dead and should return, if, in fact, my story was true, he would 
 find the books and accounts in such confusion as might lead to their 
 ruin. She wanted to know what truth there was in the reports, 
 once so industriously spread, about a second will. In fact, she led 
 the M'retched man a dog's life, having a tongue sharper than a 
 sword and more dreadful than a fiery serpent. But, as concerning 
 the tilings she said of Ralph, I could have desired nothing better, 
 because it kept alive in Mathew's breast the wholesome fear of his 
 cousin's return. So long as that lasted, we were safe. We should 
 have continued in safety, because that fear did not die away, but 
 rather increased day by day, save for the instigation, as I cannot 
 but believe, of the Evil One, and the concoction of a design even 
 more wicked '•aan that of the mortgage. I suppose the plot was 
 conceived in the spring or summer, but it was not until the late 
 autumn that it was attempted. The way of it was as follows (I do 
 no harm, I trust, by speaking openly of a traffic which, as every- 
 body knows, is conducted almost openly all over the northern 
 counties of England and the southern counties of Scotland). 
 
 I have mentioned one Daniel, or Dan, Gedge, always called the 
 
202 *LET NOTIIIXG YOU DISMAY' 
 
 Strung Man, because he was like Hercules, the falaled Greek, for 
 bodily strength, whu lodged with Sailor Nan. He professed to 
 make a living out of his strong arms and legs. He went to fairs, and 
 was seen on market-days in all the towns of Northumberland, 
 Durham, and Carlisle performing great feats for wagers, or for 
 money laid down. He would tie heavy weights to his nose and 
 bear them so suspended round the market ; he would lift and carry 
 a pony or a cow ; he W(_)uld crush — but this was nothing to him— 
 pewter pots with his hands, break iron bars and great pokers over 
 his left arm— as many as they might bring to him ; he would twist 
 g )ld and silver pieces of money, if gentlemen gave them to him, 
 with his lingers ; carry a dozen men upon his shoulders and in his 
 arms ; run round a table on his thumbs ; pull a cart against a yoke 
 of oxen, and perform many other surprising feats, the memory of 
 which still survives though the poor man is dead, having been 
 surprised by a snow-storm when in liquor, so that he sat down and 
 fell asleep in the drift, his mighty thews availing him naught, 
 never to wake again. By these performances he made great gain, 
 which he spent, for the most part, on the spot where he was paid, 
 and in drink, having a thirsty spirit, and, besides, being ready 
 when he had the means to oblige other thirsty souls who had not. 
 He was a man standing over six feet, with legs and arms of sur- 
 prising stoutness, a square red face, and a kindly eye. Despite his 
 strength he was peaceful, and the softest-hearted of mankind. 
 Now, though he pretended to live by the exhibition of his strength, 
 which I believe was the reason why the Vicar called him INI lo, it 
 was very well kni'wn everywhere that he had another and a more 
 important source of profit. This was in the running of 'stufi"' 
 acrijss the Border, a business wliich demands, as everybody knows, 
 much cauti(jn, witli knowledge of the country and powers of en- 
 durance. The 'stufi'' consists generally of brandy, lace, silk, and 
 Geneva. Salt is also smuggled across, but a better profit is made 
 out of the former articles, which are less in bulk and more easily 
 concealed. There are many reasons why Warkworth should be a 
 convenient spot for the illicit trade. First, it lies two miles up the 
 river, and has many safe hiding-places, so that a cargo once landed 
 at the mouth of the Coc{uet may be safely and speedily carried up 
 the river, and bestowed where it is judged safe ; for all along the 
 steep banks there are spots clearly designed by Nature for the con- 
 venient storage of valuable packages. Not to speak of the thick 
 hanging woods beside the banks, where enough Geneva and Hol- 
 lands may be stored to supply London for a year, there is the 
 Hermitage, whose double chamber I have myself seen packed full 
 of silk in bales waiting for an opportunity, while in the Castle 
 itself there are vaults, dungeons, passages, and secret chambers, 
 known only to the Fugleman. Here, little suspected by my Lord 
 of Northumberland, enough brandy might be stored to sup])ly the 
 county (which is a thirsty <jne) for a dozen years. The Border is 
 not, to be sure, so near as it is higher up the coast, but on the other 
 
THE WISDOM OP THE STEOXG J/.LV. 203 
 
 hand, the look-out and watch kept by the gangers cannot be by any 
 means so vigilant and close as where the county narrows to the 
 north ; while more than half the run takes place over the wild 
 moors and pathless slopes of the Cheviots, a place in which the 
 Excise people find it ditlicult indeed to discover or to stop a run 
 made by men who know the countiy. They have a service of ponies 
 for the work, little, hardy, sure-footed creatures, who carry the 
 ankers, kegs, and bales slung across their backs, and can be trusted 
 ti> make the whole thirty-five miles from Warkworth to the Border 
 in a single night ; that is, in seven or eight hours, the drivers 
 walking or riding beside them. 
 
 Most of the farmers and craftsmen of Warkworth take a share 
 in these risks and profits ; one or two of them — of whom Mathew 
 was one — often accompany and lead the expedition. Everybody 
 knows beforehand when a run is arranged ; many in the town knsiw 
 the very night when it will take place, the road chosen, and the 
 value of the stuff. There is so much sympathy with this work, on 
 both sides of the Border, and so many jjartners in the ventuie, 
 that information is never given to the Excise, and hiding-places 
 are found everywhere, with the help and connivance of the most 
 innocent-looking plough-boy and the most demure country lass. 
 
 Now one morning — it was in November, when the days have 
 already become short, and the nights are long and dark — Dan 
 Gedge got up from his sleeping-bench or cupboard in the wall, 
 about eight or a little after, calling lustily for small beer, of which 
 he drank a quart or so as a stay to his stomach before breakfast. 
 Tlien he di'essed and came forth to the door with the mug in his 
 hand. 
 
 Sailor Nan was already seated on her stone, pipe in mouth, and 
 three-cornered hat on her head. She had taken her breakfast, and 
 now sat, regardless of the raw cold air — for all the winds that blow 
 were the same to her — looking up and down the street, in which 
 nothing as yet was moving, though the blacksmith's ajiprentice 
 across the road had lit the fixe, and the cheerful breath of the 
 bellows made one feel warm. 
 
 ' Fugleman and me, ' said Dan, yaAvning, ' Fugleman and me, 
 we was rowing up and down from Amble most all night. ' 
 
 ' What is the run 1 ' asked Nan, who needed no other explana- 
 tion ; ' and who's in it 1 ' 
 
 'Mathew Humble is in it for one,' said Dan. ' Going with it 
 himself, he is, this journey. Ho ! ho ! Folks will talk of this run 
 when they come to hear of it. The Fugleman thinks he knows. 
 But he don't ; no, he don't know. He's not to be trusted. I'm 
 the only one who knows. Aye, a rare run it will be, too — out of 
 the common this run will be. Folks will lift up their heads when 
 they hear of this night's work.' 
 
 ' What is it, Dan 1 Lace belike 1 ' 
 
 He shook his stupid head and laughed. 
 
 How could Mathew have been such a fool as to trust him ? 
 
20i 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 ' Belike there's lace in it, and silk in it, and brandy in it. 
 There's always them things. But there's more, Nan — there's 
 more.' 
 
 ' What more, Dan 1 ' 
 
 ' Fugleman, he'll laugh when he hears the news. He's helping 
 in the job, and he don't know nothing about it ; only Mathew and 
 me knows what that job is. Mathew and me — and one other.' 
 
 ' Who is the other, Dan 1 And what is tlie job ? ' 
 
 He shook his head and buried it for safety in the pewter-pot. 
 
 'Mathew Humble,' he said, ' is a masterful man.' 
 
 ' What is the job ? ' asked Nan, feeling curiosity slowly awaken. 
 
 ' It is a job,' replied Dan, ' which can't be told unto women.' 
 
 ' Why, ye lubber,' she sprang to her feet and shook her fist in 
 the Strong Man's face, so that he started back ; ' lubber and land- 
 lubber, you dare to call me a woman — Captain of the Foretop. 
 Now, let me hear what this job is that I am not to be told. Out 
 with it, or ' I omit the garnish of her discourse, which con- 
 sisted of sea-oaths. 
 
 ' Mathew Humble did say ' the Strong Man began. But 
 
 strong men are always like babies in the hands of a woman. 
 
 ' 'Vast there, Dan,' said Nan ; ' d'ye think I value your job nor 
 want to know what it is — a rope's end ? But that you should refuse 
 to tell it to me, your shipmet — that's what galls. And after yester'- 
 forenoon's salmagundi ! ' 
 
 This accusation of ingratitude cut poor Dan to the quick. In 
 the matter of sea-pie, lobscouse, and salmagundi (which is a mess 
 of salt beef, onions, potatoes, pepper, oil, and vinegar, the whole 
 fried to make a toothsome compound) Sailor Nan was more than a 
 mother to him. 
 
 'Twenty years afloat,' continued Nan, in deep disgust; 'from 
 boy to Captain of the Foretop, and from Cape Horn to the Narrow 
 Seas and Copenhagen, and to be told by a land-swab, who never so 
 much as smelt blue water, that I'm a woman ! ' 
 
 ' O' course,' said Dan feebly, ' I didn't really mean it.' 
 
 ' Didn't mean it ! Why — there ! What is it, then ! Is it 
 piracy, or murder ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' Look ye. Nan. It won't signify, not a button, telling you. 
 I said to myself at the beginning, ' ' Nan won't spoil sport ; " and 
 it's only a girl.' 
 
 Only a girl ! Nan pricked up her ears. ' As if I cared about 
 girls,' she said carelessly. 
 
 ' Only a girl. It's Miss Drusy — that's all. You see she's been 
 longing to run away with Mathew, and marrj^ him, for months. 
 Longing she has, having took a fancy for IVIathew, which is a 
 strange tiling, come to think of it, and she so young. But women 
 
 are . Ay, ay. Nan, I know. You see I always thought she 
 
 was saving up for Ralph Embleton. But Mathew, he says that's 
 nonsense. Well — she all this time longing to marry him, and her 
 
THE WISDOM OF THE STROXG MAN. 205 
 
 mother won't hear it — no chance till nciT. So it's fixed for tu- 
 night. What a run ! Lace, and brandy, and Geneva, and a girl.' 
 
 ' Oh — well ; I don't care. Go on, Dan, if you like.' 
 
 He then proceeded to explain that Matliew had arranged for a 
 pony to be saddled in readiness ; that the signal agreed upon 
 between the girl and Mathew was a message from the castle carried 
 by a certain boy named Cuddy, pretending to come from the 
 Fugleman, who was to be kept out of the way, employed at the Her- 
 mitage, where the stuff was bestowed ; the boy was to say that the 
 Fugleman was ill. On receiving this message the girl would make 
 an excuse to run up to the castle, where she would moimt the 
 pony, and so ride ofi' with Mathew and be married over the Border. 
 To keep up appearances, he went on — this soft-headed giant — it 
 had been arranged that the young woman was to scream and 
 struggle at the first, and that Dan should lift her into tlie saddle, 
 and, if necessary, hold her on. Once across the Border they would 
 be married without so much as a jump over the broomstick, 
 
 Nan slowly rose. 
 
 ' I'll get you some more beer, Dan,' she said. 
 
 She went indoors, and poured about three-fourths of a pint of 
 gin into a tankard which she filled up with strong ale, and brought 
 it out to her lodger with tender care. 
 
 ' Drink that, Dan,' she said ; ' it's good old stingo — none of your 
 small beer. Drink it up ; then you can put on your coat and go 
 about your work.' 
 
 He drank it off at a gulp, with every outward sign of satisfac- 
 tion. Then he suddenly reeled, and caught at the doorpost. 
 
 ' Go and put on your coat, Dan,' she said, looking at him with a 
 little anxiety. 
 
 He disappeared. Nan heard one — two — heavy falls, and nodded 
 her head. Then she followed into the room and found the Strong 
 rdan lying upon the floor, on his back with his mouth open and his 
 eyes shut. She dragged a blanket over him, and went out again to 
 sit on her stone with as much patience as a spider in October. She 
 sat there all the morning as quiet as if she was on watch. About 
 half-past two in the afternoon there came slowly down the street 
 no other than jMathew Humble himself. 
 
 ' Where is Daniel ? ' he asked. 
 
 Nan pointed to the door. 
 
 ' He's within, fast asleep. He came home late last night. I 
 dare say he'll sleep on now, if you let him alone, till evening.' 
 
 ' Have you — has he — talked with you this morning 1 ' Mathew's 
 eyes were restless, and his cheek twitched, a sign of prolonged 
 anxiety or much drink. 
 
 ' Nay ; Avliat should he say to me, seeing that he came home in 
 the middle of the night as drunk as a pig 1 Let him bide, Master 
 Mathew. What do you want him for 1 Is there a run ? ' 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 She held out her hand. 'I'll drink luck to the venture,' she 
 
206 *LET NOTHING YOJJ DISMAY: 
 
 said, taking the shilling which he gave her for luck. ' Thank you ; 
 this is sure to bring you luck. You'll say so to-morrow morning. 
 Remember that you crossed old Nan's palm with a shilling. A 
 lucky run ! Such a run as you never had before. A run that will 
 surprise the people.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' said Mathew, pleased with the prophecy. ' It shall 
 surprise them.' 
 
 ' And how do you get on with Miss Drusy, now 1 So she said 
 nay. She will and she won't— ay, ay — I know their tricks. Yes, 
 a fine girl, and spoiling, as one may say, for a husband. Take 
 care. Master Mathew. Better men than you have lost by shilly- 
 shally. ' 
 
 ' Why, what would you have me do, Nan ? ' 
 
 'Do ? A man o' mettle shouldn't ask. Capture the prize ; pipe 
 all hands and alongside ; then off with her ; show a clean pair of 
 heels ; clap all sails.' 
 
 ' I believe. Nan,' Mathew said, ' that you are a witch.' 
 
 ' I believe,' she replied, ' that after your run you'll be sure I am. 
 Go in and wake Dan.' 
 
 The fellow, roused rudely, sat up and rubbed his heavy eyes. 
 
 ' You can't be drunk still, man,' said Mathew, ' seeing it's half- 
 past two in the afternoon.' 
 
 ' My head,' said Dan, banging it with his great fist, ' is like tlie 
 church bell bef(jre the service — goeth ding-dong. And my tongue, 
 
 it is as dry as a bone. Last night — last night Where the devil 
 
 was I last night ? ' 
 
 ' Get up, fool, and put on your coat and come out. We have 
 work to do.' 
 
 The fellow made no reply. He was stupidly wondering why his 
 head was so heavy and his legs like lead. 
 
 ' Come,' Mathew repeated, ' there is no time to lose. Up, 
 man.' 
 
 They left the house and Avalked up the street. 
 
 When they were gone, Nan took the pipe out of her mouth, 
 and considered the position of things Avith a cheerful smile. 
 
 'As for Mathew,' she said with a grin, ' he will get salt eel for 
 his supper. Salt eel — nothing short.' 
 
 She doubted for awhile whether to impart the lAoi to the Fugle- 
 man. But she remembered that though he was no older than her- 
 self he would take the thing differently, and a fight between him 
 and Dan, not to speak of Mathew as well, could have only one 
 termination. Had she been twenty years younger, she would not 
 have hesitated to engage the man herself, as she had led many a 
 gallant boarding-party against any odds. But her fighting days 
 were over. 
 
 W^hat she at last resolved upon marked her as at once the 
 bravest and the most sensible of women. But her resolution took 
 time for the working out. She sat on her stone seat and smoked 
 her pipe as usual. When any boys passed her door she shook her 
 
THE WISDOM OF THE STRONG MAN. 207 
 
 Ktick at them, and used her strange sea phrases, just as if nothing 
 ft'as on her mind. 
 
 It grows dark in the short November days soon after four, 
 whicli is the hour when folks who can afford the luxury of candles 
 light them, sweep the hearth, and prepare the dish of cheerful tea. 
 There was no tea for us that year, but small ale of our own brew- 
 ing or butter-milk. And my mother sat in great sadness for the 
 most part, not knowing what would be the end, yet fearful of the 
 worst, and being of feeble faith. Certainly, there was little to give 
 her cause for hope. 
 
 It was at half-past six or seven that I heard footsteps outside, 
 and presently a knock at the door. I saw, to my amazement, no 
 other than old Nan. It was a cold and rainy evening, but she had 
 on nothing more than her usual jacket and hat. A hard and tough 
 old woman. 
 
 'Child,' she said earnestly, 'do you think that I would lead 
 thee wrong, or tell thee a lie l ' 
 
 'Why, no, Nan.' 
 
 ' Then, mark me, go not forth to-night.' 
 
 ' Why should I go forth ? It is past six o'clock, and already dark.' 
 
 ' If messengers should come Look ! who is that 1 ' 
 
 She slipped behind the door as a boy came running to the door. 
 I recognised him for a lad, half-gipsy, who was well known to all 
 runners, and often took part in driving the ponies. A bare-headed 
 boy with thick coarse hair and bright black eyes, who was after- 
 wards sentenced to be hanged, but reprieved, I know not for 
 what reason, and I forget now what he had done to bring upun 
 him this sentence. 
 
 'The Fugleman says,' he began at once, seemingly in breathless 
 haste, ' that he has fallen down and is like to have broken his 
 back. He wants to see you at once.' 
 
 ' Oh,' I cried, ' what dreadful thing is this 1 Tell him I'll come 
 at once. Run, boy, run. I will put on a liat and ' 
 
 The boy turned and ran clattering up the road and across the 
 bridge. 
 
 Then Nan came out from behind the door. 
 
 ' It's true, then. Tlie kidnapping villains ! It's true. But I 
 never had a doubt. Go indoors, hinney. Stay at home. As for 
 the Fugleman, I'll warrant his back to be as sound as my own. 
 Wait, wait, I say, till you see Mathew's face to-morrow ? A villain, 
 indeed ! ' 
 
 ' But, Nan, what do you mean ? My dear old Fugleman a 
 villain ' What has he to do with IMathew l ' 
 
 ' No, child, not he. There's only one villain in Warkvrorth, 
 though many fools. The villain is INIathew Humble. The biggest 
 fool is Dan Gedge. He is such a fool that he ought to be keel- 
 hauled or flogged through the Fleet, at least. Stay at home. 
 This is a plot. The Fugleman is in the Hermitage at work among 
 the stuff. There's to be a run to-night. And they think 
 
208 ■ 'LET NOT III XG YOUDIS:iTAY: 
 
 Avast a bit, brother. Aye, aye, tliey sliall have what they want. 
 There's a hock of salt pork and a pease-pudding for supper. I 
 looked forward to that hock. Never mind it. The villain — he to 
 run this rig upon a girl ! But old Kan knows a mast from a manger 
 yet, and values not his anger a rope's end.' Here she became 
 incoherent, and one heard only an occasional phrase, such as — ' from 
 the sprit-sail yard to the mizen top-sail halyards ' ; 'a mealy- 
 mouthed swab' ; a ' fresh- water wishy-washy fair-weather sailor' ; 
 'thinks to get athwart my hawse,' and so forth. To all of which I 
 listened in blank wonder. Thus having in this nautical manner 
 collected her thoughts — strange it is that a sailor can never mature 
 his plans or resolve upon a plan of action without the use of strong 
 words — she begged me to lend her my cardinal, which was provided 
 with a thick and warm hood, of which we women of Northumber- 
 land stand in need for winter days and cold spring winds. She 
 said that she should keep her own cloth jacket, because the work 
 she should do that night was cold work, but she borrowed a woollen 
 wrapper which she tied over her liead and round her neck, leaving 
 her three-cornered sailor's hat in my keeping. Lastly, she borrowed 
 and put on a pair of warm leather gloves, remarking that all would 
 be found out if once they saw or felt her hand. This, to be sure, 
 was a great deal larger than is commonly found among women. 
 When all these arrangements were complete, she put on the cardinal 
 and pulled the hood over her head. ' JSTow,' she asked, ' who am I ? ' 
 
 Of course, having my clothes upon her, and being about the 
 same height, with her face hidden beneath the hood, she seemed 
 to be no other than myself. Then with a last reference to swabs, 
 lubbers, and land pirates, she once more bade me keep within doors 
 all night if I valued my life and my honour, and trudged away, 
 telling me nothing but that a piratical craft should that night be 
 laid on beam ends, that her own decks were cleared, her guns 
 double-shotted, the surgeon in the cock-pit, and the chaplain with 
 him, and, in short, that she was readj^ for action. 
 
 I saw no more of her that niglit, which I spent in great anxiety, 
 wondering what this thing might mean. But in the uiorunig, fear- 
 ing some mischief, I walked up the street to the castle. The Fugle- 
 man was in his room ; he had sent me, he said, no message at all ; 
 nor had he fallen ; nor had he broken his back. The boy Cuddy, 
 it appeared, had been helping him, and running about backwards 
 and forwards all day. When the ponies were loaded he had re- 
 turned to the Hermitage to set all snug and tidy. When he came 
 back to the castle they were gone. But no breaking of backs and 
 no sending of the boy. This was strange indeed. 
 
 'Then, Fugleman,' I said, ' jiathew Humble sent a lying mess- 
 age, meaning mischief.' 
 
 What he designed I understood in tAvo or three days. But for 
 the time I could only think that he wished to open again the ques- 
 tion of his suit. Yet, why had xsan borrowed my cardinal and my 
 gloves ? 
 
THE WISDOM OF THE STRONG MAN. 200 
 
 On the way back I looked into Nan's cottage. The door was 
 ^pen, but there was no one in the house. 
 
 I went home, little thinking what a narrow escape was mine. 
 Had I known — but had I known, I should have been divided 
 between gratitude to Heaven, and admiration of brave old Nan, and 
 detestation of the greatest villain in England. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SAILOK nan's ride. 
 
 The night was cold and raw, with a north-east wind, which brought 
 occasional showers of sleet. There was no moon. The street, as 
 the old woman walked up to the castle, was quite deserted, all the 
 women and girls being seated at home about bright coal-tires, 
 knitting, sewing, and spinning, while all the men were at the ale- 
 house, telling stories or listening to them, an occupation of which 
 the male sex is never wearied, especially when beer or rumbo, with 
 tobacco, accompanies the stories. 
 
 Nan climbed up the castle hill, and passing through the ruined 
 gate, began to pick her w^ay slowly among the stones and heaps of 
 rubbish lying about in the castle-yard. The light of the fire in the 
 Fugleman's chamber was her guide, and she knew very well that 
 just beside the door of that room would be lurking Strong Dan, 
 with intent to seize her by the waist and carry her off. Perhaps 
 he designed to carry her in his arms all the way to the Border. 
 This thought pleased her veiy much. Dan was quite able to do it, 
 and the distance is only thirty-five miles or so. It pleased her to 
 think of such a ride in the Strong Man's arms, and how tired he 
 would be at the end. 
 
 Accordingly, when she drew near the door she went very slowlj', 
 and was not in the least surprised when, as she stood in the lire- 
 light, the man stepped from some hiding-place at hand, caught her 
 by the waist, and tossed her lightly over his shoulder, making no 
 more account of her weight than if she had been a mere bag of 
 meal. 
 
 'Now, mistress,' he said, 'struggle and kick as much as you 
 like. It don't hurt me.' 
 
 She cheerfully acceded to this request, and began so vigorous a 
 drumming upon his ribs that had they not been tougher than the 
 hoops of the stoutest cask, they must have been broken every one. 
 As it was, he was surprised, and perhaps bruised a little, but not 
 hurt. He had not thought that a young girl like myself had such 
 power in her heels. 
 
 ' Go on,' he said ; ' you're a strong 'un, and I like yor. the 
 better for it. Kick away, but don't try screaming, because if you 
 do I shall have to tie your pretty head in a bag. Master Mathew'a 
 
 P 
 
210 '■LET NOTIIIXG TOJJ DISMAY: 
 
 orders, not my -wish. Beaides, what's the use of pretending, when 
 there's nobody here but you and me, bless your pretty eyes ! I 
 know all about it, aaul hertz's a honoiu* for you to be carried off, 
 nothing less, by your own man. Why, there isn't another woman 
 in Warkworth that he'd take so much trouble for. Think upon 
 that ! Now then, miss, another kick, or a dozen, if you like. Ah, 
 you can kick, you can. You're a wife worth having. A happy 
 man he'll be. Lord, it would take the breath out o' most that last 
 kick would. Why, I'll swear there's not a woman in all North- 
 umberland with such a kick as yours. Keep it up.' 
 
 Thus talking, while she drummed with her heels, he slowly 
 carried her through the dark gateway, picking his feet among the 
 stones. 
 
 Outside the castle, beyond the great gate, another man was 
 waiting for them, wrapped in a great cloak. It was Mathew 
 Humble. He had been drinking, and his speech was thick. 
 
 'Now,' he said, seizing the prisoner by the arm, 'you are in my 
 power. Escape is impossible. If j'ou cry out — but I am your 
 master now, and for the rest of your life I mean to be. You have 
 got to be an obedient wife. Do you hear % I've had enough of 
 your contempts and your sneers. You'll write to the boy, will you, 
 mistress ? Ha ! Fine opportunities you will have on the way to 
 Scotland to-night. Ho ! The boy will be pleased when he hears 
 of this night's job, won't he ? ' 
 
 ' Come, mistress,' said Dan, setting her down gently, ' here's 
 the place and here's the ponies, and if you like, just for the look of 
 the thing and out of kindness, as a body may say, to rax me a cuff 
 or a clout, why — don't think I mind it. Oh, Lord ! ' 
 
 It was a kind and thoughtful invitation, and it was followed by 
 so vigorous, direct, and well-planted a blow that he reeled. 
 
 ' Lord ! ' he cried again, ' I believe she's knocked half my teeth 
 down my throat. \Vho the devd would ha' thought a slip of a 
 girl Why, even Nan herself ' 
 
 He asked for no more clouts, but kept at a respectful distance. 
 
 There were half-a-dozen ponies, all loaded in readiness for the 
 road. Mathew, Dan, and the boy they called Cuddy were to 
 conduct the expedition, the two latter on foot, the first on pony- 
 back. There was also a pony with a saddle, designed, I suppose, 
 for me. 
 
 'Now, Drusilla,' said Mathew, 'get up ; there is along journey 
 before us and no time to spare. Remember — silence, whether we 
 
 meet friend or stranger. Silence, I say, or ' He shook a pistol 
 
 in her face. 
 
 She drew the hood more closely down, and pretended to shrink 
 in alarm. Then, without any more resistance, she climbed into the 
 saddle, and took the reins from Mathew's hands. 
 
 ' That's a good beginning,' he said. ' Maybe you have come to 
 your senses and know what is best for yourself. And hark ye, my 
 lass, if you behave pretty, we'll send Barbara to the devil. If you 
 
SAILOR NAy'S HIDE. 2H 
 
 don't, you shall have a mistress at the mill as well as a master. 
 Think upon that, now.' 
 
 Then the procession started. First Cuddy ; then the ponies, 
 two by two, who followed the boy as the sheep follow their 
 shepherd ; lastly, Mathew, upon his pony ; Nan upon hers ; and 
 on the other side of her Dan Gedge, still wondering at the unex- 
 pected strength displayed in those kicks and that clout. 
 
 In addition to the advantages already spoken of possessed by 
 Warkworth for the convenience of a run, should be mentioned the 
 happy circumstance that it lies close to the wild lands, the waste 
 moors and hills which occupy so large a part of Northumberland, 
 These moors are crossed by bridle-paths, it is true, but they are 
 mere tracks, not to be distinguished from sheep-runs except by the 
 people who use them, and those are few indeed. If you lose the 
 track, even in broad daylight, you run the risk of deep quagmires, 
 besides that of wandering about with nothing to guide the inexperi- 
 enced eye, and perhaps perishing miserably among the wild and 
 awful hills. As for the boy Cuddy, he possessed a gift which is 
 sometimes granteu even to blind men, of always knowing where he 
 was and of keeping in the right path. It is with some an instinct. 
 He was invaluable on these winter runs, because, however dark the 
 night, whether the moors were covered with thick fog or impene- 
 trable blackness, or even if they were tlu-ee feet deep in snow, he 
 never failed to find his way direct to the point whither they desired 
 to go. In general, however, the wildest road, though the shortest, 
 was avoided, and the ponies were driven tlu'ough the country which 
 lies north, or north-east of the Cheviots. But on this occasion, so 
 great was Mathew's desire to ensure the safety of a run in which 
 his ponies carried something more precious even than lace or rum, 
 that he resolved upon trying the more difficult way across Chill 
 Moor, south of Cheviot. Even on a summer day the way across 
 this moor is difficult to find. On a winter's night it would seem 
 impossible. Yet Cuddy declared that he could find it blindfold. 
 They were to cross the Border by way of Windgate Fell and to 
 carry their stuff to the Uttle village of Yetholm on the Scottish 
 side. 
 
 If you draw a straight line on a county map almost due west 
 from Warkworth, you will find that it passes near very few villages 
 indeed all the way to the Scottish Border. The ground begins to 
 rise a mile or so west of the town, and though up to the edge of the 
 moors the country is mostly cultivated, the only villages passed the 
 whole way for thirty miles, are Edlingham, Whittingham, and 
 Alnham, and it is very easy for safety's sake to avoid these. First, 
 then, thej' rode slowly and in silence for six or seven miles as straight 
 across the country as hedges and gates would allow. Presently 
 striking the bed of the Hampeth Biu-n, they followed it up, rough 
 as the way was, as far as the Black Tarn, which lies among the hills 
 east of Edlingham. Here they turned to the right, keeping still 
 upon the high ridge, and crossed Alnwick Moor, whence they 
 
 p 2 
 
212 *LET NOTHING YOU DrS.VAY.' 
 
 presently descended till they found themselves in the little valley 
 down which the river AJn flows at this point. Here the going was aa 
 bad as could be, the ponies feeling their feet at every step, and the 
 progress slow. Yet they never stopped for an instant, nor did the 
 boy hesitate. Mathew kept silence, riding with hanging head, full 
 of gloomy thoughts. 
 
 It was past midnight, and they had been in the saddle five hours 
 and more, when they reached the place, close to the village of 
 AInham, where they were to leave the guidance of the winding 
 burn and trust themselves to the knowledge of the boy upon the 
 pathless moors. Here, under the shelter of a linney, Mathew 
 called a halt. Dan produced a lantern and a tinder-box, and 
 presently got a light. Then he found some provisions in one of the 
 packs, and they ate and drank. 
 
 ' You are so far from your friends now,' said Mathew to his 
 prisoner, ' that you can talk and scream and do just exactly what 
 you please, except run away. Now you guess what I am going to 
 do. Once over the Scottish Border you will be my wife by Scottish 
 law, if I call you wife. So that now, you know, you had better 
 make up your mind and be cheerful.' 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 ' Well, then, have you got nothing to say ? ' 
 
 She had nothing. 
 
 'Sulk, then,' he said roughly. 'Fall a sulking till you are 
 tired. You may think, if you please, what your young devil of a 
 sweetheart will say when he finds the nest empty ! Alive and pro- 
 spering, is he ? ' 
 
 He proceeded to express his earnest hope that the boy would 
 shortly be beyond the reach of hope. This done, he informed Nan 
 that the worst part of her journey had yet to be accomplished, and 
 that she had better take 'some meat and drink, unless she wished to 
 fall off" her saddle with fatigue, in which case Dan would have to 
 carry her. She accepted without speaking, and, under cover of 
 her hood, made an excellent supper, being, in fact, already pretty 
 well exhausted with fatigue and hunger. When she had finished, 
 Mathew offered her a bottle which contained brandy. He was 
 amazed to find when she returned it to him that she had taken at 
 one draught about half-a-pint of the spirit, so that he looked to see 
 her reel and fall off the pony. That she did not do so he attributed 
 to the effect of the cold night air and the long ride, being unsuspi- 
 cious how strong and seasoned a head was hidden beneath that 
 hood. 
 
 Supper finished, Mathew examined the boy concerning the 
 road. He would tell nothing at all about it, yet he said he knew 
 where to find it, and how to follow it, and, in short, undertook to 
 guide the party without danger by as sliort a way as could be foimd 
 across the moor. He was certain that he could do this, but he 
 would not explain how he knew the way nor in what direction it 
 wound among the hills. In fact, how was a boy to describe a 
 
SAILOR NAN'S RTDE. 213 
 
 road who knew not north from south, or east from west, nor had 
 any but the most simple English at his command in which to sj^eak 
 of valley or hill, ascent or descent 1 
 
 The moor over which they crossed that dark night in as perfect 
 safety as if a broad highway had been laid down for them, and was 
 lit with oil lanterns like some of the streets of London, is the 
 wildest, I suppose, in all England. I have heard of that great 
 moor which covers half Devonshire, though I have never been in 
 the south countiy. I have read about that other great and wild 
 moorland which lies round the Peak in Derbyshire. I have ridden 
 over the broad heath which stretches from Hexham to Teesdale, a 
 place as wild as the people who live upon its borders, yet have I 
 never seen, nor can I conceive, of any place or country so wild, so 
 desolate, and so forsaken, save by hawks, vipers, and other evil 
 things, as the land which lies by Cheriot, Hedgehope, and Wind- 
 gate Fell. 
 
 The boy, as before, led the way, walking without hesitation, 
 thougli the night was so dai'k. What he saw to indicate the road 
 no one can tell. Nan, for her own part, could see nothing at all 
 before her for the pitchy darkness of the night and the continual 
 pattering of the rain. 
 
 Here is the verj' head of the Cheviots, the middle of the moors and 
 fells, across which so many parties of plunderers, cattle-lifters, and 
 smugglers liave made tlieii' way. There is not a valley among these 
 wild hills which has not witnessed many a gallant fight. There is not 
 a liill-side which has not run with streams of bluod. There is not 
 a mountain among them all which has not its ghosts of slain men. 
 The heath and ling have been trampled under the feet of thousands 
 of soldiers, for in the old days there was no peace ujjon the border, 
 and eveiy man was a soldier all his life. But, since the invasion 
 of the Young Pretender, there has been no fighting on the border. 
 Smugglers have taken the place of the cattle-lifters, and peaceful 
 ponies laden with forbidden goods go across the moor in place of 
 horses ridden by men in iron. For those who love to be awed by 
 the wildness of Nature, a place admirable and wonderful, but full 
 of terror at all times to the heart of sensibility. I do not say, 
 however, that the moors were tc-rrible to any of those who crossed 
 them on this cold and dark night, save for the darkness and the 
 rain, and the fear that at any moment they miglit all go head first 
 into a quag. The buy, to begin with, was quite insensible to any 
 impressions which can be produced by natural objects ; rocks, prc- 
 ciijices, wild stretches of land, dark woods — all were alike to him. 
 As for Dan, I suppose he never thought of anything at all. 
 r.Iatliew was too full of the gloomy forebodings which always pre- 
 cede the punishment of wickedness, to regai'd the things around 
 liim, and Nan, as insensible as the boy, was wishing only that the 
 journey was over, because she was horribly cold and getting tired. 
 
 Thf briy led them, by that wonderful instinct, up the slope of 
 the hill to a high lovel, where the wind was keener and the rain 
 
214 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 colder. He kept as nearly as possible to the pame level, leading 
 them round the middle heights upon the slopes of the great Fella 
 and above the dales. The direct distance is not more than eight 
 miles, but by reason of the winding of the way I suppose they must 
 have doubled that distance. It was one o'clock when they left 
 Alnham behind them, and it was already five before they came 
 down the hill on the north side of Wind-Gate. 
 
 ' Master, ' said the boy at last, pointing at something invisible, 
 ' yonder's Yetholm, and you are in Scotland.' 
 
 Mathew started and sat upright in the saddle, throwing back 
 his cloak. He was in Scotland. Why, then, his work was done. 
 He laughed and laid his hand upon his prisoner's arm. 
 
 ' My wife ! ' he cried. ' Bear witness, Dan ; my wife, I say.' 
 
 ' Aye, aye, master. Give ye joy, miss. Master, another dram 
 to drink the leddy's health.' 
 
 Mathew gave him his bottle. Dan took a deep draught, and 
 then wiping the mouth of the vessel, handed it to the lady. 
 
 'Take a drop,' he said, 'it'll warm your blood after that long 
 ride.' 
 
 Then followed so prolonged a draught of the brandy, that Dan 
 too, as Mathew had done five hours ago, looked to see the girl, un- 
 accustomed to strong drink, fall from her saddle. But she did not. 
 And honest Dan marvelled, remembering, besides, the vigour of 
 her heels and the unexpected reality of th it clout. A wife so gifted 
 with manly strength of heel and hand, who could also drink so fair, 
 seemed to this simple fellow a thing to be envied indeed. 
 
 As regards the run, let me say at once, so as to have done with 
 it, that it was quite successful, and proved a profitable venture to 
 all concerned, though Mathew, for his part, never showed any joy 
 when the work of the night was spoken of. It was a hold thing to 
 venture across the moors on so dark a night ; no one in oflice looked 
 for such a venture in the little village of Yetholm ; and the stuff, 
 taken in the farmers' carts to Kelso, was all sold off at once, therefore 
 Mathew might have been proud of his exploit. But he was not. And 
 when the old woman, accompanied by the boy, came home two da^'s 
 later and brought the news of what had happened, the success of 
 the venture lost aU its interest in the presence of the wonderful tale 
 they had to tell. 
 
 They rude into Yetholm a good while before daybreak, and the 
 people of the inn— little more than a little village ale-house — were 
 still in their beds. It was now raining again, with a cold wind, 
 while they waited for the house to be roused and the fire to be 
 laid. Nan began now, indeed, though she had borne bravely the 
 rough journey of the night, to feel the keen morning air and the 
 fatigue of the long ride. Her limbs were numbed, and when, at 
 last, the door was opened and the fire lit, Dan had to lift her off the 
 pony and to carry her in. They placed her in a chair before the 
 fire, where she sat huddled up in her cardinal and hood, refusing 
 to take them off. 
 
SAILOR NAN'S RIDE. 215 
 
 When all was safely bestowed, Mathew thought him of his bride, 
 and came into the parlour, now bright with a cheerful fii'e and a 
 candle. He threw off hat and cloak with a sigh of relief. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, ' let us be friends, Drusilla, since we are married, 
 i^es, child, married. You would have me no other way. Let us 
 have no more sulking.' 
 
 She answered nothing. 
 
 ' Well, it matters not.' Here the landlord and his wife, with 
 Dan and a servant wench, came in together. ' Something to eat,' 
 IMathew ordered. ' Anything that you have. My wife is tired 
 with her ride over the moors.' 
 
 ' Over the moors ? ' This was the landlady. ' You haven't, 
 surely, brought a leddy over the moors on sic a night as this '? ' 
 
 'Indeed, but 1 have,' he replied. ,'Come, madam.' He seized 
 her by the arm and dragged her off the chair — oh, the gentle wooer ! 
 — so that she st<jod before him. ' Bear witness, all of you,' he said, 
 taking her gloved hand. ' This is my wife, my lawful wife, by 
 Scottish law.' 
 
 JSTow whether such is the Scottish law I know not at all, but in 
 Northumberland it was always believed that, across the Border, 
 such a form of words, before witnesses, constituted the whole of 
 marriage required by law, although by way of adding some grace of 
 ceremony, the pair sometimes jumped over a broomstick, or wrote 
 their names in a book, or gave a blacksmith a guinea. 
 
 'My lawful wife,' Mathew repeated. 
 
 The bride, who had been standing with bent shoulders and 
 bowed head, straightened herself and stood upright. Then the 
 witnesses observed a very curious and remarkable thing. The face 
 of the bridegroom, which should surely on such an occasion show & 
 lively sense of happiness, expressed first astonishment, then un- 
 easiness, and finally terror. 
 
 The cause of these successive emotions was simple. When 
 IMathew had repeated his form of words he would have dropped his 
 bride's hand, but she now held his, first with a gentle pressure, 
 next with a determination, and finally with a vice-like tenacit/ 
 which amazed and filled him with strange fears. 
 
 Presently, still holding his hand, she spoke : 
 
 ' I acknowledge Mathew Humble as my true and lawful Iiu;-- 
 band ! ' 
 
 The voice was hoarse and rough. Mathew, with his left hand, 
 tore off the hood. Before him stood, her mouth opening gradually 
 to make room for the hoarse laugh which followed, no other than 
 Sailor Nan herself, in her short petticoats and her cloth jacket, 
 with a woollen wrapper tied about her head. 
 
 ' My husband ! ' she repeated ; ' my loving husband ! Would 
 ye believe it' — she addressed the company generally — 'he's so 
 fond of me that he couldn't wait to have the banns put up, but 
 must needs carry me off ! Saw ye over such a braw lover V 
 
 They were all astounded ; and when she laughed, still holding 
 
216 *LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 the astonished bridegroom by the hand, some of them trembled, 
 because they knew not whether she was man or woman, her voice 
 was so rough, her hair was so short, her jacket was so sailor-like. 
 
 ' All, hinneys ! " she laughed again hoarsely, because the air had 
 touched her throat. ' Tlie bonny, bonny bride and the happy 
 groom ! Kiss your wife, my husband dear.' 
 
 She threw herself upon his neck, and began to kiss his lips. 
 
 ' You ? You ? ' He tore away his hand from her grasj), tried 
 to push her from him witli violence, but she clung fast to him, and 
 retreated step by step to the corner of the room. ' You 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, it's me, dearie — it's me. Did ye ever hear the like 1 To 
 fall in love with an old woman of seventy, like me, and to run 
 away with her ! I never looked to get another husband. There's 
 a spirit for you ! There's a bold spirit! Mathew dear, when 
 shall we go back? Oh, the wedding-feast that we will have ! 
 Well, we women love a lad of mettle. Is there a boy in Wark- 
 worth, except my man here, who would carry his wife all the way 
 across the moors when he might have had me asked in church I ' 
 
 Dan, one of those who are naturally slow to understand things 
 unless they fall out exactly as is expected, had by this time 
 succeeded in comprehending the whole. He had, he now per- 
 ceived, carried off the wrong woman, which fully accounted for the 
 vigour of the kicks, the amazing strength of the clout, and the 
 capacity for strong drink. 
 
 ' Nan ! ' he cried. ' It's our Nan ! ' 
 
 ' It is, ye lubber,' she replied ; ' and no one else.' 
 
 He then began to laugh too. He laughed so loud and so long, 
 being a man who seldom sees a joke, and then cannot make enough 
 of it, that the landlord, the landlady, and the servant-girl caught 
 tlie infection, and they all laughed too. Mathew raged and swore. 
 This made Dan laugh the louder and the longer. Mathew ceased to 
 swear ; he tlirew himself into a chair, with his hands in his 
 pockets, and sat, cheeks red and eyes flashing, until the storm of 
 inirth subsided. Then liis dainty and delicate bride banged her 
 great list upon the table. 
 
 ' No sheering ofl" now,' she cried, ' You're my man, and a 
 merry and a happy life you shall lead. INIates and jolly sailors all, 
 this is my third husband. The first, he was hanged ; the second, 
 he hanged himself ; better luck to the third. What a wife he'a 
 got ! — what a wife ! Now then, rum for tliis honourable company, 
 and a fiddle for the wedding ; and more rum and tobacco, and more 
 rum. Stir about, I say.' She produced a bo's'n's whistle, and 
 blew a long shrill call. ' Stir about, or I'll rope's-end the whole 
 crew. Rum, I say ; more rum for this honourable company ! ' 
 
 With these words she sprang into the middle of the room, 
 and began to dance a hornpipe with the most surprising skill and 
 agility. 
 
£17 
 
 •■ -r 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. 
 
 When the old woman came home with the boy, the story wliich 
 she had to tell surpassed all her yarns of salt-sea experience. Slie 
 told her tale nightly, in exchange for glasses of strong drink. And 
 even Cuddy, the boy, was in request, and sold his information for 
 mugs of beer. The men laughed at Mathew's discomfiture. To 
 most men, indeed, the punishment of wickedness is always an 
 occasion for mirth rather than for solemn reflection. They laugh at 
 suffering, especially when it is unexpected ; and if their dearest friend 
 experiences a misfortune when he most expects a stroke of luck, 
 they laugh. When a vagabond is flogged at the cart-tail ; when a 
 slurew is ducked ; when a miserable starving wretch is ^'lapped into 
 stocks or pillory, they laugh. That is the way of men. But I 
 have observed that they do not laugh at their o^vn afiiictions. 
 Everybody, therefore, including the Yicar and his Worship, 
 laughed at Mathew's discomfiture. They went so far as to say that 
 Mr. Carnaby told the story to my Lord of Northiuiibeiiand, who 
 was entertaining my Lord Bishop of Durham, and tliat both prelate 
 and peer laughed until the valets had to unloose their cravats. Yet 
 I cannot see why one should laugh because a young man is mated 
 to an old wife, expecting to have carried ofl' a young one. To me, 
 it seems as if we should first condemn the crime of abduction, and 
 next, bow to the rod. 
 
 After the first laughter, which was like an explosion, or a great 
 thunder-storm, one of those during which the rain-water rattles 
 and slates fall off the roof : a universal burst of laughter when all 
 the men ran together laughing their loudest, holding each other up, 
 loosing neck-ties, piimping on the apoplectic, and encouraging each 
 other to fresh hilarity by pointing to Nan tlie bride : the question 
 naturally arose if anything should be done to mark their sense of 
 the attempted crime by those in authority. A most grievous and 
 intolerable thing it was, indeed, that a young woman should be 
 violently kidnapped and carried away like a sailor by a press-gang ; 
 forced to ride thirty miles and more on a winter's night, across tlie 
 cold and rainy Fells; married willy nilly in the morning without 
 church or parson ; and this when she had not once, but many 
 times, refused so much as to listen to proposals of marriage from 
 the man. All were agreed that this was a thing not to be per- 
 mitted. Yet, what could be done ? To run aAvay with a girl of her 
 own free will and accord, and when she would marry the man but 
 for wickedness of guardians, is a diflerent thing ; many a maiden 
 has lied across the Border with her lover, amidst the sympathy of 
 her friends. But in this case it was like the carrying away of the 
 
218 LET NOTHING TOU DISMAY: 
 
 Sabine women, and no words could be found by the moralist too 
 strong to condemn the act. 
 
 While everybody talked about it, that is to say, for a whole 
 week, there was so much indignation that if Mathew had appeared it 
 would have gone hard with him among the men, to say nothing of 
 the women, who would think of no punishment too bad for him. 
 The townsfolk talked of ducking in the river, of pillory and stocks, 
 and I confess that the thought of Mathew in the pillory was not 
 disagreeable to me. Yet, considering the way of the world, per- 
 haps, if he had been young, handsome, and of pleasant speech, he 
 might have been forgiven the attempted abduction, on the plea of 
 love inordinate. One man, we know, may steal a horse — but then 
 he must be comely and geuerous — while another, if he is churlish 
 and harsh, is clapjied into gaol for looking over a hedge. While, 
 however, they talked, Mathew kept away, nor did he return for 
 three or four weeks, leaving his private aifairs neglected ; and no 
 one knew where he was in hiding. 
 
 We had, however, a visit from Barbara. She came, she said, 
 not out of any love to me or my mother, who had used words so 
 injurious as regards herseK, but to express her abhorrence of the 
 crime which her unhappy brother had attempted, and her thankful- 
 ness that this madness of his was defeated. She said that she knew 
 nothing whatever of him ; where he was or what he was doing ; 
 but she hoped that when he returned he would be in a better frame 
 of mind, and feel the remorse which ought to follow such an action. 
 As for the pretended marriage with the old woman, she said that 
 was a thing not to be considered seriously. My mother received 
 her excuses coldly, and she presently went away, after another 
 attempt to discover whether I knew anything fresh about ' the boy.' 
 She desired to know, she -said, not out of curiosity, because she was 
 not a curious person, as everybody knew, but because she feared 
 that I might, by representing the late affair in its worst light, bring 
 about a hostile feeling and even a conflict between her brother and 
 the boy, which could not fail of being disastrous to the latter. IMy 
 mother reassured her on this point, because, she said, IMathew was 
 already well acquainted with Ralph's cane, and, having shown so 
 much biavery in the late affair, which took two men to carry off 
 one woman, would now most certainly have the courage to turn a 
 submissive back to the chastiser when he should appear. Barbara 
 thereupon went away. Though I loved her not, I could not but 
 feel pity for a woman who had done and suffered so much on behalf 
 of this thankless brother. She was grown much older to look at 
 during the last year or two ; her face was pinched, and wrinkles 
 had multiplied round her eyes with her constant cares. This is an 
 age when gentlemen of exalted rank think it no sin to be put to 
 bed helpless after a debauch of wine or punch ; I hope that more 
 sober customs may shortly prevail ; else, one knows not what will 
 become of us all. Yet, though drunkenness is in fashion, I think 
 nothnig can be more miserable for a woman than to sit, as Barbara 
 sat daily, knowing that the only man in the world she cares for ia 
 
THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. 219 
 
 slo-wly getting drunk by himself in another room, which is what 
 ]\Iiithew did. As to the idle talk about the other will and the 
 rightful heir, I know not what she believed in her heart, or how 
 far she joined in the wicked designs of her brother, which were 
 about to be frustrated. 
 
 Then Mr. Carnaby, accompanied by his lady and by the Vicar, 
 came in person to express his horror of the crime, and his satisfao 
 tion that it was providentially prevented. 
 
 'We have discussed,' said his Worship, 'the action which we 
 should take in the matter. At present all we have to go upon is 
 the evidence of Nan, who is, she says, Mathew's wife, so that if 
 such be veritably the case she cannot give evidence in the matter 
 at all, and that of the boy Cuddy, an ignorant, half-wild lad, who 
 knows not the nature of an oath. Abduction is a great crime ; but 
 then Mathew, wliatever were his intentions, my child, did actually 
 only run away with an old woman, and she makes no complaint, 
 but rather rejoices, while he is rendered ridiculous. To kidnap a 
 young girl is a hanging matter ; but then, my dear, you were not 
 kidnapped. In short, we feel that to bring Mathew to justice 
 would be difficult and perhaps impossible.' 
 
 To be sure, one would not wish to hang any man for the worst 
 of crimes, and we had no desire to bring Mathew before any court 
 of law or justice, being quite contented that the oflender should 
 feel certain of sharp and speedy justice if he made another such 
 attempt. 
 
 ' Can we not see him, at least,' asked my mother, ' placed in 
 pillory ? ' 
 
 ' I would place him in pillory,' his Worship went on, ' if the old 
 woman who now calls herself his wife — Heaven knows with what 
 right — would lodge a complaint. But she will not. He deserves 
 pillory at the least. And as for rotten eggs, I would myself bring 
 even a basket of new-laid eggs, so that he should want for nothing. 
 And I would condescend to throw them. But she will not com- 
 plain. She even laughs and boasts that she lias gotten a young 
 husband. And tlien, which is a difficult point in this doubtful case' 
 — his Woi'shi]! blushed and looked confused, while the Vicar 
 hemmed and Alistress Carnaby coughed — ' he was running a venture 
 across the Border, and no one knows — I say that no one can tell — 
 who may be compromised in this affair as to wliat he took across or 
 what he brought back, for though Mathew had great faults, there 
 is no one more skilled — more skilled, I say.' 
 
 'No one,' said the Vicar, which completed the sentence for hia 
 Worship. 
 
 ' Wherefore, my dear girl,' continued his Worship, ' I propose 
 waiting until the man retm-ns, when I will reprimand him with 
 Buch severity as will serve to deter him — and any others of a like 
 mind with himself — from a renewal of his wickedness.' 
 
 Mathew did come back, tlu'ee weeks later ; but, although hia 
 Worship sent tlie Fugleman, carrying his pike, to the mill with a 
 comma,nd tliat JMathew should instantly repair to him for aduio- 
 
220 'LET NOTHING YOU DIS.VAY: 
 
 nition, and although the Yicar also repaired to Mr. Carnaby's house 
 in his best gown in order to receive the offender, and to give 
 greater authority to the discipline, Mathew came not. He posi- 
 tively and discourteously refused to obey. 
 
 There, it would seem, was a direct breaking of the law, or, at 
 least, contempt for authority, upon which imi)risonment, I dare 
 say, might have followed. But whether from leniency, or on ac- 
 count of that difficulty connected with the late venture, his Worship 
 refrained from severity, and ordered instead that Mathew, for 
 violence and contumacy, should do penance in the church. Here, 
 indeed, was righteous retribution ! He would stand, I thought, in 
 the very place where he had caused Ralph to stand nine years 
 before ; he would l)e made to rise up before all tlie people, and, in 
 a loud voice, to ask their pardon, and to recite the Lord's prayer. 
 I hope I am not a vindictive woman, yet I confess that I rejoiced on 
 learning from the Fugleman that this punishment had been meted 
 out to the evil-doer. We both rejoiced, and we congratulated each 
 other, because we thought that Ralph would also rejoice. Little 
 did we know of that great and lofty mind, when we foolishly 
 imagined that he would ever rejoice over the fall of his enemy. 
 
 There was great excitement in the town when it became pub- 
 licly known by means of the barber, who had it direct from his 
 Worship, that this godly discipline was to be enforced on the 
 person of Mathew Humble — -a substantial man, a statesman, a 
 miller, a man supposed (but erroneously) to be wealthy, and a man 
 already thirty-four years of age or thereabouts. Why, for a school- 
 boy, or a lad of sixteen, or a plain rustic to stand up in this white 
 sheet was joy enough, but for such a show of such a man, this, if 
 you please, was rapture indeed for the simple people. I confess 
 that I for one looked forward with pleasure to the spectacle. 
 
 Alas ! who would believe that man could be found so daring ? 
 Mathew refused contumaciously to perform the penance ! This 
 was a great blow and heavy disappointment to all of us ! and we 
 looked to see the Vicar excommunicate him. But he did not, say- 
 ing that disobedience to the Church brought of itself excommunica- 
 tion without need of any form of words. Let Mathew look to his 
 OAvn soul. And as there seemed no means of enforcing the punish- 
 ment if the offender refused to undergo it, there was nothing more 
 to be said. 
 
 The behaviour of Nan at this time was worthy of admu'ation. 
 On Mathew's return, but not until then, she walked to the mill 
 and informed Barbara that, as her brother's wife, she was herself 
 the mistress, but that, being accustomed to her owTi cottage, she 
 should not for the preseiit molest her in her occupation. 
 
 Then she sought her husband. 
 
 It was really terrible to mark how the ravages of drink and dis- 
 appointment together had made havoc with the appearance of this 
 unfortunate man. Unfortunate, I call him, though his punishment 
 was but the j ust reward of his iniquities. The failure of his plot ; the 
 
THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. 221 
 
 consciousness of the ridicule which overwhehiied him ; his shame 
 and discomfiture ; the thought of the old woman whom he had 
 called his wife ; the messages which he had received from his 
 Worship and the Vicar — his disobedience being connected in some 
 way with partnership in the recent venture ; a dreadful vague 
 looking forward to the future, and the constant terror lest Ralph 
 should return, filled his mind with agitation, and gave him no peace 
 night or day. He neglected the work of mill and farm ; he would 
 take no meals save by himself, and he drank continually. 
 
 He looked up from his half-drunken torpor when Nan came in. 
 
 ' I expected you before,' he said. ' What are you going to do ? ' 
 
 She poured out a dram and tossed it ofl'. 
 
 ' I came to see my bonny husband,' she said, ' before I am a 
 widow once more. Eh, man, it's an unlucky wife ye have gotten.' 
 
 ' Wife ! ' he repeated ; ' wife ! Yes, I supposed you would 
 pretend — — ' 
 
 ' Hark ye, brother,' cried Nan, bringing down her cudgel on 
 the table with an emphasis which reminded Mathew uneasily of the 
 second husband's lot ; ' hark ye ! Sail on another tack, or you'll 
 have a broadside that'll rake you fore an aft from stem to stern. 
 Wife I am ; husband you are ; wherefore all that is yours is mine.' 
 She hitched a rope into the handle of the stone jar containing the 
 brandy and jerked it over her shoulder, 'The mill is mine, so 
 long as it is yours, which won't be long, shipmet. Last night I 
 read your fortune, my lad. By all I can discover, you and me 
 shall part company before long. But whether you will hang 
 yourself, like my second man, or be hanged, like my first ; or 
 whether you will be knocked o' the head — which is too good for 
 such as you ; or whether you will die by reason of takin' too much 
 rum aboard, which is fatal to many an honest Jack ; or whether you 
 will die by hand of doctors, whereby the landlubbers do perish by 
 multitudes — I know not. Short will be our company ; so, as long 
 as we sail together, let us share and share alike, and be merry and 
 drink about. Money — now, I want money.' 
 
 He refused absolutely to let her have any money. Without any 
 more words, this terrible woman prepared for action. That is to 
 say, she took off her rough sailor's jacket, rolled up her sleeves, 
 and seized the cudgel with a gesture and look so menacing that 
 Mathew hauled down his colours. 
 
 ' How much do you want 'I ' he asked. 
 
 ' Short will be the voyage,' she said. 'Give me ten guineas. 
 Yes, I will take ten guineas to begin with. But don't think it's 
 
 pay-day. I'm not paid off, nor shall be so long as Pity 'tia 
 
 that I can't read those cards plainer. Well, my dearie, I'm going. 
 If I think I should like the mill better than my own cottage, I'll 
 come and stay here. You sliall see, off and on, plenty of your 
 wife. Ho ! ho ! The bonny bride ! and the happy groom ! ' 
 
 She left him for that time. But she went often, during the 
 brief space which remained of Mathew's reign at the mill. Each 
 
222 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 time she came she demanded money, and rum or usque'oaugh ; 
 each time she threatened to live "with her husband ; each time she 
 terrified Barbara with the prosj^ect of staying there. And the man 
 sat still in his room, brooding over the past, and thinking, not of 
 repentance, but of more wickedness. 
 
 One day, he rode away without telling his sister whither he was 
 going or what he designed. He did not return that night, but two 
 days later he rode into the town, accompanied by a grave and 
 elderly gentleman, and after leaving the horses at the inn, he 
 walked to our cottage. I saw them at the garden-gate, and my 
 heart felt like lead, because I saw very clearly what was going to 
 happen. 
 
 In fine, I felt certain that the money would be demanded and 
 our house sold. Mathew, goaded by his sister, who clainuured 
 without ceasing for the money supposed to have been lent to us, 
 and unable any longer to endure his suspense and anxiety regard- 
 ing their cousin, resolved to bring matters to an issue. Fortunate 
 indeed was it for us he had delayed so long. 
 
 They came in, therefore, and the grave old gentleman opened 
 the business. He said that he was an attorney from Morpeth ; 
 that the mortgage, of which mention had already been made to 
 Mistress Hetherington, had been drawn up by him at the request 
 of Mr. Mathew Humble ; that he had witnessed the signature of 
 my father, and thiit the business, in short, was regularly conducted 
 in accordance with the custom and the requirements of the law. 
 
 I asked him if he had seen the money paid to my father. He 
 replied that he had not, but that it was unnecessary. I informed 
 him thereupon that the money never had been paid at all, but that 
 my father, a demented person, as was very well known, yet not so 
 dangerous or so mad that he must be locked up, was persuaded by 
 Mathew that he was signing an imaginary deed of gift conveying 
 lands which existed only in liis own mind, because he had no land. 
 
 The lawyer made no reply to this at all. 
 
 ' Now, mistress,' said Mathew roughly, ' is the time to show the 
 proofs you talked about.' 
 
 'My proofs, sir,' I addressed the la'W'yer, 'are, first, that my 
 father believes himself prodigiously rich, and would scorn to borrow 
 money of such as Matliew Humble ; next, that he perfectly well 
 remembers signing tliis document, which he thought a deed of gift ; 
 thirdly, that we kn(3w positively that he has had no money at all 
 in his possession ; fourthly, that he denies with indignation having 
 borrowed money ; fifthly, that Mathew, like everybody else, knew 
 of his delusions, and would certainly never have lent the money ; 
 sixthly, that two hundred pounds is a vast sum, and could not have 
 been received and spent without our knowledge. Lastly, that 
 Mathew was known to be a base and wicked wretch who even tried 
 to kidnap and carry off a girl whom he wished to marry.' 
 
 ' Eveiy one fif these proofs,' said my mother, ' is by itself enough 
 for any reasonable person.' 
 
THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. ?23 
 
 The lawyer replied very earnestly that he had nothing to do 
 with proving the debt ; that he came to carry out the instructinns 
 of his client, and to give us a week's notice — which was an act of 
 mercy, because no clause of notice had been inserted in tlie mort- 
 gage ; that the house would be sold unless the money lent was 
 paid ; that it was not his duty nor his business to advise us, but 
 his own client ; that the law of England provides a remedy for 
 everything by the help of attorneys, and that, by the blessing 
 of Heaven, attorneys abound, and may be obtained in any town. 
 Finally, he exceeded his duty by his client in counselling us to put 
 our affairs in the hands of some skilled and properly qualified 
 adviser. 
 
 This said, he bowed low and went away, followed by Mathew. 
 
 But Mathew returned half an hour later and found me alone. 
 
 ' You told me,' he said, ' six months ago and more, that should 
 I attempt any harm to you and yours, you would write to the boy. 
 I waited. If your story was true, you would have written to him 
 at once, out of fear. But your story was not true. All, women 
 are all liars. I ought to have known that. Barbara says so, and 
 she ought to know.' 
 
 ' Go on, Mathew,' I said. 
 
 ' I waited. If your story had been true, the boy would have 
 hastened home. Well, I thought I would give you another chance. 
 I woukl cany you off. That would make him wince, if he was 
 living. Yet he has not come. ' 
 
 Did one ever hear the like 1 To bring his own terrors to an 
 end, or to an issue, he would have made me his unwilling and 
 wretched wife. 
 
 ' Now I've found you out. Why didn't I think of it before 5 
 I asked the post-boy. Never a letter, he truly swears, has been 
 delivered to you — never a one. So it is all a lie from the beginning. 
 Ve>y good then. Marry me, or sold up you shall be, and into the 
 cold streets shall you go.' 
 
 I bade him begone, and he went, terrified, perhaps, at the fury 
 with which I spoke. Of this I forbear to say more. 
 
 When we sought the advice of Mr. CaruaVjy, we found that he 
 entertained an opinion about law and justice which seemed to differ 
 from that of the ftlorpeth lawyer. 
 
 ' Your prt)of s, ' he said, ' though to me they are clear and suffi- 
 cient to show that Mathew is a surprising rogue, would go for 
 nothing before a court. And I doubt much whether any attorney 
 would be found to tmdertake, without guarantee of costs, so great 
 a business as a civil action. Justice, my child, in this country, as 
 well as all other countries, may haidly be obtained by any but the 
 rich, and only by them at the cost of vexatious delays, cheats, im- 
 positions, evasions, and the outlay of great sums upon a rascally 
 attorney. Beware of the craft. Let the man do his worst, you 
 still have friends, my dear.' 
 
 So spoke this kind and benevolent man. I am sure that hia 
 
224 *LET NO THING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 deeds would have proved as good as his words had they been 
 called for. 
 
 We told no one in the town, otherwise I am sure there would 
 have been a great storm of indignation against Mathew, and per- 
 haps we did wrong to keep the thing a secret. But my mother was 
 a Londoner, and did not like to have her affairs made more than 
 could be helped the subject of scandal and village gossip. 
 
 It was now already the middle of December ; we should there- 
 fore be turned out into the street in winter. As for our slender 
 stock of money that was reduced to a few guineas. Yet was I not 
 greatly cast down, because, whatever else might happen, the time 
 was come when I might expect an answer. In eighteen months, or 
 even less, a ship might sail to India and return to port. 
 
 Ralph's letter would set all right. I know not, now, what I 
 expected ; I lived in a kind of Fool's Paradise. Ralph was my 
 hoj^e, my anchor. I looked not for money but for protection ; he 
 would be a shield. When the Fugleman came to the cottage we 
 would fall to congratulating ourselves upon the flight of time which 
 brought my letter the nearer. He even made notches on a long 
 pole for the days which might yet remain. Yet, oh, what a slender 
 reed was this on wliich I leaned ! For my letter to him might have 
 miscarried. Who is to ensure the safety of a letter for so many 
 thousand miles ? Or his reply might be lost on board the ship. iL 
 letter is a small thing and easily lost. Or he might be up the 
 country with some native prince ; or he might be fighting ; or he 
 might be too much occupied to write. A slender reed of hope 
 indeed. Yet I had faith. Call it not a Fool's Paradise ; 'twas the 
 Paradise of Love. 
 
 Then came the day, the last day, when the money must be paid 
 or we lose our house. That clay I can never forget. It was the 
 twenty-third of December. The mummers, I know, were getting 
 ready for the next evening. In the night we were awakened by the 
 waits singing before our house : 
 
 'God rest you merrv, gentlemen, 
 Let nothing you dismay,' 
 
 and I, who ought to have taken the words for an exhortation to 
 lift my heart to Heaven, lifted it only as high as — ^^my lover. To 
 be sure, he was always a good deal nearer Heaven than his un- 
 worthy sweetheart. 
 
 In the night there was snow, and when the sun rose the garden 
 was beautiful, and the leafless trees had everj' little twig painted- 
 white ; a clear bright day, such as seldom comes to this county of 
 rain and wind in the month of December. If one has to be thrust 
 into the street, one would wish for a day of sunshine. Is it not a 
 monstrous thing that this injustice should be possible ? Will there 
 ever come a time when justice and ee^uity will be administered, 
 like fresh air and spring water, for nothing I 
 
 So certain was Mathew of his prey that he sent the crier round 
 
THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. 225 
 
 at nine in the morning to announce the sale for noon. And directly 
 after eleven he came himself with the attorney ; and a man to con- 
 duct the aviction or sale of the house. We put together, in order 
 to carry ndth us, our wearing apparel. Mathew was for preventing 
 us from taking anything — even, I believe, the clothes we stood in — 
 out of the house. Even the Family Bible must stay, and the very 
 account-books ; but he was rebuked by his lavryer, who informed 
 him that the mortgage included only the tenement or building, but 
 not its contents. We should keep our beds, then. But where to 
 bestow them ? Whither to go 1 My heart began to sink. I could 
 have sat down and cried, had that been of any avail, and if my 
 mother had not set a better example and kept so brave a face. 
 
 'The daughter of a substantial London merchant, my dear," she 
 said, ' must not show signs of distress before such cattle '■ — she 
 meant the attorney and his honest client. 'Get your things 
 together, and we will see where we can find a shelter. My poor 
 old man shall not feel the pinch of cold and hunger, though we 
 work our fingers to the bone.' Her lip trembled as she spoke. 
 
 Meantime my father was giving a hearty welcome to the 
 astonished attorney, whom he considered as a visitor, 
 
 'In this poor house, sir,' he said with a lofty air, 'though Ave 
 have the conveniences which wealth can bestow, we have not the 
 splendour. I trust, sir, that you may give me the pleasvn'e of a 
 visit at my town house, where, I believe, her ladyship will show 
 you rooms worthy of any nobleman's house, not to speak of a plain 
 City Knight, like your humble servant.' 
 
 The attorney regarded him with wonder, but answered not. I 
 believe he understood by this one speech how impossible it was 
 that this poor man could have borrowed his client's money. 
 
 At stroke of noon the sale was to commence. But as yet there 
 were no buyers. No one was thereto bid except Mathew himself, 
 who was impatient to begin. 
 
 It wanted five minutes of noon when Mr. Camaby appeared, 
 bearing his gold-headed stick, and preceded by the Fugleman with 
 his pike, to show that the visit was official. He was followed by a 
 dozen or so of the townsmen, now aware that something out of the 
 common was about to happen. 
 
 ' Go on with the sale,' cried Mathew impatiently ; ' it is twelve 
 o'clock.' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' said his Worship. ' Sir,' he addressed the lawyer, ' you 
 will first satisfy me by what right you enter a private house, and 
 next by what authority j^ou are selling it.' 
 > The attorney replied with submission and outward show of 
 respect that he was within his powers, in proof of which he ex- 
 hibited papers the nature of which I know not, concluding with a 
 hope that his honour was satisfied. 
 
 'Why, su-,' said Mr. Carnaby, 'so far as you are concerned, I 
 may be. I am also satisfied that this business is the conspiracy of 
 a villain against the peace and happiness of an innocent girl.' 
 
226 ^LUT NOT RING YOU BISJIAY.' 
 
 ' With respect, sir,' said the lawyer, 'the words conspiracy and 
 villain are libellous.' 
 
 'I name no names,' but he looked at Mathew, who shifted his 
 feet and endeavoured to seem unconscious. ' I name no names,' 
 he repeated, shaking his forefinger in Mathew's face, ' yet villain is 
 the man who would ruin a helpless family because a virtuous woman 
 refuses to marry him. Villain, I say ! ' 
 
 He banged the floor with his great stick, so that everybody in 
 the room trembled. 
 
 ' I do not think, sir,' said Mathew, 'that your office entitles you 
 to offer impediment to a just and lawful sale.' 
 
 'Prate not to me, Master Kidnapper.' 
 
 ' If,' continued Mathew, ' Mr. Hetherington disputes my claim, 
 here is my lawj'^er, who will receive his notice of action. For 
 myseK, I want my own and nothing more. Give me justice.' 
 
 'I would to Heaven, sir, I could,' said his Worship. 'Go on 
 with your iniquitous sale.' 
 
 It appeared at first as if no one would bid at all for the cottage, 
 though by this time the room was full. Then Mathew offered fifty 
 pounds. Mr. Carnaby bid fifty-five pounds. Mathew advanced 
 five pounds. Mr. Carnaby bid sixty-five pounds. 
 
 Mr. Carnaby was not rich ; yet he had formed the benevolent 
 design of buying the house, so that we might not be turned out, 
 even if the rent would be uncertain. INIathew wanted not only the 
 amount of the (pretended) mortgage, but also the pleasure of turn- 
 ing us out. Ah ! where was Ralph now ? Wliere was ' the boy ' 
 to whom I was going to write for protection if he dared to move ? 
 
 ' One hundred and ninety ! ' said Mathew. 
 
 ' One hundred and ninety-five ! ' said his Worship. 
 
 ' Two hundred ! ' said Mathew. 
 
 IVIr. Carnaby hesitated. ' He doubted whether the cottage of six 
 rooms and the two acres of ground in which it stood were worth more. 
 The hammer went up. He thought of us and our helpless situation. 
 
 ' Two hundred and five ! ' he said. 
 
 ' Two hundred and ten ! ' said Mathew. 
 
 Again Mr. Carnaby hesitated ; again he saw the hammer in the 
 air ; again he advanced. 
 
 ' Two hundred and ninety-five ! ' said liis Worship, mopping 
 his face. 
 
 ' Three hundred ! ' said Mathew. 
 
 ' Any advance upon three hundred 1 ' asked the auctioneer. 
 
 Mr. Carnaby shook his head. 
 
 'Villains all,' he said, 'I can afford no more. I cannot afford 
 BO much. Poor Drusilla ! Thou must go after all.' 
 
 ' Going ! going ! ' cried the man, looking round. 
 
 ' Five Hutsdred ! ' 
 
 Mathew sprang to his feet with a cry as of sudden pain, for he 
 knew the voice. More than that, in the doorwaj he saw the man. 
 
THE SALE OF THE COTTAGE. '227 
 
 He reeled and would have fallen but that someone held him ; 
 his cheeks were white, his eyes were staring. The blow he had so 
 long dreaded had fallen at last. His enemy was upon him. 
 
 The figure in the doorway was that of a gentleman, tall and 
 stately, still in the bloom and vigour of early manhood, gallantly 
 dressed in scarlet with gold-laced hat, laced ruffles, diamond buckles, 
 and his sword in a crimson sash. Alas ! for Mathew. The girl 
 had told no lie. 
 
 The Fugleman, being on duty, contemplated things without 
 emotion, even so surprising a thing as the return of the wanderer. 
 But he saluted his superior officer, and then, grounding his pike, 
 looked straight before him. 
 
 This was the answer — this was the reply to my letter. Every 
 woman in love is a prophet. I knew, being in love, that my sweet- 
 heart would make all well ; I knew not how ; he would bring peace 
 and protection with him, for those I loved as well as for myself. 
 
 Great and marvellous are the ways of Providence. I knew not, 
 nor could I so much as hope that the answer would be such as it 
 was — notliing short of my lover's return, to go abroad no more. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 *GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN.* 
 
 What remains to be told ? 
 
 Ralph was home again. What more could I have prayed for ? 
 
 While these things went on we were sitting in the kitchen. In 
 my mother's eyes I seemed to read a reproach which was not there, I 
 believe, but in my own heart. I had prophesied smooth things, and 
 promised help from some mysterious quarter which had not come. 
 
 ' There are five guineas left, ' said my mother. ' When these 
 are gone, what shall we do 1 ' 
 
 I tried to comfort her, but, alas ! I could find no words. Oh, 
 how helpless are women, since they cannot even earn bread enough 
 to live upon. When the bread-winner can work no longer, hapless 
 is our lot. What were we to do when these five guineas were 
 gone ? For, if I could find work to keep my fingers going from 
 morn till night, I could not make enough to keep even myself, 
 without counting my father and my mother. What should we do 
 when this money was gone 1 We must live upon charity, or we 
 nmst go upon the parish. At the moment of greatest need my 
 faith failed me. I thought no more of the letter I was to receive ; 
 I ceased to hope ; my Paradise disappeared. I was notliing in the 
 world but a helpless woman, a beggar, the daughter of poor, old, 
 broken-down people, whose father was little better than a helpless 
 lunatic. 
 
 We heard from the parlour, where they were holding the auction, 
 q2 
 
228 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 a murmur of voices, some high and some low. Suddenly there 
 was a change ; from a murmur of words there arose a roar of words 
 — a tumult of words. Strange and wonderful ! I should have 
 recognised the voice which most I loved. But I took little heed. 
 The misery of the moment was very great. 
 
 ' So ' — now, indeed, I heard the voice of his Worship, which 
 was a full, deep, and sonorous voice — 'so may all traitors and 
 villains be confounded ! Kidnapper, where are now thy wiles ? ' 
 
 I heard afterwards how Matliew would have slunk away, but 
 they told him (it was not true) that his wife was Avithout brandishing 
 her cudgel. So he stayed, while his attorney, ignorant of what all 
 this meant, congratulated his client upon the sale of the cottage. 
 Five hundred pounds, he said, would not only suffice to pay his 
 own bill of costs, which now, with expenses of travelling and loss 
 of time, amounted to a considerable sum, but would also repay 
 Mathew's mortgage of two hundred pounds in full, and still leave 
 a small sum for the unfortunate gentleman they had sold up. 
 Mathew made no reply. He looked fearfully into his cousin's face ; 
 it was stern and cold. There was no hope to be gleaned from that 
 face, but the certainty of scrutiny and condemnation. What had 
 he done to merit leniency? Conscience — or remorse — told him 
 that he had tried to kidnap his cousin's sweetheart ; to drag her 
 cl(jwn to destitution ; while, as regards his own trust and guardian- 
 ship, none knew better than himself the state in which his accounts 
 %vould be found. 
 
 The words of Mr. Carnaby reached every ear. But yet I heard 
 them not, as I sat looking before me in mere despair. For I knew 
 not what to hope for, what to advise, or what to do. 
 
 Then the door was thrown open, and there was a trampling of 
 feet which I regarded not at all, or as only part of this misery. 
 Tiie feet, I supposed, belonged to the man who was coming to turn ns 
 out. I buried my face in my hands and burst into violent weepmg. 
 
 ' Is this some fresh misfortune '] ' It was my mother who sprang 
 to her feet and spoke. ' Are you come, sir, to say that we owe 
 another two hundred pounds 1 What would you have with us on 
 *uch a day 1 We have nothing for you, sir, nothing at all, whoever 
 j-ou are ; Ave are stripped naked.' 
 
 'Madam,' this was his Worship's voice, 'you know not Avho 
 this gentleman is. Look not for more misfortunes, but for joy and 
 happiness.' 
 
 Joy and happiness ! What joy ? What happiness 1 I began 
 to prick lip my ears, but Ayithout much hope and Avith no faith. 
 
 ' ]My lord' — this time it AA'as my father, avIio saw before him a 
 splendid stranger, and concluded in his madness that it was some 
 great nobleman come to visit him. ' IMy lord, I thank you for the 
 honour of this visit. My lady AA-ill call the men and maids. I fear 
 you are fatigued with travel. You shall take, my lord, a single 
 bowl of turtle soup, as a snack, or staj^-stimach, the finest ever 
 made even fur the Lord Mayor, Avitli a glass or tAVO of Imperial 
 
'GOD hfst you merry, gentlemen: 220 
 
 Toka}', the rarest in any cellar, before yonr dinner. Not a word, 
 my lord, not a word till you are refreshed ; not a word, I insist.' 
 
 At these utterances I raised my head, but before I had time to 
 look around me, a hand was laid upon my shoulder, while a voice 
 whispered in my ear, ' Drusy ! ' 
 
 Oh, we foolish women ! For when the thing we most long fdr 
 is vouchsafed, instead of prayers and praise upon bended knee, we 
 fall to crying and to laughing, both together. 
 
 Why, when I recovered a little, they were all concerning them- 
 selves about me, when they ought to have been doing honour to 
 Ralph. The Fugleman had a glass of cold water in liis hand ; my 
 mother was bathing my palms ; Sailor ISTan was burning a feather ; 
 my sweetheart was holding my head ; and my father was assuring 
 his Worship that nothing less than the King's own physician should 
 attend his daughter, * unless she presently recovered. He also 
 whispered with much gravity that he had long since designed his 
 Drusilla for his lordship, just arrived, who, though of reduced 
 fortunes, was a nobleman of excellent qualities, and would make 
 her happy. 
 
 We heard, later, that Ralph brought with him an attorney from 
 Newcastle, a gentleman very learned in the law, and the terror uf 
 all the rogues on the banks of the Tyne. With this gentleman and 
 a clerk, beside his own servants, he rode first to the mill. 
 
 He found Barbara engaged in her usual work of knitting, with 
 the Bible before her open at some chapter of prophetic woe. Xo 
 change in her, except that she looked thinner, and the crow's-feet 
 lay about her eyes. She recognised him, but showed no emotion. 
 
 ' You are come home again,' she said. 'I have expected this. 
 Mathew said the girl lied, but he was afraid, and I knew she did 
 not. Girls do not lie about such tilings. You come at a fine time, 
 when vour sweetheart is begging her bread.' 
 
 ' What ? ' asked Ralph. 
 
 ' I said she was begging her bread. She said you were pros- 
 perous. If fine clothes mean aught you may be. Lord grant they 
 were honestly come by.' 
 
 ' I will now, Colonel Embleton,' said the attorney, ' place my 
 clerk in possession and seal everj^thing.' 
 
 ' Where is Mathew % ' asked Ralph. 
 
 ' He is in the to\VTi. You will find him selling their cottage — 
 Brasilia's cottage. By this time your dainty girl will be in tha 
 road, bag and baggage.' 
 
 ' What '? ' 
 
 ' Pride is humbled. The girl has begun to repent of her stub- 
 bornness. Of course so fine a gentleman as you would scorn a 
 beggar wench.' 
 
 With such words did this foolish and spiteful woman inflame the 
 heart of a man whom she should have conciliated with words of 
 welcome. 
 
230 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY: 
 
 He left her and rode into the town with such speed as the snow, 
 now two feet deep, would allow. 
 
 An hour later, Mathew, pale and trembling, rushed breathless 
 into the mill. 
 
 ' Has he been here ? ' 
 
 Barbara nodded. 
 
 Mathew went hastily to his room. Here he found the attorney 
 with his clerk. 
 
 'These are my papers,' he cried, now in desperation. 'Every- 
 thing is mine. The house is mine, the mill is mine, the farm ia 
 mine. ' 
 
 ' Gently, gently,' said the lawyer. ' Let us hear.' 
 
 Mathew played his last card. 
 
 ' A second will was found,' he said ; ' it is in the desk.' 
 
 'We will wait,' said the lawyer, 'until the return of Colonel 
 Embleton.' 
 
 When Ralph came back, accompanied by Mr. Carnaby, he 
 found Mathew waiting for him. 
 
 ' Now,' said the lawyer, ' let us see this second will.' 
 
 He opened the desk and drew forth the paper which Mathew 
 pointed out. When he had unfolded and looked at it for a moment, 
 lie looked curiously at Mathew. 
 
 ' This,' he said, ' is your second will ? ' 
 
 ' It is,' Mathew replied. ' Found five years ago, and ' 
 
 ' Quite enough,' said the lawyer. ' Friend,' he had by this time 
 compared the signature with that of the first will, ' I make no 
 charge, I only inform you as a fact, that this document is valueless, 
 as bearing neither date nor witnesses, and if it did, it would still 
 be valueless, because the signature is a forgery, plain and palpable. 
 It will hang someone if it is put forward.' 
 
 Mathew dropped his hands by his side. This was the fruit of 
 his labours. He had forged the wiU ; he had made it of no use by 
 neglecting the witnesses ; he had forged it so clumsily that he was 
 at once detected. 
 
 ' Any well-wisher of yours, sir,' said the lawyer, ' would recom- 
 mend you to put that paper in the fire.' 
 
 Mathew did so without a word. 
 
 ' Sir,' said the lawyer, 'you have saved your neck. Have you 
 any more to say about the wdl V 
 
 He had no more to say. The plots and designs of nine years 
 came to this lame and impotent conclusion. 
 
 'Then, Mr. Humble,' the attorney continued, 'I have nothing 
 more to say than this : Colonel Embleton expects an accurate state- 
 ment of accounts and payment to hmi of all sums due to him with- 
 out delay.' 
 
 Mathew made no reply ; he was defeated. He left the room, 
 and presently, one of them looking through the open door, saw him 
 leave the house with his sister. 
 
 Ralph spoke not one single word to him, good or bad. By this 
 
*GOB REST YOU MUIiRY, GEXTLEMEX: 23 1 
 
 time he had heard of Mathew's attempted abduction and all his 
 iniquities. There was no room in his heart for pitj'. 
 
 In the morning Sailor Nan camo to draw her pay. She heard 
 that her husband had deserted her. She lamented the fact, because 
 she had -intended to be kept in pork, rum, and tobacco so long as 
 he was alive. But she was easily consoled with a jorum of steaming 
 punch. 
 
 Thus vanished from amongst us one who had wrought so much 
 evil, for which I hope that we have long since entirely forgiven 
 him (but he was a desperate villain), and we never knew what be- 
 came of him. 
 
 It was ten years later that Barbara came back alone. 
 
 We found her in the porch one summer evening. She was worn 
 and thin, and dressed in dreadful rags. 
 
 ' Oh,' I cried, moved to pity by her misery, 'come in and eat, 
 and let me find some better clothes for you.' 
 
 She refused, but she took a cup of milk. 
 
 ' I want to see the boy,' she replied in her old manner of 
 speech. 
 
 When Ralph came home she said what she had to say. 
 
 ' Mathew ought to have had the mill. If it had been his, he 
 would not have taken to drink and evil courses. You were an 
 interloper, and we both hated the sight of you. When you went 
 away, I used to pray that you might never come back. The wait- 
 ing for you and the fear of you made him wicked. That is all I 
 have to say.' 
 
 ' ■\Vliere is Mathew ? ' 
 
 ' Dead. Ask me no more about him. He is dead.' 
 
 Ralph led her, unresisting, into the house. 
 
 ' Wife,' he said to me, ' you have heard Barbara's confession. I, 
 too, have had hard thoughts about her. Let us forgive, as we hope 
 for forgiveness.' 
 
 She stayed with us that night — an unwilling and ungracious 
 guest — and the next day Ralph placed her in a cottage, and gave 
 her an allowance of money, which she took without thanks. Per- 
 haps her heart grew less bitter as years fell upon her ; but I know 
 not, for she died and made no sign. 
 
 On that year Christmas Day fell on a Thursday. Now, Ralph, 
 who, though a grave man and the colonel of his regiment, showed 
 more than the customary impatience of lovers, would be content 
 with nothing short of being married on the very next day after his 
 return. It is almost incredible that he should have had the 
 forethought to bring with him a special license, so that we were not 
 obliged to have the banns read out. Could I refuse him anything ? 
 Therefore, on the Wednesday morning, the very next day after he 
 came back, we were married in presence of all the town, I believe, 
 man, woman, and child, while the bells rang out, and our joyful 
 hearts were warm, despite the cold without. I was so poor in 
 
232 'LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY.' 
 
 worldly goods that I must have gone to the sacred ceremony with 
 nothing better than my plain stuiff frock, but for the benevolence 
 of good Mrs. Carnaby, who lent me a most beautiful brocaded silk 
 gown, which, with all kinds of foreign gauds, such as necklaces, 
 bracelets, and jewels for the hair, which my lover — nay, my bride- 
 groom — bestowed upon me, made me so fine that his Worship was 
 80 good as to say that never a more beautiful bride had been 
 married, or would hereafter be married, in Warkworth Church. 
 
 Thus do fine feathers make fine birds. When the next bride ia 
 married in brocaded silk, with a hoop, her hair done by the barber, 
 and her homely person decorated with jewels, people will be found 
 to say the same thing. Yet, since my husband, who is the only 
 person I must consider, was so good as to find his wife beautiful, 
 should I not rejoice and be thankful for this strange power of one's 
 outward figure— women cannot understand it — wliich bewitches 
 men and robs them of their natural sense until they become used to it. 
 
 After the wedding we went home to the mill, where my husband 
 spread a great feast. In the evening came the mummers with 
 Sailor Nan, who drank freely of punch, and wished us joy in lan- 
 guage more nautical than polite. His Worship slept at the mill 
 because he was overcome with the abundance and strength of the 
 punch. Even the Fugleman, for the fii'st time in man's memory, 
 had to be carried to bed, preserving his stiffness of back even in the 
 sleep of intoxication. And the next day we had another royal 
 feast, to which all were invited who had known my dear husband 
 in his youth. But to me it was a continual feast to be in the pre- 
 sence of my dear, to have my hand in his and to rejoice in the 
 warmth of his steadfast eyes. 
 
 We are all, I hope. Christian folk, wherefore no one will be 
 surprised to hear that on the morning of the day after the marriage, 
 which was Christmas Day, after the singing of the hymn, ' When 
 shepherds watch their flocks by night,' my husband, giving me his 
 hand, led me foi'th before all the people, and in their presence 
 thanked God solemnly for his safe return, and for other blessings 
 (I knew full well what these meant). Then the Fugleman leading, 
 his pike held at salute, he recited the Lord's Prayer. Thus in 
 seemly and solemn fashion was the long sorrow of nine years turned 
 into a joy wliich will endure, I doubt not, beyond this eartlil^ 
 pilgrimage. 
 
THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 PART I.—MON DESIR. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A NEW- year's dawn. 
 
 IS'ew- Year's Day, in Palniiste Island, is veiy nearly the longest in 
 the whole year ; it is also about the hottest, if one may say as much 
 without giving ofience to other clays. It is on this account that the 
 sun on this day, having so much work to do, gets up as early as sLs 
 o'clock in the morning, an hour before his July time, after an- 
 nouncing his intention by sending up preliminary fireworks in red 
 and crimson. When the cocks see these rockets in the east they 
 leave off crowing and go to roost. If you ask naturalists why the 
 cocks crow all night in Palmiste, they generally say that it is 
 because the island lies south of the Equator. Those who are not 
 satisfied with this explanation are further told that it is by the laws 
 of development and the natural growth of ideas that the Gallic 
 mind has been brought to prefer coolness for times of crowing. 
 The reasons of things ofiered by science are, we know, beautifully 
 satisfying, and always make us feel as if we could almost create a 
 world for ourselves if we only had a good big lump of clay and a box 
 of stored electricity and a bucket of water and a pint of compressed 
 ail'. "VVlien the cocks have left ofi", the white man's dogs, and the 
 Malabar dogs and the Pariah dogs immediately take up the tuneful 
 tale, so that silence shall never be a reproach to the island. The 
 journey performed by the chariot of his Majesty the Sun on that 
 day, a most fatiguing one to his horses, involves a tremendous 
 climb at the start and a breathless descent at the finish ; and is, in 
 fact, nothing less than a vertical semi-circular arc in the heavens. 
 The nature of the curve may be illustrated for unscientific persons 
 by any young lady who will kindly raise her arms above the head, 
 and join the tips of her fingers. At stroke of noon, on that day 
 eveiy man Jack and motlier's son in the place becomes another 
 Peter Sclilemilil, inasmuch as he has no shadow. Strangers, at 
 
234 TRET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 Buch a time, creep round houses and great buildings and precipices 
 looking for the usual shade. They go to the north side, the south, 
 the east, and the west, and find none. Then they think their wits 
 must be gone for good, and sit them down to cry. The wooUy- 
 pated sons of Africa, for their part, rejoice in perpendicular rays ; 
 they have taken the roof ofi' their straw hats the better to enjoy 
 them ; they sit in the open, courting their genial warmth ; they 
 acknowledge with a grateful sigh that, after all, there is a little 
 heat sometimes to be got in a generally cold and cheerless world. 
 It is not till after seven in the evening that the sun has finished 
 the journey and is ready to plunge red-hot into the cool waves. 
 For five minutes or so after his header there is a tremendous 
 seething and roaring of the maddened water : it is, of course, too 
 far off to hear the noise, but anyone can see the smoke of it, which 
 is red and fiery, cooling down to sapphire and then becoming grey,, 
 after which the stars come out, and it is night. 
 
 In this English land of mist and fog we never see the phe- 
 nomenon of sunrise at all ; for either it is hidden behind cloud, or 
 it rises too early, or it is too cold for us to get up and look at it. 
 There must be, indeed, many men, quite elderly men, among us 
 who have never seen the sun rise at all. Now, in Palmiste most 
 of the people behold this most wonderful of natural phenomena 
 every day. Perhaps the man on the Signal-mountain has the best 
 view, because from his elevated position he can see the leaping of 
 the sun from the sea, and the long furrows of light upon the 
 startled ocean, and the sudden renewal of the unnumbered smiles, 
 and the rolling of the mists about the valleys. But, as the man on 
 the Signal-mountain is too often a mere creature of duty, and must 
 always subordinate sentiment to the watcliing for ships, it is 
 probable that more joy is got out of the sunrise by the people 
 below, who can give their whole attention to the exhibition pro- 
 vided by Nature. 
 
 Certainly, there is plenty to be seen down below. There was a 
 pair, for instance, standing in the verandah of the house belonging 
 to the estate of Mon Desir, who seemed, on this New-Year's dawn, 
 to find a great deal of enjoyment in the hour and the scene before 
 them, though there was nothing that they had not seen before, 
 times out of mind. But then they had one great advantage over 
 the man on the Signal-mountain, that he is one and they were 
 two — Hie et Htec : Ille cum Ilia — which makes a very great 
 diff'erence indeed. And they had other advantages. For, Avhen 
 the sun first appeared to them over the brow of the hill between 
 themselves and the sea he shone on this particular morning straight 
 down an avenue of palms ; he painted every leaf of every tree so 
 that it glowed like red gold ; as for the trunks, the tall green 
 trunks, he painted them in a great variety of colour, such as car- 
 mine and golden red, and a dark green inclined to go ofi" into 
 pui'ple, and a most lovely, creamy, rich, soft brown, which did the 
 eyes good to see, all the more because it only las'ed a few mo- 
 
A NEW YEAWS BAWy. 2:],-) 
 
 ments. The two who looked caught their breath and gasped, so 
 beautiful was the scene. To make it the more complete, because a 
 Buggestion of life always improves a picture, there suddenly ap- 
 peared at the end of the avenue an Indian woman : she was dressed 
 rather better than most coolies' wives, and, being a Madrassee and 
 not a common Bombay person, she wore a long skirt or petticoat 
 down to her heels, with a red jacket, and bangles up to her elbows, 
 and, over head, shoulders, and all, a veil of coarse gauze. This ia 
 the kind of thing that the rising sun likes : it is good material for 
 a sun to operate upon at his tirst joyous outset : so he seized upon 
 that woman and turned her into a bride, standing rapt, motionless, 
 waiting for the groom, clothed and veiled, mj'stic, wonderful, in 
 white lace, and he caused colours inexpressible in words to play 
 about the dress beneath the veil. Only for a moment. Then they 
 raised their heads, this pair of early risers, and saw how, upon the 
 peak of the highest mountain in the ishmd, there lay another 
 bridal veil, but of cloud, and how the sunshine struck it and it flew 
 back as if the bridegroom was come and would gaze upon the face 
 of his bride. And there were smaller things to note, for the lawn 
 at their feet, not quite like an English lawn, because nothing in all 
 the world is so good as a good English thing at its best, but a well- 
 kept and tolerably smooth lawn, glittered as if it was strewn with 
 a million diamonds and was worth the whole of the Cape, with 
 Potosi and Golconda thrown in ; beside the lawn tlie glorious 
 Flamboyant hung out its flaming blossoms to greet the sun, and the 
 Bougainvilliers proudly showed its pm'ple flowers, and the banana- 
 trees and acacias with their perfumed flowers, and the Elephant 
 creepers, and wonderful things with leaves of crimson and guld and 
 long botanical names, which in England would have had pet and 
 pretty names, welcomed the sun and proclaimed that they had all 
 grown each one twelve inches at least during the night in order to 
 honour the dawn of New-Year's Day. 
 
 The house was long and of one story, built with a deep verandah 
 all round it, that on one side forming a kind of general sitting- 
 room, open all day long to all airs that blow, afibrding almost a 
 quadrangular draught ; grass curtains, now pulled up, protected it 
 from the afternoon sun and the white glare of the moon ; it was 
 laid with grass mats, and there were long cane chairs in it, and 
 small tables with work and books upon them. Evidently a place 
 used for the daily life. Three or four doors opened upon it ; that 
 on the left hand belonged to the private room, or study, or office 
 of Mr. Komyss, Seigneur of Mon Desir ; that on the right led into 
 the boudoir or schoolroom, or retreat of Virginie when she felt 
 disposed to be alone ; the door in the middle led into the salon, a 
 large room, with a piano, and a few, not many, engravings, and 
 more cane chairs, with books and magazines — a place not in the 
 least like an English drawing-room, yet filled with the atmospliere 
 of home and refinement — the haunt and home of ladies. Such a 
 
236 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 house in Palmiste is constructed entirely, so to speak, with a view 
 to the salon and the salle k manger. They are the two principal 
 rooms — the only rooms. To the right and left of them on the 
 same floor are the bedrooms ; at the comers and in unexpected 
 places, built out as the family grows, are other smaller bedrooms 
 belonging to the children or the giids. The verandah at the sides 
 is provided with jalousies, so that it may serve fijr a dressing-room, 
 bath-room, or nursery. The bedrooms are simply furnished each 
 with a pretty little French bedstead in green and gold, protected 
 by a mosquito-curtain and an armoire. There is nothing else, 
 because nobody in Palmiste is expected to use the bedroom for 
 any other purpose than sleep. The salle a manger, papered with 
 one of those French designs — a man on horseback, a girl with a 
 guitar, anything — which repeats the same scene a thousand times, 
 is meant for a feeding or banqueting room, and nothing else. 
 Therefore it contains nothing at all but a table, a sideboard, and 
 chairs. At the back is the kitchen, and one can only say of a 
 Palmiste kitchen that, although many a good dinner is turned out 
 from it, the stranger would do well not to pry into its mysteries, 
 nor to ask of the Indian cook how he does it. Behind the kitchen 
 is a long garden, planted with all kinds of vegetables, European or 
 tropical, according to the season of the year : at the end of the 
 kitchen-garden there is a double row of banana-trees, their leaves 
 blown into ragged ribbons and broken ends, each with its pendent 
 cluster of green fruit and pmrple bud. And behind the bananas 
 there are the cases — the cottages for the seiwants and their wives ; 
 and here there is quite a colony of little brown babies sprawling 
 about in the sun, with no more clothes than Adam before the Fall, 
 and bright-eyed boys, miracles of intelligence, and akeady eager to 
 learn the various and muhiform tricks, lies, treacheries, and make- 
 believes, by w^hich a crafty Oriental may make his way from small 
 things unto great. 
 
 On the right of the great house stands a smaller one, called the 
 Pavilion. The son of the house sleeps here, and all bachelor guests, 
 of whom at the season of the bonne annee there are always tlrree 
 times as many as there are beds to put them in, so that they toss 
 up for the beds, and those who lose make out as they best can upon 
 mattresses stretched upon the floor. Therefore, the New Year is 
 by this arrangement turned into a most beautiful and' festive time 
 for the mosquitoes. 
 
 The Pavilion has also its own verandah, but much smaller and 
 narrower, and without any curtains or mats. Yet there are plenty 
 of chairs in it ; chairs with prolonged arms, in which the occupant 
 may put up his feet ; basket-work chau-s, with a ledge which may 
 be pulled out for the feet ; low chairs in which one's feet need no 
 support ; rocking-chairs ; and a lovely grass hammock, in which, 
 with a Coringhee cigar, and something with ice in it, and perhaps a 
 book requiring no effort to understand it, and dealing with pleasant 
 subjects, one may wliile away the hottest afternoon, swinging 
 
A NEW YEAR'S DAWK. 23V 
 
 slowly. There is not much paint left about the old Pavilion, it is 
 true ; the floor of the verandah, which is of concrete, is cracked ; 
 the jalousies of the bedroom windows are out of repair ; but the 
 roof is still weather-proof, and the beds are comfortable, and there 
 are these chairs to sit upon, and the verandah faces the east, so 
 that in the afternoon, when man most inclines to rest and medita- 
 tion, the sun may be avoided. 
 
 To the right of the Pavilion, again, was the sugar-house, a great 
 place, with the mysteries of which we have nothing to do, except 
 that the whirr of the machineiy and the wheels, and the loud, well- 
 satisfied breathing of its untiring steam-engine sounded pleasantly 
 on mornings when the crop had commenced. On this day, however 
 — New- Year's Day — the day of the bourne annee, no man, not even 
 a Malabar, on a sugar estate can be expected to work. Outside the 
 sugar-house lay piles of the white bagasse, the refuse of the canes 
 which have been crushed, with their sweet and rather sickly smell ; 
 and here, too, was the great barn-like stable for the mules, with 
 the doors always left wide ojjen, because these sagacious animals 
 know very well which is the best place for them, and are far too 
 wise to go strajdng from a comfortable shelter where they are well 
 fed and well looked after. Why, as they veiy well know, mules 
 who have strayed have been known to get lost in the ravines, and 
 to tumble over waterfalls, and be eaten by big eels, or to be captured 
 by Maroons, and made to lead a deuce of a life carrying out their 
 villanies in the forest. Who would be the accomplice of bx'igands 
 and poachers 1 Beyond the mule stable a road leads to the Indian 
 Camp, a village where the coolies of the estate live with their 
 wives, their babies, their brass jDots, their dogs, their goats and 
 little kids, their cocks and hens and chickens, and their pigs. It is 
 quite a large and populous village, in which the di'eanis of the 
 bocialist are realised ; for all the houses are exactly alike, and the 
 people are all on the same social depression, and the way of living 
 is the same for all, and there is a beautiful, monotonous level. 
 There are such villages and communities in England ; but they are 
 rare. One such I remember in the Forest of Dean, which seems 
 to resemble an Indian camp on a sugar estate ; but even there they 
 have a church and two or three chapels, and there are differences 
 of rank and position. The camp is a noisy place, too ; for the 
 babies never cease crjang, and the children quarrel continually, and 
 the dogs for ever bark, and the women accuse each other for ever 
 in shrill and ear- piercing voices. AVhat do they accuse each other 
 of? Matter of cakes, my masters, and ghee, and gungee, and 
 cocoa-nut oil, and nose-rings and silver bangles. Wliat fartJier, 
 one knoweth not. Every day, after a whole morning spent in 
 invective, retort, accusation and defence, they sally forth, and bring 
 the case before the Sahib, the Seigneur and Lord of the estate, 
 who hears the evidence, and makes an award, and admonislies chem 
 to keep the peace. They accept the award as final, but yet they 
 do not keep the peace. 
 
238 THEY WERE MABRIED. 
 
 And on all sides of tht house there stretch the broad fields of 
 the estate, planted with the sugar-cane ; narrow paths cross them, 
 and sometimes there is a rough-and-ready tramway. All day long 
 the coolies work among them, cleaning and weeding, heedless of the 
 hot sun, because they are anointed, and beautifully shine, with 
 cocoa-nut oil, so that every man's back is a mirror for his friends. 
 Beyond the cane-fields, on all sides but one, is the forest ; for there 
 are yet miles of forest left ; and beyond and among the wUd woods 
 stand the everlasting hills. 
 
 Now, when the fii'st glimmerings of the dawn were welcomed by 
 the silence of the cocks and the barkings of the dogs, there began 
 in the mule stable an uncertain agitation, as of expectancy, and, 
 each, in his stall, the mules began to open eyes, to kick out in 
 dreams, to whinny, to fidget, to shake a tail, to paw the ground, 
 and to look around. At exactly the moment, and no other, when 
 the sun first touched the topmost leaves and the single spiral shoot 
 of every palm-tree in the Avenue, the oldest and most sagacious 
 mule left his stall, and led the way out of the stable into the bagasse 
 yard, followed by all his friends and lively companions. Then 
 there ensued such a turning over on backs, kicking of legs, rolling 
 about on the soft stuff, champing of the sugary canes, and letting 
 out of heels at each other in pure gamesomeness, that you would 
 have said the mules knew it was New- Year's Day, and had begun 
 at very sunrise to enjoy the holiday. This was not so, however, 
 for mules are a philosophical, albeit a light-hearted race, and know 
 that life is made up of twelve hours' labour and twelve hours' 
 repose. Therefore they do what they can to get tlu:ough the first 
 half as easily as may be, and go in for unmitigated enjoyment of 
 the second. 
 
 After the mules had spread themselves out on the bagasse, and 
 the Indians' dogs were all barking in the camp, and the Indian 
 women all scolding, there was no longer any pretence possible for 
 lying in bed. So that the Chinaman who kept the only shop on 
 the estate rolled off his counter, and opened his door, and let down 
 his shutter, and allowed the escape of the night's accumulated 
 fragrance. A village shop in this our native land presents a rich 
 field for research in the science of smells, particularly on a warm 
 summer morning, when it has just been opened. But what is it 
 compared to a Chinaman's shop in Palmiste 1 Bacon and cheese 
 form our own staple. One cannot deny that these are good, 
 separately or in combination, for the production of a rich and 
 grateful perfume. But the Chinaman, in a much smaller space, 
 has the fragrant and united product of snook, which was once live 
 cod-fish, half-cured pork, rotten bananas, sardine-boxes lying open 
 for a week, a keg of arrack, cheese, gungee, his own opium-pipe, 
 cocoa-nut oil, blacking, and cigars, all combining together to pro- 
 duce a stench of extraordinary strength. When the doors and 
 windows were open it fell out, a solid though invisible lump of con- 
 crete smell, irregularly shaped, which rolled, slowly at first, but 
 
A NEW YEAR'S BAWX. 239 
 
 afterwards more rapidly, down the hill. On the way it encountered 
 a brood of tender yellow ducklings, who were going along — poor 
 dears — thinking of nothing at all but worms and warm mud. These 
 pretty innocents, when the rolling mass fell upon them, all tumbled 
 over on their backs, opened their beaks, and quacked their last. 
 Then the ball rolled over the side of the road down a steep slope, 
 upon which it met and poisoned a promising family of young 
 tandreks, and so over the edge of the ravine, getting broken into a 
 thousand fragments, and doing no more harm to anybody. 
 
 Not far from the Chinaman's stood a little cottage, built of 
 packing-cases and roofed with their tin lining, in which there lived 
 an old, old negress, well advanced in the nineties. She was a witch 
 by profession : she revealed the future, either by cards, or by in- 
 spection of the palm, or by interpretation of dreams, or by the 
 reading of omens ; she charmed away sprains, warts, bruises, and 
 internal injuries by the simple application of her own hand ; she 
 cursed people's enemies for them, and made crafty gri-gri, which 
 revengeful persons smarting under a sense of wrong bought and 
 placed under the beds of those who had wrought them that inj<iry, 
 so that these wicked folk j)resently fell into waste and consumption 
 and slow dying — a joy to behold. She cured all diseases by herbs 
 which she gathered in the forest and under the rocks of the ravine ; 
 and it was whispered that if you wanted such a thing as a safe but 
 elegant preparation of poison, which would kill without leaving a 
 trace behind, this good old lady would make it up for you from 
 plants which she would find in eveiy hedge. She, too, awoke with 
 the dogs and the mules, and perceived that here was another day 
 whose joyful course awaited her running. She found her joints 
 rather stifl' at first uprising, a thing which surprised her, because 
 she had not been brought up in her childhood to expect it, and she 
 sat for an hour or two in the warmest and sunniest place, with her 
 grizzled old wool exposed to the rays, and so gradually recovered 
 the use of her limbs and got warm, and felt young again, and set 
 to work upon the finishing of a most beautiful gri-gri, with a cat's 
 skull in it and two dogs' paws and a shark's tooth — a gri-gri Avhich 
 was intended to cause internal pains and burnings not to be allayed, 
 and thirst insatiable, and sleepless rolling about at night, and 
 mental distress, loss of appetite, delirium, convulsions, death and a 
 long black box. And all for five dollars. She is a most useful and 
 admii'able creature, and it is sad to think that when she goes — she 
 is not gone yet — she will leave no successor. There used, in the 
 old days, to be plenty of such old women, but emancipation was a 
 cruel blow to them : the new contentment and ease of the negroes 
 discouraged the profession ; there is no longer any demand, to 
 speak of, for gri-gri and vegetable poisons ; the coolies know for 
 themselves where to find stramonium and what it will do in skilful 
 hands : the old slaves are dead, and their sons are not revengeful 
 on account of their fathers' wrongs, and when this old woman goes 
 there will be no one left to carry on her forgotten craft. The refiec- 
 
240 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 tion should make the old witch sad ; but she does not reflect : she 
 thinks she is still in comparative youth ; she takes no heed of time, 
 and she believes she will live for ever. 
 
 The two standing on the verandah were a young man of two- 
 and-twenty or so and a girl of seventeen. They were always up 
 first, and they always met here and had their morning talk at sun- 
 rise, while the girl poured out the early tea and sent it round to the 
 bedrooms. The Indian boy, who had made the tea and brought it 
 from the kitchen, stood on the steps rubbing his sleepy eyes ; and 
 lying huddled up, also on the verandah steps, was old Suzette, 
 the black nurse, in a wonderful blue cotton frock and red cotton 
 turban and bare feet. Her grandsons, Napoleon de Turenne and 
 Rohan Auvergne de Turenne, were at the Grand CoUe'ge ; and 
 her youngest son, their father, who had gone into the brokeiy line 
 and had been greatly successful, drove about, a splendid personage, 
 in his own carriage. But Suzette remained a nurse ; and she was too 
 conscientious a nurse to allow her foster-daughter to get up before 
 her or to remain talking with Monsieur Tom without her presence. 
 
 ' Chokra, ' said the girl to the Indian boy, ' this great cup for 
 the burra Sahib, and this little one for the mem Sahib.' 
 
 She spoke, only with these two or three Hindustani words, in 
 the Creole patois, which has been adopted by the Indian and 
 Chinese coolies, and by the Malays, Singhalese, Portuguese, Mala- 
 gassy, Somaulis, and all the races who are represented, in this 
 island of a thousand tongues, as the common medium. But, like 
 many who have been brought up on a sugar estate, she was a poly- 
 glot young lady : her father was English and her mother French. 
 She spoke her father's language perfectly well, with a tendency to 
 make a soft guttural out of the ' r,' which was not unpleasant ; and 
 she spoke with perfect fluency her mother's language ; but she 
 would have been as much lost as any Canadian among the half- 
 uttered syllables and nods and winks which stand for French in 
 fasliionable Paris ; for, in truth, the French of Palmiste may be 
 pure, but it is a little old-fasliioned. And she could talk Hindustani 
 of a kind, not the Hindustani of the schools, to be sure, but the 
 tongue of the people, free and unencumbered by grammar and 
 syntax, and understanded of all alike, by the gentle Tamulman, or 
 by him who talks the soft Canarese or the sonorous Pali. She 
 could not talk Chinese, because nobody can, and even the Chinamen 
 out of their native country^ laugh at their own language ; nor any 
 of the Madagascar dialects, because the Malagassy are a polite 
 people, and do not expect it ; nor Malay, because the Malay is cj^uick 
 to learn for himseK any language that may be going about ; nor 
 any of those African tongues which may yet linger in the memories 
 of the blacks, because there is nothing the East African negro more 
 readily forgets than his own tongue, especially when there is such 
 a beautiful language as Creole lying ready for liis use, and because 
 nobody ever learns any African language who can help it. 
 
 'The men,' said the girl, 'are late this morning. I suppose, 
 
A ISEW YEAB'S DAWN. 241 
 
 too, they sat up last night, and drank too much brandy and soda. 
 Did you sit up, Tom ? ' 
 
 She spoke as if too much brandy and soda was an accident which 
 might happen to anybody ; and, indeed, in this thirsty island there 
 do happen a surprising number of these accidents every year. So 
 that it is a pity steps are not taken to prevent them. 
 
 The young man replied that, for his own part, he went to bed 
 when his father left them, winch \\as at half-past ten ; but that 
 some of them sat late, and there certainly were a great many bottles 
 of soda lying on the verandah ; and that they were all fast asleep 
 when he got up, which was before dayLght. 
 
 He had in his hand a pine-apple, which he had just out m the 
 garden, and was eating it with a fork. This, if you please, is the 
 true way to eat a pine ; and the best time to eat it is in the morning, 
 when it has been freshly cut. 
 
 ' Will you have a mango, Virginie ? ' he asked. ' They are 
 ready to be gathered.' 
 
 ' Send some to the Pavilion,' she replied. 
 
 ' Ayapana tea,' he said, ' would be more to the purpose. Suzette 
 may go round presently and find out if anybody wants it. If I 
 meet old Pierre, I will ask him to take some cocos, tendres to the 
 Pavilion. Don't forget the letchis, Virginie.' 
 
 Ayapana tea is a grateful drink, made by pouring boiling water 
 upon a certain herb so called : its properties are many : it restores 
 tone to the afflicted after a severe night ; it cools coppers ; it drives 
 away headache ; it restores the power of coherent speech ; it revives 
 the sluggish brain ; in fact, it was planted, in the first instance, by 
 the man who made the earliest vineyard, and he placed a root of it 
 between every vine. As for the coco tendre, Tom meant the unripe 
 cocoa-nut, which is gathered for the purpose of providing a cool 
 and refreshing morning draught. In cases which do not require 
 the severity of ayapana tea, the coco tendre is efficacious, and it 
 brings with it a coolness lYhich mounts to the brain and runs along 
 the veins and gives elasticity to the limbs. And as for man- 
 goes, they are good for all conditions of men ; the temperate, such 
 as Tom , and the eternally thirsty, such as Sandy McAndrew ; they 
 are the sweetest gift of nature to the dweller in the tropics ; they 
 refresh and revive after a hot and sleepless night ; they bring back 
 hope, faith, and courage ; they reconcile one to life even when the 
 rainy season has begun, and the floods of heaven are descending, 
 and a soft and steamy heat lies upon the earth, and a vapour rises 
 like that of a universal washing day, and the mildew grows and 
 spreads visibly on the boots, and the covers drop oS the books, f',nd 
 the very cigars go out of curl. These two were too young to know 
 much about shattered nerves and revivers and pick-me-ups. But 
 they had heard of such things. Therefore Virginie received the 
 allusion to ayapana tea with sympathy, and understood what was 
 proposed to be effected by means of the coco tendre. 
 
 She was seventeen, which is Creole for twenty. ^ ud, because 
 
 B 
 
2t2 TEKY WERE MATilUEB. 
 
 she was a Creole, she was of slight and graceful figure ; for the 
 same reason she carried herself well and was (/racievse — one would 
 like to add a few more of those delightful adjectives which French 
 poets and novelists have at their command. She was dressed in a 
 simple white frock, with a crimson ribbon rovmd her neck. 
 
 Nature, who is always — the dear old lady ! — thinking how she 
 can spare something more to set off and adorn a pretty girl, had 
 given her a wealth of lovely light curling hair, as soft as silk, whtch 
 lay all about her face and clung to her pretty cheeks like tendrils 
 of a vine, as if it loved to be exactly in that place and wanted no 
 other ; her eyes were blue and soft, with long lashes ; her cheek 
 was not ruddy like an English maiden's, but touched with just the 
 tenderest bloom of colour ; for, although she had never left the 
 tropical island, she lived among the mountains — Mon De'sir was a 
 thousand fest above the sea, so that the air was sharp. Besides, 
 Virginie rambled and climbed up the slopes of the hills and down 
 the steep sides of the precipitous ravine, and was as sure-footed aa 
 a chamois and as steady as an Alpine guide. This it was which 
 lent her cheek its rose. Altogether, a lovely and dainty maiden ; 
 a girl on whom eyes were already bent full of admiration and hope ; 
 but not yet spoiled, though she had been out ever since the last 
 Queen's birthday ball. Her face and her gestures were full of 
 vivacity, because her mother was a French woman ; her eyes were 
 full of truth and loyalty because her father was an English gentle- 
 man ; at every turn of her head, at every quick movement of her 
 hand, one was reminded of her descent, because this was French 
 and that was English, and this she caught from her mother and 
 that she inherited from her father. 
 
 As for the young man called Tom, he was dressed as only 
 Colonials dare to dress. That is to say, he wore a flannel shirt 
 without any collar and all rags, and a pair of flannel trousers, 
 I)atched and darned in various places, yet almost as ragged as the 
 shirt ; round his waist was tied a belt made of long red silk : he 
 had on a short coat or jacket of common blue cotton, something 
 like that aflected by the British butcher : it is strong, durable, and 
 light, therefore it is greatly in fashion among the people of Palmiste, 
 although it does wear white at the seams : for head-covering he 
 wore an old helmet well battered and bruised. This was his morning 
 dress, the things in which he rode about the fields, looking after 
 weeds and all the evils which assail the sugar-cane. He was his 
 father's manager, and he took this journey every morning, starting 
 at daybreak and returning about ten. He was a well set up youth, 
 not so broad in the shoulder as many Englishmen, with brown hair 
 cropped close, and a small beard and moustache; not a face betokening 
 great intellect, nor had his shoulders the studious stoop ; nor was 
 he shortsighted ; nor did he concern himself at all about literature 
 or art, or the popular scientific chatter, or the current topics of the 
 day. In fact, very few young men had read fewer books than Tom 
 fclerayss. Yet lie was not a fool : he studied machinery so as to 
 
A XEW YEARS DA WN. 243 
 
 understand the engines and works of his mill ; he studied agricul- 
 tural chemistry for practical pui-poses ; he was handy in the 
 carpenter's shop ; he was good at all kinds of sports, was cunning 
 of fence, a good shot, and as plucky a lad as ever stepjjed. And 
 though he had never left his native island, and was seldom absent 
 from his father's estate, he was not at all a rustical person, not a 
 mere hobereau, nor a boor. Quite the contrary : his manners and 
 carriage were as good as if he had been brought up in a London 
 square and at Eton and Oxford. And he had been trained by his 
 father in the old-fasliioned ideas — which they say, those who know, 
 are rapidly dying out — as to the courtesy, resj^ect, honour, and 
 service due to women. 
 
 When he had hnished his pine-apple he strode away, and 
 Virginie heard him whistling to his dogs, and then there was a 
 mighty trampling of hoofs, because the daily struggle then began 
 between Tom and his horse. The generous steed, being of high 
 mind and proud of his descent, resolved every morning that this 
 should be the last of obedience, and so attempted to bring about a 
 revolution. \Vlien the attempt was quelled he galloped away 
 obedient again. 
 
 Virginie poured out another cup of tea more carefully than the 
 rest, placed it on a tray, and carried it away with her own hands. 
 It was her mother's tea, and the girl had done this small service 
 ever since she coidd carry anything. 
 
 When she was gone the choki'a was left alone. At least, he 
 thought he was alone. Unluckily, he forgot Suzette, and acted as 
 any solitary boy might be expected to act. 
 
 He looked about him for a moment. The sugar-basin was filled 
 with the delightful crystal sugar, as sweet as sugar candy, and as 
 sparkling as so many diamonds. It was made in the mill of Mon 
 De'sir, and is the best sugar in the world, a great deal better than 
 the white lumps of which we are so proud. The boy knew this fact, 
 and it made his fingers to curl and his brown eyes to glow. 
 
 He had never learned the Church Catechism, this poor child ; 
 otherwise, no doubt 
 
 Pring ! Prang ! Crick ! Crack ! Four, if you please : two on 
 each ear, so that the report was heard a mile oft', and every chokra 
 on the estate jumped clean out of his jacket — because he had no 
 shoes to jump out of — in terror and sympathy. 
 
 ' Hein ! Ha ! Thou wilt steal, then, good-for-notliing ? Take 
 that — and that — little pig of Malabar ! ' 
 
 The boy fled to the kitchen, where he was received Avith the 
 jeers of those who had not been recently detected. 
 
 And the old woman sat down on the stej)s again, in the sun, 
 and laughed with her eyes, her lips, her teeth, her head, her hands, 
 her portly person, and her feet. She brimmed over and she shook 
 with laughter. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 TEI]Y WERE MARIilED. 
 
 ■ CHAPTER n. 
 
 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Among the many questions which may be put by fools for the dis- 
 comfiture of those who pretend to be wise, is the question how it 
 is that men can be found to put their money into a sugar estate. 
 
 For the dangers and risks are great ; the work is hard ; the 
 cUmate is generally trying ; and the ultimate results are wrapped in 
 a delightful cloud of uncertainty. As for the capital required at 
 the outset, that is so great that it would maintain a whole family 
 in England. On the mere interest of it they might take a house at 
 Kensington, and give dinner parties, and go every year to the sea- 
 side. As for the thing to be grown — the cane — it is surrounded on 
 all sides by innumerable enemies, like everything else which is care- 
 fully planted, tended, cockered up, and rendered effeminate. Some- 
 times it is an insect, which comes from no one knows where, and 
 has no other object in life than just to bore holes right through the 
 cane, and so to destroy it ; or it is a worm that appears suddenly in 
 the ground, and refuses to eat anything except root of sugar-cane, 
 and no one knows where /le comes from either ; or it is a kind of 
 rot ; or it is a wasting away and a drying up of the sweet juices ; 
 or it is some other of the many thousand diseases which affect vege- 
 table life. Sometimes, also, it is a troop of monkeys, who get into 
 the fields by night, and tear up the canes for very wanton miscliief. 
 Above all, there are the hurricanes, which lay the canes prostrate, tear 
 them up by the roots, and wash them out of the ground ; and they 
 may come any year or every year. So that, unless fortune is more 
 than commonly kind, the end of every planter who has not so large 
 a capital that he can stand up against two, three, or even four bad 
 years in succession is the same — monotonously the same. That end 
 is, in fact, smash ; and his estate is sold. And then, because hope 
 goes on springing in that elastic and everlasting way of which we 
 know, there is never wanting a purchaser with a little money to 
 throw away, and the old game begins again, with chinking of glasses 
 arid the sparkle of champagne, and the best wishes of friends, and 
 the confidence of the young beginner. 
 
 That, however, is only the fate of the small capitalist. If you 
 have got plenty of money to begin with, and want to multiply it by 
 ten, and can afford to wait, and like tropical life and exile, with 
 the things which some weak-kneed bretlrren call discomforts, such 
 as hot days and vertical suns, and mosquitoes and prickly heat, 
 fi nd insipid beef and tasteless mutton, you can do nothing better 
 than take a sugar estate and manage it yourself. Some day people 
 in England will find out how profitable a thing it is, so long as you 
 need not borrow money to go on with. Then there will be com- 
 
THE SQUIRE. 245 
 
 panies started. Owners will sell to promoters for four times the 
 value of the estate : that will be good for the owners, who will 
 come to Paris or London, or Monte Carlo, and have a fling so long 
 as the money lasts : the promoters will sell the estates to the share- 
 holders for ten times their value : this will be good for the pro- 
 moters who will make money by one swindle, to lose it in the next : 
 then the companies will issue shares, publish prospectuses, and 
 exhibit their sugar in grocers' shops ; and they will appoint 
 managers of local experience. These managers wUl be so experienced 
 that they will sell the sugar, receive the money for the coolies, 
 put everything in their own pockets, and bolt, working their way 
 round by New Caledonia and Tahiti to San Francisco, and from 
 there to New Orleans, enjoying the roses and rapture of gambling 
 saloons, bars, and billiard-rooms. The company will then ' bust 
 up,' and the estate will be sold for half its real value to a local per- 
 son, with no money but what he borrows from the bank, and all 
 will go on as before, and, if we are all happy, let us not sit down 
 to ask what odds. 
 
 The proprietor of Mon De'sir, Captain Kemj^ss, commonly 
 called the Squire by his Eng'ish friends, became a planter tlirough 
 falling in love. It was in this way. 
 
 About five-and-twenty years ago, when people in Palmiste were 
 beginning to think that they miglit try to forget the calamity of 
 their great and terrible cholera year and to leave off telling each 
 other horrible stories, there arrived in the island an extremely 
 sprightly regiment, the officers in which were nearly all young, 
 rich, and disposed to make things cheerful for themselves and all 
 their friends, so far as lies in the power of the English officer. They 
 manifested this disposition from the day of landing ; they received 
 callers with effusion ; they called upon everj'body, bought horses, 
 dog-carts, buggies, pony-traps, American traps, drove about the 
 country, accepted invitations to all the planters' houses, turned up 
 uninvited to the Sunday morning breakfasts, held magnificent 
 guest nights, allowed their band to play as often as they were 
 asked, and gave balls the like of which had never before been 
 heard of. Also, they offered prizes and cups at the races, and rode 
 to win them ; and they had an eleven, and for the first year or so 
 they played the national game with vigour ; they were always 
 pleased to see everybody in barracks at aii hours and at all meals ; 
 brandy and soda was continually being produced ; they exhibited 
 and kept up, to the admiration of philosophers, a real Charles 
 Lever-like air of solid, substantial enjoyment of life, as if there 
 Mere no headaches, as if youth would always last, as if there was 
 nothing in the world to care for beyond sp(jrt — in moderation ; 
 cricket, billiards, and racc^uets — always in moderation ; parade and 
 drill — in strict moderation ; gambling — in tolerable moderation ; 
 feasting, drinking, and love-making, witliout stint or stay, mode- 
 ration, or any restraints beyond those imposed by physical con- 
 sideration, such as the dimensions of the waist or tlie absence of 
 
216 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 the opposite sex. The colonel looked young, being about forty- 
 eight, but he was tough — besides, the resources of science were 
 called in to maintain the dark glossiness of his hair and moustache ; 
 the majors also looked young, being about six-and-thirty ; the cap- 
 tains were in the early thirties and the late twenties ; the subs, 
 were all under five-aud-twenty. It was a thirsty, toss-pot regi- 
 ment ; a rattling, rollicking, story-telling, song-singing, card- 
 playing, racing, billiard-playing, betting, gambling, drinking, sit- 
 up-late regiment ; a handsome, flirting, dancing, mean-nothing, 
 detrimental regiment ; a regiment, in short, which turned the heads 
 of all the girls with fliittery and compliments and dances, and all 
 the things that y(juth Inost loves. In this regiment there were a 
 couple of young men — that is, comparatively young, for they had 
 both already got their company — who were close friends, and not, 
 like their companions, wholly given over to sport and amusement ; 
 they had, in fact, the unusual good sense to perceive that life cannot 
 be all champagne and skittles. Wherefore they sometimes went to 
 bed early, did not take soda and brandy as a pick-me-up before 
 breakfast, observed a liberal moderation in strong drink during the 
 day, and did not look upon all pretty girls as made solely for the 
 amusement of the man with the scarlet jacket. In fact, they were 
 the small minority which among every madcap crew are always 
 found to spoil sport by squaretoed temperance. In any other 
 company they would have been considered as rather dashing young 
 fellows ; in this, the comparative soberness of their manners and 
 morals was felt to be a standing reproach to their brother-officers. 
 It is a safe rule that one must not be more virtuous than one's 
 fellows. Therefore the regiment heard with great relief and thank- 
 fulness that not only were these two engaged to be married tio girls 
 of the island, but that they were going to sell out at once. 
 
 They became, in fact, "engaged to two cousins, girls of French 
 descent, who had been brought up together and were to each other 
 as two sisters. They were alike in appearance, in tastes, and in 
 accomplishments ; they resembled each other in agreeing to be very 
 much m love each with her own English wooer ; they were both 
 young, both beautiful, and both amiable. They differed, however, 
 in one small point, felt by both young ladies to be of no importance 
 whatever; namely, that one was rich and the other poor. Cajjtain 
 Ferrier, the grandson of a peer, who married the rich girl, was him- 
 self already tolerably well provided ; Captain Kemyss, the son of a 
 bishop, who had only a moderate patrimony, married the one who 
 was poor. Now, if he had stayed in the army, or had gone home 
 and lived quietly upon his modest income, he would have got along 
 very well. But when he found that Ferrier intended to remain in 
 Palmiste and cultivate his wife's sugar estate ; when he learned, 
 further, that his own wife would like nothing in the world so weU 
 as to remain all her days in the place where she was b'>rn ; when 
 he considered the fertility and goodness of the land ; when tlie 
 pleasures of a planter's life were pointed out to him, with tho 
 
THE SQUIRE. 247 
 
 chances of a great fortune, he yielded to temptation and bought an 
 estate. Observe the difference at the outset between the two 
 friends. Captain Ferrier married a girl who was the only child of 
 a planter with the largest and most fertile estate in the island ; 
 with his own money and with the money already made out of the 
 estate he would be enabled, whatever happened, to ride out the 
 storm. Therefore, with ordinary care, his prosperity was assured. 
 Captain Kemyss, on the other hand, invested the whole of his own 
 very moderate fortune in purchasing an estate. To complete the 
 purchase he had, like most of his brother-planters, to borrow of 
 the bank a third of the purchase-money at nine per cent. He there- 
 fore became, for life, a man encumbered with a hopeless debt. 
 One son was born to him, Tom by name, now his manager, part- 
 ner, and overseer. His friend Ferrier had several children, but all 
 died except one, a girl — Virginie. When Ferrier died himself, 
 during the great fever year of 18(37, Captain Kemyss became the 
 guardian of the child and the executor of the will. Madame 
 Ferrier and her daughter came to live with him, and they formed, 
 Creole fashion, one household. 
 
 There are some men to whom the backwoods or colonial life, 
 far from friends, seems to strengthen and deepen their old ideas 
 about the most desirable manner of life. Cajjtain Kemyss — the 
 ' Sipiire ' — carried on ni the quiet Palmiste bungalow the kind of life 
 to which he had been himself brought up. He was on his tropical 
 estate an English country gentleman ; lie educated his son in his 
 own ideas ; it was through him that Tom showed no rusticity, and 
 Virginie no Creole insularity. He was now a man of sixty ; tali, 
 grey-headed, with a grey moustache ; he had a military bearing 
 still ; he was a member of the Legislative Council, and was, there- 
 fore, the Honourable Captain Kemyss, and in the whole colony 
 there was no one who bore so good a name, or was held in such 
 great honour, or was more regarded for integrity and trustworthi- 
 ness in all his doings as he. 
 
 His life would have been perfectly happy, but for a certain grim 
 spectre, which would not be confined in a cupboard, but kept 
 marching about with him wherever he went ; st(jod behind him at 
 dinner ; sat on his bed at night, and never left him. It was the 
 lean and gaunt ghost of bankruptcy. He first raised this ghost by 
 much calculation and sad foreboding in the hurricane year of 1808 ; 
 two or three good years laid it in the Red Sea ; then bad years 
 foll(3wed, and up it sprang again, vivacious and sprightly as Jack- 
 in-tlie-Box, and more horrible to look at. After that it was never 
 laid again, but came every year nearer to him, looked larger, ruid 
 shook a more threatening finger. Some men are so thick-skinned 
 that, although they see the danger afar off, and know that thej' will 
 shipwreck upon it, yet they go about their business in perfect 
 happiness, regardless of the certain future. The Squire, wlxo was 
 as courageous as most men, trembled and shook with shame and 
 terror when he thought of the word banlvruptcy. The year 1880 
 
248 THEY WEIIE MARRIED. 
 
 was, for the estate of Mon De'sir a bad year ; the yield was poor , 
 it seemed as if the soil was, perhaps, giving out ; prices were not 
 high ; the crop was short ; tlie bank was beginning an ominous 
 note of warning. Still, if 1881 was good — if there were no hurri- 
 canes and prices improved — the estate would pull tlirough somehow, 
 as it had pulled through so many years before, by being able to 
 meet the interest of the debt ; if not, if anything at all of the many 
 things which might happen went against him, then, then — the blow 
 could no longer be staved off — he must go to the wall. The pro- 
 spect, to a man turned sixty, of seeing the whole of his life's work 
 destroyed and brought to nought, was a very terrible thing to 
 consider. 
 
 There was one way out of the difficulty ; one certain way ; yet 
 it was a way which he would not suffer himself to dwell upon. 
 Hov;^ if Tom were to marry Virginie 1 For then there could be no 
 more troubles about money. The two estates — hers, large and 
 prosperous ; his, small and struggling — adjoined. They could be 
 worked with the same mill and machinery. Tom could manage 
 both. No one knew better than himself, the trustworthy executor 
 and guardian of the child, how, year after year, good and bad 
 together, her estate brought in a clear income of eight thousand 
 pounds at least ; and how this money had been accumulating and 
 piling up during Virginie' s minority, until it was now, for a land of 
 small capitalists, an enormous fortune. But to consider the girl, 
 almost his own daughter, as the means of rescuing himself from 
 difficulties was a dreadful tiling to him. 
 
 Meantime, there were two persons who were as desirous of 
 seeing this result as Captain Kemyss, with the advantage over him, 
 that they did not conceal their wishes. 
 
 ' Sybille,' Madame Kemyss would whisper when she saw the 
 young people together. 
 
 ' Lucie,' Madame Ferrier would reply, pressing her friend's 
 hand, silently. 
 
 The cousins who were so much alike in youth had grown alike 
 again in middle life. This is a trying time with most women : they 
 have lost the later beautj^ of womanhood, and have not yet put on 
 that of age. These two ladies, however, were still beautiful, in the 
 soft and graceful Creole way ; only they looked older than they 
 were, which, perliaps, helped them. They were past forty ; and 
 they looked, somehow, though their hair was neither thin nor grey, 
 nor were their faces crows-footed, as if they were past fifty. 
 
 'In France,' one would say to the other, 'we should have 
 settled it ourselves by this time.' 
 
 ' In England, ' the other would reply, ' the boy would have 
 settled it with the girl before tlus time.' 
 
 ' Tom is a good boy, t^ybille. Perhaps he fears your possible 
 displeasure.' 
 
 • He is a very good boy, Lucie. Tliat is why I wish he would 
 tell Virginie that he would hke her to be his wife.' 
 
THE SQUIRE. 249 
 
 The only reason why Tom did not tell her this most undoubted 
 truth was that he was a Creole. Now all Crenles are perfectly 
 h^PPy with the present condition of things, provided that ensures 
 a sufficiency of curry and claret and a roof. It is a land of sweet 
 contentment. Tom was profoundly in love ; but then ho had been 
 in love with Virginie ever since she was born ; there was nothing 
 new in that. It was impossible for him to think of life without 
 her. On the other hand, things were so pleasant as they were, 
 that it never occurred to liim to desire a change. They tell a story 
 in Palmiste of two Creoles who once lived there ; they were de- 
 votedly attached to each other ; they went on year after year 
 enjoying a protracted springtime of love ; their parents died ; they 
 still continued their gentle courtship ; the years passed on ; they 
 became grey and bald ; still they met day by day, and had their 
 little lovers' quarrels and the fond renewings of love, quite in the 
 Horatian style ; when one was seventy and the other sixty-eight — • 
 though, to be sure, they still felt like twenty and eighteen — a 
 friend suggested that it might be almost time to complete the long 
 engagement by a wedding. They considered for a few months ; 
 they thought the suggestion reasonable ; they were married ; but 
 they had so long been lovers that they could not bear to give up 
 their old habits, and they presently separated with mutual consent, 
 went back each to his own house, and ' carried on ' as before. 
 
 As regards Virginie herself, she was young ; she had never 
 considered or thought of the question at ail. She was undoubtedly 
 very fond of Tom ; it seemed as if life without Tom would be im- 
 possible. But, as yet she was innocent of any thought of love, just 
 as she was wholly and entirely ignorant of the world, of humanity, 
 of evil, wrong-doing, treachery, and deception. To be sure, the 
 coolies were always in trouble, always suffering or inflicting wrong ; 
 always deceiving, cheating, thieving, and quarrelling. Only, what 
 coolies do, regarded as part of humanity's statistics, is only inte- 
 resting to those who are able to take a broad and catholic view of 
 mankind, therefore not interesting to those who live among them. 
 In other words, the white residents in Palmiste disclaim the 
 brotherhood of the coloured man. It is difficult to understand the 
 ignorance of such a girl so brought up. She had not only never 
 left the island, but had never slej^t ofl" the estate, except once, when 
 she went to a Government House ball, and once when she v>^ent to 
 a garrison ball, six months before this time. She had been edu- 
 cated by her mother and Madame Kemyss ; her guardian took a 
 share in the teaching, too ; the only friend of her own age was 
 Tom ; he was her companion and confidant. She knew nothing of 
 society, except as she saw it at home when people came to stay. 
 There was no art whatever within her reach, except music, which 
 her mother taught her ; there was no church even within reach, 
 and the Sunday was only marked by the reading of part of the 
 English prayer-book ; there was no talk of literature, because her 
 guardian liad but few buuks, and she had read them over and over 
 
2.-0 THEY WERE MABIilEB. 
 
 again ; there were no politics. As regards European events, they 
 are treated on these estates with about as much concern as if they 
 were the events recorded in Gibbon. There were wars and defeats, 
 aul many thousands slain ; treaties made became treaties broken ; 
 the victor was flushed with conquest, and the enemy rolled sullenly 
 over the frontier. Historians never alter their sweet flowing style, 
 because tlie events of history are always the same. To the dwellers 
 in this far-off land the events of the present are no more real than 
 the events of the past ; to Virginie, as she heard them summed up 
 wlien each mail came in, they were shadows and unmeaning things. 
 The realities of life were the morning and evening rambles, the 
 flowers, the water-falls, the hills, the fruits, and Tom. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN THE bachelors' PAVILION. 
 
 Ix the pavilion the lazy bachelors began, one after the other, to 
 stir, sit up, curse the mosquitoes, and finally to get up and come 
 forth, clothed, for the most part, in ragged flannels and rough tweeds 
 which had known service and were stained and torn. There 
 was great diversity as regards hats ; for some had broad Panama 
 hats, with brims like the spreading amplitude of a family umbrella ; 
 and some had the ordinary round hat of the period, generctusly 
 endowed with flowing puggrey ; and some liad solar helmets ; and 
 one, which was the Padre, wore the ecclesiastical broad-brinnned 
 felt which we all know and love so much. He also wore the long 
 flapping coat which, with the broad felt hat, makes our ecclesiastics 
 almost as graceful to look upon as their brothers of Spain. One 
 iinly among them appeared as if he was dressed for a battue in an 
 English preserve, perfectly turned out in garments which made one 
 or two of the younger men ashamed of tlieir rags. This was the 
 Honourable Guy Talbot Ferrier, Virginie's second cousin, only son 
 and heir of Lord Ferrier, and a captain in the line regiment now 
 on garrison duty at Palmiste. 
 
 Most of the party knew each other as only colonials can know 
 each other — that is, with a perfect knowledge of all the strong 
 points, weak points, good qualities, bad qualities, virtues and vices 
 which distinguish their brethren. Not the least use for any of 
 them to pretend to sail under false colours, or to put on side of any 
 kind. Of course they did it, but it was no use doing it. Among 
 them was Sandy McAndrew, of the great Scotch firm of IMcMull, 
 BIcAndrew, and Company. The only fault of Sandy, regarded as 
 a man and a companion, was that he genei'ally fell asleep during 
 dinner. In other respects he was perfect. Then, there was Davy 
 INIcLoughlin, his partner, remarkable for the fact that his legs after 
 dinner had a tendency to tie themselves into knots, which is an 
 
IK THE BACHELORS' PAVILION. 251 
 
 embaiTassing thing to witness until you get used to it. There was 
 also the Pink Boy, who was only nineteen, and had but just 
 arrived, and as yet had not had time to display his many admirable 
 qualities. But he was good at laughing ; and he was as handsome 
 as Apollo ; and he blushed, which, I believe, that god never did. 
 His tweeds were almost as good as those of Captain Ferrier, but 
 they were in ditferent style, because the Boy was not a noble sports- 
 man at all, but an accountant in a bank. And there was the 
 Assistant Colonial Secretary, a person of very great importance in 
 the official world ; in private, a great retailer of good things, with 
 a prodigious memory ; so that, once started, he would go on, with 
 stories new and old for a livelong day, and very often did. He 
 knew every man, woman, and child in the colony, and had an 
 excellent stoiy to tell about each ; a cheerful, even a jovial com- 
 panion ; and he was of the persuasion wliich allows a curlj- crisp 
 brown beard to remain upon the chin as a complement to the curly 
 crisp brown hair. 
 
 There was also Major Morgan, who came with Captain Ferrier. 
 He was a soldier by profession ; but his principal occupation was 
 the playing of cards, which was the reason why he was so frequently 
 the companion of the younger man. Though he was entirely 
 addicted at cards, and found in the changes and chances of the pips 
 the only joy in life, and though he played to win, he was not a 
 gambler. It will never be said of the Major that he was in difficul- 
 ties by reason of his losses at cards ; rather, it may be safely 
 prophesied of him, that in the immediate fiiture, when he has re- 
 tired from the service, he will begin a long and ti'anquil career as a 
 morning, afternoon, and evening whist player at his club. But at 
 present he is still young enough to play any game that offers, 
 whether e'carte', loo, lansquenet, baccarat, be'zique, cribbage, whist, 
 poker, euchre, all-fours, monty, picquet, sechs-und-sechzig, or nap. 
 A cheerful man, who generally won, and therefore regarded the 
 world as a place where justice is accorded to merit. 
 
 The Professor — his name was Percival — who had been a resident 
 in the island for four or live years, was always to be found at Mon 
 De'sir at the hunne amiee. Perliaps, when he arrived, he had enter- 
 tained hopes of introducing energy and activity of mind and body 
 into the lazy colony. All such hopes, if any existed,, were now 
 gone ; he dreamed no more of fostering a love for culture, being 
 quite persuaded that things would go on their old way whatever he 
 said or did. This is, after all, a philosophic line to take ; even in 
 quite temperate zones it requires an amazing amount of talk, per- 
 suasion, entreaty, tears, expostulation, kicks, shoves, cuffs, boxes 
 on the ear, admonitions of stick, to move the people a small six 
 inches ; in tropical countries it wants ten times tlie energy to pro- 
 duce a far more naserable result, and fever is the almost certain 
 consequence. Therefore, the Professor sat down, and said that 
 uncultured man was probably as ha]:)py as he of the eesthetic crowd ; 
 and that, for his own part, he should cultivate his garden — which 
 
252 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 words, like those of Canclide, were an allegory. He found himsolf 
 much happier when he had ceased to make himself unhappy about the 
 downward tendencies, swinishness, and grovelling of the islanders. 
 He was cheerful aga n ; he recovered his spirits ; began again to 
 tell stories, and regarded life as an optimist. In person he was 
 shorter than most ; he made up for that by being broader than 
 most ; he wore a big brown beard and spectacles ; he had a catholic 
 taste for wine of all kinds, if only it was good, and was almost a 
 Frenchman in his admiration of all pretty women. 
 
 Tliere was one otlier guest whom one should notice among all 
 the rest. It was the Padre. 
 
 He was young, quite young, and enthusiastic. When he left 
 Oxford to be ordained a Bishop's Chaplain for Palmiste, he thought 
 he was coming to a place which was crying aloud for the guidance 
 of the Church. He dreamed of an obedient and docile flock, 
 patiently awaiting instruction. He would instruct them ; he would 
 guide them — to be sure, he had only, with great difficulty, secured 
 a humble third in M<jderations — he would lead them. And to 
 ecclesiasticism of the Keble College kind he would add, by degrees, 
 aesthetics, athletics, art, and culture. There was not as yet, in the 
 whole island, one single piece of blue china, nor a peacock's feather, 
 nor a picture of the latest school, nor a ballade of the prig-poets, 
 nor any old silver, or lace, nor ritual, nor vestments, or incense — 
 all were downright sturdy independent Protestants, Scotch Presby- 
 terians, and so fortli. So that a deep depression fell upon the 
 young man's soul. He was so young, too, that he could not bear 
 to see things going on without joining in them ; and so sensitive 
 that he felt the ridicule of his own long skirts ; and so sharp that 
 he saw how his profession was more respected than beloved, and 
 that his presence was too often a gnie. Then he was too sincere 
 not to be grieved by the thirstiness of his companions, their* random 
 talk, their 'wild words,' their readiness to play cards, and their 
 eagerness to laugh at a good story. He tried to tell a few good 
 stories himself, but perceived with pain that he did not succeed in 
 making his hearers laugh. A tall, thin young man, with the narrow, 
 high forehead and straight features often found in enthusiastic 
 young clergymen ; one of the kind who affect great thirst for 
 knowledge with the air of having known it all beforehand ; who 
 have an exasperating way of saying ' Yes, yes, yes,' to whatever is 
 said ; and a man perfectly sincere, perfectly vii'tuous, honourable, 
 and religious, whose life is bound to be a fadure because he under- 
 standeth not his fellow-man. 
 
 As they came out upon the verandah of the Pavilion, one by one, 
 they began to disperse. The Assistant Colonial Secretary, observing 
 the remarkable neatness of the Padre's dress, the length of hia 
 skirts, and the glossiness of his trousers, projiosed to take him for 
 a pleasant walk among the hills ; they set off together. Those who 
 saw them start reported an ominous twinkle in the Secretary's eyes, 
 and a courtesy in his demeanour, not always remarkable in hia 
 
T\ THE BACffELURS' PAVILION. 253 
 
 treatment of the cloth. "WHien they returned, about nine o'clock, 
 the Padre's long coat in ribbons, and his glossy trousers held to- 
 gether by pins and bits of string, they remembered that twinkle, 
 though the Secretary now takes blame to himself, and says that he 
 ouglit to have taken thought of the Chinese raspberries and other 
 thorny underwoods on that hillside. He may be veiy soriy, but 
 his impersonation of the Padre in a thorny thicket caught by the 
 skirts is funny, and has been known to make even the Bishop 
 laugh. As for the Professor, he went into the garden and cut a 
 pine-apple, and found a shady place to eat it in. Then he returned 
 to the Pavilion and threw himself into the hammock, there to read 
 a French novel, which the Pink Boy thought was a learned treatise, 
 and therefore would not interrupt. Sandy McAndrew took a gun 
 and went to take pot shots at the bo's'n birds in the ravine. His 
 partner, with an eye to business, borrowed an umbrella, and went 
 to inspect the canes. And the Pink Boy, left alone because no one 
 invited him to join their party, ventured timidly to the verandah 
 of the house in hopes of finding Miss Ferrier alone and getting a 
 talk. She was not there : but the squire was, and they went out 
 for a walk together, which was not quite the same thing. 
 
 The Honourable Guy Talbot Ferrier, born, as Debrett tells 
 everybody, in the year 1853, was therefore on New- Year's Day, 
 1881, in his twenty-eighth year. He was, at first sight, a singularly 
 handsome young man, whose features were regular, figure tall and 
 upright, and eyes of a soft dark blue. His voice was musical and 
 full, and his hands were small. He would have formed, in fact, an 
 excellent model for a sculptor, and, by simply changing his expres- 
 sion — nothing more — a most beautiful and poetical portrait might 
 have been made of him. It was, however, just his expression 
 which spoiled him. He had got, somehow, the wrong one, and so 
 an incongruous and uncomfortable effect was produced. There are 
 a great many young men like him in this respect. Nature intended 
 them for one expression, and they have gone astray, and so got 
 another which does not fit. Later on in life it does not matter ; 
 because the manner of life which gives the expression also changes 
 the features. Now, in the case of this young gentleman, the 
 nobility of purpose, the resolution of virtue, the courage of principle 
 which should have appeared naturally on his face were not there. 
 
 Virtuous resolution and high moral principle are not always 
 necessary qualifications for making a young man popular. There 
 were many men much beloved in Ferrier's regiment who were not 
 implacably virtuous ; yet Ferrier himself was a man with no friends ; 
 he was perfectly well bred ; he was not generally insolent ; he was 
 not boisterous, or loud, or contemptuous, or superior, or any of the 
 things which generally make men unpopular. Yet he was not liked. 
 Many reasons might be assigned to explain this fact : one will be quite 
 sufficient — the young man not only thought of no one but himself, 
 but did not pretend, as many quite selfish men do, to think about 
 anybody. He was thoi-oughly held and possessed by ihe love of 
 
254 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 Belf. He had but one god — the soul within him wliich continually 
 craved for something new, something which it could devour, some- 
 thing which would keep it in excitement. Now the man who 
 desires, not before all other things, but to the exclusion of all other 
 things, his own personal gratification, is always in the long run, if it 
 comes in his way, mainly attracted by gambling. There is a fierce 
 excitement in it ; there is the rapid acquisition of money — the pos- 
 session of which means venal pleasure of all kinds ; there is the 
 trampling on other people in order to get it ; there are the alterna- 
 tions of fear and In )pe ; no one else is benefited by your success ; 
 no one else desires it ; every man is wholly for himself ; there is 
 but one prize, and all desire it; to make one man happy, the rest 
 must be disappointed. Therefore, though there are many pur- 
 suits in which the egotist may gratify his favourite passion, there is 
 none so entirely absorbing and so satisfying as gambling. 
 
 A man at eight-and-twenty ought, even in colonial garrison life, 
 to have some other pursuits. Ferrier found none which gave him 
 any pleasure. He played continually : he would have played all 
 day ; he was ready to play all night. The pleasing residt, so far, 
 was a quagmire of debts and obligations out of which the way would 
 have been dubious even to a rich man. Now the house of Ferrier had 
 never been rich. Lord Ferrier was not rich as a country gentleman ; 
 as a peer he was certainly poor. And at all times there was present 
 to his heir the vision of those debts and the anxiety how they were 
 to be paid. 
 
 This morning he awoke raspy in his temper, as often happens 
 when men sit up till two in the morning to play ecart^ and drink 
 too much soda and brandy. And he remembered that the Major 
 had taken another I O U from him when they parted. And, in 
 addition, he found that his groom had let down his horse and cut 
 his knees. It was small satisfaction, yet some relief, to kick and 
 cufl:' the fellow ; and when this was done there was still the recol- 
 lection of that I O U. 
 
 ' A bad night, Ferrier,' said the Major, looking at the little slip 
 of paper in his pocket-book. ' This makes thirteen hundred and 
 fifty-five, I think.' 
 
 Ferrier received the hint in silence. 
 
 ' If I were you, my boy,' continued the Major, 'I would drop 
 play for a while, just to let luck come round a bit.' 
 
 ' Luck ! ' the loser groaned. ' There never was such luck as mine.' 
 
 ' 1 don't think, Ferrier, that I ought to play with you ; it isn't 
 fair. I keep my head ; you lose yours. I'm an old hand, and you 
 are a young one. I play for the game ; you play for the stakes.' 
 
 ' Hang it, man ! You can't mean that you don't play to win ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I play to win. Every man does. But I think of 
 the game, and you think only of the points. See 1 ' 
 
 Ferrier threw himself into one of the long chairs and relapsed into 
 a gloomy silence. The New Year had begun badly, indeed, for hira. 
 It was going to finish— but this, as yet, he knew not — worse. The 
 
IN THE BACHELOnS' PAVILION. 255 
 
 [Major strolled out with an umbrella, and then there were left on 
 the verandah only the Professor and Ferrier. Presently the Pro- 
 fessor dropped his French novel, and, lazily swinging in the ham- 
 mock, contemplated the moody young gentleman with wonder 
 and pity. 
 
 ' It seems to me,' he said to himself, after a while, ' that here is 
 a young man whose conscience is pegging away at him like the eagle 
 at the man on the rock. I wonder what he has done. To think 
 that Virginie should liave a cousin with such a face.' 
 
 Indeed, at the moment the face was suffused with such a glow 
 of vindictive wrath, self-reproach, and hatred, that it was quite 
 horrible and terrifying to look upon. 
 
 ' I wonder who it is, and what he has done : though, perhaps, 
 it is a person of the other sex,' said the Professor. ' But it may be, 
 perchance, that the Honourable Guy is possessed of a devil or two.' 
 
 Towards nine o'clock, the sun being high and the heat of the 
 day fairly begun, the men began to come back, and when the Secre- 
 tary appeared leading the discomfited Padre, with his beautiful 
 skirts cut into ribbons like a banana-leaf after a hurricane, and his 
 black trousers rent in a hundred places, there arose a shout of 
 admiration and joy quite beautiful to hear. And then they all went 
 to bathe. 
 
 Tom, who was the last to return, having been the round of the 
 whole estate and made notes of shortcomings, led the way. He 
 knew the pool where water was coolest ; it was half a mile off, 
 where the ravine was the deepest and the narrowest. And he knew 
 the shortest way to it, which was straight down a perpendicular 
 rock about ninety feet deep ; but, as he went down there every 
 morning, it never occurred to him that anybody should think of 
 breaking his neck there, and he was greatly surprised when half- 
 way down to see above him the Padre clinging to the rock like a 
 spread-eagle, unable to move up or down. Presently, the united 
 efforts of the party got him up, and the Professor undertook to 
 lead him to the pool by a safer and more circuitous route. 
 
 Oh ! the pools tind lashers, and waterfalls and brawling mountain 
 streams of Palmiste ! Oh I to sit undei' a little cascade of four or 
 five feet high, to let the cold water flow over the hot and weary 
 limbs, it is a joy which we who shiver in cold latitudes cannot under- 
 stand or even conceive. It belongs almost to the keen and pas- 
 sionate joys ; it is one which never palls, of which one is never 
 satiated, the desire for which recurs every morning. ' But,' said 
 the Professor, ' I prefer the long way round. ' 
 
 The bath and the walk home, and the dressing which followed, 
 brought them well on to eleven, which, as everybody knows, is the 
 breakfast hour of the Palmiste planter. Eleven o'clock in the fore- 
 noon is, in fact, the proper time, the natural time, for eating. We 
 foolish folk of England have abolished breakfast and substituted 
 luncheon, a meal which spoils the day, depraves the appetite, and 
 ruins the dinner. Nature intended mankind to eat twice in the 
 
2.-6 TREY WERE MARRTEB. 
 
 day, and each time after the fatigue of labour. At eleven, if one 
 gets up at five or thereabouts, the day's work is well-nigh done. 
 After six hours in the saddle among the canes, for instance, whicli 
 Tom had, one gets home with a hunger almost unintelligible in these 
 climes ; a hunger which to a London alderman would make life 
 indeed worth having. With what a cordial will that breakfast was 
 attacked by the guests ; how claret tiowed without stint or stay 
 down thirsty throats ; how, after the simple bourgeoise plenty of 
 homllabaisse, fish fried, fish boiled, chicken and salad, cutlets, grilled 
 turkey, and devilled bones, a stately prawn curry added nobility to 
 the repast ; how coflee was followed by a chasse ; how Tom dis- 
 tinguished himself beyond and above his peers ; how the Pink Boy 
 contemplated the thing with rapturous wonder ; and how the Padre 
 thought with something like shame of the plain English raslier and 
 the cup of tea — these are things which may be brieflj' indicated, not 
 dwelt upon. Envy is a hateful passion, and one must always con- 
 sider the weaker bretliren. 
 
 After breakfast there was a rest. Most of them went back to 
 the Pavilion for cigars. The Padre, fatigued with the morning's 
 scramble, and perhaps just touched with the unaccustomed wine, 
 fell fast asleep. Only Captain Ferrier remained with the ladies. 
 He had shaken ofi" his moody fit, and was now, having taken a great 
 deal of claret, thoroughly set up and revived. Virginie had a great 
 many questions to ask, and the two ladies sat and listened 
 in their soft and dreamy manner. They talked about England ; 
 and the child wanted to know all about her cousins and the noble 
 head of the house ; what the castle was like ; what they all did 
 when they were at home in it ; what the place was like, and what 
 the people. Her cousin tried to describe them all. But what can 
 a girl understand who knows no winter, no fog, no snow, no east 
 winds, no green enclosures, no English villages, and no old English 
 churches standing amid the grave? of all the generations, girt 
 with the old trees 1 
 
 Meantime Tom, who knew not the meaning of fatigue, though 
 he had been six hours in the saddle, and had eaten a more enor- 
 mous breakfast than any of the rest, was busied with what appeared 
 to be a net. At sight of that net the Professor arose, and softly 
 retired to hide himself in the tool-house with his novel. Tom un- 
 rolled his net, examined the meshes, mended one or two places, 
 then rolled it up again. This took half an hour or so. Then he 
 called a boy, and gave it him with a few directions. Then he 
 rubbed his hands, and announced, with a cheerful smile, that every- 
 thing was ready, and they could start as soon as they pleased. 
 
2S7 
 
 CHArTER rv. 
 
 THE HU^TTING OF THE GOURAMI. 
 
 *Lei us first,' said the Secretary, the only one who had been taking 
 any ] lart in the preparations, ' wake up the Padre. He, too, must 
 go with us.' 
 
 He was awakened with some difficulty, and at first exhibited 
 temper, and refused to join the expedition. However, he was 
 young, and not to go might seem like showing a white feather 
 unworthy of an Oxford athlete. Besides, the sport was the gentle 
 and harmless one of angling. Therefore the poor innocent, though 
 with misgiving, put on his broad felt hat and once more adjusted 
 his white muslin puggrey and was ready. 
 
 When the Professor had been led forth by the ear from his 
 liiding-place and had been told that he, too, must go, and that 
 resistance would be unavailing, the party was complete, the only 
 man left behind being Ferrier, who had no taste for sport of any 
 kind outside an English preserve. He suggested that the Major 
 should stay behind with him and while away the heat of the day 
 with a little e'carte, or vingt-un for two — a very pleasing method 
 of losing money. But the Major refused, and went off' with the rest. 
 
 First mai'ched Tom, important, because he was the leader or 
 captain of the chasse aux gouramis. Next came the Indian boys, 
 cariying the gear ; then followed, with a rueful countenance, the 
 captive Professor, grimly remembering fatigues on a certain occa- 
 sion a year ago, and devoutly wishing that the sport was over ; after 
 him the Padre, the long skirts of his only clerical coat left him 
 flapping about his legs, and his white puggrey streaming behind the 
 broad black hat ; and then the Assistant Colonial Secretary, with a 
 sweet smile upon him as he contemplated that broad hat and those 
 flapping sku'ts, and thought of what awaited the owner of those 
 garments. It was the hottest time in the year ; in the shade the 
 thermometer would be about ninety ; in the sun, anything you 
 please. Yet there was a gentle breeze or stir in the air from the 
 south, whence cometh the breath of the Antarctic, warmed upon its 
 way, yet cool still, and fresh, when it floats across the hot and 
 tropical twenties. 
 
 ' In the ravine,' said the Professor, in order to encourage the 
 Padre, ' there will be no breeze at all ; the rocks catch the heat and 
 hold it till strangers come ; then they give it out, and the stranger 
 is as grateful as you will be presently. It will be like the hot room 
 in the Turkish bath — that room, I mean, where, if you want break- 
 fast, you take the materials in rav/ and hold them in your hand till 
 they are cooked. Last j^ear we brought some tiftin with us — eggs, 
 yuu know, and bread, and some slices of ham ; we put them on a 
 
 s 
 
258 THEY WFJli: MAB.RIED. 
 
 etone just for a few minutes while we went into a pool after the 
 gouramis. When we came back the eggs were hard boiled, the 
 bread was toast, and the riishers of bacon were done to a turn.' 
 
 ' I wish,' said the Padre, ' that I had left my waistcoat at 
 home.' 
 
 ' If you had been well advised,' said the Professor, whose only 
 fault was a want of reverence for sacred things, ' you would have 
 come on this expedition in your surplice, and nothing else.' 
 
 Presently they came to the break-neck way down the cliff, doAvn 
 which they all scrambled except these two, and they went igno- 
 miniously round by a longer and safer way. ' What boots it,' asked 
 the Professor, ' to save ten minutes if you break your neck ? ' 
 
 When they joined the party, the Padre observed, with surprise, 
 that they were all undressing. Further, that the Professor, with a 
 sigh, also began to shed his garments, and that he himself was 
 expected to do the same thing. He realised the meaning of the 
 irreverent suggestion about his surplice when he received a little 
 maillot of coloured cotton, such as Frenchmen use to swim in. 
 And he began almost to wish that he had not joined the expedition. 
 In a few minutes the whole party were arrayed in this primitive 
 dress, in which and their helmets and hats, and nothing else, they 
 began walking along the hot boulders, under and among which the 
 stream was brawling on her way. 
 
 The streams of Palmiste are all ahke : they rise in the hills and 
 they run into the sea, through ravines beneficently provided by 
 Nature for the purpose. If there were no ravines they would have 
 to tumble, in break-neck fashion, over precipices. As it is, they 
 gracefully roll, run, leap, babble, roar, prattle, fall, hasten, or linger 
 on their way, through most beautiful valleys, sometimes deep, some- 
 times shallow ; sometimes broad, sometimes narrow ; sometimes 
 with perpendicular faces of rock, and sometimes with sloping sides, 
 clothed with hanging wood. Sometimes the bottom of the ravine 
 consists of great rounded boulders, and one has to get along by 
 jumping from one to the other. At first, this is fatiguing, until you 
 get into the swing of it. Sometimes there is a broad flat bottom, 
 covered over and piled with boulders ; sometimes the ravine closes 
 quite in, and the stream runs noisily between the rocky walls of a 
 narrow way ; sometimes the water dashes over the stones, forming 
 hundreds of tiny cascades ; sometimes it glides under them, and is 
 invisible for half a mile or so, though the dense growth on either 
 hand speaks of the water below ; sometimes it widens out and forms 
 lashers, .pools, or basins ; and sometimes it leaps over a cliff" and 
 becomes a waterfall, dazzling, feathery, like diamond spray. And 
 eveiywhere, except on the face of the rock, trees : such trees as one 
 may dream of ; palms of every kind — the date palm, the cocoa, 
 the raphia, the travellers' tree, the aloe with its long mast, the 
 fragrant acacia, the tamarind, and a hundred others, whose names 
 one knows not. In the shade under the trees and hidden behind 
 the rocks are ferns, such as one may not hope to see in any other 
 
THE HUXTIXG OF THE G OUR AMI. 2.:9 
 
 country, and on the branches of the trees are orchids for those Trho 
 have eyes to see and knowledge to understand. 
 
 The ravine on that hot January day was very silent, winding in 
 and out, growing deeper as it approached the sea. A few bo's'n 
 birds called to each other flying across from rock to rock ; you could 
 hear, perhaps, the chatter of monkeys in the trees. But there was 
 no other sound. The place is so far away from the steps of man 
 that a visitor who should chance to slip and fall might lie there 
 until he died, and long after, without being found. For many 
 miles of its course no one ever goes there, except at rare intervals 
 when Tom brings his friends to fish for gourami, or when he strolls 
 down in the afternoon with a gun on the chance of a shot. The 
 coolies, an incurious folk, have no occasion to go there ; the 
 negroes are afraid of ghosts ; and, of course, no one except an 
 Englishman would venture into those hot and stifling depths at high 
 noon of the ISTew Year, with the sim straight over head glaring into 
 all kinds of nooks and crannies where, save at such seasons of 
 vertical advantage, ray of sun can never enter. The men were 
 barefooted, and presently the Padre began to understand the Pro- 
 fessor's allegory of the hard-boiled eggs. He was veiy hot in spite 
 of his scanty apparel ; he asked himself, with shame, what certain 
 people at home, who thought greatly of his missionary zeal, would 
 say if they saw him now ; he was tii'ed with the early morning 
 walk ; his feet were blistering ; liis legs ached with the perpetual 
 leaping from stone to stone ; his shins were bruised with frequent 
 falls. 
 
 Said the Professor softly, 
 
 ' Last year a man came here who was unaccustomed to walking 
 on red-hot stones. We carried him up again after a while, but he 
 has never recovered the use of his feet, and now goes on crutches." 
 
 Tlien he was silent, azid the Padre began to think there might 
 be some truth in it. 
 
 But their leader called a halt, and everybody, while the pre- 
 parations were being made, sat down with their feet in the water. 
 
 They were arrived at a most beautififl pool, about forty feet 
 long and twenty broad. Great trees hung over the water, and 
 splendid liancs, with stems as thick as the trunk of a good-sized 
 English oak, spread out long arms, octopus fashion, to throttle and 
 destroy the trees which they embraced. They began — those who 
 understood the method — by lowering the net carefully into the 
 water at the upper end. "\\nien all was ready the Professor, with 
 a groan, took up his position in the middle, while Tom placed him- 
 self at one end and the Secretary at the other. These three were 
 places of honour assigned to those who were most at ease in the 
 water, and presently they were all swimming slowly down the pool, 
 joined by the others. It was a sweet and a beautiful sight to see 
 the spectacles of the Professor glittering under his helmet, as he 
 went through the task, without enthusiasm, yet conscientiously ; 
 and the broad hat of liis Reverence shading an anxious face, because 
 
 s2 
 
260 THEY WERE 3IARRIED. 
 
 he Avas not happy about his feet, and because the proceeding.? 
 seemed to lack the dignity proper to the cloth ; and the red face of 
 the Major and the delight of the Pink Boy in the coolness of the 
 water. Presently Tom handed over his end of the net to tlie 
 McAndrew and disappeared. After remaining under the water for 
 about five-and-twenty minutes or so, during which time he Avas 
 adjusting the net at tlie bottom, he came up again. At this point 
 the Professor, catching sight of tlie Padre's nose just out of the 
 water, under the shade of his beautiful broad hat, began to laugh 
 silently, and communicated a shivering to the net, so that Tom 
 thought it was one of the eels, in length from ten to forty feet, for 
 which the rivers of Palmiste are so famous, and went down again 
 to investigate. 
 
 By slow degrees and with great care the net was hauled along 
 the whole pool and pulled in at the end. Then Tom's respon- 
 sibilities began again. For he now had to dive down and bring up 
 the fish, taking only as many as they wanted and picking out the 
 big ones, throwing the young fish back again into the pool. Mean- 
 time, those who were not actively employed sat on tlie edge of the 
 ■pool with their feet in the water and waited. It was a good haul ; 
 but Tom said that they must have one more cast of the net, and 
 that the next likely pool was not more than a quarter of a mile 
 down the stream. He set ofi', leading the way, as before. The rest 
 followed meekly, with the exception of the Professor, who beckoned 
 the Padre and made a gesture of silence. 
 
 When the procession had disappeared beyond the next bend of 
 the rocks, he rose and asked his Reverence if he wished to play 
 that game any more. 
 
 ' I — I — certainly think that we have had enough.' 
 
 ' Then come back with me. We will put on our clothes and we 
 will go camer on-fishing instead.' 
 
 ' Have we not had enough fishing for one day l ' The Padre 
 thought of those awful stones and of his blistered feet, and 
 remembered the cool verandah. 
 
 The Professor hastened to explain. 
 
 ' We shall not take off" our clothes for cameron-fishing ; nor 
 shall we jump about on red-hot boulders ; and we shan't walk at 
 all. It is a lazy sport. We shall sit under the shadiest place we 
 can find, higher up, where there is a little air, I will teach you how 
 to fish. I never catch any myself, but I know the way other people 
 catch them ; and perhaps you will be more lucky.' 
 
 ' All this seems a dreadful waste of time, does it not ? ' asked 
 the man fresh from Oxford. 
 
 'You have only been a month in Palmiste,' said the Professor. 
 * After a little, you will discover that you canH waste tune here. 
 There's no such thing as wasting time, unless, indeed, you throw it 
 away on reading. Out here we are irresponsible. Life goes by, I 
 suppose, because there is a cemetery ; but you don't feel as if it 
 \\as ever going to end. There is no use trying to do any work. 
 
THE HUNTING OF THE GOUBAMI 261 
 
 Nobody will ever be improved ; nobody wants to be improved. It 
 is warm and sunny — what more can a man want ? ' 
 
 'If I thought that,' said the Padre, 'I would go straight back 
 to England and find Work. Why, it was because I thought I 
 shouhl find my Work here that I came.' 
 
 The Professor smiled. ' That is the language of the schools. I 
 know it.' 
 
 ' Would you have me,' asked the young clergyman hotly, ' would 
 you have me take this post in order to sit down in shady places and 
 catch — what do you call them 1 ' 
 
 ' Wise men sit down and meditate,' said the Professor. ' Talk 
 to the Squire ; he never reads much, yet he is as wise as Solomon. 
 Restless men buzz about, and shove, and push, and call it work. 
 Do you know the story in Rabelais about the work of Diogenes ? ' 
 
 'I do not read Rabelais,' said his Reverence, coldly. 
 
 'Poor man ! Never mind. There was a civil chaplain here 
 until lately who was a miracle of laziness. Yet he always went on 
 talking about his AVork, with a capital W, you know, just as you 
 do. It is very good to begin with, and the habit remains.' 
 
 ' I hope the habit will rem.ain.' 
 
 ' It will. It will. But the thing will vanish. I am going home 
 myself before long, because I am one of the restless men, and want 
 to work. It is very foolish of me, and I am siu:e I ought rather to 
 stay. Never mind. Let us go catch the cameron. Then we will 
 find our way home and sit on the verandah till it is time to dress 
 for dinner, and eat letchees and talk to Virginie. I have known 
 her ever since I came here, which is now four years ago ; and I am 
 in love with her, as you will be before long — veiy likely you are 
 already — you need not blush, because it does you credit — and I am 
 deuced soriy she has got that fellow for a cousin.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked the Padre. 
 
 ' Why 1 Because — because I do not like him.' 
 
 They had their cameron-fishing. The Professor led the way to 
 a quiet little stream above the ravine, where there was shade. 
 Here he cut a long thin branch of a willow-like tree and tied to the 
 end of it a running noose, made of the thin and strong tendril of 
 the llane. 'Now,' he said, 'you do likewise. Go and sit on that 
 stone, there, and I will sit there. All you have to do is to keep 
 quiet. When you see a cameron marching along, pit-a-pat, suspect- 
 ing nothing, hook your noose over his tail. Then nip him up, and 
 he is caught. It is quite easy to do it, though I have never been 
 able, with all my efibrts, to catch a single one.' 
 
 ' What is a cameron like, when you do see him ? ' 
 
 ' He is about six inches long, and he is black, and he looks like 
 a crayfish, or big prawn. He is good enough to boil a beautiful 
 red, and he lends himself to curry, or you can eat him boiled. He 
 isn't proud. Now, go and catch him.' 
 
 The Professor was short-sighted, consequently he never saw any 
 camerons at all. But he sat very patiently, with his noose in the 
 
262 TEEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 water and the camerons playing about the harmless trap in dozens j 
 and he meditated. 
 
 ' She will be a great heiress ' — this was the staple of his reflec- 
 tions — ' that cousin of hers will be a Lord, very likely he will want 
 to marry her ; and she ought to marry Tom, because she loves him ; 
 next to Tom, and if I could make up my mind to murder Tom, she 
 ought to marry me, because I love her. And her money would set 
 the Captain's estate on its legs again. Poor old man ! Half a 
 
 huiTicane this year and down he goes ! Hallo ! 
 
 Padre, old man, wake up. It's half-past five, and instead of 
 catching camerons you've gone to sleep again. I haven't caught 
 any myself, but I've had some splendid misses. Let us go and talk 
 to Virginie.' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOW THB MAIL CAME IK. 
 
 This New- Year's Day was considered by the ]\Ion Desir party as in 
 no way differing from any other New-Year's Day. As usual, there 
 was open house so far as the resources of the establishment alloAved : 
 80 many beds, so many sofas, so many mattresses, so many guests. 
 They came ; they feasted, talked, sang, and rejoiced ; there was 
 abundance of talk, with the popping of corks mnumerable ; there 
 was the prettiest girl in the whole island to court, compliment, and 
 tease. ^Vlien the brief hohday was over they all went away again 
 to their respective work. That is what happened every New-Year's 
 Day. All things in Palmiste go on as if they were to last for ever, 
 or to recur for ever on the usual day. And certainly no one could 
 have suspected that a time so festive, gay, and irresponsible would 
 bring with it the cause of a revolution — nothing short of a revolu- 
 tion — for the lives of half the people in the party. 
 
 When the Professor, after the fruitless hunt for Cameron, sought 
 the verandah of the house, he perceived, being with liis spectacles 
 nearly as good as other people without, that something had 
 happened or was about to happen. 
 
 First of all, the English mad was in, and there was present the 
 Captain of the mail himself, who had just come out, and was sitting 
 in great contentment in one of the easiest of the chairs. The 
 Squire, whose face was troubled, was holding a letter in one hand 
 and the Home. Neivs in the other. First he read the letter through, 
 then he read a page or two of the newspaper, then he turned to the 
 letter again, and then he went back to the paper ; evidently he was 
 tliinking more of the letter than of the printed page. The two 
 elder ladies sat with tears in their eyes, holding each a hand of 
 Virginie, who stood before them, pale and troubled, as if she was 
 going to be ofi'ered up in sacrifice. ^Vllat could be the matter ? 
 Captain Ferrier stood apart, with a small packet of open letters in 
 
B'OW THE MAIL CAME IX. 263 
 
 his hand, occupied with his own thoughts, and they seemed aa 
 gloomy as those which had distorted his features in the early 
 morning. 
 
 Something was certainly going to happen. As a rule, the 
 excitement of the mail lasts from the first appearance of the signals 
 on the Signal-hill until the issue of the slip into which the news of 
 the whole month is condensed by the Editor of the Commercial 
 GazdU. This summary, which is all that anyone wants to see, 
 varies in length from four inches to six inches and a half. Think 
 of getting your news for a whole month condensed into six inches 
 of letterpress ! All the great people in the world, the Bismarcks, 
 and the Gladstones, and the Gambettas ; all the ministers, states- 
 men, generals. Parliament men, eloquent speakers, persuasive 
 preachers, convincing writers, mischievous demagogues, restless 
 agitators, misleading-article men, poets, prigs, dramatists, his- 
 torians, novelists, actors, artists, Big Rag, Little Tag, and Bobtail 
 — all over the habitable globe toil and moil with the utmost diligence 
 for four weeks in every human tongue, and the result of the whole 
 can be boiled down into a six-inch slip ! And even that does nut 
 prove that the world has been advanced by one sixth of the lengtli 
 of that slip. The monthly spectacle of a whole world feverishly 
 busy, ajid doing nothing, is of itself, without considering the climate, 
 sufficient to account for the philosophic calm and resolute inaction 
 of the Palmiste natives. ' Why all tliis care I ' they say. ' Nothing 
 comes of it. Only sometimes knocking of heads together ; tumults, 
 broken b(»nes, revolutions, and wars, with loss of property and 
 triumph of the wrong side. Sit down, neighbours, and let us tell 
 each other pleasant stories, and make merry wb'le we may, until 
 the night falls, when we are fain to go to sleep.' 
 
 The perusal of the slip finished, the excitement instantly dies 
 away. Everybody reads tlie same papers, the Overland Mail, the 
 Home News, and the Illudrated London News ; some go so far as to 
 read the Saturday Review and Punch, or the 8pectatm\ But they 
 are few ; therefore, since no one can boast of any information but 
 that which is open to his neighbours, there is no inducement to 
 talk politics ; and since no more information can come for a whole 
 month, there is no inducement to speculate. 
 
 The captain of the mail-steamer arrived, then, about four of the 
 clock, bringing with him the monthly packet of letters and papers 
 for the whole party. 
 
 ' I heard,' he said, ' who was out here, and I waited for the post 
 to be opened, and so brought all their letters, as well as yours, 
 Captain Keniyss. And how goes it with you and yours, and how 
 is the pretty maid ? ' 
 
 He had been on the line a good many years, and Virginie was 
 still for him his pretty maid, and he was a privileged guest at Mon 
 De'sir, to come and go as often as he pleased and was able. 
 
 Then he sat down and rested while the letters were read. 
 
 There were two for Captain Kemyss — his correspondence with 
 
i64 THEY WEEE MABRIED. 
 
 the mother-country, after so many years of exile, had dropped by 
 degrees, and was now almost reduced to nothing ; one for Madame 
 Ferrier— a very unusual circumstance ; one for Virginie, who had 
 never had a letter from England before ; five or six for Captain 
 Ferrier ; two for the Professor ; half a dozen for the Padre ; a pile 
 for the others ; and a vast quantity of newspapers, Funches, monthly 
 magazines, books and pamphlets for everybody. 
 
 The first of the two letters which Captain Kemyss opened was 
 from a certain cousin of his, a country gentleman of the Midland 
 counties, and was respecting Tom. ' My advice,' said the writer, 
 ' is to keep the boy wliere he is. Let him stick to the thing that 
 he knows. As for sugar-planting being precarious, it has kept you 
 for thirty years, and I dai'e say it will keep him. England is not a 
 good country just now, especially for men like me, who have a 
 dozen farms on their hands ; ' and so on — and so on— a letter which 
 does not concern us. 
 
 Captain Kemyss laid it down with a sigh. He had hoped that 
 perhaps some chance might have been found for Tom when the 
 crash, so long imminent, should come at last. Then he took up 
 the other letter, which was in a writing strange to him. When, 
 now a dozen years and more agone, his guardianship of Yirginie 
 began, there was a second guardian, also one of Captain Ferrier's 
 brother-officers, who had sold out, and was then living at Southsea. 
 It was understood that he was to hold an honoraiy office, and that 
 the child would continue to live with her mother at Mon Desir, 
 ■while Cai>tain Kemyss managed her estate. So honorary was the 
 office that the acting guardian had almost forgotten the existence of 
 his coadjutor, and had not even learned that he was dead. 
 
 The letter was from his widow, and was as follows :^ 
 
 'Dear Sir, — 
 
 'As the widow of your. old friend and brother-officer, one who 
 was associated with you in the office of guardian to Miss Ferrier, I 
 trust I need no introduction or excuse for addressing you.' — ' So 
 Jack is dead, is he,' said the reader, stopping to look at the sig- 
 nature. 'Poor Jack! I had almost forgotten him.' — ' Circvmi- 
 stances have not allowed me, until lately, to offer any hospitality 
 to my ward, if I may call her so. I am now, however, I rejoice to 
 say, at last in a position to discharge one at least of the duties 
 accepted for me by my late husband.' — ' He married — I heard that 
 he married — I forget who she was,' said tlie Squire, stopping again 
 at this point to recall tilings, ' somebody of good family, I know — 
 and she had expectations. Let me see. They were hard up when 
 I heard last — lived in a cottage at Southsea ; that must have been 
 twelve years ago. Then Jack died, I suppose, and she's come into 
 the money at last. I suppose that is what she means.' He went 
 on with the letter-— 
 
 'I believe that our dear A'^irginie— or Lucie — forgive me if the 
 name has escaped my memory- — must now be seventeen years of 
 age. I hear frora the Colonel of the 180th, just retui-ned froia 
 
now THE MAIL CAME ZY. 265 
 
 your lovely island, that she is pei'fectly charming and perfectly 
 beautiful. I have also learned, to my great satisfaction, that you 
 have so well nursed her estate that she is now a considerable heiress. 
 Now, my dear sir, do you not think it would be a great pity that 
 this young lady, while she is still young, with her affections free, 
 should not come to England and make acquaintance with her own 
 people ? I have the honour of knowing Miss Ferrier. I was talk- 
 ing on this subject to her on the last occasion of meeting her. I 
 am happy to inform you that she expressed herself in the kindest 
 manner concerning her unknown cousin, and will, I am sure, show 
 her all the attention when she comes home that she can desire or 
 expect. As for me, I do not disguise the fact that I sliould like 
 to have a yovmg and beautiful girl staying with me, partly because 
 it is pleasant to have j^oung and pretty faces about one, and partly 
 because they make a house attractive and bring people about one. 
 Others may hunt for lions ; it is my principle, my dear Captain 
 Kemyss, that men care more for lionesses. When I get my fair 
 Creole in my drawing-room I shall not let her go in a hurry. 
 
 ' As regards matrimonial prospects, you may entirely trust me. 
 I will stop the first sign of a flirtation in the very bud, unless the 
 man is thoroughly what you have a right to expect. There are not 
 so many men of the right kind in this town, especially since tlie 
 terrible blight that has fallen upon landowners ; yet there may be 
 some. Of course, I know there are many dangers which beset a 
 girl of fortune or expectations. London is always abounding in 
 penniless adventurers, literary men, subalterns, j'ounger sons, and 
 even curates, who are longing to marry an heiress and hang up 
 their hats and sit down idle for life. But they shall not get near 
 our Virginie. I will surround her, my dear Captain. I will be 
 like a hollow square with fixed bayonets, until the right man ajj- 
 pr caches, and then I will be a benevolent Fairy. Of course, 
 a girl of good — almost of noble — birth, who has none but good 
 relatives — I think I have heard that her mother belongs to the 
 House of IJesmarets d'Auvergne — who has also a great and pro- 
 ductive sugar Kstate — with, the Colonel said, a hundred and twenty 
 thousand pounds, but perliaps that is too good to be true — should 
 look very high indeed. There is nothing to which she may not 
 aspire, though if we dream of a coronet we should be sober ; 
 our thoughts ought not to run higher than an earl or a viscount. 
 However, I will do my best. Character, of course, as well as 
 position, should be carefully inquired into. 
 
 ' I have written honestly to you, because if you were reallj' a 
 private friend of my late husband you must be a man of the world. 
 I frankly thinlv that my oft'er is a good one, and that in the interests 
 of the girl you ought not to refuse it. If her mother lives, my in- 
 vitation will extend to her ; but, on the whole, I sincerely think it 
 will be better that the child should come alone, and acquire by 
 living entirely among English people, the ideas, the air, and the ' 
 tone of English society. 
 
2CG THEY WERE MAEEIED. 
 
 ' I hope to have a favourable answer by return mail. I am 
 ready to receive my charge to-morrow, if slie can come. If a 
 chaperon can be found, the arrival of my ward in person would be 
 the most favourable reply possible. 
 
 ' I remain, dear Captain Kemyss, 
 
 ' Yours, very sincerely, 
 
 ' Laura Hallowes.' 
 
 The Squire read this frank and plain-spoken letter tlirough 
 twice. The tone of it struck his ears, long unfamiliar with the 
 world of fashion, discordantly. His ward was to go to London, 
 and stand in the matrimonial market with other girls, saying, 
 ' Behold me ! I am rich, beautiful, j^oung, of gentle bii'th. I will 
 take a coronet in exchange for myself.' Yet the letter was honest ; 
 also, the invitation was one which ought not to be lightly refused. 
 It was right that the girl should go to England ; it was part <if her 
 education. She ought, as Mrs. Hallowes suggested, to make the 
 acciuaintance of her own people ; she ought to go while yet young, 
 with her affections free. And at this point, he said, with a sigh, 
 ' Poor Tom ! ' and read the letter again. Evidently the letter of a 
 woman of society — of the world ; and probably a woman who would 
 make social capital out of her rich young heiress. Yet, what harm 
 would that do Virginie ? 
 
 At this point he folded the letter and raised his eyes. A 
 singular pantomime was going on. 
 
 First, his own wife took a letter from Madame Ferrier's hands, 
 and read it. Then both ladies and Yirginie gazed upon each other 
 in a kind of stupor. Then Madame Ferrier held out her arms, and 
 the girl fell into her maternal embrace. 
 
 ' Child,' murmured the mother, ' can I let thee go ? So soon? 
 So soon 1 ' 
 
 ' Sybille ? ' said her friend, speaking the language of her youth, 
 * we must let her go. It is for the child's own good ; we are two 
 simple Creole ladies, who have never left the island and never 
 shall. But Vu'ginie has English cousins ; she must visit her 
 father's country, she should learn to love his home. Virginie, 
 child of my heart, what sayest thou ? ' 
 
 ' What can I say ? ' she replied. ' Oh ! what can I say ? ' 
 
 ' It was thy father's wish, my dear,' her mother went on. ' He 
 spoke continually of taking thee to England when thou wast 
 
 ' It is I,' said her guardian, 'who should have thought of it. 
 IMy dear, the time has passed so swiftly that I forgot you were 
 grown up. I ought to have remembered that it was due to you 
 that you should go home for a while — for a while ' — he repeated. 
 ' We must let you go.' He took her hands and bent over her with 
 his kindly smile. ' We cannot bear to part with you, my dear; 
 but, if your mcther consents, we must let you go. May I sea 
 tliose letters ? ' 
 
ROW THE MAIL CAME IN. 267 
 
 One of them was from Mrs. Hallowes to Madame Ferrier, con- 
 veying to her the same invitation as she had made to Captain 
 Kemyss, but in different terms. For she said nothing about society 
 or matrimonial projects and ambitions ; but dwelt upon the advan- 
 tage to the young lady of seeing England, and spoke of her own as 
 a quiet home among a circle of quiet friends ; and she also dwelt 
 upon the advantages to be derived in the way of music, art, and so 
 forth. 
 
 ' She must be, indeed,' thought the Squire, ' a woman of the 
 world.' 
 
 The other letter was from Yirginie's second cousin, Maude, 
 daughter of Lord Ferrier and sister of the man on the verandah, 
 who was scowling over his letters. It was a very short letter, but 
 kindly : — 
 
 'Dear cousin,' she wrote, 'I learn from Mrs. Hallowes, the 
 widow of one of your guardians, that she has invited you to pay 
 a visit to England next year. I sincerely hope that your mother 
 may let you come, even if she does not herself accompany you. 
 Remember that you have cousins who would like to make your 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ' Your father was at school with mine, his first cousin. I have 
 heard a great deal about you and your beautiful country home 
 already from my brother, and I assure you that I look forward to 
 making your acquaintance with a very great deal of pleasure. We 
 spend most of our time at The Towers, but generally have two 
 months in London. Wherever we are, when you are able to leave 
 Mrs. Hallowes, come and stay with us, as soon as you can. 
 
 ' Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 Maude.' 
 
 These were the three letters which fell like so many bombs into 
 the peaceful verandah on that sunny afternoon. And this it was 
 which, when the Professor arrived, was making his host read the 
 Home News with eyes which read indeed but saw not, and turned 
 again to the letter. 
 
 'A Coronet,' he murmured ; ' but why not ? Poor Tom ! Yet, 
 would it have been right — would it have been honest — to take 
 advantage of her innocence and ignorance before she knows the 
 world 1 Let her go. And Tom must take his chance. A poor 
 chance, indeed ! Rank against rusticity. Fashion against fidelity ; 
 the lover of the town against the sweetheart of the comitry.' 
 
 Virginie's cousin, meanwhile, had opened two letters. One of 
 them was from his sister. He read it huiTiedly, and crammed it 
 into his pocket as if it made him angry. What it said was this : — 
 
 ' Dearest Guy, — I hear from two or three people M'ho know, or 
 ought to know, that our Creole cousin is rich, young, and beautiful. 
 
268 TRET WERE MARTtlEB 
 
 Also that she has manners ■^vhich ■would fit her for any station 
 And that she is coming home to stay Avith a woman who wants her, 
 I believe, as a help to get on in society. The woman, however, ia 
 very well, and will take the girl to good houses. 1 have taken 
 notice of her /or xjc/'/r sake — mind, fur your sake — and because such 
 a woman may, in certain cases, be very useful to you. Now, Guy, 
 be reasonable. You tell me that you are in desperate straits. It 
 is now six ye^rs, or thereabouts, since these desperate straits began. 
 I do not reproach you ; but I remind you that you have had, not 
 only j^our own allowance, but all my money, and ail that I could 
 persuade my father to add. He does not know of these straits ; if 
 he did he would ask you how they are caused. I do know, Guy. 
 Again, I do not reproach you. I will even go on trying to help 
 you, though I know that every ten-pound note we get for you will 
 onlj' go the same way as its predecessor. Now, consider carefully. 
 When you were at home last summer I caught an heiress and got 
 her here on purpose for you to meet her. You remember her. 
 She was not, I own, in the least degree beautiful, nor was she clever 
 at all ; and I did not expect that you would fall in love with her ; 
 but she was rich and she was amiable, and she was ready to fall in 
 love with j'ou. And men in desperate straits cannot always many 
 anybody they please. But you would not have her, although j'ou 
 were in such straits. Now, here is this other girl. Come home 
 immediately, on urgent private afElxirs. Come home, if you can, in 
 the same steamer with her ; make fierce love to her all the way 
 home. When she goes to Mrs. Hallowes', let it be with your 
 engaged ring on her finger. When you get her money you can pay 
 oti' your creditors, even if you only begin a fresh course of madness. 
 There, Guy ; that is all I can do for you at present. I have only 
 to add that the times are bad for everybody who has got land, 
 and therefore for us. And "it is not the least use expecting any 
 further assistance from your father, or from your afi:ectionate sister, 
 Maude.' 
 
 'Then,' murmured the young man, 'how the devil is Morgan's 
 I U to be taken up 1 ' 
 
 The other letter was written in a less clerkly hand, and there 
 were occasional mis-spellings in it. And it was this letter which 
 made the young man scowl. 
 
 ' I told you, Guy,' it began, without any polite or conventional 
 endearments of speech ; ' I told you that I would let you know 
 from time to time what I am doing and how I am doing. Very 
 well, then. I am doing verj' well. And so is the boy. He is not 
 like you, I am glad to say, as yet ; in face he takes after me and 
 his grandfather, the scene-shifter, who was once a very handsome 
 man ; and I hope he will never become like you in any single 
 respect. And, as I am not quite a lady myself, though more so 
 than when you knew me, I have got a girl who is a lady to act as 
 his governess and companion. By the time the child grows up and 
 can compare, I shall, I dare sfty, have become more like a lady. 
 
EOW THE MAIL CA3IE IN. 269 
 
 because I do not want him ever to be ashamed of his mother. An 
 actress I am, and shall reniam. Ten pounds a week, my gallant 
 Captam, your wife draws. She's got her marriage lines safe ; but 
 nobody knows that she's the Honourable Mrs. Ferrier. Biz is 
 first-rate. We have got a piece good for six hundred nights, and 
 the ghost walks regular. Portraits of your wife are sold wherever 
 she goes — character-portraits, looking in the glass, tying a handker- 
 chief round her head, in a riding habit — all sorts — and she gets 
 letters, offers of marriage, bouquets, and applause, and everything 
 which the heart of an actress can desire. So that she is quite 
 happy. And the boy is so beautiful that she does not so very much 
 repent having fallen in your way. And, as for his rights, why, 
 whatever you do, you can't gamble them away. I do not want ever 
 to see you again, nor to hear from yovi. The Army List will tell 
 me where you are, which is all I want to know. And, on the least 
 attempt at interference with my boy, Ave go to The Towers — 
 accompanied by our own peo2)le, the respectable scene-sliifter — and 
 we see my lord, and we introduce the daughter-in-law and the 
 grandchild. It is a good situation, and I think I should play it 
 rather well. I remain, your wife, not at all aflectionate, Violet 
 Lovelace — it is a swell name, and I found it in the Court Guide- 
 but it is not so good as my own real name, wliich is, as you very 
 well know, Emily Ferrier.' 
 
 When Captain Ferrier had got through the whole of this epistle, 
 which did not take long, he fell into a study, in which everj^thing 
 became a nocturne, an arrangement in black. He was roused by 
 the arrival of the Professor, against whom, for some unknown 
 reason, he had conceived a violent and irrational hatred. He glared 
 at him for a moment, and then strode hastily away. First he 
 walked along the avenue of palms, and when he got to the end of it 
 he swore aloud ; then, by way of distraction, he went to the stable 
 to look at his horse, and swore again, and if his syce had been in 
 the place it would have been bad fur that poor Indian. But he was 
 not. The man was at the moment with the old witch of Endor 
 bargaining for a charm wliich would slowly poison a horse, so that 
 no one would suspect what was the matter with him, and an honest 
 groom should not get into trouble. The terms of the transaction 
 were amicably arranged, and the charm, which was to take the form 
 of a little something to pour among the oats, was promised, on 
 condition that this estimable person should pay for it beforehand — 
 because he could write — in forged passes, by means of which the 
 old woman afterwards made much money and helped many of her 
 friends to deceive the police. 
 
 We may here observe that, among the many things which once 
 done cannot be recalled, perhaps the most fatal is such a thing as 
 Guy Ferrier did when he was just twenty-one years of age, being 
 then a young gentleman of very headstrong disposition, and fully 
 determined upon having all he wanted, at any cost. He had always 
 from cludhcod acted upon this principle, and it made him ao 
 
270 THEY WERE MARlllEB. 
 
 popular at school, that when he left the boys proposed to have 
 fireworks. In the Army he continued to act on the sarae settled 
 principle, being now quite certain that he deserved to have all he 
 wanted ; and he was so much beloved, therefore, that when it 
 became known, directly after the arrival of this mail, that Ferrier 
 was going home on urgent private affairs — presumably the raising 
 of money to pay his debts of honour — his brother-ofiicers so far 
 sympathised with him as to give thanks unanimously that he was 
 going to enjoy a holiday. It was upon this principle, also, being 
 at the moment consumed and inflamed with passion, that, at the 
 age of twenty-one, he entered secretly into the bonds of holy 
 wedlock with a certain ' young person ' named Emily Hicks. She 
 was quite young, extremely pretty, quick, and clever, well able to 
 take care of herself, almost uneducated, the daughter of a scene- 
 sliifter or carpenter and ' general service ' theatrical man, and she 
 was just commencing a dramatic career, which now promises to be 
 distinctly successful, when this thing happened to her. 
 
 The interruption to her professional pursuits lasted rather more 
 than a year. She then returned to Daddy Perigal, and informed 
 him that for the future she should never again speak to her hus- 
 band, nor take money from him, nor in any way own him ; that 
 she sliould go back to the stage in her fii'st-assumed name ; but, 
 for the sake of the child, whom she brought with her, whose rights 
 must be watched, she would assume her legal name when the boy 
 should be grown up. She therefore returned to the stage under 
 her old acting name, and began to work just as hard as if she were 
 still really Emily Hicks, with her future before her, instead of the 
 Hon. Mrs. Ferrier, a woman married and done for. 
 
 As for her husband, he went his own way, and contrived, as a 
 rule, to forget her existence, except when he was reminded of it 
 by such a letter as he had just read, or by his sister's well-meant 
 attempts to iind him an heiress. Between himself and an heiress 
 there always stood this woman and her boy. At first, he suffered 
 from great apprehensions that she would communicate with his 
 own people. As she did not, he gradually recovered confidence in 
 her word. He could not marry ; that was true ; but then he did 
 not want to many. The goddess of Chance was the only bride he 
 cared to worship ; some day, most certainly, if Emily lived and 
 the boy lived, there would be a row. INIeanwhile, so long as she 
 let him alone, he trfiubled himself little about her. When his 
 thoughts were turned upon her by such letters as he had just 
 received he realised how bitterly he hated the woman. 
 
 ' We are going to have a sad change. Professor,' said Captain 
 Kemyss. ' Virginie is to leave us and to go to England.' 
 
 ' Virginie will go away % ' This was, indeed, a change. 
 
 ' Yes : she had another guardian besides myself, though I had 
 almost forgotten it : she is invited, and we think we ought to let 
 her go : we hope it will not be for long. But who knows 1 who 
 knows % ' 
 
wow THE MAIL CAME IN. 271 
 
 There Tvere letters, too, for the Professor. Among them one 
 which seemed to cause him much agitation. 
 
 ' Come home at once,' it said, among other things. ' The 
 longer you stay away, the more difficult will it be for you to get 
 what you want. Come, and you shall join the ranks of the penniless 
 adventurers and make a spoon or spoil a horn.' 
 
 When they met at dinner, a certain sadness weighed upon their 
 minds. The dinner was silent ; for now they all knew what was 
 going to happen, and that the party would be broken up, never, 
 perhaps, all to meet again. Virginie was going to England — the 
 child who had grown up among them. Why, McLoughlin, 
 McAndrew, and the Secretary had seen her every New- Year's 
 Day, and plenty of days between, for seventeen years ; they had 
 watched her pass from infancy to childhood ; she grew slowly, 
 before their eyes, from a girl, imperfect, bony, angular, to a v/oman, 
 perfect, rounded, marvellous. She was the joy of the house — the 
 great and chief attraction of Mon De'sir. There was no one like 
 her in the island. And now she was to go. What — what would 
 the place be without her 1 
 
 In Palmiste one is accustomed to seeing people come and go. 
 The officers of the garrison, naturally, are constantly changing ; 
 the Governor changes every six years or so ; the chiefs of the Civil 
 Service are always clianging ; and partners and clerks of mercantile 
 houses are perpetually coming out and going home again, to say 
 nothing of those who succumb to the extraordinary thirstiness of 
 the place, and go prematm^ely to their long home. Therefore, no 
 one was sui-prised to learn that Captain Ferrier was called home 
 on urgent private aflairs. 
 
 With the Professor it was different ; he was liked by many ; 
 he had been in the Colony four or five years, and w^as regarded, 
 though WTongly, as a permanent resident. He was an eminently 
 cheerful soul ; he played a fair hand at whist ; he had at times a 
 mordant tongue, and was good at the repression of those who, in 
 Palmiste or elsewhere, endeavour to assert themselves over much ; 
 and he had a great fund of information and anecdote, by means of 
 which he could enliven the dinner-tables of the plain, honest Scotch 
 folk who mostly make up the civil society of Palmiste. It was 
 rumoured that he wrote — no one knew what ; men who had lived 
 Avith him knew that he possessed, hidden away in drawers, a quan- 
 tity of ]\ISS. ; that he had been known to extract one, now and 
 then, and to read it for the benefit of his friends ; so that, when 
 the nev/s fell upon them that he, too, was going, it was felt that 
 his intention was to go home in order to publish those MSS., or 
 wi'ite more. 
 
 The dinner languished. The talk was forced. The Pink Boy 
 told about the gourami-fishing ; the Padre recounted some of his 
 sufferings on the boulders ; and the Professor narrated his fruitless 
 chdfise of the camerons ; but the Squire Avas dejected, the two elder 
 ladies sad, Virginie anxious and restless, and Tom downcast. 
 
272 THEY WERE MAJiniEB. 
 
 After dinner, the Squire filled his glass and gave his usual New- 
 Year's toast. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' he said, ' I drink to all friends at home. Captain 
 Ferrier, I drink the health of his Lordship. Major, Professor, 
 McAndrew ' — he bowed to each in t'lm in his kindly and courtly 
 way — ' to you and to yours, here and at home, 1 wish a Happy 
 New Year. 
 
 ' It will l>e a strange New Year to us,' he went on, ' without 
 our child. Virginie Avill go, I suppose, by this next mail ; we send 
 her to the keeping of good hands ; we trust — tha.t is, v;'e hope — - 
 that we shall have her back among us in a year or two, when she 
 has shaken off the rustic ways of Palmiste and learned the talk of 
 Mayfair. But we are not afraid. Our Virginie will not forget her 
 old friends ; and for hostage, we keep Madame Ferrier with us.' 
 
 Virginie, who sat on her guardian's left, seized his hand and 
 kissed it with tears. 
 
 ' As for you, Professor,' went on the old planter, ' it's a dis- 
 graceful thing that you can't stay with us. You've got enough to 
 live upon — what does a bookman want more ? You know the 
 foolishness of lighting ; here is a haven of rest ; and you must 
 needs go back to wringle wrangle among the literary men of London. 
 For shame, sir ; for shame ! Haven't we been kind to you % ' 
 
 From all voices, except the two officers, tliere came a chorus. 
 
 ' Haven't we been kind enough to you. Professor ? ' 
 
 ' Hech, mon ! ' This was the expostulation of Sandy McAndrew. 
 He felt at the moment that after the many hundreds of sherry-and- 
 bitters, cups of cold tea, brandy-and-sodas, and vermouths taken 
 by the Professor in the room over his office, it was ungrateful in 
 him to go. There needed no words. 
 
 ' Come with me, Virginie,' said Tom, when he could get speech 
 of her. She went out witli him into the night, looking like a 
 white ghost upon the dark lawn. 
 
 ' I want to say something to you, dear,' said Tom, 'before you 
 go. May I say it to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Tom. Say what you please and all you please.' 
 
 ' It is this, Virginie. You are going to leave us. That is quite 
 right. You have rich friends m England whom you ought to see. 
 I always thought that you would go some day. And you are rich 
 yourself. My dear, we have been so much together, all day long 
 together for all these years, that we are almost like brother and 
 sister, are we not ? ' 
 
 ' Go on, Tom,' she said, with a quick perception, almost a pang 
 at her heart, that they were not brother and sister. 
 
 ' I am not clever at books,' he continued. 'The Professor is, 
 but I am not. And I don't know how to talk about tilings, like 
 your cousin. I am only a Creole, a son of the soil, a sugar-planter. 
 But, Virginie, I wantj^ou to believe one tiling.' 
 
 ' I will believe anything, Tom, that you tell me to believe.' 
 
HOW THE MAIL CAME IX. 273 
 
 * It is a very simple thing. It is only that I love you ' 
 
 * But I know you do, Tom.' 
 
 ' And that I shall always love you, whatever you do. I mean — 
 because, of course, whatever you do will be right and good, and 
 the best thing that ever any girl did — that even if I hear that you 
 have accepted some man in England, some clever man or some 
 great man, I shall go on loving yon all the same. I am what I am, 
 Virginie ; but, whatever happens, good or bad, you will remember, 
 will you not — oh ! my dear— that here, at Mon Ddsir, there is one 
 man who loves you always.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Tom,' she said, bursting into tears. * Why must I go to 
 England at all ? Yes ; you all love me ; you are all too good to 
 me. And I wish it was over, and I was back again, and all was 
 going on just the same as before.' 
 
 This can never be. One of the most cruel things that Time, 
 who is always dragging and tearing something from us, does is that 
 he will never let pleasant ways remain or renew themselves. He is 
 always destroying. He tramps on, always a lusty youth, whose 
 companion, as in Watts's picture, is pale Death, and beneath his 
 feet as they go the flowers are trampled down and their grace and 
 perfume lost. There may be — there should be always to the end — 
 other flowers before us, but they are not the same. 
 
 And at Mon De'sir this is the last of the old New-Yeai Days 
 when Virginie, the sweet and innocent child, would be there to 
 meet and greet them with her smile and her pretty soft caressing 
 ways. 
 
 ' She must go, Tom,' said his father that night, ' with her affec- 
 tions free.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' he replied ; ' I have told her to-night that I shall 
 always love her ; I thought I ought to tell her that before she goes. 
 But she will go with her aflections quite free, as you say.' 
 
 ' Humph ! ' That was all Captain Kemyss said. ^Yhat he 
 thought was — What will Mrs. Hallowes say if Virginie tells her ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HOW THE MAIL WENT OUT. 
 
 Kext morning the party broke up in sadness, and in the early 
 morning they drove or rode away. 
 
 The earliest to go was the Professor. He appeared on tha 
 verandah with the morning tea. Tom was there in his morning 
 rags, and Virginie in her white frock, always fiesh and sweet as a 
 lil} . All three were depressed, but the sriddest of all was the 
 Professor. 
 
 ' It is my last visit to Mon De'sir,' he sighed. ' In a few days I 
 shall kave left the island, never to see it again.' 
 
 I 
 
274 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' If I thought,' said Virginie, ' that I should never see it again, 
 I would not leave it.' 
 
 ' My most pleasant memories,' the Professor went on, lugu- 
 briously, ' will be those of the days spent here — and of you,' he 
 added. 
 
 ' They ought to be, ' said Tom, thinking of Virginie, rather than 
 of Mon Desir, though he was narrow-minded enough to think that 
 no place in the world could be more beautiful — which is, indeed, 
 true. Then he got up and went off for his morning ride of inspec- 
 tion. Weeds grow, and coolies are lazy, and Sirdars go to sleep, 
 even though lovely Creoles make all hearts sad by going away. 
 
 ' You are ambitious,' Virginie said. ' We have always said that 
 you would nut make this colony your home. What is an ambitious 
 man to do here 1 I wonder, though, whether you will be any 
 happier in England than you might be here, if you chose to 
 remain.' 
 
 ' I dare say not,' he said, with a kind of groan. ' After all, we 
 must not be for ever looking out for happiness. There is no place 
 in the world where one can laze along so happily as here — nor is 
 the claret so good anywhere, I tliink. But one must work, and 
 after a time one wants to do the work one likes best.' 
 
 ' Everybody is always going away,' said Virginie. ' It is sad for 
 the people who live here. Directly we get fond of anyone he 
 resigns or gets transferred, and so we lose him. And now I am 
 going too. At all events, we shall go in the same ship.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I shall not have to say farewell until we get to England. 
 Besides, it is a kind of satisfaction to feel that if I am going you 
 are going too. One cannot think with any comfort of Mon De'sir 
 Avithout you. It would be too wretched to come here and find no 
 Virginie. To be sure, the-re are the ladies, and the Squire, and 
 Tom. But, after all, they are not the principal characters in the 
 piece. They come on the stage, you know, to be grouped round 
 the central figure — you.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Professor,' she said, smiling. ' You have always 
 been kind to me.' 
 
 '1 have always been in love with you,' he replied, with a frank- 
 ness which did not displease her. She was accustomed to be loved, 
 and regarded the Professor's assurance in much the same light as 
 if it came from her guardian. ' Not that I presume upon that fact. 
 It is a beautiful thing for a man like me to be in love with a gLrl 
 like you. I am proud of it, and, I assure you, grateful to Pro- 
 vidence for the ni:i,gnificent privilege of being in love with such a 
 girl as you.' 
 
 ' Oh! Professor.' This incomprehensible statement confused her. 
 
 ' I mean exactly what I saj^, though you do not understand 
 what I mean. So long, however, as you know that I am your 
 faithful servant, that is enough.' 
 
 ' What have I done,' she asked, ' that you and Tom should both 
 Bay and think such kind things about me ? ' 
 
HOW THE MAIL WENT OUT. 275 
 
 The Professor shook his head. 
 
 ' You cannot yet understand,' he replied, ' your own power. 
 But you will before long. I do not know what Tom has said, but I 
 hope that he put his case clearly, and that you will not forget any- 
 thing of what he said. Because, Virginie, sometimes words, when 
 they are iirst heard, seem to mean little. But, when they are 
 remembered, they get in course of time to acquire their full mean- 
 ing. Perhaps Tom's words were like these.' 
 
 She was very young and she was very innocent. Tom's words 
 had not been understood by her in the sense he intended — that is, 
 not in their fullest sense ; not in the sense which we who read 
 them give to them. In other words, this child had no thought 
 whatever of love-making, courtsliip, and such tilings. 
 
 ' I remember perfectly what Tom said,' she replied, considering 
 a little. 
 
 'Don't tell me,' he interrupted hastily. 'If you remember 
 them, it is enough. You are going into a strange world ; you will 
 get new ideas, and see new people, and learn to think differently 
 in many ways ; and you will be far from your old friends. Where- 
 fore, remember Tom always ; and if you want counsel think of me, 
 and let me help if I can.' 
 
 And then the Squire appeared, and the Professor presently took 
 his leave. 
 
 Six days later, the mail steamer, lying in the harbour with her 
 steam up, ready for her start, presented, at five o'clock in the after- 
 noon, an animated and lively appearance. The departure of every 
 mail is attended with plenty of bustle and crowds of visitors ; but 
 on tliis occasion, when, in addition to certain French families, the 
 departures of Virginie Ferrier, her cousin, and the Professor were 
 all to take place together, it seemed as if the whole island were 
 going with them, so crowded were deck, and companion ladders, 
 and saloon. On deck there were gathered little groups of sym- 
 pathetic friends. French ladies were pressing their infallible 
 nostrums against sea-sickness ; there were a hundred words of 
 last parting, of recommendation, and of warning to be given ; there 
 was the musical ripple of women's talk ; there were the strident 
 voices of Southern Frenchmen. Marseillais especially, and the soft- 
 lilurred syllables of Parisians, or those who, by clipping of syllables, 
 v/ould fain pass for Parisians ; and there surged up from the saloon 
 the loud laughter of the British officers who had come on board to 
 rejoice with their brother over his departure ; and the merchants 
 and civilians who had come to mourn over the farewell of the Pro- 
 fessor. Sorrow and joy alike demanded the alleviation or en- 
 couragement of brandy-and-soda. Continuous were the poppings 
 of corks : loud was the shouting for the steward ; higher and still 
 higher grew the pile of empty soda-Avater bottles. 
 
 On deck a little court surrounded Virginie. Among them were 
 the Pink Boy and tlie Padre, both desperately in love, though 
 ^eir case was hopeless indeed. His Reverence, for his part 
 
 t2 
 
276 TEST WERE MARRIED. 
 
 dreamed of a sympathetic helpmeet, who would admire his ser- 
 inons, encourage liis ambitions, and help him to show the colonj 
 an example of the active Church life. It did not occur to him that 
 a girl brought up as Virginie had been might become many things ; 
 but ecclesiasticism was impossible for her. The Pink Boy thought 
 how delightful a thing it would be to have Virginie with him in 
 those hot rooms of his over the Bank, in pleasing contiguity to the 
 guano depots, and the port, and the bawling crowd, always en- 
 gaged in lading and unlading. And, for his part, he did not under- 
 stand how such a girl could not marry such a boy as himself. They 
 went on dreaming, however : now, for reasons which will pjresently 
 appear, they will dream in this way no more. The girl was flushed 
 with the excitement and the emotion of leave-taking. She was in 
 charge of a French lady, svho was going all the way to London. 
 Ail the farewells had been said but one. There only remained, of 
 the home circle, her guardian : her cheek was flushed, and her 
 eyes were bright and tear-stained. She had no heart for the com- 
 pliments and pretty things which one after the other came to say 
 to her. 
 
 At last there came the time of departure. 
 
 A beautiful gradation marks the ceremony of leave-taking on 
 board the mail. First, the comparative strangers ; next, the 
 friends ; then the intimate friends ; last, the members of the 
 household. 
 
 Thus, when the officers and the merchants, and those of the 
 French people who knew her, had ofi'ered their hands and wished 
 Virginie hon voyage, and all, even the Padre and the Pink Boy, 
 were over the side of the ship and in their boats, there remained 
 the hardest parting of alj — that with her fond and faithful 
 guardian. 
 
 He kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips. 
 
 'My dear,' he said, taking her in his arms, 'it is best for you. 
 It is what your father would have wished. Why should we re- 
 pine ? Yet, it will be sad, indeed, without you.' 
 
 So they parted. Captain Kemyss was the last to leave the ship 
 before the bell rang ; the whistle shrieked, the screw turned, and 
 the great sliip began once more to drive its long white furrow on 
 the main. But the old man's eyes were dim, and for a while he 
 could not see anything. 
 
 ^^^len they cleared, he became aware that Virginie was stand- 
 ing aft, beside the steersman ; and behind her were the Professor 
 and her cousin, and she was waving her handkerchief and crying. 
 At sight of her tears, the Pink Boy's eyes filled, and he choked, 
 and then he said a wicked word to one of the boatmen, which gave 
 him relief. And the Padre, who felt a similar inclination to choke, 
 obtained relief by rebuking the Pink Boy for that wicked word. 
 So they came ashore, and for manj'' days the light of the sun wa.? 
 dim to them, and curry, even prawn curry, had no flavour. 
 
 It was then six o'cluck, and it wanted neaiiy an hour to sunset. 
 
JTOW THE MAIL WENT OUT. 277 
 
 As for Tom, the reasons why he was not on board were per- 
 fectly well known to everyone, and there was a general feelmg 
 that they did him credit. If people are in love, and are soft- 
 hearted and cannot trust themselves to say good-bye in public, 
 then people had better stay ashore, which Tom did. But he had 
 his little plan in his own mind, and this is vv'hat he did. 
 
 From Mon De'sir to the Signal-mountain is a good twelve miles 
 by road. But a man with strong nerves and a steady head can 
 find a much shorter path by way of the mountains, which lie in 
 an amphitheatre round the town. 
 
 They are rather awful hills to climb about, being provided, 
 more plentifully than falls to the lot of most hills, with bare faces 
 of rock and precipices, and real saddle-backs, along which the rare 
 visitor, who would get along the top, has to drag himself with a 
 leg hanging over each side ; but Tom knew the way well, and had 
 too often achieved the feat to think about the danger. Therefore, 
 as he intended to see the last of the girl he loved, he climbed 
 along this break-neck ridge, and made his way to the Signal- 
 mountain. 
 
 There is always a man on watch up there ; he is provided with 
 a telescope two yards long or so ; he has a little hut half buried in 
 the rock, and a mast provided with cross-trees and ropes for 
 signalling the approach of ships ; he is up at break of day and re- 
 mains on watch till sunset. And when hurricanes come he is 
 generally blown far away out to sea, hut, telescope, mast, and 
 all. 
 
 Tom stood beside the hut with the telescope in his hand, and 
 watched the departure of the steamer. First he saw the crowds on 
 board break up and disappear over the sides, till there were only 
 the passengers and the crew left on deck ; then he saw his father, 
 who was the last to leave ; and then he saw Virginie standing as 
 the helm waving her handkerchief. At first he could see her face, 
 and he knew that she was weeping. The screw went round. The 
 ship passed out of the quiet harbour waters and began to roll in 
 the waves of the Indian Ocean. Virginie stood there still, after 
 the point was cleared, when slie could no longer see her friends, 
 watching the receding shores of the island she had never left be- 
 fore. What thoughts, what memories, were in the girl's mind ! 
 Her lover remained motionless, glass in hand, while the sliip grew 
 less, and the Hgure on deck grew smaller, till the white dress, the 
 last he saw of Virginie, vanished altogether. Then he watched the 
 ship itself till the sun went down and the night fell, and ship, and 
 6ea, and all dropped out of sight. Then, with heavy heart, he 
 slowly descended the hill. He had seen the last of Virginie. How 
 and wlien would he see her again ? 
 
278 
 
 PART Il.—IN THE SEASON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A ROSE OP JTTNE. 
 
 On a certain morning in the sweetest month of all the tivelva 
 which either adorned, or disgraced, last year, the bright and 
 sunny month of June, when east winds were over and thunderstorms 
 not yet begun, the Row was thronged with those who rode, and the 
 walks witli those who did not ride but sat on chairs, or strolled up 
 and down and talked, if they knew anybody, and looked at the 
 crowd, and pretended to know everybody, and to belong to quite 
 the inner circle, and deceived nobody, and came to see, and to be 
 a part of those who were seen. On such a morning Frenchmen in 
 London cease to complain of the endless brouillard, and to compare 
 Hyde Park with the Bois ; Colonials leave off boasting of their 
 climate — it really is too bad, the way in which Australians, fi>r 
 instance, throw their beautiful climate in our teeth ; and good 
 Americans hesitate whether, when they die, they will not ask to go 
 to London rather than to Paris ; and financiers thank Heaven tliat 
 such skies should belong to the city where the money is. As for 
 tlie leaves on the trees, the golden-rain, and the lilac, the rhodo- 
 dendrons, and the flowers and the grass, everybody knows tliat 
 they are placed in the Park like the flowers on a dinner-table, the 
 better to set off" the guests. They do not belong to nature at all, 
 any more than the cascade at St. Cloud. They are provided by 
 Fortnum and Mason, or some other firm, for a splendid banquet of 
 sunshine and fair weather, to which all are invited alike, but to 
 which none should come who are morose, envious, disappointed, 
 and ill-natured. For tliese there is Regent's Park, with the daisies 
 and the dandelions of Dame Nature. 
 
 Among those who rode was Virginie. With her were her 
 cousins, Guy and Maude Ferrier. Six months of the strong cold 
 English air had taken something from the delicate bloom which lay 
 upon the cheek of the fair Creole beneath her own palms, and had 
 given her a little of the hardy and robust look of her English 
 sisters. Just now, flushed with the exercise and the excitement, 
 the warm air, the soft sunshine and the animated scene about lier, 
 the girl liad lost for the moment all her Creole languor, and was in 
 very truth become an English girl in appearance. Whether she 
 lost or gained by the difference I do not know. Certainly, of all 
 
A ROSE OF JUNE. 270 
 
 the young and beautiful women in the Park that morning there was 
 none, English or otherwise, more beautiful than this fair Creole, a 
 fact observed by many of those philosophers who love to lean over 
 the railings and meditate in the midst of youth, beauty, wealth, 
 flowers, gay and careless talk, on the happiness lying ready to hand 
 for virtuous people in the best of all possible worlds. Especially, 
 if virtuous people find their own happiness in witnessing the joy of 
 others. Captain Ferrier was master of several accomplishments, 
 besides the art of card-playing and gambling ; among other things, 
 he could ride well, and looked his best on horseback. Beside him 
 rode his sister, also an accomplished horsewoman. Mounted, sha 
 looked handsome, being tall and of graceful figure. When she dis- 
 mounted you perceived, first, that she was no longer very young, 
 being, in fact, four years older than her brother, and he waa 
 twenty-eight ; next, she was thin, and her pale face, with its large 
 and lustrous eyes, wore an anxious look, as if she was continually 
 suftering for the sins of others — which, indeed, was her hapless case. 
 This expression of face is more often found in women than in men, 
 because the manly mind does not set its hopes too much on the 
 acliievements of other men ; and when you see it you may be very 
 sure that husbands, sons, or brothers have 'turned out bad.' For 
 the moment, however, she, too, felt happy, because it seemed at 
 last as if a thing on which she had set adl her hopes was really 
 likely to take place. 
 
 'Make love to her on board.' 
 
 That was Maude's injunction to her brother when she wrote to 
 him in Palmiste Island. Captain Ferrier would, perhaps, have 
 obeyed, but for one circumstance : he found on board a young 
 fellow who was as fond of cards as himself ; and he preferred 
 playing ^carte or picquet in the smoking-cabin, for'ard, to dangling 
 after his cousin on the after-deck. Besides, he could not present 
 himself, except as a sort of rival — good Heavens ! a rival — to that 
 fellow, Percival. Now Percival, who certainly was not the son of 
 a peer, but had started quite as a second-class passenger in life, 
 and was by no means desirous of passing himself off as anything 
 better, was for some unknown reason peculiarly hateful to tliis 
 young man ; the more ao, because Virginie in his society seemed 
 always more happy than in his own. But, indeed, it is absurd to 
 account for the hatreds and jealousies of selfish men, because they 
 are terribly vain, and brood, and take imaginary ofience, and 
 magnify their own importance, and do not see the proportions of 
 things ; so that they become very thorough haters indeed. If 
 their lives were spared long enough, they would end by hating all 
 the world. The disposition of those long-lived Patriarclis Mahaleel 
 and that of his more distinguished great-grandson, are not stated : 
 but if they were as selfish as Guy Ferrier, one perceives clearly how 
 for the last two or three hundred years of their lives they would 
 have regarded the whole of mankind with an unrelenting hatred. 
 
280 THEY WERE 3IARRIED. 
 
 It has been suggested, or dreamed, or told after revelation hj snm>3 
 philosophers of the more profound kind, that when this kind of 
 men die they are presently transported to a remarkable island, 
 where there are many beautiful and toothsome things, but not 
 enough to go round. In the general game of grab which is always 
 going on, and on account of its disappointing results, they are said 
 to develop quite astonishing hatreds. 
 
 Guy Ferrier learned at school to despise the whole of mankind 
 except a few who need do nothing, but are born to enjoy ; most of 
 the boys in his own set who held those views went out into the 
 world and shook off this narrow view ; he went out into the world 
 and retained it. He despised, for instance, the honest Scotcli 
 merchants because they bought, to sell again, cargoes of sugar ; and 
 he despised the Professor because he held a post by which he earned 
 his living. He despised him so heartily, and found it so intolerable 
 to be addressed by him on terms of equality, that he began to hate 
 and despise his cousin for liking him. And his mind was so warped 
 by prejudice, and so narrow, that he found it difficult afterwards 
 to shake off the dislike. He therefore avoided the quarter-deck as 
 much as possible, and spent his time chiefly with his venturous 
 friend, from whom, in the course of his voyage, he won so large a 
 sum that he could afford to send the Major a cheque for five hun- 
 dred on account. But it is not every day that a man who is a 
 player, but not a fine player, picks up another who is also a player 
 and a more reckless player than himself. 
 
 He had one chance. He sat opposite to Yirginie at breakfast, 
 luncheon, and dinner, being naturally placed near the Captain, 
 while the obscure Professor had to content himself witli a seat at 
 tlie chief officer's side. It was impossible for any young man to sit 
 opposite to the girl every day for tliree hours or so — because in 
 this line of steamers meals are considered the chief business of the 
 day, and must not be hurried — without perceiving that she was an 
 extremely attractive young lady. Yet his mind was not open to the 
 sweet influences of love. A lover ought to be light-hearted, and he was 
 heavy-hearted ; a lover ought to look on the world cheerfully ; Caj^tain 
 Ferrier regarded it gloomily, as a place where luck is generally against 
 the player, and where people are wickedly impatient to be paid. So 
 that the innocence and ignorrtiice of the girl, her curiosity about 
 the great world she was going to visit, her vague hopes and little 
 fears, which to most men were charming, irritated him. If Maude 
 wanted him to marry her, he thought sulkily, she might arrange the 
 thing herself — at all events, any kind of marked attention before 
 all these people was out of the question. He paid her no attention 
 at all ; he made no attempt to appear interesting or clever, or pro- 
 found or remarkable in any way, as is frequently done by men who 
 open the old-fashioned siege in the old-fashioned way, and try to 
 begin by inspiring respect. Virginie thought her cousin a rather 
 morose young man, who never laughed, and smiled only when 
 politeness required the eHbrt. He was, in fact, a morose young 
 
A BOSH OF JUNE. 281 
 
 man. It is one of the pleasing results of a life devoted to tlie 
 pursuit of ' pleasure,' that it makes a man, quite prematurely, in- 
 capable of mirth, merriment, or joy of heart. It is very odd, but 
 it is so. Sometimes one thinks that those black brethren of Cej'lon 
 ■who never laugh must be one and all engaged in the pursuit of 
 pleasure. 
 
 When the voyage was over, and Guy Ferrier met his sister, lie 
 was fain to confess that he had made no progress whatever. 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 ' Things, Guy,' she said, ' can no longer be trifled with. There 
 is absolutely no more money for you.' 
 
 'There must be some,' he replied. 'I must get a couple of 
 thousand at least before long.' 
 
 ' How long can you wait, Guy 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know. Perhaps three months ; perhaps four or five. 
 I must have money, Maude.' 
 
 ' Can you not borrow more ? You have raised money before on 
 your reversionary interests — can you raise no more ? ' 
 
 ' No, not a penny more. They are mortgaged to the hilt.' 
 
 She sighed heavily. 
 
 ' My poor father ! If he only knew ! ' Then she thought of 
 what her brother had done, the futility of helping liim ; the vain 
 sacrifices she herself had made filled her with wrath which for the 
 moment overcame her aifection. ' Oh ! Guy — Guy — what a shame- 
 ful — what a wicked thing it is ! All gone the same way, and no uoe 
 to help, no use to advise.' 
 
 ' If you have nothing but reproaches, Maude, I will go. I did 
 think that from you I should meet with a little sympathy. But 
 women are all alike.' 
 
 'Yes, 'she said, bitterly, 'we are all alike : we sit at home and hope 
 and pray, and the Prodigal goes on, and takes eveiything and throws 
 it away. We are all alike, G uy : we sit and sufi'er, and can do nothing. ' 
 
 He made no reply, because there was nothing to say. This thin 
 and anxious woman of thirty had given him everything. He had 
 taken all her own money and all she could get from her father ; he 
 had taken her jewels and sold them ; he had taken her youth and 
 beauty ; he had promised, he had made countless promises, but he 
 broke them all. It would have been better for her — far better — if 
 at the very first mess she had left her brother to flounder out as 
 l)est he might. Now she had done so much, she was bound to go 
 on ; she must stand by him and sufi'er to the end. 
 
 She had sunk into a chair, and sat with clasped hands, and 
 ej-es which had no tears in them. She couhl not cry for the indig- 
 nation and bitterness in her heart. 
 
 ' And my father knows nothing,' she said. 'He knows nothing. 
 And some day he must be told, because 1 can help you no longer.' 
 
 'If he must know, he must, I suppose,' h'r brother replied^ 
 carelessly. 
 
 ' There is your cousin, Guy : can you not even think of her 1' 
 
282 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' I have thought about her, Maude. In fact, I think about her 
 every day. Isn't it an infernal shame that a girl like that should 
 have a hundred thousand pounds, and I should be hard up for a 
 trifle of two thousand 1 ' 
 
 ' Is that all you think about ? ' 
 
 ' Enough too ; I should say.' 
 
 ' What is she like ] ' 
 
 ' I believe you would call her pretty. She's a fair girl ; and her 
 manners are good — at least I dare say they are. She doesn't do 
 anything dreadful. But you had better call upon her. She tliinks 
 a great deal about the relationship, and you may be civil to her.' 
 
 ' And won't you think about her, Guy, in the way I want ? 
 Think how it would set you up to marry her. You could buy back 
 all your mortgages. You could start quite fair again. There would 
 be no more debts and worries.' 
 
 *I tell you I do think about her.' 
 
 * Then why — oh ! Guy — why ? ' 
 
 ' Because I do not want to marry any woman. Is that sufiicient 
 reason for you ? ' 
 
 ' 1 shall do what I can for you, Guy. Wlien your difficulties 
 are so great that you can bear them no longer, you will, perhaps, 
 take the step which will relieve you. It is the only step, remember. 
 Meantime, I will do my best to prepare the way for you.' 
 
 He made no reply, but left her with moodj^ and morose face. 
 
 These schemes, these difficulties, were concealed from the head 
 of the house. Lord Ferrier, who, although he found his son diffi- 
 cult to get on with, and taking small interest in the tilings which 
 interested himself, v.'as yet perfectly satisfied as regards his manner 
 of life. Let the young man do what he pleased up to a certain 
 time : he had, himself, followed the traditions of the House in 
 serving under the colours for a term, before becoming a simple 
 countrj- gentlema,n. Let his son do the same thing. As for him- 
 self, he loved the simple life of his country house. He was a 
 farmer and a landlord before everj'thing else. Things were tight 
 with him, because many of his farms were unlet ; but tilings would 
 improve. There was no money, because it had all been laid out in 
 unproductive improvements ; and, at the best. Lord Ferrier was 
 poor for a peer. A stately, tall man of sixty odd years, with a 
 Presence, who had gone beautifully gi'ey, which is much better than 
 going bald. He was taller than his son ; his head was larger ; his 
 figure was broader ; his appearance more soUd ; and his eyes were 
 better. The eyes are the first of human features to catch the ex- 
 pression which grows out of the life which men lead ; then it goes 
 to the mouth and lips ; and, finally, it is stamped as a seal upon the 
 forehead. The stamp upon the old Lord's forehead was what may 
 be expected in that of a man who preserved those old-fashioned 
 ideas about honour, duty, religion, loyalty, patriotism, propertj% 
 rank, contentment, tlirift, modesty, wliich formerly stood the old 
 country in good stead, and seem now doomed to decay and dis- 
 
A ROSE or JUXE. 283 
 
 Rppearance ; a man who was proud of his name and descent, was 
 kind of heart and considerate towards all men ; who was courtly in 
 manner and sincere of speech ; a man who hated Radicals, Repub- 
 licans, Communists, Socialists, Nihilists, Comtists, Atheists, and 
 persons of ' advanced ' views generally, as he hated the Devil. As 
 for his estates, he was a tenant for life ; he held them on trust ; it 
 was his duty to hand them on to his successor improved and en- 
 larged. And, as every gentleman ought to have a hobby, it was 
 Lord Ferrier's hobby that he could paint. He had painted steadily 
 f>)r forty years ; and during the whole of the time, according to his 
 friends, his painting had grown steadily worse. Yet every year he 
 sent a picture to the Royal Academy, which was promptly rejected ; 
 and every year he made dozens of studies, landscapes, heads, cattle- 
 l^ieces, and river-scenes — working as hard at his hobby as any 
 professional man at the calling which gave him daily bread. 
 
 Maude called upon her cousin, and was gracious to her and to 
 her guardian. The beauty and the grace of the girl, so soft, so 
 delicate, so ethereal, surprised her. Was her brother a stone, that 
 he should have been blind to this miracle of loveliness X Her 
 manner was a little shy, because she was so inexperienced and so 
 ignorant, but it was the manner of a lady. She invited her, with 
 Mrs. Hallowes, to dinner alone, so that it would be a dinner e,n 
 famille, she said. 
 
 To this fii-st entertainment she did not invite her brother — for 
 reasons. Lord Ferrier would interest the girl more. And, in fact, 
 Yirginie was greatly moved by the kind and affectionate reception 
 which the venerated head of the house accorded her. He told her 
 how he had been at school with her father, his first cousin, and 
 what a good fellow he had always been, and how she resembled hiui 
 in face, though her father was never — well — never half so charm- 
 ing ; and he paid her so many compliments and showed her so much 
 kindness that Virginie fell in love with him at once. Tlie compli- 
 ments and kindness of old men always plea'^e girls ; if they are 
 girls of the world they are pleased because men of such wide ex- 
 perience should show such admirable discrimination ; if they are 
 girls new to the world they are pleased because they are not afraid. 
 The worst of young men's flattery is that one never knows what 
 they may say next, and that they may at any moment go on to a 
 proposal. 
 
 Maude began at once, so as to lose no time, to acquire that in- 
 fluence over her cousin's mind wliich would assist her in her designs. 
 She must woo Virginie for her brother. She must make this girl 
 in love with herself, with Lord Ferrier, with the house, with every- 
 thing belonging to them, before she would try to make her fall in 
 love with Guy. She called nearly every day ; she sent frequent 
 invitations ; she drove with her ; she made her father buy a horse 
 for her, and then she rode with her ; she managed so that if 
 Virginie went anywhere, or saw anything, it should seem as if by 
 her advice or help. She gave her wise counsel in matters of dress. 
 
284 THEY WERE MAUBIED. 
 
 She instructed her in the things which girls mud know, or seem to 
 know ; and she took her in hand in the matters of art and music, 
 of which Virginie was pi-ofoundly ignorant. In all Palmiste there 
 is not such a thing as a picture ; while as to music, they know little 
 or nothing beyond the elementary tune. And always she pleased 
 the girl, who was easily pleased, by a show of aflection, sympathy, 
 and interest, as if she had always longed to know her, and had 
 studied carefully how she could be of use to her. At the same time, 
 lest Mrs. Hallowes should be jealous, she treated her as if she was 
 an old and valued friend, instead of a mere acquaintance. 
 
 Then Virginie, thus assisted, began to go into society. 
 
 From her point of view it was bewildering. All the people 
 seemed to know everybody, and to be able to talk about everything. 
 For herself, she knew nothing, and she knew nobody. She was 
 not able, at first, to talk about anything. Alter a little, she began 
 to understand something. Maude taught her the way in which 
 pictures, and music, and books are talked about, iiut the things 
 of real interest, the family histories, the personal gossip, she could 
 not master. She was also greatly astonished, at fii'st, because no 
 one took the smallest interest in the events and politics of Palmiste 
 Island. In her eyes, this place was the most important, in every- 
 body's eyes, of all the British dominions, next to England itself. 
 Small as it was, only a tiny speck in the ocean, it grew such a 
 quantity of sugar, and had so romantic a history, that Australia, 
 New Zealand, Canada, seemed of comparatively small importance. 
 And she could not possibly understand Iioav anybody could fail to be 
 interested in its politics, its fertility, its beauty, or the differences 
 in the social position of the inhabitants. Most astonishing thing 
 of all, she actually once met a coloured man, a native of the island, 
 at a dance, and the English girls were dancing with him ! Happih^ 
 the man had not the presumption to ask her for a dance. Tlien 
 she met a man who had been a Governor there, and nobody called 
 him ' Your Excellency,' or paid him the slightest reverence or 
 respect ; and men talked slightingly of Colonial Bishops ; and 
 gentlemen who were honourable members of the Legislative Council 
 were held as nought. These things were strange to her at first. 
 Maude was worse than anybody. She refused to pretend any 
 interest in Palmiste ; she would talk of nothing but England, and, 
 which Yirginie liked, especially of the honour and glory of the 
 Ferrier House. But daily she felt more and more how small a 
 thing was her own sugar estate and simple bungalow compared with 
 the splendid estates and noble houses of the people to whom she 
 now belonged. 
 
 ' Why should you trouble your head about the place 1 ' Maude 
 eaid. ' You will marry and settle in England, and your mother 
 will then, I hope, come home and live with you. You have no 
 other friends there, have you 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes. I have many friends. There is my guardian, 
 Captain Kemysa, to begin with ; and 3Iadame, and Tom.' 
 
A HOSE OF JUNE. 2S5 
 
 ♦ Tom ! Who is Tom 1 ' 
 
 ' Tom is Captain Kemyss's son, you know. He always told me 
 he loved me.' 
 
 ' That seems great presumption ; but perhaps he only meant it 
 in a brotherly sense.' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Virginie. ' Tom was always a brother to me,' 
 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
 'And then,' she continued, 'there was the Professor.' 
 
 ♦ What was he % ' 
 
 ' He is in England now. He isn't a Professor any more ; and 
 his name is Percival. He always said he loved me, too.' 
 
 ' They showed their good taste, my dear Virginie,' said Maude, 
 laughing. ' But I think it was a great impudence to tell you of it. 
 Perhaps they merely wanted to make you understand that they 
 really had good taste. ]S^o doubt, however, they have already con- 
 soled themselves. ' 
 
 When the first strangeness had gone oft', when Virginie had 
 become an established and constant visitor at the house, when her 
 father became, by his own admiration of the girl, an unwitting 
 accomplice in her schemes, Maude began, but cautiously, to talk 
 about her brother. He seldom went into general society, she 
 explained, because he was too fastidious for general society ; the 
 dreadful want of taste in conversation, dress, and manners irritated 
 him ; he did not, certainly, belong to the dancing set ; it was not 
 to be expected of him that he would go to balls for the sake of the 
 supper, as many men do in this abominable town. Guy was, as no 
 doubt Virginie had alreadj^ discovered, a man ot the most refined 
 and fastidious taste ; he was not a great talker, but his opinions 
 were convictions ; he never tried to show his own superiority, but 
 when he was called upon, Maude said, the true ring of intellect 
 was heard in his every utterance ; what he said was always right ; 
 what he did was always noble. Maude drew the picture of the 
 brother she ought to have had ; the splendid result of generations 
 of careful training ; the perfect knight ; tlie statesman of the 
 future ; the prop and support of the Conservative cause. Heavens ! 
 if men only understood how women love them to be great and 
 strong ! They know that we want them to be beautiful, and they 
 do their best, all out of the kindness of their hearts, to meet our 
 views. But we, selfish creatures that we are, waste and idle our 
 lives away and do nothing, so that our sisters and wives are fain to 
 be asliamed of us, and to apologise for us instead of being proud 
 ana happy because we are so brave, and so industrious. Lay it to 
 heart, my brothers. 
 
 One tiling astonished !}.raude ; yet slie seemed to understand it. 
 Guy had never fallen in love with any woman. This was not 
 because his nature was cold, for, she said, he was a man of the 
 deepest and warmest feeling, but it arose from his refined taste and 
 the <lread which he naturally felt lest he should find sometliing in 
 Uis wife, when it was too late, to trouble and irritate him, ' Think, 
 
286 THEY WERE MAItUIED. 
 
 my dear Virginie,' she said, clasping her hands, 'if such a man, 
 with nerves so higlily strung, should have to live all his days with a 
 person whose very appearance might irritate him hourly. My dear 
 child, if he could only iind a true wife somewhere ; if he could 
 onlj'^ find a woman of your tender heart and sweet temper and 
 sympathetic susceptibilities. But there,' she sighed, 'men never 
 see what is lying before their very feet.' 
 
 ' Sometimes I think,' she said, warming to her subject, 'that 
 Guy is like a knight of romance. There was never any frivolity 
 about him ; he could never endure what some young men call fun. 
 Heaven protect us from the funny man ? He never wanted to 
 laugh at foolish jokes and stories. My dear, did you ever see a 
 whole theatre full of people laughing because a man has tumbled 
 down and hurt himself ? He never wanted to talk, even as a boy, 
 to show his wisdom. You have observed, probably, his silent 
 moods. It is by meditation that wisdom comes. When he is in a 
 silent mood he loves to hear grave music. I was glad when he 
 came in last night and sat dov/n in a corner, not wanting to talk, 
 that you were playing that sonata. Your playing, dear child, like 
 your voice, soothes him. My own voice is too loud for him, and 
 my playing is too — what shall I say ? — too brilliant. I play as I 
 was taught, and I supijose 1 think too much about execution. 
 
 ' Guy was saying the other day ' — this was during another of 
 Maude's confidential conversations — ' that beautiful women are 
 made for beautiful rooms. Our own rooms, he said, never look 
 properly furnished unless Virginie is in them. Was it not pretty 
 of him, my dear % ' 
 
 These and a thousand such sayings could not fail to produce an 
 effect upon a girl so utterly inexperienced as Virginie. Mrs. 
 Hallowes, who knew perfectly well what they meant, and who per- 
 fectly appreciated the value of her ward, fell in with the plot, 
 because she honestly thought the match a highly advantageous one 
 for the girl. She wrote to that effect indeed to Captain Kemyss. 
 ' I hear nothing very uuich,' she said, 'against Captain Ferrier's 
 reputation, except that he is a man of very few friends. His chief 
 fault, in my eyes, is that if he intends to become Virginie's lover, 
 he shows veiy little ardour. Indeed, he has not even begun to 
 make love. But his sister assures me that his affections are very 
 strongly engaged, and that he only hesitates because he thinks that 
 the young lady should at least have time to look round her. 
 This seems honourable, though not what one would expect of a 
 young man, when so beautiful an heiress is in the case. Indeed, I 
 should prefer a little anxiety lest so great a prize should be carried 
 off by someone else. As regards our dear girl, she looks upon 
 Maude as her greatest friend ; she considers Maude's brother to be 
 all that a fond sister has painted him. And though I do not 
 suppose that she is at all what we used to call "in love," I do 
 think that she waits but the word. When that is spoken, there wiU 
 be no other man in the world for her but Captain Ferrier, 
 
A ROSE OF JUNE. 287 
 
 ' You must not think that she forgets her Palmiste friends ; on tlie 
 contrary, she is always thinking of you all — and for you, and espe- 
 cially of her brotlier Tom. But she writes to you so often that I 
 need not assure you any further upon this point.' 
 
 ' So she will marry her cousin after all,' said Captain Kemyss, 
 laying down the letter with a sigh. ' I do not like him ; but I may 
 be wrong. After all, it is satisfactory to think that she will be 
 Lady Ferrier. Her father would have liked it. And as for Tom — 
 her "brother" Tom — as Mrs. Hallowes calls him — clever woman, 
 that ! — he must put up with his disappointment. What else could 
 he expect ? Perhaps, if things go wrong, he may remain as Yir- 
 ginie's manager. I would rather he had been her husband.' 
 
 So things were planned for Virginie. She was to marry her 
 cousin. She had been brought over from Palmiste for that pur- 
 pose ; she had become engaged to him out there, people said : she 
 had been romantically promised to him in infancy, others said. 
 Nf)body kncAv who started these reports, or what foundation of fact 
 they possessed ; but everybody believed them, and Maude herself, 
 when she was asked if they were true, did not contradict the state- 
 ment. 
 
 But what a shame, what an extraordinary shame, that so beau- 
 tiful a girl should have been engaged even before she came out. 
 The soft sweet languor of her manner was roused to animation only 
 when she danced ; her limpid eyes ; the delicacy of her C(im- 
 plexion ; her graceful figure ; her gentle kindliness to all alike, 
 from peer to Treasury clerk, endeared her to English youth, and 
 made Mrs. Hallowes, who ' ran ' this heavenly creature, a Power 
 for the time in the Social world. With an heiress one can always 
 get into good houses ; with such an heiress there is no telling to 
 what heights Mrs. Hallowes might have raised herself, but for the 
 events which interrupted her ujjward flight just when she was 
 beginning to feel herself at her strongest and best. These events 
 were connected intimately with the ride of this particular morning 
 in June. 
 
 As these three rode in the Row, there were many who recog- 
 nised them, and pointed them out to each other. Among these 
 rt'ere some — gentlemen dressed with, perhaps, more regard to 
 colour and picturesqueness of efiect than is common in society — 
 w ho seemed to know the Captain professionally, and informed each 
 other that things were looking up with certain pieces of signed 
 paper ; for the Hon'ble Captain Ferrier was going to marry a girl ; 
 n<j doubt the fair-haired girl riding alongside him, who had got, it 
 was said, nothing short of a hundred, yes, a hundred thousand at 
 her back. Then they passed by and others followed, and a good 
 many of the men who rode that morning seemed to interest these 
 gentlemen witli big cigars and showy garments and diamond rings. 
 
 Now where the crowd was thickest, opposite Hyde Park Gate, 
 where the chairs were ranged in a double row and were all filled, 
 
288 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 there stood a lady, still young, being not more tlian five or six-and- 
 t^venty, accompanied by an old gentleman, and surrounded by a 
 small court of gentlemen. Other ladies as they passed turned their 
 heads and looked at her with curiosity — that is a polite way of 
 saying that they stared their very rudest and hardest at her. She 
 was well di'essed — extraordinarily well dressed — and was a most 
 striking and handsome woman, with regular, strongly marked 
 features, a strong mouth and chin, and rather a loud voice. Out- 
 side the little circle of her friends stood, or strolled, all looking 
 at her, a noble army of mart3'rs — young men — who longed to 
 make her acquaintance, but could not because they had no one 
 who would introduce them. For this lady was no other than 
 Violet Lovelace, the new light of the London stage, as clever 
 and sparkling as any who had ever offered their beauty and 
 their wit for the admiration of the public. And this little 
 circle romid her consisted of those who could boast of an acquaint- 
 ance with her, in right of which they became her courtiers. And 
 the old gentleman — he was manifestly old, though his wig was 
 black and curly, because his lips trembled and his eyes were crows- 
 footed — was PaulPerigal, for many years attached to the Princess's 
 Theatre. He was, in fact, in his seventy-fifth year, and he dressed 
 carefully after the fashion of his thirty-fifth summer, wliich was 
 when her gracious Majesty was still a youthful bride, and when the 
 niode as regards collars, neckties, and hats differed in some impor- 
 tant details from the present. Violet Lovelace retained her old 
 friend and tutor in her house as her companion : he kept the house 
 going, paid the bills, was her faitliful steward, saw that the ' boy ' 
 was looked after when his mother was at rehearsal, and went with 
 her wherever she went. Kow as Violet was invited a good deal to 
 supper and breakfast, and liked to accept as many invitations as 
 possible, bemg a kind-hearted person, glad to bestow a little happi- 
 ness wherever she could, the old man was more than her compani(ju 
 and friend — he was her cliaperon ; and nobody lived who could 
 trutlifully boast that Violet Lovelace had accepted an invitation 
 alone. 
 
 V\liile they were all talking, the lady liaK turned her head and 
 looked at the riders. Then she stopped laughing suddenly. 
 
 ' What is it, ATolet ] ' asked one of her friends' — everybody 
 called her by her Christian name. ' You look as if you had seen a 
 ghost.' 
 
 ' I have, my Lord,' she replied. ' I have seen a ghost whom I 
 hoped never to see again ; and I feel as if buckets of cold water 
 were being poured down my back. So I tliink I wiU go home. 
 Come, Daddy ! ' 
 
 ' The ghost I saw. Daddy,' she explained, when they were out- 
 side the Park, ' was the ghost of mj' husband. He did not see me. 
 The sight of him made me long to — to saj' something I should nut, 
 A lady must not he violent, must she ? ' 
 
 Paul shook his head doubtfully. 
 
A ROSE OF JUNE. 289 
 
 * Violence,' he said, ' sometimes means fire. You ought to rise 
 to the occasion. Give me a woman who can feel a situation and 
 rip out the words as if she meant them . But such a woman is hard 
 to find nowadays. When I was a young man ' 
 
 ' I do feel the situation, Daddy. I assure you, I feel it very 
 strongly. And I should like very much to rip out the words. But, 
 somehow, I don't think the audience would have been pleased. 
 We must always consider the stalls, you know. In your young 
 days you only played for the pit. Let us go home. The sunshine 
 has turned into cloud for us, and the warm air is cold. ' 
 
 'The "P^eturn of the Husband,"' murmured PauL 'Adapted 
 from the French of "Le Mari Repenti." Principal parts by Miss 
 
 Violet Lovelace and Mr. .' I remember he said his name was 
 
 Richard Johnson ; but he looked like Mr. Plantagenet Howard.' 
 
 ' Never mind his name, Daddy. That was his sister riding with 
 him — the sallow-faced woman, with black hair and big eyes, and a 
 thin figure. She looked at me as she passed with the curious con- 
 tempt which makes us actresses love the real lady so much. Bless 
 her ! I know all about her. My husband takes all her money 
 from her to pay his debts. Tender, thoughtful brother he is ! 
 Daddy,' — she clasped the old man's arm with both her hands, 
 though they were in the open, in gay and handsome Piccadilly, 
 which has a thousand eyes — ' Daddy, if I thought the boy was 
 going to turn out like his father, I would — no — I would ask you to 
 take him away and kill him.' 
 
 ' He won't,' said Paul. ' With such a training as I have given 
 him, and such an example as mine, he can't.' 
 
 ' Who was the girl with him, I wonder ? Not that I care. She 
 seemed pretty.' 
 
 ' If he repents, and comes home and asks forgiveness, I suppose 
 you will take him on again.' 
 
 ' Never, never ! And he knows it. Marriage is always a 
 lottery. Some men belong to the good lottery ; most to the bad 
 lottery. My husband. Daddy, is one of the very last and worst ; 
 he is, indeed, a most disgraceful lottery. But even he won't try 
 on the repentant dodge. Don't talk about him any more, and let 
 us buy something to take home to the boy.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Elsie's friend. 
 
 'I THINK, Elsie,' said Mr. Percival, formerly called the Professor, 
 ' that this is a chapter which will fire the imagination, and make 
 the blood boil and the pulses quicken. Don't you find your gene- 
 rous young heart leaping up ? ' 
 
 He was reading from a manuscript, and a girl Avas sitting at th'S 
 U 
 
200 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 open window listening. The place was a first-floor in one of those 
 streets of profound respectability — from the lodging-house point of 
 view — about Bloomsbury. A box of mignonette was in the window, 
 which assisted the imagination and helped the listener to follow tht> 
 I'eader far away among woods and meadows, streams and hills. 
 The girl was quite young, not more than eighteen ornmeteen ; she 
 was listening critically, and she shook her head to express a kind 
 of doubt. It was a head of a pretty shape, set ofl' by the last 
 fashion of wearing the hair, wliich reveals th-i shape of a head, 
 and is therefore fatal to many a girl who might otherwise be counted 
 beautiful. Her face belonged to a not uncommon type, whose 
 beauty depends chiefly on expression ; it is a good, safe kind of 
 beauty, because when it once takes hold of a man, it grows upon 
 him, and fastens upon him, until he cares for no other kind of face 
 in the world. 
 
 Mr. Percival, no longer the Professor, for he had resigned, and 
 ■was now engaged on making that spoon or spoiling that horn, lived 
 in the house as lodger. He had lived there before he went abroad, 
 so that he returned to it as an old friend. Elsie, the daughter of 
 the house, was a school-girl when he went away, and a grown-up 
 girl when he came back. There was only one other lodger, and he 
 ^vas an old gentleman who gave no trouble ; and on the proceeds 
 and profits derived from her two lodgers, Elsie's mother, who was 
 a widow, paid her rent and taxes and supplemented the family 
 income. All day long, until half-past seven, Elsie was the gover- 
 ness of a child of five or six ; in the evening, resuming an old 
 custom of her childhood, she became the companion and confidante 
 of Mr. Percival, a pleasant, conversational, good-natured sort of 
 man, who liked companionship, especially of the youthful female 
 kind. Sometimes she went for walks with him in the quiet squares ; 
 or she sat with him, or she read with him, or even she went to the 
 theatre with him, in a manner which would have been compromising 
 to the last degree in some circles ; but in Elsie's, which can hardly 
 be called a circle, and yet was not a square — perhaps a crescent, an 
 oblong — it didn't matter. She had no friends who would inquire 
 what were Mr. Percival's intentions, and, indeed, at present he 
 had none, because Elsie seemed to him still the child he remembered 
 when he was last in London, and because he was without an income 
 and was feeling his way along the thorny path of literature, dream- 
 ing and devising great things, and meanwhile thinking himself 
 lucky when he had a book tossed to him for review, or got an 
 article accepted, or hit upon an idea which could be afterwards 
 worked up. As for falling in love with Elsie, that, if you please, 
 no more entered into his mind than into hers. He was ten years 
 older tb.an herself, which at eighteen seems a frightful difl"erence. 
 She knew, besides, that he was ah-eady in love with a young lady 
 as beautiful as a queen, whom he could never marry by reason of 
 one Tom, who somehow stood in the way. This young lady was in 
 England, having come across the seas in his company, but he did 
 
ELSIE'S FRIEND. 2S1 
 
 not go to see her, because, Elsie thought, he felt that it would be 
 a pity for him to get more entangled in this hopeless labyrinth of 
 love. Besides, a literary man wants to keep his brain clear, and in 
 that novel he was writing, from which he read to her sometimes ia 
 the evening, there was a man so madly in love with a young laciy 
 whom both hero and novelist thought was perfect, yet who seemed 
 to Elsie a whimsical woman, that merely to portray his emotions 
 it was necessary for the mind of the writer to be c^uite free from 
 any troubles of its own ; the largest and fullest sympathy was 
 required for love of this passionate kind. When the work was 
 completed it would be time to visit Virginie, whose Christian name 
 Elsie had heard many hundreds of times. 
 
 She shook her head, criticising the chapter. 
 
 ' I suppose it is a powerful scene,' she said ; ' but, you know, 
 they wouldn't really go on like that. Nobody possibly could,' 
 
 ' What would they do, then ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know. They would feel angry and disappointed 
 with each other. Then they would go away and break things off, 
 I suppose.' 
 
 ' It is clear to me, my child, that you have not the faintest 
 conception of the passion of love. How should you ? ' he sighed. 
 ' For my own part, I have experience. I portray, with a change of 
 name, my own feelings towards Virginie.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' She laughed the laugh of the Doubter. 'Your passion, 
 indeed ! But you have grown desperate, and you — why you go on 
 as happily as if you had no passion.' 
 
 ' The sting is concealed,' he said. ' It is like the hair shirt. 
 Many a lusty knight of old was found after death to have worn a 
 hair shirt unknown to his friends.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said sliarply. ' They put on flannel first, I suppose. 
 Why can't you draw things as they are and people as they talk ? 
 That is what I like to read about.' 
 
 ' Profound student of human nature ! Remember that it is the 
 province of Art not so much to present Natmre faithfully as to 
 present things as they should happen — but don't. Nature is flat. 
 Situations are wasted. In real life, my child, events do not happen 
 dramatically ; nor are the right things said at the right moment : 
 nor are there surprises — though, to be sure, il n'y a rien de s{ir que 
 Vimprevu. Real life, Elsie, is apt to be dull ' 
 
 ' Horribly dull,' said the philosopher of eighteen. ' FrightfuEy 
 dull, sometimes.' 
 
 ' Yes, and flat, and unhappy ; being made unhappy chiefly by 
 little things, not big calamities. Temper, I believe, and want c f 
 sympathy, and want of change, and want of society, make up most 
 of the domestic unhappiness which no he novelist has had tlie 
 courage to tackle. It is woman's work, not man's, to write about 
 the little pin-prickings of the home life. Did you ever have prickly 
 heat, Elsie ? Of course you have not. Then you can't understand 
 — but I can — what many of our beautiful English homes are like. 
 
 o2 
 
292 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 Real life 1 No ; I do not think I shall tackle the subject of real 
 life. Romance is what I shall freeze to.' 
 
 ' Want of change seems to me the worst thing of all,' said Elsie. 
 ' Look at my poor father. He was born in London, he lived in 
 London, and he never went out of London, because he never could 
 aflbrd it. Hamj)stead he called the country. It was his only idea 
 of country, poor dear. It was mine, too, till you first came and 
 we began to go about together.' 
 
 ' Yes, ' said the great writer, as yet unknown ; ' we have made 
 pilgrimages on Sundays, haven't we ? We know the pit of the 
 theatre, do we not ? We have ventured on the river at Hampton, 
 happy Hampton ! we two together. Courage, Elsie, life must not 
 be monotonous for you.' 
 
 'Then life ought to be honest,' said the girl passionately. 
 ' Why, I am a common cheat and impostor. ' 
 
 'Nay, nay,' said her adviser. 'If Miss Violet Lovelace is 
 pleased with your manner and work, surely that is enough.' 
 
 ' She advertised for a perfect lady for her boy. I answered the 
 advertisement. She was very good to me, and said at the beginning 
 such kind things about my manners, you know, that I did not dare 
 tu undeceive her. "My dear," she said, "1 want a perfect lady, 
 because my boy will be a gentleman. You may go on calling me 
 IMiss Violet Lovelace if you like, because that is my stage name ; 
 but I am a married woman, and my husband is a Wretch, although 
 he is a gentleman of good family. I am separated from him. As 
 for myself, I am not quite a lady — off the stage ; but I am getting 
 on, and when the boy grows up and can make comparisons, he shall 
 not be ashamed of his mother. Of course, I have few opportunities 
 of knowing real ladies in private life. So now you see what I want, 
 and if you will try, and'will be good and patient with the boy, I 
 sliall always be more grateful to you than words can tell." That 
 was Avhat she said ; and I deceived her, and said I would try.' 
 
 ' The word lady, Elsie,' said Mr. Percival, putting aside his 
 manuscript, ' covers an area about equal in extent to that claimed 
 for the word gentleman.' 
 
 ' If I had told her that my father was nothing but a humble 
 clerk in a small house of business, and that my mother took in 
 lodgers, would she have received me as her governess ? You know 
 she wouldn't.' 
 
 ' The question is, rather, if she knew these facts now would she 
 consider you unfit for the post ] Because you see, my cliild, she 
 seems to like you.' 
 
 ' I am sure slie likes me. Nobody could be more afi'ectionate to 
 me, or kinder, which makes the deception worse.' 
 
 ' Very good then, and you like the boy.' 
 
 ' ^Vho could help liking the dear child ? ' 
 
 ' In that case, Elsie, trouble not your little head about possi- 
 bilities. For there are many. Enjoy tlie good fortune that comes 
 in your way. Sunshine is scarce. Kind persons are scarce. If 
 
ELSIE'S FRIEXD. 293 
 
 Rliss Violet Lovelace asks you any questions about yourself, tell 
 her what you please. Meanwhile, be as useful as you can to the 
 boy. Now, my child, I am going to put away the Novel. I say, 
 though,' he added, lovingly regarding his manuscript, ' the last is 
 really a most tremendous chapter. I wonder how Thackeray 
 would have treated it. But, poor man, he never could have con- 
 ceived a situation so dramatic and so terrible ; and I am going to 
 have a quiet pipe. You need not go unless you like. In fact, I 
 would rather you stayed.' 
 
 She did stay. Nothing could have been a greater reversal of 
 the manners and customs of the perfect lady, whom Elsie was sup- 
 posed to present for the ensample of the boy, than for a girl of 
 eighteen to be sitting night after night with a young man of eight- 
 and-twenty — alone, if you please. Yet Elsie liked it. And the 
 young man liked it. And Elsie's mother thought no harm of it, 
 and if she did she was welcome to walk upstairs and put her head 
 in and speak her mind. 
 
 ' Miss Violet, ' said Elsie, ' came home to-day at half -past twelve 
 in a very low way. First, she sat down and sighed as if her heart 
 was breaking. Then she wished she had never been born. After 
 that she kissed the boy, and said that if it was not for him she could 
 wish that she was dead. When they served our dinner, which is 
 her breakfast, you know, because she has to sit up half the night 
 sometimes and gets up late, she would not eat anything.' 
 
 ' Got a cold ? ' asked Percival. 
 
 ' Oh ! no. She never catches cold, though the theatre is full of 
 draughts. She got up presently and went away to her own room. 
 Then Mr. Perigal, who had been sigliing with her, like a pump, 
 whispered to me that she had seen her husband in the Park.' 
 
 ' This grows mysterious. Is her husband generally invisible ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Perigal told me all about her marriage. She married a 
 gentleman who was in love with her because she was so beautiful 
 and so clever. Mr. Perigal was at the wedding, with her father, 
 wlip is a stage carpenter at Drury Lane. Mr. Perigal believes that 
 he was married under a false name. Anyhow, she won't say who 
 or what the man is. But he must be a very bad man, because she 
 left hmi and came back to Mr. Perigal, and said that nothing would 
 ever induce her to go back to her husband, or to take any kind of 
 help from him. And to-day she saw him riding in the Park, and 
 it gave her a turn.' 
 
 'Ah ! Things might be made of this,' said the aspiring 
 novelist. 
 
 ' Fortunately,' Elsie went on, ' it seems that he did not see her.' 
 
 ' The Park would be a fine stage for a recognition scene. " It 
 is— it is " — amid the tears of a sympathetic crowd — '• it is my long- 
 lost husband ! Behold that scar, inflicted, in our happy, happy 
 days, by your own hand, and with the kitchen poker ! At last you 
 find me " ' 
 
 ' You forget,' said the young lady without au imagination, ' that 
 
294 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 he must know where she is and all about her, because her photo- 
 graph is in all the windows.' 
 
 ' To be sure. I forgot that. It must be a pleasing thing for a 
 separated married man to be reminded of his bonds by every shop- 
 window. I should walk in the Park^which, it seems, the gentleman 
 was actually doing— so as to get out of the way of the photographs. 
 I suppose Mr. Perigal does not know the cause of the separation ? ' 
 
 ' No. She has never told anybody. No one knows her name, 
 or anything about the marriage at all. Her husband, whoever he 
 is, has never sent her any money or help ; and at first, before she 
 made a success, I think she was very poor at times. It seema 
 cruel, when she is so beautiful, and so clever, and so much ad- 
 mired, and might marry well if she were free.' 
 
 'Yes, it seems cruel. Still, she has the boy.' 
 
 ' Yes. The boy is to be sent to a public school, she says, 
 because his father was there. And he is to go to Oxford afterwards, 
 if he wishes. And then he is to go into the Army. So that we 
 suppose his father was in the Army, too. As for the stage, it is 
 not to be mentioned in his presence. And yet the child is a bom 
 actor, like his mother. But you don't care for this talk. Miss 
 Violet Lovelace is nothing to you.' 
 
 ' On the contrary. Miss Violet Lovelace is a good deal to every- 
 body who goes to the theatre, if it is only to the pit. You and I 
 have often admired her extremely.' 
 
 • You would laugh to see the love-letters and the bouquets she 
 gets. Sometimes she shows them to me ; sometimes she tosses 
 them to Mr. Perigal, who puts them in the fire ; and sometimes 
 she gets angry with them, and tears them up in a rage. Now your 
 pipe is finished, and perhaps you would like me to go. But if you 
 like to have another, we can talk about Miss Virginie.' 
 
 ' Woman is a wheedler. You know I should like to have 
 another pipe, and you know I like to talk about Virginie.' 
 
 ' She lives, does she not, in an enchanted island V 
 
 ' Yes ; enchanted when she is on it. Formerly it was one of 
 the Fortunate Islands. The shades of heroes used to haunt its 
 woods and sit beside its waterfalls. I saw Ulysses there myself, 
 once ; but when I drew nearer, intending to have a talk over a few 
 little things, he changed into an aged nigger with snow-white wool. 
 But there is no doubt that the island was enchanted while Virginie 
 lived there. Now that she has come to England the spell, I dare 
 say, is removed. It cannot be anything more than a commonplace 
 bit of an island, with ups and downs — which they call hills and 
 ravines — and trees and rivers, and it smells all over of guano. I 
 wonder anyone can go on livirg there. But no doubt they are all 
 packing up to go away as fast as they can.' 
 
 ' And what sort of a Palace did she have 1 ' 
 
 ' The Palace was built entirely of jasper, malachite, white 
 marble, and other precious materials, set with sapphires and pearls. 
 It was crowded with works of art, especially in sculpture, and it 
 
ELSIirS FRIEND. 205 
 
 was Iiung with rich tapestries and silken curtains ; beautiful flowers 
 stood about, and there were perfumed fountains, and always the 
 sound of dropping music, and wonderful maidens, with lustrous 
 ej'es and long floating hair, dressed in amber silk of Greek fashion, 
 to attend the Princess.' 
 
 ' How delightful ! She was the Queen of the whole island, of 
 course.' 
 
 ' Why, of course she was. Nothing else was possible. She 
 ruled all hearts, and was, indeed, a most gracious monarch, the 
 fountain of honour, and the dispenser of joy.' 
 
 ' And you were in love with her.' 
 
 ' That was not unusual ; in fact, we were all in love with her. 
 But Tom came first. I only came second.' 
 
 ' That horrid Tom ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I often regret that I never pushed Tom over the edge 
 of the ravine. It might have been done so very easily, and the 
 consequences to me would have been so delightful. Indeed, I was 
 only restrained from doing so by the consideration that perhaps 
 Virginie might have been annoyed, and one would not vex that 
 divine creature even by a crumpled rose-leaf, to say nothing of a 
 crumpled Tom.' 
 
 ' I see. Did she like being loved by everybody ? Did it make 
 her vain ? ' 
 
 ' 'S ain ? Are you aware that you are speaking of Yirginie ? Do 
 you know that she is without any fault at all 1 My dear Elsie, 
 you must not ask questions which betray ignorance so profound.' 
 
 The girl laughed — 
 
 ' Oh ! it is delicious. And all about a woman ! ' 
 
 ' Why — who should it be about, if not a woman ? ' 
 
 ' To think that men can talk such extravagant nonsense, and, I 
 suppose, believe it aboiit any girls ! ' 
 
 ' She is a goddess,' said Percival. ' Now, if there were no god- 
 desses we shovdd have to invent some. Do you see ? Which things 
 are an allegoiy.' 
 
 ' No, I do not see. Cannot you be content with your Virginie 
 as she is ? ' 
 
 ' "As she is,'" he replied ; 'there is no " is." You are to me 
 — what I think you are. You are to yourself — what you think you 
 are. To your mother you are someone else. Virginie is to me — a 
 goddess. What she is to other men doesn't matter.' 
 
 ' I like it,' said Elsie reflecting ; ' only it must make a girl 
 ashamed of herself to be called a goddess, when she knows very 
 well that she is just like other people, and, I suppose, the best of 
 girls sometimes feel that they ouglit to be better. Good-night, 
 Mr. Percival. Go to bed and dream of your Enchanted Palace.' 
 
 ' Now, there is a girl,' said Percival, slowly, as he prepared 
 for going to bed, ' who might make a man, in time, believe that 
 there may be, after all, different kinds and degrees in goddess-ships. 
 May be ? There are — yet — oh ! Virginie ! ' 
 
296 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 
 
 Nobody wanted a Miss or a Mistress to place before that illustrious 
 name of Violet Lovelace ; other people crave for titles ; the more 
 naked his name the better pleased is the actor ; he knows, you see, 
 the difference between real and sham distinction. The young lady 
 arrived at the highest honours of her profession by a single leap. 
 When she began, when Guy Ferrier discovered her, she was only 
 intrusted with those parts which require little speaking, but a good 
 deal of standing about on the stage. In one sense, therefore, she 
 was, from the beginning, one of the brightest ornaments of the 
 British Theatre, and, as one of a group, she helped to form many 
 most delightful pictures. 
 
 At the outset, she was quite an ignorant young lady, without 
 very much ambition, and only half conscious of her good looks. If 
 you are born in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane ; if your papa 
 is a ' carpenter,' using the word in its theatrical sense ; if all 3'our 
 friends belong, somehow or other, to the ' House,' so that the 
 children go on with the Pantomime as soon as they can wear a 
 costume, and the grown-up ones are supers, unless they are ticket- 
 takers, carpenters, door-keepers, dressers, and the rest of it ; if the 
 pavement of Russell-court, Duke's-court, and Yinegar-yard is your 
 dancing-school ; if your mother is a dresser at the theatre, and 
 your cousins are ballet-girls, and your brothers also drop naturally 
 into the service, you are also pretty certain to fall in with the 
 stream, and regard the theatre in some form or other as offering 
 you the only means of getting your daily bread. 
 
 It was Mr. Paul Perigal — 'old' Paul Perigal ; his earliest 
 recollections of the stage are connected with the visit of the allied 
 Sovereigns — who first found out Emily Hicks. Purely in the 
 interest of the drama he kept an eye upon beauty or promise 
 among the humbler children of Thespis. Emily lived close to the 
 theatre. She went on at Christmas till she grew too big to go on 
 any longer. Her mother proposed that she should follow her own 
 line, which is safe, if not lucrative, and become a dresser. But 
 Paul Perigal ordered otherwise. ' Hicks,' he said to the carpenter, 
 ' you've got a girl who may be a flyer. I've observed her, Hicks. 
 She will be, unless my experience deceives me, a beautiful woman. 
 Your own experience of the stage, Hicks, will warrant you in 
 agreeing with me that beauty is half the battle, because a girl can 
 always be taught to stand and turn her eyes about and smile, even if 
 she can't open her mouth to speak. But your girl is as sharp as a 
 needle and as cheeky as a boy. Send her to me. Hicks, and I will 
 do what I can for her.' 
 
AIV ACTRESS AT HOME. 297 
 
 Emily Hicks was not slow to recognise the fact that it is ten 
 times more jolly to be dressed and to stand on the stage for the 
 admiration of the world than to be hidden away behind for 
 the purpose of dressing others. She also knew that she was 
 frightfully ignorant of manners as well as of learning, And when 
 slie saw — which was every night — the stage ladies with their mag- 
 nificent stage manners, she wondered whether she, too, would ever 
 have to walk with that air, to sweep back the skirts with gestures 
 so splendid, to wear such frocks as if they belonged naturally to 
 her. Now, in the eyes of such observers as Miss Emily Hicks, it 
 is most true that ' manners maketh the woman.' 
 
 Paul Perigal took great pains with her. She was such a sharp, 
 intelligent pupil that he began to conceive the greatest hopes of 
 her. She had a voice of the kind which is good for a song on 
 occasion, though not enough to make her a singer. He had the 
 voice trained ; then he had her taught to dance — perhaps she 
 Avotdd become a burlesque actress ; then he taught her to walk and 
 to carry herself ; then he taught her to read aloud, to speak without 
 the use of Drury Lane colloquialisms ; then he persuaded her 
 father to let her live with him entirely, with the view of separating 
 her from those young friends whose acquaintance in after life niiglit 
 not be desirable. And when all was done, and the sharp-faced, 
 cheeky child of Duke's Court had become in two or three years 
 transformed into an extremely beautiful girl of seventeen, thus 
 trained and drilled, the worthy old actor began to instruct her in 
 the real craft and mystery of the dramatic art. 
 
 From such small beginnings sprang the greatness of Violet 
 Lovelace. 
 
 She was on the stage in that small way already described for a 
 few months only. Then she left it to marry a man who was madly 
 in love with her : a young man, a handsome man, a man in the 
 army, a man like a hero of romance for dark eyes and dark hair, a 
 man — oh ! — who was going some day to have a title. The last fact 
 was her own secret, never revealed to her father or to Paul Perigal. 
 
 Paul heard of the intended marriage with a groan of disap- 
 pointment. He hoped for so much from this girl, who was so 
 clever. Now she was going to marry a swell, and his labour of 
 four years would be lost. Never, never again could he hope to fiud 
 a pupil so promising. His professional reputation was staked upon 
 her success. He allowed her, he told everybody, to go on in small 
 parts only in order to give her confidence ; but wait — wait a bit — ■ 
 she would make the finest Lady Teazle ever seen on the stage ; as 
 Rosamond she would make an epoch ; as Juliet she would be 
 incomparable. He boasted about her at Pi.ockley's : ' A gem of the 
 first water, gentlemen ; the very first water. I shall be content, 
 for my own part, with the immortality whicli will be my lot, not as 
 an actor, though, perhaps, memories may survive — I say nothing, 
 but a certain Mercutio of the year 1836 is quoted still — thank you, 
 gentlemen— but I shall not be remembered so much as an actor, 
 
298 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 but as the happy finder, developer, and instructor of this light in 
 Histrionic Art.' And now this gem was lost, wrested from him, 
 and to be lost to the drama. Pity ! pity ! a thousand pities ! 
 
 What, however, Paul Perigal did not foresee, and could not 
 possibly foresee, was the return of the deserter (who looked pale 
 and worn, but resolute), which took place within a year of her 
 marriage, and her announcement that she was ready to take up her 
 old work, and to devote herself with it. She further informed her 
 tutor that no questions were to be asked about her husband, who 
 was a Wretch worthy of the greater condemnation. Then she asked 
 Paul what he thought of the baby, who was wonderful for six weeks 
 old ; and then she said that she was ready to begin at once. 
 
 ' I don't wish t^ put impertinent questions, my dear,' said Paul, 
 tearfully, because the divided emotions of joy at her return to Art, 
 and of sympathy witii her wrecked married life, brought those 
 signs of synqjathy to his good old eyes. ' But I should like to ask 
 one, if I might.' 
 
 ' Can't tell, Daddy,' she replied, in something of her old defiant 
 way. But she looked as if, at touch or word, she, too, might ' go 
 oft'.' ' Can't tell till I hear it.' 
 
 ' Only this, my dear,' he said. 'I did my best to make you a 
 lady.' 
 
 ' You did — bless your dear old heart ! ' 
 
 ' But, you know, my experience extended to ladies on the stage, 
 and^and — in point of fact — not those who have played leading 
 parts. I don't think, for instance, that I ever saw a Juliet of the 
 Lane at her own house. And as for Society ladies — ladies in the 
 front — of course I never knew any. Oh ! I know it's getting 
 dift'erent with the y(mng fellows now. But I'm old, and I under- 
 stand my position, which is more on the level of the Nurse or Lady 
 Capulet than with Juliet. So that, you see, I've been at times 
 fearful lest, when you went into marble halls and gilded saloons, 
 people might have wondered who you were. Because your manners 
 might not, perhaps, be quite the same as theirs. Don't think me 
 rude, my dear.' 
 
 ' Don't be afraid. Daddy. I never had any opportunitj'^ of 
 showing any manners. Because I have never seen a lady, or a 
 gentleman either, since I went away. Amy Robsart, bless you, 
 was nothing to it. And I believe if my lord and master had been 
 able to make that little trap in the staircase without being found 
 out he would have done it, and I should have gone into it — flop : 
 and there would have been an end of one. Of course I only waited 
 till the boy was born to come away. And, of course, he didn't 
 want the boy at all. I've been locked up since the wedding be- 
 cause he's ashamed of Iris wife, and he wishes she was dead. 
 
 ' Never mind asking any more questions. Daddy. I mean to 
 live, not to die ; and the boy shall live too. And now that is 
 settled let me get to work. No more standing with one knee bent 
 and a sweet smile — like that — if you please. I must have a country 
 
AN ACTRLSS AT HOME. 299 
 
 engagement for leading parts ; and then I must come to town. Gc 
 to Rockley's, and tell them I've come back. You may gas as much 
 as you like about talent and beauty and such. I'll have my photo- 
 graph taken again — you don't think I'm going off, do you ? — and 
 with your help, you dear old Daddy, we'll pull 'em in and make 
 some money.' 
 
 She went into a country troupe and travelled for three years 
 and more, patient, working hard, studying every morning with 
 Paul, and never neglecting the boy. 
 
 Then she came to town and made her first appearance in a new 
 comedy, which would certainly have been a failure but for her 
 acting and her extraordinary beauty. The unforced merriment, 
 the pathos, the ease of the new actress startled and arrested the 
 people. It was a great success, and Violet's fortune was made. 
 
 The first thing she did was to advertise for a real lady to take 
 daily care of her boy, now five j'ears old and no longer a baby. 
 
 Elsie was the real lady. Violet chose her from a good many 
 applicants on account of her quiet manner and trustworthy face. 
 
 ' Some of them were dressed better,' she explained, ' and some 
 of them pretended to know more, and some of them wanted to 
 teach the boy on a system. Most of them looked as if they would 
 probably beat and pinch the boy when I was out of sight. In 
 that case I should have had to beat them, which they would not 
 like, and there would have been rows. But this girl I am sure 
 won't beat him. I told her I wanted a lady, and she blushed very 
 prettily — Daddy, if only one could blush on the stage ! — because, I 
 suppose, nobody had ever doubted that she was a lady ; not a stalls 
 lady, or a private-box lady, but an upper-circle-at-four-shillings- 
 reserved lady, who comes to the theatre by Underground, and is 
 not ashamed to ciy and laugh ; father something respectable, I 
 suppose, with a shop somewhere — what does it matter 1 She said 
 that she would do her best for the child if I would let her take 
 him ; and she spoke so prettily — don't you think I might find a 
 part for this style of thing ? Look, Daddy ' — here she drooj^ed her 
 eyes a little, made her face a little longer, just smoothed her hair, 
 folded her hands and lowered her voice, and became immediately 
 Elsie. ' That kind of thing. I believe it would take, if the people 
 got to understand it at once. But I want an author — oh ! I want 
 an author badly.' 
 
 ' But about the governess 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes — well — you know she is quite young, and I am four- 
 and-twenty, and I feel ever so old.' Violet was given to mix up 
 things so that it is not always easy to follow her line of thought. 
 What she meant, however, was that she was old enough to read 
 character and to enact the part of a patron. ' So I just kissed her 
 and told her to come every day, and that I was going to be a real 
 lady sometime — in fact, that I am always understudying the part ; 
 but that at present I was a great s'age lady, and so on, and so on. 
 And here we are, and here she is, Daddy — and I feel that so 
 
300 TBEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 respectable a young lady confers dignity upon the house. You are 
 not to bring any more people from Rockley's here, if you please ; 
 the place will have to be as demure as the Foundling Hospital, and 
 if you and I do sometimes have a little supper with a few noble 
 patrons of the drama, we must have it out of the house in 
 future.' 
 
 ' Very well, Violet,' said Paul. ' Do you think the young lady, 
 at odd moments, would like a little instruction in the ' 
 
 ' You dear old man ! ' She threw her arms round his neck and 
 gave him a stage kiss, which everybody knows is done without 
 impressing the lips upon tb*^ cheek or brow at all. But she dis- 
 arranged his wig. ' I believe you would like the whole world to go 
 on the stage.' 
 
 ' All the world's ' 
 
 ' Don't, Paul. And let Elsie alone — she is to be my governess, 
 not my rival. I should like,' said the actress, proudly, ' to see the 
 woman who will be my rival, in a year or two. And now. Daddy, 
 one more trial of that scene. Come ! But I must find an 
 author.' 
 
 It was this assumption of the ' real lady ' which preyed upon 
 poor Elsie's mind. Not that it entered Violet's busy head to ask 
 who or what her father was. She was profoundly ignorant of the 
 world outside the stage. Whether she was told that Elsie was th° 
 daughter of a Bishop or of a City clerk, she would not have sus- 
 pected any difference. One sometimes gets glimpses of this ignor- 
 ance of humanity's cherished social differences. Everything de- 
 pends on rank, even in the most Radical and Republican countries ; 
 and rank is a thing of so much delicacy, so many shades, that only 
 one born in the middle of it all can truly understand it — can at 
 once feel the true awe for those above him, and the true contempt 
 for those below. This is an advantage possessed by the middle- 
 class man, which has never before been set forth. Violet, you see, 
 was born too low down. In her early days, everybody with a black 
 coat seemed to her a swell, and everybody in kid gloves seemed a 
 lady. This kind of ignorance sticks in a surprising manner, so that 
 you may detect the liigh-born aristocrat, however he may dis- 
 semble, by liis not understanding why the solicitor and the general 
 practitioner do not always stand upon the same level, and why the 
 ladies of both decline to call upon the eminent draper's wife. 
 
 After a separation of five years the sight of her husband was to 
 Violet the revival of old bitternesses that she had thought for- 
 gotten and clean passed away for ever. But you cannot so put 
 things away and lock them up. Nothing is ever really forgotten so 
 that you are quite safe that it will never come back to you. The 
 sight of the man's face brought back to her recollection her foolish 
 belief in him, her trust in his loyalty, her dreadful disappointment 
 in him, tlie cruel things he had said, his selfishness, his shame of 
 her, so that he kept her a prisoner and would neither let her go 
 anywhere nor bring any of his friends to see her. No one should 
 
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 301 
 
 know, he told her, that he had been such a fool. No one should 
 even guess that he had a wife. When she left him it was with a 
 letter telling him where she was going and what she was going to 
 do. They were to be henceforth as if they had never met ; but, 
 for the sake of the boy, she would preserve her marriage lines. 
 
 ' Daddy,' she asked, ' could that man take away the boy 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't think he could.' 
 
 ' If he were to try,' she said, with a glitter in her eye, ' I would 
 stab him. Did you see him, yesterday ; how he looked in the face 
 of the girl he was riding with 1 That way he used to look at me. 
 Sorrow, and trouble, for any woman who falls in the way of such a 
 man.' 
 
 ' There are laws about married people,' Paul went on ; ' but I 
 don't know exactly what they are, because I never, somehow, 
 thought about marrying till it was too late. Much better, for an 
 old man like me, to have a young daughter than a young wife 
 about him. No wife could be so pretty, and bright, and clever, as 
 you — and always in good temper ' 
 
 ' Not always. Daddy ; not when she meets her Wretch of a hus- 
 band.' 
 
 ' If I had a wife she would only be disturbing my ease. Well, 
 my dear, I don't know what the laws are. But I believe that 
 whatever you earn, he can take, unless there's been some sort of a 
 legal separation. All that you have is his, you see ; and I suppose 
 that all he has is yours, too.' 
 
 ' I don't think, ' said Violet, laughing rather grimly, ' that he ia 
 likely to go to the treasury on Saturday morning ; and he won't 
 want the furniture. Besides, that is yours.' 
 
 ' We will say so to keep it from him. But it was bought with 
 your money.' 
 
 In fact, Yiolet had displaced all the dingy old sticks and refur- 
 nished the house with bright new things of the most modern 
 fashion ; so that the place, though Bloomsbury is not one of the 
 most cheerful and sunny parts of London, was pleasant to look upon. 
 
 ' It is the boy, Daddy, that I am thinking of. Always the boy. 
 I am sure he hates the boy ; he would do . the boy a mischief if he 
 could. Because, you see, the boy is his heir.' 
 
 ' If he hates the boy, he can leave his money to someone else.' 
 
 ' It isn't only money. Daddy. It is land, and . . . and other 
 things that he can't leave.' 
 
 'He shall only harm the boy,' said Paul, fiercely, 'by passing 
 over my mangled corpse.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Daddy, dear. I know your fidelity, and I will 
 bring you home a property sabre, one of the sort with a curly 
 blade, you know. But that won't be the way. Oh ! Daddy, I am 
 going to have trouble. He will come to see me.' 
 
 ' Courage, Violet. He can do nothing. ' 
 
 ' And I can do a great deal. Because he is afraid of me. 
 Patience — patience— Daddy mine.' 
 
302 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE ONLY WAY OUT OF IT. 
 
 On that night Virginie dined with her cousins. No one was at the 
 dinner except Mrs. Hallowes and Guy, who was for once in a good 
 temper, and actually did something towards promoting the cheer- 
 fulness of the evening. For this small mercy Maude was grateful. 
 The reason why he was in a good temper was that he had only that 
 very morning hit upon an idea which seemed to him not only the 
 most excellent way out of his perplexities, but also the only way 
 out. Because he was now perfectly assured that unless he married 
 an heu'ess there was nothing more that he could do to avert the 
 crash. And because that idea seemed good in his own eyes, he saw 
 a hundred reasons why it should seem good in the eyes of the 
 other person chiefly concerned with it. 
 
 The idea was the following : — 
 
 On arriving in London he realised, principally through the 
 photograj^h shops, the truth of his wife's statement that she, the 
 woman whom he regarded with so lively a detestation, had become, 
 almost at one step, one of the most pojiular actresses of the day. 
 For her face greeted him with smiling eyes from every bookseller's 
 shop, from every photographer's, and from every stationer's. Violet 
 Lovelace was before him everyivhere. He could buy her picture 
 showing full face, three-quarter face, side face ; he could buy her 
 looking into a glass, tying a hood round her head, gazing heaven- 
 wards, in riding habit, in her favourite character, seated, standing, 
 kneeling. After the first shock he careA very little about it, and 
 ceased to be irritated by the sight of a woman he would fain have 
 forgotten. She had succeeded. Very well ; let her succeed, so 
 long as she kept her secret. It was not until that very morning 
 that he began to think how this very success, instead of being a 
 danger to him, might actually be of the greatest use. It wanted 
 only a little — a little . . . well ... a little absence of scruple ; 
 and if he found, for his own part, tliat he could contribute, so to 
 speak, tliis absence of scruple, why was it to be supposed that she, 
 on the other side, who had as much to gain, would show herself 
 troubled with qualms of conscience '? For the plan which he had 
 formed in his own mind was nothing but this — why not agree with 
 the actress to break off suddenly, and say no more about the bond 
 which tied them together 1 All they had to do was to go on as if 
 nothing had ever happened at all. Such simplicity in the idea ! 
 Such a swift and sudden cutting of a Gordian Eoiot ! 
 
 He considered the subject dispassionately, as he thought. That 
 is to say, he lay back in his chair, and followed in imagination the 
 various advantages of the jjlan. 
 
THE ONLY WAT OUT OF IT. 303 
 
 She was still young ; she was — well, perhaps, she still thouglit 
 herself beautiful ; how could he have ever been charmed by the 
 beauty of which men raved '? She was clever, they said ; cer- 
 tainly in the old times her tongue was free and her temper sliarp ; 
 she had always a little court of admirers about her ; half the men 
 in London were languishing for her ; a great crowd gathered round 
 the stage-door every night to see her drive away ; Princes went to 
 her theatre and applauded ; the men at his club talked about her ; 
 she was inaccessible ; she was guarded by old Paul Perigal, whom 
 she called Daddy ; she lived a quiet and blameless life. Why, 
 such a woman, said Guy, has excellent chances : she may marry 
 anybody — really, anybody ; she has only to be careful of her repu- 
 tation. Would it not be best — say as a calm, cold matter of busi- 
 ness — to agree together that this business, a most awful nuisance 
 to both of them, should be terminated ? It wanted nothing but 
 common consent, and silence afterwards. 
 
 Best ? Why, it was the only thing to be done — the only possible 
 thing. To go on as they were all their lives : thus to be tied and 
 yet to be kept apart : could anything be more foolish ? If it was a. 
 good thing for himself, it was surely a far better tiling for her : so 
 good a thing was it for her that he hesitated whether he should do 
 the woman so kind a turn. Certainly, he thought, taking the 
 mental attitude such a man always assumes, she had behaved in- 
 fernally badly to himself, and deserved nothing at his hands. Yet, 
 considering how greatly his own interests were concerned in the 
 matter, he would go and see her, and make her, by word of moutli, 
 a definite ofl'er of release. How happy she would be to have her 
 freedom ! Hov>^ cleverly she had played her cards so that, with 
 Daddy always at her side, her reputation was blameless ! Yes ; he 
 would let her marry when and where she pleased. Benevolent 
 young man ! Most unselfish of young men ! And then, when she 
 was out of the way, he could marry his cousin— and her dot. At 
 the mere thought of that pile of money his fancy lightly turned to 
 green meadows, green pastures, gi-een lawns, as large as tables, with 
 shepherds sitting around, and the click of coin and the voice of him 
 who held the bank, and the fierce joy of him Avho won and the 
 breatliless expectations of him who waited the event. 
 
 Lord Ferrier sat with Mrs. Hallowes on his riglit : she told him 
 stories and amused him ; and with Virginie on his left. It pleased 
 him, though he hardly knew why, to know that this beautiful 
 creature regarded him with so much respect : he liked her to ask 
 him questions, to venture timidly on showing a return of the afl'ec- 
 t.ion which he bestowed upon her ; he referred things to her, asked 
 her opinions, proposed plans for her, and gave her presents. He 
 courted her, as Maude courted her, but imconsciously, for his son« 
 It was for his sake, not for his own, that Virginie would accept the 
 ofl'er of her cousin. 
 
 Nothing would have been more pleasant than this little dinner 
 tnfamiUe. To Virginie its chief charm was the beauty and fitnesa 
 
304 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 of its setting. lilrs. Hallowes had everything, without doubt, as it 
 ought to be. Her furniture was of the inust modern fashion ; her 
 decorations of the most approved type ; the house was spacious and 
 new ; but her roonxs lacked something. You cannot make old 
 things ; you cannot add the charm which lies in old furniture 
 old pictures, old bric-^-brac, all belonging to each other. Mrs 
 Hallowes had large rooms, and spacious ; and these were small 
 The things in her house were good, but they were new. Here the 
 plate was old, the furniture was old, the pictures were old ; there 
 was an old-fashioned air about the whole, far more pleasing than 
 anything of the newest fashion. And at his end of the table sat 
 the chief, old himself, yet in the most beautiful and picturesque 
 time of man's life — the time of autumn, the age of stateliness and 
 dignity, not of decrepitude. Maude herself, with her thin, pale 
 cheeks and lustrous eyes, her dress of black velvet, with a diamond 
 cross, looked in her place as doing duty for the Chatelaine. A 
 quiet, easy dinner, in which everyone felt that in a home dinner 
 conversation need not be forced. Maude saw her brother looking 
 at the girl she wanted him to marry with eyes that seemed full of 
 admiration. At last, she thought, even his cold heart was moved. 
 He was moved — a little — as much as liis anxieties allowed him to 
 be moved — as much as any woman could then have moved him. 
 The prospect of release removed a load of those anxieties. The 
 thought that his sister expected him to propose to the girl immedi- 
 ately, and the satisfaction of considering that he might really be 
 free and able to take that step, made him regard her more curiously. 
 Yes, she was certainly a very pretty girl, and of a type not com- 
 mon in these realms. As Maude watched him she thought, but 
 only for a moment — because it was but a wild hope, a hopeless 
 hope — that perhaps his affections might be fixed, and the attrac- 
 tions of the green table be forgotten. But she was too sensible to 
 dwell upon this unhappiness. She knew, from long and patient 
 study of her brother, that his case was really as hopeless as the case 
 of an habitual drunkard. He would have his vicissitudes. With 
 money to spare, he might run on for years ; but, in the long run, 
 the end was certain. All that could be lost would be lost. Yet, 
 with tliis absolute certainty of knowledge, she would not hesitate 
 for a moment to sacrifice the innocent and truthful girl who believed 
 all she was told, and suspected no motive. If the evil time must 
 come, let it be put oE as long as possible ; perhaps it might not 
 come till he who would feel it most would know it and feel it 
 more. 
 
 ' Guy,' said Lord Ferrier, when they were alone, ' your cousin 
 is a very charming girl.' 
 
 'Yes, sir, she is very charming.' 
 
 'And very beautiful.' 
 
 'She is very beautiful.' 
 
 ' Is she . . . has she any entanglement ? ' 
 
 *I believe, six-, she has none.' 
 
THE ONLY WAY OUT OF IT. 303 
 
 Lord Ferrier looked about him, and stroked his chin reflectively. 
 
 ' Then, Guy,' he said, ' we will go upstairs.' 
 
 The three ladies were sitting together. Mrs. Hallowes presently 
 rose and began talking to Lord Ferrier.' Maude went to the piano 
 and began to play something. Guy sat down beside Virginie. 
 Perhaps it was the soft atmosphere of the room ; perhaps the wine 
 he had been drinking ; perhaps the sense of freedom gained by his 
 newly-conceived idea ; perhaps the words of his father — which 
 made his heart feel an unwonted glow as he looked upon the girl 
 whose fortune would make all things right for him. 
 
 ' You are looking, JVIrs. Hallowes,' said his Lordship, 'at one of 
 my pictures ' — it represented a girl in a field ; and Mrs. Hallowes 
 was wondering, before she burst into admiration, whether it was 
 meant for a gipsy, or perhaps an Indian woman, or a Nymph, or a 
 brown fairy. ' My daughter, when at the age of fifteen. Thank 
 you, yes ; it is admitted to be a speaking likeness. Yet the 
 Academy refused it. You see,' he added, with a smile, 'they v.'ill 
 not allow a man who has a title to paint. We must not touch 
 things professional.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' cried ]\&s. Hallowes, who knew almost as 
 much about Art as poor Yirginie. ' Is it possible ? The most deli- 
 cately-painted, the most striking likeness.' 
 
 Virginie was sitting in an easy-chair, beside a lamp covered with 
 a soft, warm shade, whose colour was reflected on her cheek ; 
 other lamps with soft shades were standing about the room, so that 
 it glowed with a soft subdued light : she held a fan in her hand : 
 her eyes were soft and dreamy : she was listening to the soft and 
 dreamy music. 
 
 Maude went on playing, and watched with keen and anxious 
 eyes. So far all was well : her brother, for the first time in her 
 experience, seemed attracted : she played more softly ■ — more 
 dreamilj' : in the old, old days, when he was a lad fresh from Eton, 
 and still open to sweet influences, this dreamy music would make 
 him sit listening as long as she chose to play. The thoughts of a boy 
 are long, long thoughts ; and now he was a man, with hardened heart, 
 and the old innocence was gone : but yet the music touched him. 
 
 Yet not as it had done formerly, when it roused his mind for n 
 moment to noble ambitions. Now it fell upon his soul as some 
 potent drug mounts to the brain, and makes a man see things which 
 exist not and believe things impossible to be real. His freedom 
 was already achieved — somehow : he was actually free — in imagi- 
 nation. The ' other one ' had actually accepted her discilarge — in 
 his imagination. 
 
 He was able to do — under these happy circumstances — what his 
 sister wanted him to do. He would make her happy : he would 
 make his cousin happy : he would make liis father happy. Every- 
 body should be happy, till the money was all gone. He put the 
 thing to himself in this lively benevolent way, as if it was a duty 
 closely connected with the fifth comniandment. 
 
306 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' Virginie,' he whispered. 
 
 She blushed. It was the first time that her cousin had addressed 
 her by her Christian name. 
 
 ' Yirginie,' he repeated, gently. I have said that he had a low, 
 rich voice. 
 
 Maude heard. She saw her brother's bending head and her 
 cousin's blushing cheeks ; and she went on playing more softly, 
 more dreamily, as if her very soul were wrapped and lapped in the 
 melody. 
 
 ' May I see you alone ? ' he asked. ' Virginie, my happiness is 
 at stake.' 
 
 His own happiness, of course. After all, you can't ask a girl to 
 marry you on the ground that it will make her happy. Less selfish 
 men than Guy approach this delicate subject in the same manner. 
 
 ' My happiness is at stake,' he repeated, feeling quite sure that 
 the magnitude of the interests involved would not fail of moving 
 any v/oman's heart. 
 
 She made no reply. Maude, watching, saw how her colour 
 came and went. 
 
 Then Lord Ferrier stepped to her, and interrupted the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 ' Will you sing to me, my dear ? ' he said. ' Will you sing me 
 one of your little French songs 1 ' 
 
 ' If that will give you any pleasure, my Lord.' 
 
 ' All that you do, fair cousin, gives me pleasure. You are born 
 under a happy star, to give nothing but pleasure to all \vho love you, 
 my dear.' 
 
 She smiled, and sang her song. Guy stood by her. "WTien slie 
 finished, he whispered, again, ' Let me see you alone. Let me call 
 upon you to-morrow. You w ill see me alone '? ' 
 
 ' I will try,' she said, blushing. 
 
 Mrs. Hallowes had other engagements for tlie evening ; but 
 when they came away, Virginie requested to be set down at home. 
 She had a headaclie ; she wanted to be alone. 
 
 ' Tiiy dear,' said her guardian. ' Captain Ferrier asked me to- 
 night to allow him to see you to-morrow alone. I told him that I 
 could not possibly make any objection. But your decision is in your 
 own hands, Virginie. Shall I say anything for it — or against it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no — no ! ' she replied ; ' only ... it seems so sudden 
 . . . and what will Captain Kemyss say 1 and my mother ? and 
 Tom ? ' 
 
 ' If Tom is a good brother, ' said IMrs. Hallowes, ' he wiU be 
 rejoiced. Captahi Kemyss is a sensible man. Of course he will be 
 rejoiced. And as for your mother, why, my dear, can it be pos- 
 sible that she would not rejoice at your marriage with the heir, wlio 
 will some day be the head of tlie House, the future Lord Ferrier 1 
 Ask your heart, my dear, and leave \\\q rest to me.' 
 
 ' I ask my heart in vain.' said the girl, half laughing, half 
 Bighiiig ; ' for T get no reply.' 
 
THE ONLY WAY OUT OF IT. 307 
 
 ' You do not dislike him ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no — no. How can I dislike a man so good and noble 
 aa Guy 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Hallowes said nothing for a while. She was, in fact, lost 
 in natural admiration of Maude's great cleverness, because she had, 
 for her own part, looked in vain for the least sign of this great 
 nobility ; Maude had filled this young person's mind with a 
 romantic and impossible conception of her brother's character. 
 Nevertheless, if the end was good, what matter for the means? 
 Besides is there any romance which lasts beyond the fourth week 
 of the honeymoon ? 
 
 ' If you do not dislike him, my dear child, the way is already 
 paved for love. But, indeed, I would not seek to persuade you. 
 Ask, I say again, your own heart.' 
 
 All night long, Virginie lay tossing, disquiet, anxious. If she 
 dropped asleep, dreadful dreams came to her. She was back at 
 Mon De'sir. Tom looked at her with reproacliful eyes ; the Pro- 
 fessor held up hands at her and turned away in despair, reminding 
 her that he had always loved her, and expected to be considered, 
 after Tom ; even Captain Kemyss, when he saw her coming slowly 
 up the avenue of palms, dropped his face in his hands, as if he were 
 ashamed of her. 
 
 Brit why ? For surely a great thing for her, and a thing which 
 her father would have liked ; and Captain Ferrier was the best of 
 men, although of such sensitive and highly strung nature ; and per- 
 haps it would please Lord Ferrier ; and Maude would like it ; and 
 Mrs. Hallowes would like it. And yet — and yet — some fear, some 
 regret, some disappointment in her mind. And when she rose on 
 the morning which was to be that of her betrothal it was with red 
 eyes and a heavy heart. 
 
 'Guy,' Maude whispered before they parted. 'What did you 
 say to Virginie to-night \ ' 
 
 ' I could not say much with all of you in the room. What I am 
 to say to-morrow will please yon, Maude.' 
 
 ' I hope it will please her.' 
 
 ' I suppose it will. Why shouldn't it ? ' Most girls like to 
 marry an eldest son. Besides . . . Oh ! of course it will please her.' 
 
 'And then . . . Guy . . . Remember a wife is not a sister.' The 
 tears came into her eyes. . . . ' If you make her unhappy — as you 
 have made me unhappy — I shall ne /er forget that, if I had told her the 
 truth, she would rather die than many you. Yet, if not for you, 
 for my father's sake I would do it again, whatever the consequences. 
 I would rather that Virginie were unhappy than that his last 
 years should be disgraced.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Maude. You are a kind and loving sister. You 
 always contrive to say such pleasant things when a man has gone 
 out of his way to please you.' 
 
 x2 
 
303 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' I say the truth to you, now and then, because I cannot help it, 
 I suppose. Good-ni^'ht, Guy ! You have got all my little fortune ; 
 J ou have got all the money you can raise on your reversionary 
 interests ; you are loaded and crushed with debts ; you have gambled 
 everything away. There is tliis one chance left you — a sweet and 
 true-hearted girl, who will love you for yourself if you show her a 
 grain of sympathy, and who will bring you a fortune that will set 
 you up for life, unless you throw that away as well. But I know 
 — oh ! I know — what will be the end of it. It is all I can do for 
 you, Guy ; your last chance — your last chance. And God forgive 
 you if ... ' Her voice broke, and she left liim. 
 
 Guy looked after her angrily. 
 
 'AVhat the devil,' he said, ' has come to Maude to-night? As 
 for Virginie ' 
 
 Then he thought of the money-bags, and that sweet vision of 
 green cloth floated before his eyes, and he smiled. What mattered 
 Maude's anger or Virginie's happiness, compared with the glorious 
 fight with chance lying almost within his grasp 1 He went to his 
 club, and drank a brandy-and-soda. Then he remembered the 
 interview wliich he must have, some time, with his wife. His con- 
 science was pretty well dead within him ; but yet he did seem to 
 remember that there was an ugly word in tliree syllables which 
 stood for a certain unlawful thing, only possible to be committed 
 by men already once married. But, then ! — pah ! — absurd ! Yiolet 
 would be only too glad to accept her release. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 In the morning Captain Ferrier made a mistake which is common, 
 indeed, but always fatal — that is to say, he put the cart before the 
 horse. In other words, he reckoned his chickens before they were 
 hatched. To be UKjre precise, because he wanted a thing to happen 
 he supposed that it was going to happen, even though rivers would 
 have to run up hills and rain to fall out of cloudless skies. To be 
 intelligible to the meanest comprehension, he neglected to follow 
 an old precept, designed for such as liimself, which teaches that it 
 is well to be off with the old love before you are on with the new. 
 Bluebeard owed the greatest successes of his romantic career to 
 remembering this proverb, which Captain Ferrier forgot. To come 
 to facts, he called upon Yirginie before he called upon Yiolet. 
 ISTow, it was most essential for the successful conduct of ^his case 
 that the latter should fall in with Iiis views and be a consenting 
 party to that ugly word of six letters and tluree syllables. 
 
 Virginie received him with a conscious blush, because, of course, 
 ahe knew well what he came to say. She was still actively engaged 
 
THE ENGAGEMENT. 309 
 
 !n following Mrs. Hallowes's advice — namely, in asking her own 
 heart. Notiimg is more difBcult to do, when you come to try it. 
 For, first, how are you to put your questions '\ What questions are 
 you to put 1 And suppose you get no answer — what are you to do 
 next ? This was exactly poor Virginie's case. She wanted to find 
 out how she should like to marry her cousin, and she could not get 
 the least glimpse or foreshadowing of what would happen, or Ikiw 
 things might be, either towards happiness or repentance in tlie 
 future. Nor could she understand herself as Guy Ferrier's daily 
 companion. If she had been older, more experienced, a reader of 
 novels or of poetiy, she would have understood perfectly well tliat 
 tliere was no fluttering of her heart at the prospect before her, and 
 that she cared nothing at all about the man, but only respected an 
 ideal. Also she would have understood that what Mrs. Hallowes 
 and ladies like unto her mean by the phrase of asking one's heart 
 is to be interpreted in the sense of ' consider the establishment and 
 the position.' But this she did not understand, and it would have 
 been incredible to her that her cousin, this soul of honour and fine 
 feeling, could esteem her fortune as of the least importance in 
 asking her to be his wife. She Avas as yet little more than a child 
 in experience, though eighteen years of age : she knew nothing 
 more of society than she had learned from four months with Mrs. 
 Hallowes, and even that lady knew nothing about the personal 
 character of Captain Ferrier. To be sure, the personal character 
 of the heir to a peerage must be very, very bad to form an obstacle 
 to marriage ; yet there are some vices, of which the inveterate vice 
 of gambling is one, which cannot be overlooked even by women of 
 the world. English girls teach each other and learn from books 
 and the talk of their elders the true meaning, the proportion, the 
 value of things, especially of money and rank, concerning which no 
 'class of perst)ns' can be said to feel more strongly or to distinguish 
 more correctly. But who was to teach this young colonial that 
 nothing is what it seems to be, and that we build our social structure 
 on make-believe and assumption '] 
 
 In one of the queer, wild desregUs romances of the last century, 
 when the French, like the Russians of the present day, were busy 
 tearing every social institution up by the roots to see whether it 
 would not grow equally well with the roots up and the head down, 
 there was a certain ingenious Abbe', who -wTote the history of a 
 young lady brought up in a single room, and introduced to the out- 
 side world after she arrived at years of womanhood. Naturally, 
 she took a new, original, and quite unconventional view of the 
 tilings which she saw. Virginie was in something of the same 
 condition as tiie young lady brought up in the box. She believed 
 wlvcit she was tuld, and what she saw. Therefore, when Maude 
 told her how great and good and generous a man was her only 
 brother, she naturally accepted the assurance, and wondered where 
 so admirable a man would find a wife woitliy of him. That she 
 herself would be asked to occupy that position was, indeed, most 
 
310 THEY M'EBE MARBIEB. 
 
 amazing. And now he stood before her ; he bent over her ; he 
 "w'hispered in his low, full voice, which really sounded as if he was 
 full of feeling. 
 
 ' Virginie ! you know why I am here. Will you bid me hope ? ' 
 
 She made no reply, because she did not know what to say. 
 
 * It is for my own happiness. ' These were the words he had 
 used last night ; and it did seem to Virginie, even at tliat moment, 
 as if, at such a moment, there was more to be considered than her 
 suitor's happiness. 
 
 Still she made no reply. 
 
 ' My sister, Maude, will be pleased, I know. My father will be 
 pleased, I am sure. Yirginie, give me your hand.' 
 
 He took it. He held it. Then he stooped and kissed her 
 forehead. She had said nothing ; not one word ; but she was 
 engaged. 
 
 Her lover dropped her hand and walked to the window, with a 
 B!gh. Why did he sigh \ He stayed there for a few minutes 
 without saying anything. Then he came back, and sat beside 
 her. 
 
 He spoke slowly, and said little, and that little was strange. 
 It was an arrangement, he repeated, in cold and measured words, 
 that would be satisfactory to all concerned. It was necessary for 
 liim to many ; it was pleasant to marry his cousin ; they would 
 lia%'e an early day fixed ; his father would, perhaps, be the best 
 l>erson to write to Captain Kemyss, and she should write to her 
 mother, and perhaps she would tell Mrs. Hallowes, and so they 
 could all go on just the same as before. ' Of course,' he said, ' I 
 shall be delighted to do anything for you that I possibly can. 
 You will, I know, command me. But about balls and evening 
 parties ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I do not want you to go anywhere unless you like.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I am not fond of these social things. You 
 greatly relieve me. It is very good of you.' He spoke with an 
 approach to feeling, 'I always think tliat a pair of people who are 
 going to be married look absiu^d going about together. So glad 
 that you agree with me.' 
 
 Then he rose, and said that he believed there was no more 
 to be said, and he kissed her again on the forehead and went 
 away. 
 
 Poor Yirginie had no experience in love-making, and had read 
 few novels ; but she had looked for the display of more feeling. 
 Still, a man of Guy's refinement was not to be expected to make 
 boisterous love, like a common rustic and an ungoverned person. 
 Perhaps, however, he would say more when he recovered from the 
 emotion under which he had been labouring — that sigh ! — and 
 when she herself recovered from her fright. 
 
 Then Mrs. Hallowes came into the room and asked her, with a 
 smile, if she had seen Captain Ferrier, and then kissed her, and 
 told her that she was a girl greatly to be envied, and that her own 
 
THE ENGAGEMENT. 311 
 
 fortune, added to her lover's position, ought to enable her to take 
 any place — any place she pleased — in Society. ' And then, my 
 dear,' she said, ' you will remember me, and ask me to your very 
 best parties.' 
 
 The happy lover went straight to his sister. He was feeling, 
 in fact, pretty low about the thing he had done. Still, there was 
 no cause for anxiety : not the least. The other person would be 
 rejoiced to meet him half way. But he rather began to wish that 
 he had paid the less pleasant visit first. 
 
 ' I've done it, Maude,' he said, in deep and sepulchral tones. 
 
 ' Done it ! You mean that you have actually ' 
 
 ' Yes. I'm engaged to the Creole girl. That's what I mean.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Guy. I am so happy and thankful. But why are you 
 looking gloomy over it ? ' 
 
 ' Because I feel gloomy.' 
 
 ' I suppose I am a fool ; but I confess I cannot sympathise 
 with you, my brother.' 
 
 ' No. I did not suppose you would.' 
 
 ' It can't be money at such a moment.' 
 
 ' It isn't money. It's worse than money, perhaps. Oh ! 
 
 IMaude ' Here he stopped. ' No. Now I'm engaged,' he 
 
 added, more lightly, ' I shall go round and tell them all to wait.' 
 
 'There is no one — is there ' — Maude asked suspiciously, 'that 
 you would rather marry ? You are not in love, somewhere else, 
 are you, Guy ? ' 
 
 ' In love ! Women are always thinking of love. No ; there 
 is no one else I would rather marry. Come, Maude, never mind. 
 Be pleased because you've got what you wanted, and I shall have 
 the money — with the wife. Pity I can't borrow it of her, ana let 
 her marry someone else.' 
 
 ' Do you happen to know — but, of course, you could not ask 
 her — how it is settled ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I suppose I shall get the spending of it, 
 somehow, whichever way it is settled.' 
 
 ' I asked Mrs. Hallowes once, but she does not know. Nor 
 does she know how much it is. There is a charge on the estate for 
 the mother for life ; that is all she knows. Well, Guy' — she 
 heaved a great sigh — • ' you will have it, whatever the amount is ; 
 but I hope, I sincerely hope, that it is all tied up and settled upon 
 her, so that she cannot even sell out.' 
 
 ' No one loses who can hold on,' said Guy, gravely. ' The 
 devil of it is having to leave off just when your luck is on the turn. 
 Don't be afraid, Maude. I shall do very well. Will you tell my 
 father, or shall I % ' 
 
 ' Do you tell him, Guy. He will be greatly pleased, I am sure. 
 Go now and tell him ; and, for Heaven's sake, my dear boy, try 
 not to look as if you were going to be hanged.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Maude to herself. ' 1 wonder what it is — who 
 it is. He says there is nobody he would rather many. At one 
 
312 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 time I was afraid he might have got himself entangled. But it 
 can't be that. Why has he always set his face against marriage ? 
 And shall — oh ! shall I — get my jewels back ?' 
 
 No ; she will never get her jewels back, because now she has 
 found out why Guy's engagement oppressed him with so profound 
 a gloom. 
 
 Lord Ferrier was, indeed, greatly pleased. Nothing that his 
 son had done pleased him so much. Indeed, the contemplation of 
 his successor's career so far gave him little cause for gratification, 
 although he knew nothing of the quagmire of debts, liabilities, 
 money raised on reversionary interests and post obits in which Guy 
 was plunged. 
 
 ' I congratulate you,' he said, ' on your good taste and good 
 judgment. Yirginie is a most charming girl. I shall go this 
 afternoon to tell her so, and to thank her for giving you her hand. 
 Her fortune is considerable, and, properly husbanded, may help to 
 win back some of our lost acres. You must regard it as a trust for 
 that purpose, Guy. Think of your successors.' 
 
 ' I will, sir,' said Guy, with conviction. 
 
 ' I suppose that there is no need to hurry the wedding, "We 
 must iirst get the consent of her mother and her guardian. Captain 
 Kemyss. It is now June. It will take two months or so to get 
 their reply, v/hich we may understand will be favourable. Let us 
 hold the wedding in September, if that will do for everybody ; 
 and, considering that Virginie is already a daughter of the house, 
 I think, Guy, that we should celebrate the event at The Towers. 
 But all shall be as she wishes ; all as she wishes.' 
 
 The old man began to make plans for the happiness of the 
 young pair. They should. live at The Towers, if they pleased ; he 
 AA anted nothing but bachelor's quarters there : they could have the 
 town house where they pleased, and so on. 
 
 ' And, Guy, now that you are engaged, I think you should send 
 in your papers. You have had nearly ten years' soldiering, which 
 is five more than my allowance. A country gentleman owes duties 
 to Ixis country ; and, if I were you, I would take up politics. Your 
 wife, with her wonderful beauty and her manner, which is charming, 
 is fitted to become a leader of society. She miglit even become to 
 the Conservative cause what Lady Palmerston was to the Liberals. 
 She should be of the greatest help to you, if you care for a political 
 career. And why not, Guy ? Why not 1 Surely there never was 
 a time when there was a better opening for a man of ability. 
 Think it over.' 
 
 ' I will, sir,' said Guy. ' I will think it over.' 
 
 He went away, and his father fell to building castles in the air, 
 based on the many virtues of his promised daughter-in-law. Then 
 Maude came, and they talked together about it, and how wonder- 
 fully things had turned out as they wished, and what a remarkable 
 Providence it was that a bride and a fortune should be found for 
 Guy in so forgotten and obscure a place as Palmiste Island. 
 
THE ENGAGEMENT. 313 
 
 ' Let the fortune be tied up,' said Maude, anxiouslj^, 'so that 
 Guy cannot touch any of it, or dispose of it.' 
 
 ' By all means,' her father replied. ' Yet I like a wife to show 
 some trust in her husband. All these arrangements should be left 
 to her guardian. We will go and see Mrs. Hallowes this afternoon, 
 Maude. Of course you will be gracious to her. I have observed 
 that you have always been kind to her. Perhaps with a view — - 
 Maude, is every woman a match-maker 1 We will go this afternoon, 
 and we will bring gifts. I shall give her one of my pictures — the 
 Joan of Arc, I think, or the Mary Queen of Scots. And we w ill 
 find something pretty among the old gimcracks : something belong- 
 ing to your great-grandmother, who was also her own. That she 
 will value much better than if we bought her some new trinket in 
 Bond Street. Come, Maude, let us go and turn over some of the 
 pretty things. 
 
 Thus was Virginie engaged : thus was she welcomed as a 
 daughter by the old Lord and a sister by Maude. They all dined 
 with Mrs. Hallowes that evening. Guy was still silent and pre- 
 occupied, thinking over his great and singular happiness, no doubt. 
 Virginie looked in vain for any words of the deeper heart, because 
 none came at all. And even Mrs. Hallowes thought, though she 
 said nothing, that a little attention was due from the young man to 
 h-is fiancee ; and that Captain Ferrier seemed certainly the coldest 
 lover she had ever heard of. But Lord Ferrier saw nothing of 
 this : he was the lover : he made Virginie sit beside him and held 
 her hand in his, and stroked her hair, and whispered how haj^py 
 she would make him in becoming his daughter, and what a lucky 
 man was his son. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HUSBAIfD AJS'D WIFE. 
 
 The interview with Violet must be held sooner or later, because, 
 from the very nature of the things to be said, they could not possibly 
 be written. One may have no conscience — many men certainly 
 have no conscience ; but few men are destitute of common sense, 
 and there is generally some caution in wickedness. Again, to put 
 down in black and white — which may be read by anybody — an 
 offer to your wife that she maj^ if she please, go and marry some 
 one else, provided you are allowed the same liberty, would be, 
 besides a very imprudent thing, a thing which might go straight to 
 the head, and lead to repentance before the deed. This kind oi 
 repentance is regrettable, because it sometimes ends in preventing 
 the crime altogether. Yet one wonders why it has not been 
 preached up more. Again, if you go and make such an offer in 
 words, you may be able to dress it up in flowers and figures of 
 
314 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 fancy, so that by persuasive art its great wickedness may be con- 
 cealed, and its general advantages alone remain in sight. ^Now the 
 general advantages of a clean slate are obvious to all. 
 
 Guy knew his wife's address, because it was the old one. He 
 knew that she still lived with Paul Perigal, as she had done in 
 former days. He called at the house the next morning at twelve. 
 Miss Lovelace was not returned from the theatre : he would wait 
 for her. No ; he would not give his card. Miss Lovelace would 
 see him when she came home. 
 
 He walked upstairs with the air of a man who knew his way 
 about the house, and went into the drawing-room. 
 
 A young lady — rather a j^retty girl — rose as he came in. 
 'Pardon me,' said Guy, astonished ; 'I am waiting to see Miss 
 Lovelace.' 
 
 The girl gathered up some work. 
 
 ' I will tell her,' she said. ' Perhaps she will not be home for 
 half an hour. But Mr. Perigal will be back immediately.' 
 
 ' I do not want to see Mr. Perigal at all,' said Guy, rudely. 
 ' May I ask, if you please, who you are 1 ' 
 
 'I am the boy's governess and companion' — it was, in fact, 
 Elsie ; ' and at present he is asleep.' 
 
 And then she knew, by the change in her visitor's face and 
 the sudden look of resemblance, to whom she was talking. 
 
 ' I will go,' she said, hastily ; and fairly ran out of the room. 
 ' A governess ! ' He had forgotten the boy. ' Already a 
 governess. Yes ; he must be in his sixth year. By gad ! And 
 Violet has got on.' He looked about him. The room was hung 
 with bright curtains ; there were flowers in the window ; it was 
 papered and painted in the new style ; on the walls were pictures, 
 some of them good ; there were choice cups and all kinds of pretty 
 things in cabinets. ' She has got on. In the old days there was a 
 ragged carpet here, and it was the girl's school-room, where she 
 learned to act ; and a table with marks of beer, and pipes on the 
 mantelshelf ; and an old man in a shabby coat.' 
 
 ' I think — oh ! Mr. Perigal, don't go upstairs. I think ' — cried 
 Elsie, below, in great agitation — ' it , is her husband come back 
 again. A tall man with dark eyes. When I said I was the gover- 
 ness, he scowled. Shall I go upstairs and watch beside the boy 1 
 Shall I call a policeman 1 ' 
 
 'I will beard him,' said the actor, solemnly. 
 Wlien the door opened and the old man appeared Guy per- 
 ceived that he was transformed as well — that is, his coat was no 
 longer shabby. Violet's success meant new coats and new boots 
 for her old friend — it would, also, let us add, have meant honour- 
 able retirement to her father the carpenter, and her mother the 
 dresser ; but they would have died out of harness — and new furni- 
 ture for the house, and newness and briglitness generally, with a 
 good deal of champagne, which Paul regarded, just as the young 
 mac of the present day, as the drink of the gods. The old man 
 
HUSBAND A.XD IVIFE. 315 
 
 also had a beautiful new wig, curly, well combed, and as black as 
 M'hen he was freshly entering upon the thirties. Also his eyebrows 
 were beautifully pencilled, so that if he could have hidden the 
 crow's-feet and shaken a more jaunty leg he might have passed for 
 forty. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Paul, recognising him. ' You are the man, are you ? 
 You are — the — man.' He spoke with a hissing breath betv/een 
 every word, which is one way, and very effective too, of expressing 
 contempt. 
 
 ' What the devil ' began Guy. 
 
 ' You are my Violet's husband ; and a pretty husband too. You 
 desert her a year after you married her ; you send her back without 
 a penny in her pocket for her baby and herself : you leave her for 
 live years ; and when she makes her mark and begins to command 
 her price you come back to stand in with her. That is the kind 
 of man, sir, you are.' 
 
 It was remarkable about Paul Perigal that, even when in 
 deepest earnest, he used old catchwords of the stage. Sometimes 
 they were so very old that they had long since lost their force. 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' said Guy, taken completely aback at this unex- 
 jiected charge. He expected to be accused of cruelty, and of 
 neglect, and desertion ; but it did not occur to him that his visit 
 would be construed into an attempt to live upon his wife's salary. 
 Yet the suggestion gave him a hint, which he was not slow to act 
 upon. They were afraid that he would claim a husband's rights 
 over her money, were they ? Good. 
 
 'We are no longer, however,' Paul Perigal went on, 'without 
 defenders. We have friends. It is no more a question of one old 
 man — nobody but myself — standing between the serpent and his 
 victim-che-yild.' He really was quite desperately in earnest ; but 
 he had personated virtuous indignation so often on the stage that 
 in real emotion he naturally fell back upon the language of melo- 
 drama. ' We have but to raise our hands, and all London would 
 rise in defence of its favourite, the fair and accomplished Violet — 
 my pupil — your innocent victim — Mr. — Mr. — Marryer- under-false- 
 names i ' 
 
 ' You are an old fool ! ' said Guy. 
 
 ^^^lat Paul would have said in reply, one knows not. While he 
 was gathering himself together for the effort of retort, Violet her- 
 self burst into the room. She heard downstairs that a gentleman 
 was waiting for her, and she divined who her visitor might be. 
 
 ' How dare you come to this house 1 ' she asked, with resolution 
 in her eye. 
 
 'I see,' said Guy, slowly. He was sitting in her easiest and 
 most comfortable chair, and did not go through the formality of 
 rising for purposes of greeting or courtesy. ' I see that success has 
 not changed your temper.' 
 
 ' Daddy,' said Violet, quietly, ' leave us alone. No, I am myt 
 in the least afraid of the man, I assure you.' She shut the door 
 
S16 THEY WERE MABRIED. 
 
 after him, and then, standing beside the table, looked her husband 
 in the face, not defiantly, but as one who has the command of the 
 situation. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you quietly, and without heroics. If you 
 please to listen — — ' 
 
 ' Go on,' said Violet. ' The very sight of you iires my blood — 
 but go on — go on — let me hear you.' 
 
 ' What I have to say shall be brief. When we parted it was on 
 the understanding that we should never at any time trouble one 
 another again.' 
 
 ' It was. Then why do you come here ? ' 
 
 ' You told me to go my way, and you would go yours.' 
 
 ' I did. I have gone my way. It has been a hard and toilsome 
 way : but I have won what I wanted.' 
 
 ' Very good, I shall not seek to disturb you in the possession of 
 anything that you may have won if you agree to mj' proposition. I 
 have gone my way, too. But I have not been so fortunate as you. 
 I have lost what I hoped to win.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' She meant to imply that she cared notliing at all 
 whether he won or lost. 
 
 ' I am now,' he continued, ' a perfectly ruined man. There is 
 nothing left. I have raised money on my reversionary interests till 
 they are mortgaged to the hilt ; I have debts which must be jjaid — 
 somehow — debts of honour. There is one way by which I can pay 
 those debts.' 
 
 ' What do your debts concern me ? ' 
 
 ' They might concern you very seriously. Of course you know 
 that, as your husband, I have the right to draw all your pay.' 
 
 Violet turned pale. That was what Paul had told her. 
 
 ' Draw mj' pay % But"we are separated.' 
 
 'That makes no difierence unless we are separated under a bond 
 and agreement, which is not the case. However, the question may 
 not arise. I only mentioned it to show that my creditors might, if 
 they pleased ' 
 
 'Goon.' 
 
 ' There is, I said, one way out of the difficulty. It is nothing for 
 you to consent to — in fact, you will be the greatest gainer by it — 
 which is why I expect you to agree— and yet it is everything for 
 me. Tell me, is there the least chance of any present or future 
 reconciliation between us 1 ' 
 
 'Never — never— never.' Her resolute lips were set firm. She 
 meant it. The wounds inflicted on her by this man were still fresh 
 in her memory. She would never forget them. 
 
 'Quite so. And what I expected — and hoped. Yes; hoped, 
 by Jove,' he said, in the hard and cruel tones which had formerly 
 maddened her. 
 
 ' We regard each other,' he went on, ' with profound aversion. 
 We do not wish ever to meet again, not even to hear from eftcli 
 other. Is not that the case \ ' 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 317 
 
 'It is.' 
 
 ' Then, Violet,' he said, springing to his feet, ' make the separa- 
 tion complete. We were married in secret. We will be divorced 
 in secret. I give you your liberty. Go ; marry — if you please — ■ 
 and anyone you please. I am sorry to have stood in your light so 
 long. You are bound no longer — we are divorced.' 
 
 He spoke rapidly, gesticulating with his hands. 
 
 ' You agree ? ' he asked. 
 
 She was carried way by his impetuous words ; she was on the 
 point of accepting the release offered her, when, foi'tunately, the 
 old distrust of all he did or said came back to her, and she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 ' You make me free,' she said, 'on condition of my making you 
 free in return. Is that so ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. It is not a gift which I offer you. I have no gifts 
 for you. The time of making gifts is past and gone long ago. This 
 is a bargain.' 
 
 ' It is a bargain,' she repeated. ' If I accept it ' 
 
 * If you accept it,' he interposed, 'you will be free to make any 
 match you please among your numerous admirers. No one will 
 know anything of the past ; nobody need know. I was married as 
 plain Richard Johnson, you in your own name of Emily Hicks. 
 The only witnesses were your own father and the old actor. They 
 can be squared, I suppose. Who would identify Richard Johnson 
 with me 1 Who would find Emily Hicks in Violet Lovelace I ' 
 
 ' 1 should be free to many again. But suppose I do not want 
 to marry again ? ' 
 
 ' Hang it ! you will some day.' 
 
 'And you — if I accept — will also marry again.' 
 
 'Yes ; I shall marry a woman with money.' 
 
 ' Do you love her ? ' 
 
 ' What lias that got to do with the thing ? She has money ; I 
 want money.' 
 
 'Yes,' she was trying to put the matter quite clearly before 
 herself. ' And if I do not accept ? ' 
 
 'Then — many things will happen to you — and to me — and you 
 will discover that the bond of husband and wife may lead to dis- 
 agreeable surprises. Come, Violet, do not be revengeful, even if I 
 seem at first to have the best of the bargain. In the long run ' 
 
 ' And when he grows up- — when the boy asks me who was his 
 father — what am I to say ? ' 
 
 ' Richard Johnson, Gentleman, Deceased. Poor Dick ! Wipe 
 your eyes. Call him Johnson. Show the boy your marriage lines. 
 Speak tenderly of his father.' 
 
 ' And the boy's rights ? ' 
 
 ' What rights ? ' 
 
 ' Your heir's rights — what of them ? ISo ; when the boy is of 
 age he shall know the truth.' 
 
 Guy pondered. When the boy came of age. That would be in 
 
3] 8 THEY WERE MABRIEB. 
 
 sixteen years' time. Sixteen years. The curate who had married 
 them had long since forgotten the obscure couple who stood before 
 liim one cold day in November. The witnesses, Paul Perigal and 
 Hicks, the carpenter, would most certainly be dead in sixteen 
 years. Who was to identify him with llichard Johnson ? Who 
 could prove that the Richard Johnson, the undoubted husband of 
 Violet, was himself — Guy Ferrier ? Aiad as for letters from him, 
 there was not one— he remembered with infinite satisfaction — not 
 one, because he had never written her a single letter. 
 
 ' I agree,' he said, softly and persuasively, ' to acknowledging 
 the boy as my heir when he is of age. Till then, you can keep 
 liim out of the way. Now, Violet, once more consider my proposal. 
 Let me go free ; let me marry without creating any scandal ; go 
 and marry yourself, if you like. If you do this, you will have the 
 boy to yourself ; you can bring him up anyhow you please. When 
 he is of age, but not before, tell him that he is to be the next Lord 
 Ferrier. Bring him to me, and you will be heartily glad that ' 
 
 ' What kind of things will happen to me ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' First of all, there will be an almighty smash. Then, every- 
 body will know that the beautiful Violet Lovelace is the wife of the 
 man who has smashed, and his creilitors will include her money in 
 the estate.' 
 
 ' And the Boy — oh ! the Boy,' she cried. 
 
 ' A man is always allowed to have the custody of his boy at the 
 age of seven. The boy is now, I suppose, about five. I shall most 
 certainly, if you do not accept my terms, take away the boy as soon 
 as he is seven years old. Understand me quite clearly. I am not 
 at all the man to be moved by your crying and tears. The boy shall 
 be mine as soon as he is seven years of age.' 
 
 The mother's cheek grew pale. 
 
 'There is no act of cruelty or wickedness,' she said, 'that you 
 would not commit. But have my boy you shall not, so long as 
 there is a house in England where I may hide liim. What next will 
 happen ? ' 
 
 ' The boy will be the heir to a title, and nothing else.' 
 
 ' He is that, already. For I suppose you will spend all the 
 money there is.' 
 
 Violet had never played in any piece where there had been 
 mention of entail. She therefore knew nothing about the laws of 
 real property. People have difi'erent opportunities and privileges 
 of acquiring knowledge. An actress learns the secrets of the 
 outside world by the parts she plays. 
 
 Guy was about to explain to her that it might be necessary to 
 cut off the entail by consent of the tenant in possession, his father, 
 and himself, but, as he saw that she knew nothing of the subject, 
 he forbore. 
 
 ' I will acknowledge him. I daresay we shall find a way out of 
 the row about my sec ind marriage, if there is to be any row. Is 
 not this a fair oli'er ? li 3'ou do not accept it, you will have to fight 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 319 
 
 for your money and for your boy ; because I will lay my hands on 
 both.' 
 
 ' I must consider,' said Violet, presently. ' I do not know what 
 traps you may be laying. I must consider. I will send you a 
 reply.^ 
 
 ' Nonsense,' he said, roughly. ' What is the use of considering? 
 The thing is perfectly plain. Nothing could be simpler. If you 
 were to consider for a twelvemonth, it could not be plainer.' 
 
 ' No. I will not decide without consideration. I will send you 
 a reply. Now, if you please, go.' 
 
 ' If you hate me, as I believe you do, Violet ; if you desire 
 never to see or hear from me again, you will accept.' 
 
 ' I do, from my very soul, desire never to see you again. T am 
 a most unhappy woman because I ever fell in your way. Yet J 
 will not accept your offer without further consideration. Listen ! 
 Do you hear that voice ? ' 
 
 It was the boy. He had awakened from bis morning nap, and 
 Elsie was bringing him, laugliing and prattling, downstairs, to have 
 his dinner. 
 
 ' That is your son's voice. Would you like to see him 1 ' 
 
 'No.' This evidence of the child's existence startled and 
 alarmed him. ' No. I do not wish to see the boy.' 
 
 ' I am glad I heard him, for he has made me very certain I can 
 accei)t nothing at j^our hands without consideration. He reminds 
 me, too — could I have forgotten it ? — that your offer to me is a 
 mockery. How should I marry, having to tell that boy his secret ? 
 How should I commit this dreadful crime that you proi)Ose and dare 
 to look upon the boy and to tell him that secret ? How could I 
 bring upon the innocent child shame for his motlier. That shame, 
 at least, he shall never feel. I am an actress ; that I cannot help. 
 Why, if I could help it, I would not, because it is my pride and 
 joy. I do not think the boy will ever be ashamed of liis mother's 
 profession. If he is to be ashamed, it shall be of his father. So — 
 I refuse your proposal.' 
 
 ' Violet, you are a fool ; you do not know what you are doing 
 — you do not consider. . . . Remember ... I do not use idle 
 threats ' 
 
 ' Do what you like — what you can. I refuse your offer. Offer? 
 It is no offer ; it is not in your jiower to give me back my freedom. 
 What a fool I was not to see that from the first ! No one can. 
 Nothing but death can cut that miserable tie. There is my answer. 
 And now, if you please, go ! ' 
 
 ' One moment, Violet. You can, if you please, set up your 
 back and refuse your consent ; but you had better not. Now I 
 modify my offer. You will do as you like. I care nothing at all 
 whether you marry or whether you do not. All I say is, let me do 
 what I please without molestation or fear of interference. Yes ; 
 yes, I know wliat you are going to say. Who is there who will tell 
 you that the man you married six years ago has married again ? 
 
320 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 Don't interfere with me, and then I will not interfere with you. If 
 you stand between me and my proposed marriage, then — Miss 
 Violet Lovelace, or Mrs. Ferrier, or whatever you call yourself — 
 remember that you have a desperate man to deal with.' 
 
 ' And yet I will not pronuse anything. No — I will consider, 
 before all, the rights of the boy. But I will think it over. If it 
 were not for him, I would let you commit this crime without a 
 word. Because of my boy, because I am a mother, I think not 
 only of him but of the other poor creature whom you are going to 
 delude and lead into misery. Oh ! Guy, if you could see yourself 
 as those who know you see you ! If you could see the miserable, 
 contemptible figure you cut, when, no doubt, you think you are a 
 gallant gentleman ! Go — you are but a sneak and a coward.' 
 
 He made no reply ; but he v.'ent away. As he opened the 
 street-door he heard the voice of the boy again shouting and laugh- 
 ing. But this did not soften his heart. 
 
 He walked westward, among the squares of Bloomsbury, think- 
 ing what he would do. He miglit break his engagement with 
 Virginie and let the smash come, and await the consequences. He 
 might go on with it, and let Violet do what she pleased. That was 
 the best thing to do. Probably she would do nothing. She would 
 be too much afraid of his wrath to do anything. He could take 
 the boy ; he could spend her money ; he could make himself in- 
 fernally disagreeable. Yes ; he would go on. She would submit. 
 And as soon as tliese two witnesses to his marriage were dead he 
 would snap his fingers at Violet and bid her do her worst. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 love's young dream. 
 
 When the engagement was fairly and happily accomplished, 
 Maude sat down and breathed more freely. If her brother was 
 in debt and difficulties, her father knew nothing, and, for the 
 present, need know nothing, Perhaps a turn might be taken for 
 the better. Perhaps Guy miglit be influenced by a wife. 
 
 'I shall expect you,' she told him, 'to pay Virginie the atten- 
 tion she deserves. You must pretend to be in love with her, if 
 you are not. Meantime leave her to me. I have already led her 
 to believe you are a second King Arthur — Heaven forgive me ! I 
 must manage, somehow, so that the drop from imagination to 
 reality may pjrove less than . . . than you have given me reason 
 to expect.' 
 
 'Do you think,' he replied, sulkily, 'that I shall cuff and kick 
 her 1 Come, Maude, don't be gloomy. You egged me on. I 
 didn't want to marry the girl. You ought to be happy about it.' 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG BREAM. 321 
 
 * So I should be, Guy, if I could think that any happiness will 
 come to any of us out of it. And it is my doing, whatever comes. 
 Well,' she sighed, 'do not get into any fresh difficulties until your 
 weddjng-day. And — oh ! Guy ; can you— can you keep away 
 from the tables for a little while — only till the autumn ? ' 
 
 He laughed, but not cheerfully. Because he meant that he was 
 not going eveij to try to keep a'svay from the tables. It was not in 
 order to abstain from the one thing he loved that he was going to 
 run this frightful risk of marriage. Not at all. Quite the con- 
 trary. But, then, women are never reasonable. 
 
 When one reads how the most worshipful the Lord Mayor, and 
 with him a following of amiable people, lift up their voices against 
 the wickedness of the French in allowing Monaco to continue, one 
 is reminded of a certain text about a mote and a beam, inasmuch 
 as for every franc which is daily lost and won in that wicked 
 peninsula ten thousand are daily lost and won in the hells of this 
 most virtuous city of West London. Yet my Lord Mayor maketh 
 no sign. If, indeed, hypocrisy be chiefly known in the condemna- 
 tion of sins to which we are secretly addicted, or to wliich we feel 
 no attraction, then, indeed, we are a nation of the most gigantic 
 hyjjocrites — Patagonian hypocrites. We hold indignation meet- 
 ings about the opium trade — and our people are being ruined, body 
 and brain, by bad drinks worse than any opium ; we hold up our 
 hands at the buying and selling of slaves ; yet we allow women to 
 work twelve hours a day for four shillings a week ; and by this 
 underpayment of women's labour, our long hours of shops, and in 
 a hundred other ways, we keep our white slaves, and grow rich 
 upon their labour. All these things make one long for a Prophet, 
 because, if I understand the Prophetic character aright, his most 
 important function — a very uncomfortable one — was to make 
 people see clearly their own wickedness, and the evU things lying 
 under their very noses. No doubt Ahab, before Elijah came, was 
 often indignant when he thought of the abominable wickedness of 
 his Syi'ian neighbour, Benhadad. 
 
 As my Lord Mayor and his friends have not yet spoken on the 
 subject, there exist, for the convenience of young men like Captain 
 Terrier, half a dozen clubs, where the noble game of baccarat, not 
 to speak of ^carttl, picquet, napoleon, pitch and toss, loo, lans- 
 quenet, and many other ingenious devices for the exchange of 
 money — the humbling of the mighty for good, and the exalting of 
 the poor for a season— may be enjoyed. They are chiefly main- 
 tained by and for the gilded youth and the youth who are believed 
 to be gilded. These young men of the modern time take their 
 fling in a manner not unworthy of their ancestors, save that for 
 punch they substitute champagne ; and for beer, champagne ; and 
 for port, champagne ; and that they do not laugh much, and are 
 generally rather low in their spirits, and therefore need the 
 stimulus of champagne at breakfast and at luncheon, and at din- 
 ner, and at the chiming of the midnight bells, and at early matins. 
 
 Y 
 
.^22 THEY WERE MABIUED. 
 
 They ' fling ' in many directions ; but for the present one has only 
 to do with their favourite pastime of tlie midnight baccarat. 
 
 Guy's engagement at first brought him luck. Everybody knows 
 how luck follows luck, just as misfortunes crowd thick upon each 
 other. His tradesmen, whose name was legion, suddenly changed 
 their front, and showed an amount of confidence which was ex- 
 hilarating, and made him feel like buying everytliing ; the men 
 who held his promissory notes ceased to look anxious ; the gentle- 
 man who had advanced him money on his reversionary interests 
 began to consider prayerfully the subject of the marriage settle- 
 ments ; and, in addition, he had a steady flow of luck nearly every 
 night. So that he really began to consider the girl who was the 
 cause of all this as a most praiseworthy jDerson, deserving of 
 admiration. 
 
 He had to be seen with her a good deal in those early days, 
 though, happily, his father took his place, and was never bored 
 with Virginie's society, as he was himself ; and was not wishing 
 constantly to he back again temjating Fortune, as he did. It ia 
 not every engaged man who has a father willing to take so much 
 M'duous work otf one's hands. Then Maude was useful, and be- 
 tween the two, Guy really found that a daily call, or perhaps a 
 dinner at Mrs. Hallowes's house, was quite as much as need be 
 expected of a man. 
 
 Love-making, under these conditions, fell very, veiy far short 
 of what poor Virginie expected. There was nothing in it, after 
 all. She was engaged ; her lover came most days to see her, and 
 stayed a quarter of an hour, and seemed anxious to get away 
 again : if nobody was in the room he sometimes kissed her fore- 
 head coldly ; he communicated nothing about himself, his pursuits, 
 his reading, his ambition ; nor was he in the least curious about 
 her own — a humiliating thing for a girl not to be thought worth a 
 little curiosity. 
 
 It must be her task, Virginie thouofht, to make him believe her 
 capable of his confidence. That would, doubtless, come in time. 
 Meanwhile, a little expression of feeling, a little ardour, a little 
 warmth of manner seemed wanting even to this inexperienced girl. 
 In what a different voice had Tom — her ' brother ' Tom — as Mrs. 
 Hallowes called him — told her that he loved her ! Even the Pro- 
 fessor, who owned that he must come after Tom, spoke of his 
 aflection for her with warmer voice and greater show of passion. 
 But men are, doubtless, different ; this man of reserve kept his 
 deeper feelings in his own heart. Virginie would get at them in 
 time. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Maude, smiling, though she looked anxious, 
 when the girl confided these thoughts to her, 'do not make an 
 idol or a god of your husband. You know, in a sister's eyes, it is 
 difficult for a brother to do wrong. But a wife is not a sister. 
 You, who will be with him constantly ' — Virginie's heart sank at 
 the prospect, though she knew not wiry — 'will find faults in him 
 of which I know nothing. You will have to excuse them.' 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG BREAM. 323 
 
 • Guy,' she said, passionately, ' have you no heart ? ' 
 
 ' What is the matter now, Maude 1 ' 
 
 ' If is your neglect of that poor girl. What do you look for ? 
 A more beautiful woman ? There are no more beautiful women.' 
 
 ' What am I to do, then ? ' 
 
 ' Pretend that you are in love with her. I have no patience ! 
 Oh ! But for one thing — but for my father's sake — I would break 
 it off even now.' 
 
 ' Don't do that, Maude. Come, I will go and buy her some- 
 thing. It can't be paid for till after the wedding ; so it does not 
 Signify.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Guy ' — his absolute inability to see what ■^as wanted 
 made her laugh — ' one hopes you may make a better husband than 
 lover.' 
 
 For some reason, he scowled and became moody ; and that 
 something was not bought. He remembered, in fact, that he was 
 already a husband, and not successful in that profession ; also that 
 he had as yet received no letter of submission from Violet — a thing 
 which he confidently looked for. This made liim feel ill-used. 
 
 Then Maude took Virginie with her to see The Towers, their 
 country house. It was a splendid old place, worth seeing, if only 
 for its age, for the memories of the many generations who had lived 
 there, and for the accumulations of treasures forming part of the 
 family history ; a picturesque old place, many-gabled, built of 
 warm red brick, standing among its gardens and trees ; a stately 
 and proud old place, fit home for an old English family. 
 
 ' This,' she said, taking her visitor to the rooms, ' will all, some 
 day, be yours, as it was your great-grandmother's. I hope you 
 like this prospect, fair Chatelaine.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' Virginie gasped, ' Maude, it is wonderful ! ' 
 
 It is, indeed, truly wonderful to go over an old house belonging 
 to an old family who have kept themselves and their tilings 
 together. The family portraits, the books, the arms and armour, 
 the furniture, the plate, the china, the very staircases and land- 
 ings, the windows, the gables, the roof of the house, are all things 
 that cannot be bought. 
 
 ' I have never felt before,' Virginie whispered, ' what it meant 
 to possess ancestors. Here one feels what it may mean. All these 
 things speak to us ; they belong to us, but we belong to them. In 
 this old place one seems to hear, day and night, the voices of the 
 dead. They are calling to us to keep up the honour of the House.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Maude, 'I feel the same thing every time I come 
 here. It is the place of our ancestors. We are among them all. 
 It cannot be but that their spirits haunt the jjlace wliicli we all of 
 us have loved so well. From generation to generation, from 
 father to son, we have been English gentlefolk ; not great states- 
 men or great generals ; but we have taken our share and done our 
 work. Not one but has kept the scutcheon spotless ; not one who 
 
 has disgraced ' . Here she stopped, and her eyes filled witij 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 tears, because she thought of one who had already gone so far aa 
 to bring sorrow and shame upon them, for whose sake she had 
 done her best to bring sorrow and shame upon the girl with her. 
 
 Virginie took her hand, tliinking that Maude's tears were due 
 to her respect and love for her ancestors. 
 
 ' It is a great thing, Maude,' she said, ' to belong to this House ; 
 it is a very solemn thing to marry the heir. Forgive me if I seem 
 to think too little of it.' 
 
 ' No, dear ; I was not flunking of that. See ! here is a por- 
 trait of Guy as a child. Its companion picture is of a former Guy, 
 Lord Ferrier, taken at the same age, in the time of Charles the 
 First. Do you see the wonderful likeness in the boys ? Yet there 
 are two hundred years between them, and one is dust and ashes. 
 There is another of the same Lord Ferrier, taken later on, after 
 the Restoration.' 
 
 That whole day they spent among the portraits and the family 
 pictures. Maude knew all their histories, and Virginie, for the 
 iirst time, learned the Romance of a great House whose history has 
 been preserved. It makes one weep to think how our middle-class 
 people neglect their genealogies, so that they know nothing of their 
 own people, and have no pride, and learn no lessons from the past. 
 Cannot something be done, my friends 1 Can we not write the 
 annals of our own generation, each for his own family, so that 
 whatever the fate of our children and grandchildren, they, too, 
 may feel that they have ancestors who lived, and loved, and hoped, 
 and made a little success, perhaps, and died and were forgotten, 
 as they, too, in their turn, shall die ? 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried the Creole girl, ' my father told me so little of all 
 these things.' 
 
 ' He did not know,' said Maude. ' No one knows except myself. 
 My father knows something ; Guy, nothing. The women of the 
 House keep up its memories, not the men. That matters nothing, 
 if they are true to their name and its ambitions.' 
 
 Then they hunted among the old books in the library, and ex- 
 amined the tapestry, the collections, the engravings, and the heaps 
 of things belonging to their ancestors still preserved in this strange 
 and wonderful museum. Virginie returned to town strengthened 
 as to her engagement. Her lover might be cold, but he was the 
 heir ; it was a great thing to marry the future Master of the Towers. 
 
 Guy showed no interest in her visit, and seemed to care little 
 for the old place of which his father and sister were so proud. 
 * Could,' asked Virginie, ' could he be one of those who are deaf to 
 the voice of the dead 1 ' 
 
 Alas ! He was deaf to every voice ; he heard nothing, he saw 
 nothing ; if all liis ancestors had appeared to him — ghostly phan- 
 toms pointing long fingers of warning, showing liim the future that 
 lay before him — he would have closed his eyes and gone on his 
 way heedless. Other men., given to vices more repulsive, can Listen 
 to the voice of conscience or the calls of honour and duty. Drun- 
 
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 325 
 
 kards get hot coppers and see triangles and rats and dogs, and 
 repent and bang their heads with their fists and call themselves 
 hard names. Wrathful men, who break the third commandment 
 and the furniture, are ashamed when the fit is over. Envious men, 
 backbiters, downcriers, have moments of sorrow when they feel 
 mean. Even house agents sometimes regret that they must always 
 play the game so low. The gambler alone never thinks, or heeds, 
 or feels any emotion for his fellow-creatures. He is concentrated 
 in himself ; he is self-contained ; he feels no interest, has no 
 anxiety, takes no part or share in anything save only the chances 
 of the cards. The voices of the dead ! If the voices of the living 
 can do nothing for such men what can we expect of the dead ? 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 HER SIMPLE DUTY. 
 
 Three days— four days — a fortnight passed over during which 
 Violet sent no message of submission at all, and her husband felt 
 more ill-used and more indignant. 
 
 She was thinking : the longer she thought over the matter the 
 more diflicult it was to act. She had, to be sure, refused his pro- 
 posal with contempt ; but she exaggerated her own helj^lessness ; 
 she was ignorant and did not know what safeguards may be gained 
 by claiming protection of the law. She was in the false position 
 of a wife not owned by her husband's friends. She did not think 
 of putting herself in a lawyer's hands, still less did she contemplate 
 the possibility of taking the child to his grandfather, and asking his 
 protection, for she was firmty .convinced that in any contest with 
 her husband, all his relations \- ould combine to bring the weight of 
 their united influence against her. The wicked nobleman theory 
 is not yet quite exploded. Indeed, there are plenty of agitators 
 who still try to lash their auditors into a rage by depicting the 
 vices of the bloated Lords. 
 
 She was afraid. She might let her husband do what he pro- 
 posed to do — that is, marry again, just as if she did not exist ; or 
 she might forbid the marriage. In the former case she would be 
 rewarded by an open acknowledgment of her son's true position 
 after sixteen years ; but how was she to prove after sixteen years 
 that ' Richard Johnson ' was Guy Ferrier ? And if she could not 
 prove that, her boy's rights would have been wilfully and wasteiully 
 thrown away. In the latter case, if she refused her consent, who 
 would protect her and the boy from her husband's interference ? 
 
 After a fortnight of anxious consideration she took Paul Perigal 
 into her counsels and told him for the first time the whole stoiy, 
 and her husband's true name and the latest proposition he had made. 
 
 ' You wait,' he said, ' for sixteen years. So much interval be- 
 
325 THEY WERE 3IARRIED. 
 
 tween the acts. The boy has grown a man. You take him — your- 
 seK closely veiled — to the lordly castle of his ancestors ; you say to 
 him, "Boy, this is yours ! " If his father is living, you bring his 
 son to him. He will be laid up with gout — they always are at five- 
 and-forty. You will say, "My Lord, I restore to you — your son 
 and heir. I am your wife ! " Then "who," cries her Ladyship, 
 clutching her hair with wild gesture and despairing eyes, "who am 
 I ? " It seems a strong part to play, Violet.' 
 
 ' And who's to prove it, Daddy I ' 
 
 'lean prove it, Violet. You forget that you have me — always.' 
 
 You can't tell an old man of eighty that in all human probability 
 he will be dead in sixteen years. 
 
 * If we were to try any other plan. Daddy ? ' 
 
 He reflected. 
 
 ' There used to be a situation in . . . what was the name of it ? 
 riiey played it at the Adelphi . . . The Bridal Party interrupted 
 . . . the appearance of the real wife — "I forbid the ceremony" 
 — Slu-ieks of the Bride — Impotent Rage of the Villain.' 
 
 Violet shook her head. 
 
 ' I've always got to remind you. Daddy, that we play now for 
 the half-guinea stalls, not for the pit and gallery.' 
 
 There was no use in consulting the old man. His views were 
 too narrowly professional. Violet returned to her silent musings, 
 and found no help there. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Violet ? ' asked Elsie, who had observed 
 with concern the most unusual phenomenon of a failure in her 
 employer's usually robust appetite. 
 
 'Elsie, I am truly miserable.' 
 
 ' I have seen it,' said Elsie, ' for a week and more. Can I help 
 you r 
 
 ' No, child, you cannot ; unless you find me a man to advise 
 with. I want an honest man and a wise man.' 
 
 ' I think I know the very man ; that is, if you would consult 
 with a friend of mine. He is a gentleman — a University scholar ; 
 and he is going to be a great writer. He lives with us.' Here she 
 remembered her dreadful deception, and she blushed a rosy red and 
 went on, speaking fast : — ' And oh ! Violet, I must confess to you. 
 When you said you wanted a real lady I ought not to have come, 
 because my father was only a small clerk and my mother lets 
 lodgings, and if it had not been for Mr. Percival I should never 
 have been educated at all. Now, please, send me away, because I 
 have deceived you.' 
 
 ' My dear child,' said Violet, ' what a fuss about nothing at all ! 
 Send you away ! ^Vliy, what would the boy do without you 1 And 
 did you suppose I thought your father was a Viscount ? Goodness 
 me ! he was a Crutch and Toothpick swell compared with mine, 
 who is nothing in the world but a carpenter at Drury Lane — poor 
 old dear ! And what was your father, Daddy 1 ' For Paul waa 
 standing beside them. 
 
HER SIMPLE DUTY. 327 
 
 'Hum!' he replied. 'My father — now with the angek . . . 
 was ... in fact — he was . . . but 
 
 ' When Fortune means to men most scood. 
 She looks upon them with a threatening eye.' 
 
 •You see, Elsie,' said Violet. 'So, there, nothing more need 
 be said. And about this Mr. Percival, I can't ask a stranger here 
 and begin — Once there was a girl. Would he call upon rue if you 
 ask him '] Most men would like the chance,' she added, with a laugh. 
 
 ' He admires you very greatly,' said Elsie. ' We often go to- 
 gether to the pit to see you. He isn't rich, you know.' 
 
 ' Together ? Why — Elsie — you, of all people in the world ! ' 
 
 'Oh! no . . . no . . . no,' she cried, blushing. 'It isn't 
 that — of all things. Oh ! pray don't tliink it is that. Why, Mr. 
 Percival has known me for years. He used to lodge with us long 
 ago. And he must be getting on for thirty years of age now.' 
 
 ' What a great age. But yet . . . Well, Elsie, about this friend 
 of yours. It seems a foolish thing to have no one to ask for advice 
 — to have to ask a stranger. But yet . . . You are sure he is a 
 wise man.' 
 
 ' Oh ! he is very wise.' 
 
 ' And would he come 1 ' 
 
 ' He would if I were to ask him, I think.' 
 
 ' I don't see what I can do. I must ask somebodj\ Well, 
 Elsie, ask him, please. If he will be so good as to interest himself 
 in a stranger's affairs I will see him if he will come to me. Tel! 
 him that I am in trouble, and want the advice of a sensible man 
 with discretion. To think that of all the men I know there is not 
 one to whom I can go and ask for a little real advice. Never be an 
 actress, child ; because it is all show and make-believe, and people 
 get to think you have no thoughts, no feelings, no hopes, and no 
 anxieties of your own. You must always look and talk as if there 
 was nothing but laughing in the world.' 
 
 Elsie opened upon the subject that very evening, but with little 
 effect : because Mr. Percival was agitated about quite another 
 matter, and could think and talk of nothing else. Yet he promised 
 to see Miss Violet Lovelace. The business Elsie said was connected 
 with her husband, who had come back, and, she supposed, wanted 
 money. 
 
 'It will end,' he said, ' in her going to a solicitor, and getting 
 a deed of separation in order to protect her and her child. Well ; 
 I will go with you, Elsie, but I do not suppose I can do much. I 
 am not a law;y^er nor a solicitor, nor do I know how to apply the 
 screw to gentlemen who wish to live upon the labours of their wives. 
 Three dozen at a cart-tail one might recommend, but the absurd 
 law of the land does not allow it.' 
 
 What had happened that day was this — 
 
 Percival received a confidential letter from Palmiste — from the 
 Pink Boy, in fact. As the accountant of the bank, where tlw 
 
328 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 strictest confidence should be observed, he ought not to have 
 written the letter. But he was young, and anxiety for his friends 
 may be pleaded as an excuse. 
 
 ' It is all over, I fear,' he wrote, ' with Mon D^sir. The poor 
 old Captain has got a most awful bad crop ; the estate won't pay 
 working expenses this year, and I know that we can't advance any 
 more money upon it. What he will do I cannot tell, but he will 
 most certainly, unless he can raise any more money, have to become 
 bankrupt. Then the estate will be sold. It seems hard after all 
 these jrears. Can you go and tell Miss Ferrier ? Her mother and 
 Madame Kemyss do not know, I should think, anything about it. 
 And even the Squire himself knows very little. She might be able 
 to raise some money. She will be of age in a year or two ; mean- 
 while the money is wanted at once. It is hard that her thousands 
 should be lying idle, so to speak, without being useful to the man 
 who has been so good a trustee for her. Go and see her at once, 
 and tell her eight thousand or so would pull the old man through 
 this year, and next year one may hope for a better crop. It is 
 very unlucky that the little touch of a cyclone which passed over us 
 in March seems to have picked out Mon De'sir, above all others, for 
 damage. Tom looks rather haggard over something, but even he 
 doesn't know the whole danger. Perhaps he is haggard about 
 Virginie. I'm a good deal worn myself — you wouldn't know me 
 again — and the Padre isn't the same man since she went away. I 
 suppose I mustn't send my love, and perhaps if I did you would 
 not be the man to take it. Don't be mean, and try to cut out Tom. 
 But we hear that she is always Avith her great cousins. If she 
 should go and marry that beast of a man ' 
 
 Thus far the Pink Boy. 
 
 Percival lost no time a4; all in taking the letter to Virginie. He 
 went that very morning. 
 
 ' Why,' she asked, ' do you never come to see me 1 ' 
 
 ' Because it isn't safe. In this country we know our level ; I 
 belong to Grub Street ; you to Mayfair. Because you are a young 
 lady of fashion, and I am only an obscure person whose fortune for 
 the moment is out at elbows. ' 
 
 ' But we are old friends.' said Virginie. ' You ought to have 
 come here long ago. Sit down and let us talk.' 
 
 Then Percival unfolded his tale. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Virginie. ' It is dreadful. Something must be 
 done. What can be done ? Can't he use my money 1 ' 
 
 ' You can ask some lawyer here to lend you money, which you 
 must paj' to the bank to his account. I can think of no other way. 
 And I am so ignorant of money matters that I do not even know 
 how to advise you ; but then any laA\^^er will know.' 
 
 ' I will ask Guy,' said Virginie. 
 
 'Your cousin, Captain Ferrier? Yes ; he would know.' 
 
 *I did not tell you, Mr. Percival,' she said, blushing, 'lam 
 engaged to be married to my cousin.' 
 
HER SIMPLE DUTY. 329 
 
 ' Poor Tom ! ' The intelligence fell upon him so suddenly that 
 he was fain to put his thoughts into words. 
 
 She bent her head, and did not reply for a moment. Then she 
 said softly, 
 
 ' Tom was always my brother.' 
 
 Percival rose. 
 
 ' You will, then,' he said coldly, ' consult Captain Ferrier how 
 best to save this good man— your guardian — and your father's 
 friend — from ruin. I knew that I had only to lay the matter before 
 you. Thank you for your attention. ' 
 
 He touched her fingers, and left her. 
 
 Why had her old friend the Professor treated her in such a 
 manner ? What had she done ? Alas ! she understood, too well. 
 Poor Tom ! 
 
 As Percival left the house, he met the accepted lover, and 
 saluted him, but without the usual smile of recognition, Guy was 
 in a vile temper that morning ; he wanted an answer from Violet, 
 and he was afraid to call upon her again ; he was afraid that she 
 might find out his engagement, which was already in the papers ; 
 he would have kept away from \\\& fiancee altogether but for Maude, 
 who made him go. 
 
 His temper got the better of him when he saw a man — one of 
 the many men — whom he hated, actually leaving the house. 
 
 ' You, sir,' he cried. ' You — what is your name ? ' 
 
 ' My name is Percival, as you know very well, Captain Ferrier.' 
 
 ' What are you doing in this house 1 ' 
 
 'You had better,' said the other, 'ask Miss Ferrier.' 
 
 'I forbid you the house,' said Guy, 'I will not allow you to 
 call upon Miss Ferrier.' 
 
 'Have you anything more to say?' For Virginie's sake Per- 
 cival kept his temper down. Yet it was hard not to ' go ' for that 
 ill-conditioned brute. Poor Virginie ! 
 
 ' No, sir. I have nothing more to h.y. You have my commands.' 
 
 ' Then, Captain Ferrier, as I am not in your Company, let me 
 tell you that I do not take connnands from you. Good morning.' 
 
 Guy found his cousin in tears. He took no notice of her agita- 
 tion, being still in a towering rage. 
 
 'Virginie,' he said, 'that man is never to come to the house 
 again. • You must never speak to him if you meet him ; you are not 
 to know him. Do you hear ? ' 
 
 ' What man 1 ' 
 
 'The man who has just been here. Percival is his confourded 
 name.' 
 
 ' My old friend ? Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because I wish it.' 
 
 ' I have just heard very bad news,' she said, passing over this 
 thing, though she wondered greatly. Then she told her news. 
 
 'Going to be bankrupt, is he?' asked Guy. 'That seems a 
 pity. But it isn't your fault.' 
 
330 TITEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' He shall not be bankrupt,' said Virginie firmly, ' if I can help 
 it. Bankrupt ! when I have all those thousands, doing no one 
 good. Why, if it cost me all my fortune, he should not be 
 bankrupt.' 
 
 He laughed in contempt. 
 
 ' Give up your whole fortune 1 Oh ! come, Virginie, don't be 
 ridiculous. Your money is not to be made ducks and drakes of in 
 that fashion. These people must help themselves out of the mess.' 
 
 ' But I mnid save my dear old guardian, Guy, I must. Do you 
 not understand ? He was my father's closest friend ; his wife is my 
 mother's cousin ; he has been everything to me. Cannot you see 
 that I nnid go to their help ? ' 
 
 ' No, I can't. Your fortune belongs to yourself — and to your 
 husband. ' 
 
 'I have no husband — yet.' She looked dangerous ; but Guy's 
 temper made him careless of what he said. Of course he meant 
 that her fortune was already promised to himself. 
 
 ' I sliall not allow you to fool your money away,' he went on, in 
 his blundering, stupid, selfish way. 
 
 Her colour mounted to her cheek. Was this a way for a girl to 
 be addressed by a lover ? 
 
 ' I do not understand you, this morning, Guy. First you forbid 
 me to keep up the acquaintance of a gentleman for wh(jm I have 
 the greatest regard ; next, you refuse to recognise my dearest obli- 
 gations. As for asking your permission but you had better 
 
 leave me.' 
 
 It was his cursed temper, he said to INfaude, afterwards. "S^Hiat 
 business had the girl to talk of giving away her fortune — his 
 money ? 
 
 He obeyed ; but, still being wrathful, he fired a parting shot. 
 
 'I am sorry,' he said, 'that you object to common sense. Per- 
 liaps, to-morrow, Virginie, you will have recovered your reason.' 
 
 He came away, leaving her bewildered. Was this her gallant 
 and chivalrous lover 1 Was it possible for a man of such exalted 
 princii)le and noble feeling to disapprove of the help she wanted 
 to give her oldest and truest friends ? Could she have been 
 deceived 1 
 
 It was the first part of this business which Mr. Percival was 
 still turning over in his mind. 
 
 Poor Tom ! Poor Virginie ! 
 
 That was the burden of his song. The coming failure was 
 nothing compared with this loss and throwing away and waste of love. 
 Even the break up of Mon De'sir estate was but a small thing com- 
 pared with the marriage of this sweet and precious girl with a man 
 BO churlish, so morose, and so selfish. 
 
 ' Elsie,' he said ' prate to me no more of Violet Lovelace. I 
 have had to do with worse troubles than hers.' 
 
 ' Not troubles of your own 1 ' The girl was quick to think for him. 
 
HER SIMPLE DUTY. 331 
 
 ' No, not my own. I told you that the spell was removed from 
 the Enchanted Island when Virginie came away.' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' The palace of jasper and malachite and white marble became a 
 simple bungalow, with elephant creeper and honeysuckle climbing 
 round it, and a compound planted with roses and mignonette and 
 pretty things about it. Now the bungalow itself is to be destroyed 
 and its occupants turned out.' 
 
 'Oh!' 
 
 ' One of them is an old man. And it will probably kill him. 
 One is a young man, and his chances are ruined.' 
 
 ' Oh ! your poor friends.' 
 
 ' And Virginie — — ' He paused. 
 
 ' Virginie ? ' 
 
 ' A dreadful dragon has got hold of Virginie. He will first 
 devour and destroy all that she possesses, and after that he will 
 rend her to pieces. Poor Tom ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! is it true % ' 
 
 ' It wouldn't help me much, now, if I had dropped Tom over 
 the ravine. Yet I wish I had, because it would have saved him 
 this dreadful blow. Going suddenly over the ravine would have 
 hm-t less and killed him sooner. I believe it is quite a pleasant way 
 to get rid of life, if it is done unexpectedly. But in these cases, 
 Elsie, everything depends upon the skill of the operator. A clumsy 
 practitioner, now, might make the operation really a painful one. 
 Poor Tom I I really wish I had.' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SHALL I TELL HEE, ? 
 
 *1t is very good of you to come, Mr. Percival,' said Violet, when 
 he presented himself. ' Elsie told you what I want.' 
 
 ' She said you want a wise man. Miss Lovelace ; which made it 
 the more remarkable for you to consult me.' 
 
 ' Elsie says you are wise ; and perhaps, though you may not be 
 wise in your own aiiairs ' — she said this without meaning any reflec- 
 tion on the undoubted shabbiness of the hat — ' you may be in other 
 people's. If you will listen to me — if you have the time.' 
 
 ' At present. Miss Lovelace, I have all the time there is, or 
 nearly all. I will listen like one end of a telephone, if I can be of 
 any use to so charming an actress.' 
 
 'Elsie said you were a good fellow,' said Violet. 'Let us be 
 friends, Mr. Percival. You must call me Violet ; it isn't my real 
 name, so it doesn't matter. Besides, lots of men call me Violet who 
 never want to help me at all.' 
 
332 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' Yery well, Yiolet— you do me very great honour — and if I can 
 be of the least service ' 
 
 ' Think it is for Elsie's sake,' she interposed, anxious to check 
 the first shadow of a flirtation. ' And then give your attention to 
 an unfortunate married person, whose husband ought to be put in 
 the pillory, and kept there till there wasn't a rotten egg or a bad 
 potato left.' 
 
 ' For Elsie's sake, then,' he replied, laughing. 
 
 Then the actress told her story, anonymously. 
 
 ' May I call your husband names 1 ' asked Percival, 
 
 ' If you please.' 
 
 ' He wants you to stand by and see yourself and your child 
 insulted, while he ignores your existence and marries again ; he 
 wants you to be the accomplice in a crime in which you lose all 
 and he gains everything ; he wants you to accept his bare promise 
 to acknoAvledge the boy as soon as ho is of age — when the witnesses 
 who could prom his identity tvith your Imsband ivill perhaps he dead ; 
 and he threatens to follow, rob, and annoy you, to take the boy— to 
 
 Good God ! I cannot call him names. There are no names in 
 
 tlie English language which I can find strong enough. But I know 
 a little Hindustani, and I will sAvear at him for a few moments in 
 that tongue.' He did so, which relieved his mind. 'But your 
 course is quite clear. Put yourself into the hands of a Isiwjer, and 
 have a separation properly drawn up. Is the man — I c.j not ask 
 out of any impertinent curiosity — but is he a gentleman ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly he is.' 
 
 'I don't mean — does he wear black cloth instead of corduroy. 
 But is he a man of any position 1 ' 
 
 ' He is the heir to a Peerage.' 
 
 ' In that case you are quite safe. There may be one or two bad 
 hats among eldest sons ; but there is not one, I am sure — there 
 cannot be one — who would dare to take his wife's salary and deprive 
 her of her son.' 
 
 ' Not if he were ruined 1 ' 
 
 ' Not then ; because, you see, the heir to a Peerage must — he 
 roust — pay some regard to honour. He may drink and gamble : he 
 may do all kinds of bad things ; but such a thing as your husband 
 threatens you with he dares not do. No ; if he were ten times 
 ruined he could not do it.' 
 
 Violet breathed. 
 
 'This is a very bad man,' she said. 'I think he is the most 
 selfish of all men that ever lived : and the basest. Boys take after 
 their mothers, they say : else I should have no joy in my son for 
 fear he should take after his father.' 
 
 ' Get your deed of separation drawn up. You have, doubtless, 
 valid reasons for desiring the separation ; he would not wish for 
 publicity : — you may rest in perfect safety.' 
 
 ' But if I refuse my consent, all his family would back him 
 up.' 
 
SHALL I TELL RER] 3P.3 
 
 * Oh ! no. What are you thinking of ? Do you believe it 
 possible that the family of any English gentleman would back up 
 their son in such abominable wickedness as this ? ' 
 
 Violet had been thinking of the Wicked Duke and the Virtuous 
 Milliner of song and story and melodrama ; and now began to sus- 
 pect that j^erhaps these picturesque characters might be theatrical, 
 and belong to a melodrama. 
 
 ' I will tell you all, Mr. Percival, because I am at my wit's end 
 and would do anything — even be an accomplice in bigamy — rather 
 than let my boy's rights be lost. His father is the only son of a 
 Lord ; he is about eight-and-twenty ; he is completely ruined by 
 gaming ; he has mortgaged his reverses — no, his reversions ' 
 
 ' His reversionary interests ' 
 
 ' For as much as they will bring ; and he is in despair. And he 
 has' got hold of a girl with money. If he marries her all will be 
 well, he says. If not, all will be ill. The girl's name I do not 
 know. His name is the Honourable Guy Talbot Ferrier. And I 
 am his Gracious, INIr. Percival, what is the matter ? ' 
 
 He sprang from his chair and began dancing round the room, 
 because the wrath which seized him at that moment was too much 
 to be endured. 
 
 ' The villain ! . . . the double-dyed villain ! . . . the 
 scoundrel ! I knew he was capable of anything from the very first 
 . ■ . . he looks it . . . there is rogue and traitor and liar and 
 common cheat stamped upon his face. Oh ! . . . oh ! . . . oh ! ' 
 
 Violet looked at him in amazement which partook of amuse- 
 ment. Because she had never before had an opportunity of seeing 
 genuine, unrestrained wrath freely manifested. It is, if you think 
 of it, one of the rarest of things. Afterwards she ' rendered ' this 
 portion of the scene to Paul very faithfully, and they made a note 
 of it for future use. 
 
 ' Do you know him, then, Mr. Percival % ' 
 
 He stopped in his wild career, in which he had broken two chair 
 legs. 
 
 ' Yes, I do know him,' he replied fiercely. 'AVliat is more — I 
 know the girl whom he wants to marry. But we shall stop that. 
 Thank Heaven, we shall stop that ! ' 
 
 ' Stop it by all means,' said Violet ; ' but don't forget my boy's 
 interests.' 
 
 ' We will not. She is the sweetest girl, the kindest-hearted, 
 prettiest, most noble, most perfect, most lovely of women.' 
 
 ' But I thought you were in love with Elsie, Mr. Percival. That 
 was why I asked you to help me ; and now it seems as if you were 
 in love with ... no ... no .. . she can't be my rival, 
 because ' . . . Here she stopped abrujitly. 
 
 ' Elsie ! Elsie ! oh ! yes — Elsie. I am in love, first of all, with 
 Virginie. Elsie is a good little thing ; but — Virginie ! ' 
 
 ' Good little things may have hearts of their own, Mr. Percival. 
 Remember that.' 
 
334 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' As Beatrice was to Dante, as Laiira was to Petrarch, so is "Vir- 
 ginie to those who love her.' He was so deeply moved with 
 indignation that he said these words in perfect earnestness and 
 solemnity. 
 
 ' What's the use of loving a woman if you can't marry her ? * 
 asked Violet. 
 
 Percivai made no reply. The explanation and apology of a 
 man's loves to a perfect stranger was a descent from melodrama to 
 farce. There should always be a funny man in every piece, but 
 Percivai had no wish to play the part. 
 
 ' How shall we act ? ' he asked. ' We must think of her as well 
 as of yourself.' 
 
 ' If you will tell me the girl's name, and where she lives, I Avill 
 write, or go to see her, and tell her the truth at once. Do you think 
 she is fond of him 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know. Yes ; the sooner the better — not a day should 
 be lost. I cannot think he would dare to marry her without some 
 promise of silence from you. I wondered when I saw him first, last 
 New- Year's Day, what the man had done to make liim so morose 
 and black of visage.' 
 
 ' He had married me,' said Violet, ' and he couldn't get rid of 
 me.' 
 
 ' That ought not to make a man morose,' replied Percivai, 
 gallantly. 
 
 Violet laughed. 
 
 ' If I had married you I think I should have gone dancing and 
 singing,' he said ; yet, with a little hesitation and half a blush, 
 because, perhaps, she would not like this turn of the conversation. 
 But she did. 
 
 ' I don't mind complimefnts a bit,' she said. ' Lord ! Everj-body 
 pays me compliments. I get them, with bouquets, sent to the 
 stage door ; and letters ; and in poetry and in prose ; and from all 
 sorts of men — prince to potboy. Men are all alike ; they fall in 
 love with a woman made up for the stage with vaseline and rouge 
 and powder ; and they think slie is a goddess ; and they think they 
 may " hope," as they call it. But don't get serious, or I must tell 
 Elsie. So you think you would not have been so morose if you 
 had been my husband. I don't think you would, and I wish to 
 Heaven that you were my husband, or any other honest man, 
 instead of the poor creature I have got. Well, . . .' she sighed 
 heavily, ' let us have patience, and spoil his little plot.' 
 
 ' You may do one of two things — you may tell his father or 
 you may tell Virginie. One of these two things you must do. If 
 you choose the first you can never again be threatened in this way. 
 If the second, she will learn the truth in the most direct way.' 
 
 'I cannot tell Lord Ferrier,' said Violet. 'I promised him — 
 my husband — that I would not obtrude myself upon any of his 
 family. Nothing but the interests of the boy would make me break 
 that promise. Let me go to Miss What is her name \ ' 
 
SHALL 2 TELL HER1 335 
 
 ' Miss Ferrier — she is his second cousin. Perhaps that would 
 be best. But go at once — to-day.' 
 He sat down and wrote a letter. 
 
 ' Dear Virginie, — 
 
 ' I have made a discoveiy of the highest importance to you. 
 The lady who bears this note will tell you what it is. You may 
 eHtirely depend upon the truth of what she says. I grieve to be 
 the sender — not the cause — of such a tale as she has to tell you. 
 ' Yours always and sincerely, 
 
 'Philip Percival.' 
 
 ' There ! ' he said. ' The letter is plain and straightforward. 
 You will tell her kindly, will you not 1 ' 
 
 ' I will tell her as kindly as I can, ' said Violet. ' There can- 
 not be much kindness in telling a giii that the man she — loves — 
 perhaps — I loved him once, or thought I did — is such as my 
 husband.' 
 
 ' But you will not — oh ! no — I am sure you feel for her. It is 
 not her fault ' 
 
 ' I will be veiy kind and gentle,' said Violet, softening. Then 
 she laughed, and said, ' Shall I rehearse the scene to you 1 I can 
 be the injured wife — see ' — her face became pale, her eyes fixed, 
 her arms dropped to her side, her form rigid — she was a woman in 
 the first despair of a deadly blow. ' Or the raging woman whose 
 lover has been snatched from her. So.' She tlurew herself back, 
 and became a figure full of life, passion, and wrath, her left arm 
 raised high above her head, her right hand quivering at her bosom. 
 She was Medea. ' Or I will take it crying. See.' She sank upon 
 her knees with a low wail, forced from her by her misery, and 
 buried her despairing head in her hands. ' Or shall I triumph 
 over her sorrow '? ' 
 
 ' You are a wonderful actress. You can represent any passion, 
 and any person. Represent for me, now, the real Violet Lovelace, 
 the woman who has a heart ' 
 
 ' No.' She took the letter and read it. ' That part is reserved 
 for Miss Ferrier — if there is a woman with a heart at all. But I 
 don't know — sometimes nothing is real but the boy — and Daddy. 
 And the best part of him, poor old man ! is his wig. You can 
 trust me, Mr. Percival. I will be as kind as I can. You know 
 that I have never been taught the gentle ways and soft words that 
 ladies learn — I mean some ladies — not all. Because I have seen 
 them fighting to get out after the performance, and struggling for 
 good places at a sale and a picture show ; and really I think that 
 we behave much better on the stage.' 
 
33S TUEY WURE MARRIED. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WIFE AND FIANCEE. 
 
 ViRGiNiE had been engaged exactly a fortnight. It is not a long 
 time, but an ardent lover may do a great deal in fom'teen days to 
 make himself known to his sweetheart, and to learn her thoughts 
 and her way of looking upon things. The one thing Vi^hich Guy 
 did to reveal himself was to forbid her to receive the visits of one 
 old friend, and to irly into a rage when she spoke of saving another 
 old friend from ruin. What did this mean ? She was astonished 
 and perplexed. Perhaps when Guy came again he would explain 
 how she had misled him. Certainly he would not, he could not, 
 object to her trying to help her guardian. She met Maude in the 
 evening, but said nothing about her trouble. No doubt Guy 
 would come in the morning and explain, and all would be well. 
 
 He did not come ; he had, in fact, though he knew it not, seen 
 Virginie for the last time ; he stayed in' his own rooms, morose 
 and savage. Why did Violet make no sign ? What did she 
 mean 1 And if the other girl was going to give away her money — 
 his money — it might just as well be broken off at once. Better, in 
 fact, let the smash come. 
 
 Virginie waited for him all the morning. As he did not come, 
 she thought of writing to him. Hitherto, no letters had passed 
 between them ; none of the little notes meaning nothing, except 
 always, ' Je t'aime — je t'aime,' which are so common among some 
 lovers. Not one note, not, one word of endearment — truly a frigid 
 lover and a disappointing engagement. On the other hand, plenty 
 of notes from Lord Ferrier, who was much more in love with her 
 than his son, and was, in fact, the only one of the four concerned 
 who was entirely happy over the engagement. She could not 
 write. He must either come and make rough things smooth, in 
 person, or he must write ; she could not. 
 
 Early in the afternoon she received a letter, and was informed 
 that the lady who brought it was waiting to see INIiss Ferrier. It 
 was Percival's letter. What misfortune could it be ? She thought 
 of her guardian, and assumed that it was connected with him. 
 Had the blow really fallen, and so suddenly ? But no mail could 
 have come in since yesterday, when her own letters reached her, 
 and spoke about nothing unusual. 
 
 It was a young lady, apparently about five-and-twenty, dressed 
 in some plain dark costume. She wore rather a thick veil, for the 
 time of year. 
 
 ' Oh 1 ' cried Virginie, ' you have come from Mr. Percival to 
 tell me something. What has happened ? Is it my guardian ? ' 
 
 'No, Miss Ferrier ; it is not your guardian.' 
 
W2FF AND FIAXCEE. 337 
 
 ' Will you, please, tell me what it is ? ' 
 
 Violet looked at her for a few moments in silence. She waa 
 certainly a veiy pretty girl, and not the least in her own style. 
 
 'Yes,' she said; 'I will tell you. But it is rather a long 
 story.' 
 
 ' Tell me first whom it concerns.' 
 
 ' It concerns — yourself. ' 
 
 ' Some misfortune has happened to myself ! What can that 
 be?' 
 
 ' I did not say misfortune. What I am going to tell you will 
 avert the worst misfortune which could happen to any woman.' 
 
 ' You are mysterious. May I ask your name 1 ' 
 
 ' I am called, on the stage, Violet Lovelace. I am an actress 
 by profession. You may have seen me at the theatre.' 
 
 'Yes, indeed I have,' said Virginie. 'I have seen you several 
 times. But Avhat story can you have that concerns myself ? ' 
 
 ' I have a very sad story, and one which concerns you very 
 closely. Tell me, first — do not, pray do not, think me imperti- 
 nent — do you love Guy Ferrier 1 ' 
 
 ' I am engaged to him.' 
 
 ' Y'et . . . still ... do you love him ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot answer that question. I ought not to answer it. I 
 do not know how to answer it.' 
 
 ' You do not know, I am glad of it. Because you would have 
 answered it easily — if . . . You are his cousin, are you not 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I am his cousin.' 
 
 ' I will ask you no more questions, Miss Ferrier. I will tell 
 you my story.' 
 
 Violet is a very clever woman. If she had not been an actress 
 she might have been a great dramatist or a great noA'^elist. She 
 told her own story in the most efiective way possible. She did not 
 begin with ' There was once a girl.' She said, ' I was a poor girl, 
 a street child, a gutter child, who played in a court and danced to 
 a barrel organ.' 
 
 She struck at once the note of poverty, ignorance, belief in the 
 promises of a gentleman. She told how, after years of training, 
 she came out in small parts at a London house ; how a gentleman 
 was introduced to her. ' Very few gentlemen were introduced tu 
 me then, because I was a very insignificant little person in those 
 days. This one was young — not more than one or two and twenty 
 — he was one of those young men who must always have what they 
 desire, without waiting for it, and at whatever cost ; and he fell 
 in love with me ; he fell so much in love that he must needs marry 
 me at once. I was so silly that I thought it a splendid thing to 
 marry a gentleman, and we were married, in a cliurcli and before 
 witnesses. He was a handsome man, and, of course, I thought he 
 would be as good as he was handsome ; and I was a pretty girl, 
 and he thought he would always love me as much lie did then.' 
 So far it was a tale of love ; a tale of the Prince and the Beggar Giil. 
 
 z 
 
338 THEY WERE 3IARRIED. 
 
 Then her note changed. The second act began with a small 
 lodging, a husband who repented of his act a week after he had 
 done it, and was already weary of his wife ; and then a baby ; and 
 cruel words, with neglect, desertion, and reproaches. And that 
 act closed with tlie flight of the mother and her child. 
 
 Vii'ginie sat listening in wonder. Such a tale, so told, she had 
 never heard or looked to hear. Why, in the gestures, the voice, 
 the look of the actress she saw scene after scene of the sad story 
 as if it was being played by all the actors in it, before her eyes. 
 More than this, out of the words and the voice she constructed the 
 despicable hero of the piece, and she shuddered because she was 
 made, in spite of herself, to think of Guy. As tlie actress stood 
 when she put hard and cruel words into her husband's mouth, as 
 she held her head, so he stood, so he held his head. But she put 
 the thought behind her. And was it not his very voice that spoke 
 those words 1 
 
 Then came the Third Act. But as Virginie listened her heart 
 grew cold, because it seemed to her as if she heard the very foot- 
 steps of Guy, drawing nearer and nearer, as if she heard his voice, 
 heard his words. The air was heavy with the presence of her 
 lover. 
 
 ' Who . . . who ... is the man ? " she cried. 
 
 Before her stood nothing but the thin figure of a woman ; but 
 beside the woman, there seemed to be the ghost of her own lover — 
 no more noble, no more the perfect knight, but downcast, with 
 hanging head, uttering shameful words, a craven, a coward, and a 
 liar. 
 
 ' Who is the man 1 ' she cried, passionately. 
 
 Violet went on with her drama, heedless of the question. 
 
 Then Virginie saw how this ghost, this wretched creature, 
 maddened with debts, sent to the woman he had married, and 
 proposed that they should both go on for the future as if there had 
 been no marriage : how she refused the ofier, because the boy 
 should never be ashamed of his mother : how then he asked her — 
 but she refused again — to make no sign if he acted as though he 
 were not already married, because by marrying a certain girl with 
 a large fortune he could put liis difhculties straight, and in sixteen 
 years' time, but not till then, when the boy was of age, he would 
 acknowledge him to be his lawful heir. 
 
 She stopped : her story was told. 
 
 Then she took Virginie by both hands, and said, while natural 
 tears of pity rose to her eyes, 
 
 ' Poor child ! I hope you do not love him ; because this man, 
 this villain, my husband, is none other than Guy Ferrier.' 
 
 'I knew it, from the beginning,' said Virginie, quickly. 'I 
 saw it must be he. I knew his voice, and his gestures. Let me 
 think a little. I do not know what to say, or what to think.' 
 
 'Certainly,' thought Violet, 'this is not the way in which a 
 lovesick maid would receive the news. She does not love him.' 
 
WIFi; AND FIANCEE. 339 
 
 ' I must ask him,' said Virginie, presently, * if your story is 
 true. But Mr. Percival says that what you say is true ' 
 
 Then they were silent again. 
 
 ' Shall I show you his son ? ' asked "Violet. ' The boy is not 
 like his father.' 
 
 ' Oh ! No . . . no . . . no. I want to see nothing and no 
 one belonging to him.' 
 
 Virginie went to the open window. Outside there were the 
 carriages and the people, and there was the clear bright sunshine 
 of the sweet June day. But she took no note of these things. 
 Presently she returned to the table by which Violet was sitting. 
 
 ' I know why you asked me if I love him. Tell me — you — do 
 you love him ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Did you ever love him 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know. I was young and foolish. No gentleman had 
 ever spoken of love to me before. I thought I did. Heaven 
 knows, I might have loved him had he chosen. Now I cannot 
 even pity him. ' 
 
 ' Do you think I might have loved him, too — in time ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' To live with him for fifteen years. To be his wife for all that 
 time ; then — suddenly — to learn the dreadful truth. Oh ! Guy . . . 
 Guy . . . how can men be so wicked ? ' 
 
 This was the part of the wrong which struck her imagination ; 
 the fifteen years of honour and ha})piness, with the man whom she 
 had learned to love, followed by the rude discovery of his frightful 
 treachery and her own position. 
 
 ' You look good,' said Virginie, piteously. ' Can you tell me 
 what I should do — I mean — do first 1 For, of course, I must never 
 see him again. I never could. But there are other people. Lord 
 Ferrier loves me, and will be made unhappy ; Maude, his sister, 
 loves me ; Mrs. Hallowes will want to know why I have broken 
 the engagement ; my guardian will want to know. What am I to 
 say to all of them 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know what ladies do, or how they should act. If 1 
 were you, I would say nothing. Say that Guy has broken the 
 engagement. Refer them to him for reasons.' 
 
 ' But — you, will you not, go to Lord Ferrier yourself and tell 
 him?' 
 
 ' No. I promised him long ago, when he cursed the day that 
 he married me, that I would not be the one to tell the story to his 
 father. I have kept that promise, and I will keep it still, unless I 
 have to break it — for the sake of the boy.' 
 
 ' Shall I leave you ? ' Violet asked presently ; ' I think I can 
 do nothing more for you. Can you forgive me ? ' 
 
 ' Forgive you 1 ' said Virginie. ' Why, but for you, I might 
 have married him.' 
 
 s2 
 
310 TREY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 This was a strange speech from a girl who had just been torn 
 from her lover. But it might be taken in more senses than one. 
 
 Violet went away. 
 
 Left alone, Virginie went over the whole story again, trying to 
 understand it thoroughly. It was, alas ! too easy to understand. 
 In place of the perfect gentleman, the Knight without Reproach, 
 the pure Sir Galahad, there stood a Tiling with contorted features, 
 hideous, deceitful, a wild beast. Poor Maude ! Poor Lord Ferrier ! 
 Who was to tell them ? 
 
 She sat down quickly, and wrote a note. 
 
 ' I have received a visit from Violet Lovelace, the actress. She 
 has told me a story about you and your marriage with her. If that 
 story is true, do not answer this letter. If it is not true, come and 
 see me. Virginie.' 
 
 She sent this letter by a special messenger. If Captain Ferrier 
 was in his chambers he was to wait for an answer. If he was not, 
 the man then was to go to his club and there wait for an answer. 
 He was not to return until he had put the letter into Captain 
 Ferrier's own hands. And, meantime, she was at home to no 
 one. 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock when the man returned. 
 
 He had given the letter. Captain Ferrier read it, tore it up 
 into a great many fragments, and said, ' Tell Miss Ferrier that 
 there is no answer at all.' 
 
 It was all true, then. 
 
 ' ^Vhere is your ring, my dear ? ' asked Mrs. HaUowes. ' It is 
 bad luck not to wear an engaged ring.' 
 
 'My engagement is broken off',' said Virginie. 
 
 ' Your engagement' broken off" \ My dearest child, what is the 
 meaning of this % ' 
 
 ' Captain Ferrier has broken it off", dear IMrs. HaUowes. Will 
 you ask him— not me — the reason why ? I have sent liim back his 
 presents, and there is an end.' 
 
 ' An end ? Virginie, are you dreaming ? Yesterday he was 
 with you half the morning— was the engagement broken then ? ' 
 
 ' No ; not then, it has been broken to-day. You will ask him 
 why, not me.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' said ]\Irs. HaUowes. 
 
 ' We are going out to-niglit,' said Virginie. ' I do not feel very 
 much inclined for dancing, but we will go. And you wiU tell 
 everybody, please, that the engagement is broken off". I wish 
 particularly that this should be known at once.' 
 
 ' But — my dear ' 
 
 ' It is quite true,' Vii-ginie repeated. ' It is broken off so 
 hopelessly that it can never . . . never , . . never be 
 renewed. It is not a quarrel, nor a misunderstanding. It is an 
 imj^ossible thing for me to marry him.' 
 
 ' Have you told Maude ? ' 
 
 ' I have written both to her and to Lord Ferrier, telling them 
 
WIFU AND FIANCEE. 341 
 
 that the engagement is broken. For their sake, I am very, very 
 Eorry. For my own ' 
 
 ' For your own, dear 1 ' 
 
 'For my own, I can never be sufficiently grateful and happy.' 
 
 Mrs. Hallowes said no more. It was clearly no mere lovers' 
 quarrel. Besides, Captain Ferrier was not in love with Virginie 
 as she had the sharpness to have perceived very clearly from the 
 beginning. The man wanted her fortune, and she had learned 
 something of his character. He had no friends, although he knew 
 many men ; and he was a gambler. Could Virginie have learned 
 that he was a gambler ? That would hardly explain her statement 
 that he himself had broken ofi" the engagement. Could she have 
 found out entanglements of another kind I But since he, and not 
 she, had broken the engagement, that could scarcely be. 
 
 She was fairly puzzled. 
 
 Their little dinner that evening, usually so full of cheerfulness, 
 was silent and dull. Presently they went to some party, where 
 Virginie danced more than was usual with her. Mrs. Hallowes, 
 obedient to instructions, whispered the news, which was carried 
 round ; so that by the next morning there was not a single person 
 interested in the career of the Honourable Guy Ferrier who did not 
 know that his brilliant match was broken oft'. Virginie's letters to 
 Lord Ferrier and to JMaude were nearly alike. To the former she 
 said, 
 
 ' Dear Lord Ferrier, — Because you wished it, and because you 
 have been so kind to me — kinder than I could ever have looked for 
 or hoped — I am very sorry that Guy has broken oft" our engagement. 
 He will, perhaps, tell you why, — Your grateful and affectionate 
 cousin, 'Virginie.' 
 
 And to Maude she wrote : — 
 
 'My dear Maude, — Guy has broken the engagement. He will, 
 if he pleases, tell you why ; but do not ask me. For your sake and 
 your father's sake I am very sorry that it was ever entered upon. 
 I will write to my guardian by the next mail. Meantime, please 
 understand that it is imposdhle for us to renew the promise. I 
 mean impossible in the literal sense of the word. It is not matter 
 of sentiment at all. Impossible. Thank you most sincerely for 
 your kindness and your friendship. — Yours afiectionately, 
 
 ' Virginie.' 
 
 They received these letters sitting together after dinner. Lord 
 Ferrier had been talking of Virginie — of the pleasant times they 
 would have when she would be with them for good ; making plans 
 for their residence all together ; Guy settling down to a country 
 gentleman. He talked constantly of Virginie ; he lontred for her 
 to be married, so as to be at his side evexy day. While they were 
 thus discoursing these letters came. 
 
342 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 Lord Ferrier dropped the note in consternation, 
 
 ' What does it mean, Maude 1 What does it mean ? ' 
 
 ' It is some new folly of Guy's — some madness ; I do not know 
 
 what it means.' She sprang to her feet in a kind of despair. ' Oh ! 
 
 Guy . . . Guy ! Then all is useless.' 
 ' What does it mean, Maude 1 ' 
 'I do not know, sir. Patience a little. We shall know — too 
 
 soon — whenever the news reaches us ; and too much, whatever the 
 
 reason may be.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 BROKEN^ OFF. 
 
 ViRGiNiE would see Maude ; but she refused to give any explana- 
 tions. 
 
 ' But, my dear, it is inexplicable. One day you are lovers, and 
 the next you are strangers — and no reasons .' 
 
 ' There is a very good reason indeed,' said Virginie. 'But yet 
 I cannot tell it you.' 
 
 ' You say that Guy broke it off. Why ? It was his ' — she was 
 going to say 'his interest,' but she refrained — 'it was his dearest 
 wish ' 
 
 Virginie smiled. 'No,' she said, 'it was never his wish at all. 
 Do not think that any longer. He may have told you so ; but it 
 was not true. He never wished to marry me : he never loved me. 
 For that matter, he hardly took the trouble to pretend.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Virginie, is it, after all, only a lovers' quarrel 1 ' It 
 seemed, for the moment, as if she might be only piqued or out of 
 temper. 
 
 ' No : it is far worse than that. It is as I told you, an im- 
 possible thing for me ever to see liim again. Ask him yourself.' 
 
 Maude went to her brother's chambers. He was out : he had 
 left no message : she went to his club, he had not been there at all : 
 then she went home and wrote to liim. 
 
 ' Virginie Avill tell me nothing. What have you done, Guy ? 
 Vf hat have you said ? ' 
 
 He answered by letter and briefly. 
 
 ' Since Virginie will tell you nothing, I do not see why I should : 
 the thing is broken off ; it can never be taken up again. I suppose 
 there will be a smash in a day or two. Perhaps you had better tell 
 my father everything.' 
 
 Lord Ferrier found no pleasure that day in his studio, though 
 the day was fine and the light good. He was painting a picture for 
 Virginie ; he was going to throw into it his very best work ; it was 
 to be a picture which even jealous Royal Academicians should not 
 dare to refuse. Yet, if it could not be given to her, what was the 
 use of going on with it ? He, too, sought his son, but to no purpose, 
 
SROKEN OFF. 343 
 
 because Captain Ferrier was neither at his chambers nor his club. 
 Then Lord Ferrier took luncheon at his owii club, sat uneasily in 
 the library over the magazines for an hour or two, reading, but 
 remembering notliing. Then he thought he would try and see 
 Virginie, and ask her about it himself. 
 
 'Virginie,' he said, sadly, taking her hand, 'tell me what it 
 means. Am I not, in very truth, to call you daughter'?' 
 
 ' No,' she replied, ' I cannot become your daughter. But you 
 must ask Guy to tell you the reason. He knows that it is impos- 
 sible I should marry him ; he has known it all along. Oh ! why — 
 why — did he ever try to persuade himself ... it is incredible ! ' 
 
 ' If you cannot tell me, my dear child,' said Lord Ferrier, ' I 
 will not insist. It only remains for me to say how truly and deeply 
 grieved I am at this blow.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you have always been so kind to me, so very kind' — for 
 the first time the girl began to cry about her broken engagement^ 
 ' but I feel as if I were doing some dreadful ingratitude. Believe 
 me, it is not my fault ; indeed, indeed, it is not.' 
 
 ' I am sure it is not. The fault is wholly Guy's. Yet I lose a 
 daughter ; and it is very hard.' 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he left her, and 
 went home and sat in his study, wondering by what sad fate the 
 fruits and flowers wliich had promised to grace his old age were 
 turning to dust and ashes. The older a man gets the greater 
 need for him- to have always something before him, something full of 
 light, and sunsliine, and warmth. Virginie was to be the source of 
 light, and joy, and warmth to the old man. Now she was to go. 
 This was a dreadful thing to think of. He looked very old and 
 bowed when Maude stole into the room, and sat before him, her 
 cheek upon her hand, and sorrow and shame written on her face. 
 
 ' You bring no comfort, Maude,' said her father. ' Poor child ! 
 It is hard for you as well as for me.' 
 
 ' No, sir ; no comfort, but — more trouble.' 
 
 ' Go on, my dear. Let me face the trouble — all the trouble that 
 is in store for us. Wliat fresh trouble 1 ' 
 
 ' It is no new trouble to me, sir. The knowledge of it has been 
 my constant companion for long years. I have done my best to 
 keep it from you ; but now it can be kept no longer.' 
 
 ' What is it, Maude 1 What is this burden that I am not to 
 share ? ' 
 
 ' It is concerned with Guy. My dear father' — she threw her- 
 self at his feet in tears of pity and of shame — -' do you know the 
 manner of man that your son is 1 ' 
 
 ' What is he, Maude 1 ' 
 
 ' He says I am to tell you all ; well — I will take him at his 
 word. I will hide nothing from you. He is a hopeless gambler ; 
 he has lost year after year all the money he could get from you, all 
 he could get from me ; he has paid none of his tradesmen during 
 all these years ; he has raised all the money that could be raised by 
 
BU THEY WERE MARRIED 
 
 . . . by . . . the ways in whicli such money is raised. Do you 
 understand all that I mean 1 ' 
 
 ' I believe I understand it all, Maude. What more ? ' His 
 hand, which he laid upon her head, trembled, though his voice waa 
 firm. 
 
 ' He has come to the end of everytliing. Unless he can raise 
 within a few days some fifteen thousand pounds for immediate 
 wants, including debts of honour, he will be made a bankrupt — and 
 worse.' 
 
 ' He wants fifteen thousand pounds for immediate necessities.' 
 Lord Ferrier repeated the words slowly. ' How much more will he 
 want % What is the amount that he must raise ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' Is there anything more to learn, Maude % ' 
 
 ' No ; I have told you all. Except the amount of his debts.' 
 
 ' Is tliis the reason why Yirginie will not many liim % ' 
 
 ' I suppose so. I know no other reason. I am glad that the 
 engagement is broken. It was my doing. I pressed Guy to clear 
 himself by this rich marriage. I thought that we might save you 
 from knowing anything. Yet I have had no happy moment since, 
 for thinking of the wretched fate I had prepared for that poor girl.' 
 
 'Thank you, Maude.' Her father spoke quietly, as if un- 
 moved, as if it was a thing demanding attention, but not disaster. 
 
 ' Leave me now. I must think over what I ought to do.' 
 
 He sat thinking all the summer afternoon. He Avas never, 
 himself, an ambitious man, but the Ferriers, from father to son, 
 continually looked for the advent of that Ferrier who was going to 
 lead his country to victory and triumph. He thought sadly of the 
 hopes he had formed about his only son, the briglit and beautiful 
 boy who was going to be the greatest Ferrier of the line. These 
 hopes had long since been dim, but they had never been altogetlier 
 quenched ; there was no reason why his son should not leave the 
 Army and enter upon a political career, though as yet he had 
 shown no ambition. He had no tastes : this was a thing which his 
 father had long lamented, but never understood till now. For 
 when the passion for play seizes upon a man it leaves no room for 
 tastes of any kind. You cannot possibly serve God and JJammon. 
 And of all men in the world the player spends most time and most 
 thought over Mammon. He openly worships him. Now, even a 
 buyer and seller of stocks has his Sundays. 
 
 As he pondered what would be best to do, a thought grew 
 gradually in his brain, slowly taking shape, like a spectre, that there 
 was only one thing left to do. If all the money was raised that 
 could be raised — of course this meant — on the reversionary interest.s; 
 if there was no other way — there was still the last resource ; b.e 
 could, with his son's consent^ bar the entail and sell everything — 
 even The Towers. And so an end of all ! 
 
 He took some action ; he wrote to his son, saying coldly that 
 he had learned from Maude some of Iris difliculties. He ordered 
 
BROKEN OFF. 345 
 
 him to go at once to the family lawyers and draw up a complete 
 statement of all his liabilities of every kind : and he added that 
 until this were done, and some order taken with his affairs, Guy 
 need not present himself. 
 
 That night Guy made his last appearance at the Green Grass 
 Club, where he generally found the Baccarat he loved so well. 
 
 Serious play generally begins about eleven, though there is a 
 little irregular practice — a little duelling, at e'carte' — before then. 
 It is about midnight that the members drop in from their various 
 haunts, and take their places one after the other. Some of them 
 were little more than mere boys, though their conversation was 
 'grown-up,' and their knowledge of life — that is, some form of life 
 — was precocious. Guy was one of the older men ; he was so very 
 old that he did not talk their slang. This is, indeed, a kind of 
 tongue, like the purest Parisian of society, which changes every 
 season. Besides, what to the young fellows fired with champagne, 
 and inexperienced in arithmetic, was pure fun and merriment, was 
 to Ferrier and some like him sober and serious business. What 
 were only couters and ponies and monkeys to the lads, mere 
 abstract sums of monej^, which they might lose or win without 
 any difference, as they fondly thought, to themselves, were to the 
 older men the means of satisfying ravenous creditors, meeting 
 bills, and taking up promissory notes. The lads laughed and 
 chattered about Regie and Freddy and Nellie and Connie and, 
 generally. Jack and Jill ; and told stories, and drank more cham- 
 pagne, and smoked cigarettes, and told more stories, and drank 
 still more champagne ; while the other hands kept cool, and 
 watched the chances. 
 
 Guy was at first in bad luck. Before midnight he lost three 
 hundred pounds. Then he began to win again, and won all back, 
 and a hundred and fifty more. This was three o'clock. He thought 
 lie had won enough, and would go home. 
 
 Now, there is an institution at the Green Grass Club — a very 
 useful little institution to young men who desire to be swiftly and 
 suddenly stripped. It consists of a buffet, where one can find light 
 refreshments, with champagne, or brandy-and-soda. Guy was a 
 little exhausted with the excitement of the game. He drank the 
 greater part of a whole bottle. 
 
 Then one of the boys began talking to him. 
 
 ' Let us go back,' said this youth. ' It's my day out ; and I've 
 lost a thou. But you're in luck, old chappie ; you are not going to 
 desert your luck.' 
 
 He went back ; it was as if a rope dragged him to the tt-ble ; 
 he sat down and went on with the play. 
 
 They left off at seven. The sun had been up for four hours ; 
 the morning was bi ight and hot ; there were lots of people already 
 in the streets. And Guy had lost fifteen hundred pounds. 
 
34(5 THET WERE MARRIED. 
 
 He walked home to his chamlaera in a kind of dream. 
 
 There were letters on the table — from Maude, she had told her 
 father all ; from his father — he knew all, and ordered him to make 
 out his list ; from certain gentlemen of the money-lending and 
 bill-discounting business, their language was forcible rather than 
 kind; from tradesmen; from 'friends,' who held his I.O.U.s. 
 The smash had come. Well ; it had been coming a long time. It 
 had been deferred by his engagement ; but already everybody knew 
 that it was oft'. 
 
 'As it has come,' said Guy, 'I shall go to bed. Curious ; I 
 wonder what will happen What is this ? ' 
 
 It was only a little packet — with a ring and a bracelet — trifles 
 which he had given Yirginie. 
 
 He laughed as he put them into his pocket. 
 
 ' Marrying would have been a deadly bore,' he said. ' I wonder 
 how she took it. Nasty thing facing Violet, if she let herself rip. 
 But perhaps she put her case quietly. One never knows what they 
 will do. Pity, too, for some reasons, that it didn't come ofl^.' 
 
 He had had his last fling in that paradise of fliiigaig youth, 
 London. Paris has its points. New York has its corners. But 
 for red-hot continued flinging there is, perhaps, no capital in the 
 world like London. Now, as the first rule among the joyous com- 
 panies is that he who flings must pay, it may be very well under- 
 stood that Guy Ferrier was seen no more at his club or among a,ny 
 of his former associates. Nor do they at this moment know what 
 has become of him ! 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 POOR TOM ! 
 
 The Smash was quite as complete as any that has ever been en- 
 joyed by Prodigal Hon. The thing is generally very much dreaded 
 before it comes ; yet it has its enjoyable j^oints while it lasts. No- 
 body is so important during the conduct of his case as the bankrupt. 
 It is afterwards, when the eyes of the world are no longer upon 
 him, that the flatness sets in. Guy Ferrier felt, on the whole, 
 happier when the crisis had arrived, though he could no longer go 
 to his clubs, and though he had to spend a part of each day with 
 lawyers, making out a list of liabilities which showed a really sub- 
 lime contempt for the rules of addition, multiplication, and com- 
 pound interest. Yet no man can aflbrd to disregard science, and 
 tlie end of such as do is certain. 
 
 It was, indeed, a noble list, regarded only as what a young man 
 with a small allowance and expectations of a moderate kind can 
 achieve in ten years. The contemplation of it raised a kind of 
 rapture in the minds of those who read it. One felt proud of one's 
 
POOR TO^n 3t7 
 
 country, since it can produce such heroes in prodigality ; and one 
 marvelled at the man who could calmly see the whole of these 
 thousands thrown headlong into the sea, getting nothing for them 
 at all except the usual wage of the spendthrift, now about to be 
 paid to him. 
 
 There is one way, and only one way, in which such a list in 
 such a case can be met and discharged. It is a complicated way, 
 and involves all kinds of other things ; but in its broad principle it 
 is simple. The way is for the heir and the tenant in possession to 
 unite in barring the entail. ^Mlen this is done, the family acres 
 may be sold and the debts paid. It is a cruel way, because it 
 destroys the House. The only way in which a family is kept 
 together, and kept in the front place won by their ancestors, is by 
 their lands and by their title. The latter cannot be sold, but f'e 
 former can, and a penniless Lord may hide his head, and let the 
 title die. The longer the line, the older the house, the more cruel 
 a thing it is ; for a man whose ambitions lay not in his own achieve- 
 ments but in those of the future, the thing was most dreadful. 
 
 Lord Ferrier accepted the position. His house was ruined. 
 They could never again lift up their heads ; his son was hopeless ; 
 they must save his honour somehow, if that could be done, and 
 then find some quiet corner where, with his daughter, he could, 
 sad and sorrowful, wait the end of his days. 
 
 ' Go, Maude,' he said ; ' go to take your last look at The Towers. 
 I have no heart to go. WHien the papers are signed we shall be 
 homeless. Perhaps we may somehow save enough from the wreck 
 to live upon in some humble way.' 
 
 He knew, now, that his daughter's fortune was gone long 
 before — thro^vn by his son as a sop to his creditors. They had no 
 longer any secrets. 
 
 ' Perhaps, Maude,' he said, with a smile ; ' perhaps people may 
 believe that I can paint, after all. We may sell the pictures.' 
 
 He uttered no reproaches, and made no complaints. Everything 
 that he loved the most had come to ruin and wreck ; he was going 
 to lose all that he least looked to lose ; through no fault of his. A 
 hard and cruel case ; somehow made worse by the knowledge that 
 the man who had done the mischief was dead to repentance, and 
 grieved only for himself. 
 
 Once, Maude asked him if he would see Guy. He made no 
 reply, but he shuddered. 
 
 As for Guy, he made no sign of wishing to see anybody. He 
 vanished. He was no more seen ; he could not go to his club 
 until his debts of honour were paid ; he did not appear in any oi 
 his usual haunts. But he had some sense of honour left. He 
 wrote to all and told them — what they knew already — that he was 
 in a mess, and that his affairs were in his lawj'er's hands. Witli 
 that they were fain to be content. But many men, men of small 
 means and vaulting ambition, who liked to play with those who 
 could lose without caring much, and who looked for a prompt 
 
348 THEY WEBE 2IARRIED. 
 
 settlement of such claims, swore loudly and felt badly about 
 Captain Ferrier. 
 
 I think that in those days he went o' nights to a certain obscure 
 corner which exists in iSoho. A good many curious and interesting 
 things go on in that rpiartier. One hears stories from time to time ; 
 but it is difficult to get such an introduction to those houses as will 
 allay suspicion, and gentlemen of the press would probably find 
 themselves a hindrance rather than otherwise to the programme of 
 the evening. At the house which Guy found out, a few Russians, 
 Frenchmen, and other foreigners, chiefly of low degree, meet 
 nightly and dally in a small way with the Goddess of Chance 
 Captain Ferrier was not particular about his company, so that he 
 could get the excitement which is to some souls as necessary as 
 ardent drink to others. He was happy if he came away the winner 
 of a sovereign ; he cursed his luck if he lost five shillings ; he came 
 the earliest and k'ft the latest. He had given up his chambers, 
 and lived at a small hotel, whose address was known only to his 
 lawyers, and I think that he was happier in those days, living in 
 this hole-and-corner way, punting for sixpences, than when he was 
 plunging for hundreds and looking forward to the crisis. There 
 was no champagne, but there was brandy-and-water. 
 
 In those days Percival plucked up heart of grace and called 
 often upon Virginie ; and they took counsel together. It was well 
 on in July ; the season was nearly over. Mrs. Hallowes, who 
 went in sadness, having lost the most important persons on her 
 visiting-list, was talking of the seaside. But Virginie had other 
 thoughts in her head. She had not yet written to her mother and 
 her guardian about the breaking of the engagement, which lasted 
 but a short fortnight. She was thinking of another and a more 
 excellent way of telling them. 
 
 It was concerning the more excellent way that Percival advised 
 her. His arguments were forcible ; and he spoke with plainness, 
 and to no unwilling ears. 
 
 ' Why stay here 1 ' he asked her. ' Everything in London will 
 remind you of — of — things you would gladly forget. You have 
 endured a most cruel outrage at the hands of your own people. 
 London will never be a happy place for you again.' 
 
 ' No : never,' she replied. ' I can never think of London 
 again except with pain. And I shall always remember Lord 
 Ferrier's kindness.' 
 
 ' Go out yourself,' he went on. ' The mail starts in a fortnight. 
 Carry yourself the news of your freedom.' 
 
 She clasped her hands and her eyes sparkled. 
 
 ' Then there is Tom,' the tempter added softly. 
 
 She blushed, but replied not. 
 
 ' You do not know ' — he pleaded the name of the absent Torn 
 as warmly as if it were his own — 'you cannot understand the 
 perfect love with which he looks upon you. As for me and the 
 
POOR TOM! 349 
 
 rest of U3, of course you know already that we love you just as 
 much ; but Tom of course comes first.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Percival,' said Virginie, with a rosy blush upon her 
 cheek and a sweet smile in her eyes, ' you must not say such things 
 to me.' Yet in Palmiste, such things had been said to her without 
 meeting any objections. 
 
 ' You will let me say such things, Virginie, because I am an old 
 admirer, and you know that I do not presume any farther — wliile 
 Tom is in the way, for Tom is different : he has watched you grow 
 up beside him : his love is a part of his being : without you he is 
 imperfect : you have been his companion from the time you could 
 run about : you lisped his name almost the first of any : you have 
 felt his affection about you and around you from the beginning. 
 Virginie, is it possible that you could forget him ? ' 
 
 ' I have never forgotten him,' she said. ' How could I ever 
 forget him 1 ' 
 
 ' Yet you promised yourself to another.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, humbly. ' But still I had not forgotten him. 
 Can you not understand that he was always my brother ? ' 
 
 ' No, I cannot. Because, you see, he never was. People may 
 call themselves brothers and sisters as much as they please, but 
 they cannot create that relationship by any amount of calling. 
 And if you loved him still, how could you ' 
 
 ' I never loved my cousin at all,' said Virginie. ' Do not think 
 worse of me than I deserve. I respected the man whose character 
 Maude described ; and they were very kind to me ; and Lord 
 Ferrier loved me ; and it was what my father would have liked.' 
 
 ' Then, now that you are free, now that you can do so, remember 
 the only man who has the right to ask you for your hand.' 
 
 'You forget,' she said, gently, 'that things are not as they 
 
 were. He has lost his faith in me. If he entertained those 
 
 feelings — once — they must have been destroyed by myself. 
 
 What respect can he have left for a girl who engaged herself— as 
 I did — to such a man ? I cannot explain to him as I have explained 
 to you.' 
 
 ' He will know that you were deceived ; he wiU say to himself 
 that you ' 
 
 ' Yes, he will make excuses for me ; but can he ever think again 
 —as he did before ? ' 
 
 ' You would not ask that question if you knew and could 
 understand what a man's love is. Virginie, it isn't a question of 
 whether he thinks a little better or a little worse of you. All that 
 is nothing. He loves yov,. Whatever you did, he would love you 
 still. If you were to lose your beauty, he would love you still. 
 If you were to go away and desert him for a hundred and fifty 
 years, he would love you just as much when you came back. It 
 isn't your beauty, or your grace, or your virtue, or your sweetness 
 that he loves ; it is yourself.' 
 
 ' Has he told you all this ] ' 
 
550 IIIEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 ' No ; he never talked about you.' 
 
 ' How, then, do you know it ] ' 
 
 'Because, Virginie, I know the man ; and because I judge him 
 by myself. For I love you in just about the same way myself. 
 You are my ideal woman, as you are his.' 
 
 The tears came into her eyes. 
 
 ' What,' she asked, ' can a woman say or do that is worthy of 
 this gift of love 1 You, who judge him by yourself, plead for him. 
 Heaven knows it wants little pleading. You are so generous and 
 so loyal to him that I cannot but do your will. It shall be as you 
 desire.' 
 
 ' Elsie,' he said in the evening — they were taking a stroll in 
 the cool and leafy lanes of Battersea Park ; it was nearly nine 
 o'clock, and the sweet breath of summer was in the air. ' Elsie, I 
 have had an agitated day.' 
 
 ' Has your novel gone wrong, then 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; there are one or two things even more important than 
 the novel, though that will prove an Epoch-maker. What I was 
 engaged upon was more important. You know, of course, Elsie, 
 that I have always been in love with Virginie.' 
 
 'Yes, you have told me so a thousand times.' 
 
 ' Have I really ? So often 1 Yet it is a delightful subject to 
 talk about — nothing more so. Being in love, then, and fully 
 acquainted with the various phases of that interesting passion, I 
 judge of Tom's feelings by my own.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that seems natural — if Tom does feel like you.' 
 
 ' Of course he does. Now, consider the case. The young lady 
 has suffered a great wrong ; but things might have been much 
 worse, because she might have been in love with the man who did 
 the wrong. That, I am happy to say, is not the case. Not at all. 
 She never really cared a straw about him ; she has been insulted 
 and outraged by the abominable wickedness of the creature, but 
 her deeper feelings are untouched. Now, here is Tom's chance. 
 Therefore I went there this morning to plead his cause.' 
 
 ' Why not your own, since you love her so much 1 ' 
 
 ' You are a foolish child, Elsie. I told you that Tom must 
 oome first. And, after a great deal of beating about the bush, 
 because one never quite knows in what light the thing is regarded 
 by the person one is trying to persuade, I succeeded.' 
 
 'Yes, Elsie,' he continued triumphantly, 'Virginie will marry 
 Tom. That is the news I have to tell you.' 
 
 ' And you 1 ' 
 
 ' Why, I go on just the same. It has been a great happiness to 
 me to love this sweet and beautiful woman. She will always re- 
 main to me the cro'v^n of womanhood. Perhaps I should be almost 
 afraid of marrying her. Perhaps it is better to worship at a distance.' 
 
 'Perhaps,' said Elsie, a little jealously, 'you might find out 
 that she is not altogether the goddess you think.' 
 
POOR TOM! 351 
 
 ' And what a dreadful thing that would be to discover ! ' said 
 Percival. ' Now, if I marry a girl whom I know not to be a god- 
 dess, that would be better, wouldn't it '\ ' 
 
 'I should think so,' said Elsie, blushing — she hardly knew why. 
 But nobody waa there to see it, so it didn't matter. 
 
 ' Yes ; much better. If, for instance, you and I were to marry.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Percival.' 
 
 ' If you would not be jealous, and think that because I have 
 loved Virginie I cannot find any love for you — but I thought you 
 ought to know the whole truth.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Percival. What will Violet say 1 ' 
 
 ' You are a very dear and good little Elsie. We will go into 
 that partnership, then. I've got no money ; you've got no money. 
 We will club our resources. And perhaps we needn't move our 
 quarters. And now, my child, as there is nobody in this lane but 
 ourselves, put up your lips and let me kiss you, and tell me that 
 you won't be jealous. Petrarch always made them say that.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FAKE WELL. 
 
 ' I Aivi come, ' said Maude, ' to ask you to forgive me, Virginie, 
 before you go.' 
 
 She looked pale and worn ; her tliin cheek was thinner ; her 
 eyes more lustrous and more sorrowful. Sad stories in plenty have 
 been written on the wreck of women's lives made by lover and by 
 husband, but few of them which have been ruined by brother or 
 by father ; yet are these the more common. Maude Ferrier gave 
 her brother everything : her thoughts, her work, her money, yet 
 the end was— this. 
 
 ' I am come to ask your forgiveness,' she repeated. 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Virginie, ' I have nothing to forgive. You have 
 always been most kind and good to me.' 
 
 ' My goodness and kindness, Vu'ginie, were assumed, for my 
 brother's sake. I wanted him to marry you for the sake of your 
 money. I wrote to him in Palmiste, urging him to pay court 
 to you. I knew that he was in difficulties, and a gambler ; I knew 
 well that he would only be relieved for a time, and that he would 
 throw away your fortune as he has thi'own away his own. You 
 were to be sacrificed to his selfish greed and prodigality, as well as 
 I myself. It was a cruel and a wicked tiling to plot.' 
 
 ' But j^ou told me ' 
 
 ' All I told you was false. I said Guy was an honourable and 
 a noble gentleman, as the Chief of our House has always been. 
 It was false. He is cold and selfish, cruel and treacherous. This 
 I knew. I was preparing you for the most cruel of disappoint- 
 
352 THEY WERE MABRTED. 
 
 ments. I deliberately laid my plans for you to become the wife of 
 a reckless gamester. But, remember, my father knew nothing of 
 it. Think ill of me, because I deserve it ; but not of him, be- 
 cause he is the soul of honour. I have told liim, now. When 
 you found him out what were your thoughts of me ? ' 
 
 'But, Maude, I have not found him out. This is the hrst I 
 have heard of his money difficulties or his gaming.' 
 
 ' Why, then, was the engagement broken off. Is there worse 
 to come ! ' 
 
 ' Tliere is worse to come, but I cannot tell you what it is.' 
 
 ' To save him even for a year or two ; to keep my father from 
 knowing the reputation and cliaracter of his son — I think I would 
 have sacrificed anyone. Yet — Virginie — I am glad that you are 
 saved ; and again I say — forgive me.' 
 
 ' I forgive you, Maude. Whatever you did, was for your 
 brother. I know already that he is not — tlie noble character J 
 thought him. But what do you mean by ruin ] ' 
 
 ' His liabilities are enormous ; it is truly wonderful that he 
 should have been trusted so greatly ; to meet them my father has 
 consented to the only coiu-se left open ; he will cut off the entail 
 and sell The Towers, and the estates, and the town house and all ; 
 and so there will be an end of us.' 
 
 ' Sell The Towers '? Sell the estates 1 Is it possible ? ' 
 
 ' It is more than possible. The papers are ready, and will be 
 signed to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Maude, it must not be. Cannot some of my fortune ' 
 
 ' Yours, Virginie ? Ask yourself if we could take your money — 
 when we have wronged you so cruelly.' 
 
 Virginie was silent. No ; her own money could not be taken. 
 
 ' To-morrow morning my father will see his son, but only for the 
 signing of the papers, and then . . . then . . . oh ! me . . . there 
 will be no more pride for us, except in the past, and only poverty 
 and shame for the future.' 
 
 ' Maude ! ' 
 
 They wept together, and parted. 
 
 Now when, an hour later, Percival heard of this intention he 
 fell into a great dubiety. For, first of all, he had no right to inter- 
 fere ; but, secondly, he had been taken into confidence by a pers<;)n 
 greatly interested in this barring of entail ; and, thirdly, he thought 
 that if the truth were made known to Lord Ferrier, he might re- 
 consider a decision which would make his grandson a pauper. 
 Finally, he decided on advising Violet to take the boy and go her- 
 self to her faijJier-in-law. 
 
 ' I promised,' said the actress, ' that I would keep his secret — • 
 and I have done so. Nobody knows — except that poor child with 
 the pretty face. But for the sake of the boy I would break that 
 promise, or any other that I have ever made.' 
 
 ' It is for his sake that I advise you to break it. You ougkt 
 never to have made such a promise at all.' 
 
FAREWELL. 353 
 
 ' Wliat do you say, Daddy ? ' 
 
 'It looks well,' he said, ... 'a lawyer's oflSce — table with 
 parchments ' 
 
 ' It won't be parchment,' Percival objected. ' It will be 
 paper.' 
 
 ' Permit me, Mr. Percival, to know my business. On the stage, 
 wills and agreements and so forth must be on parchment — large, 
 rustling parchment. I will proceed . . .' 
 
 He indicated by a sweep of his hand that the scene was set. 
 ' At the table the lawyer, holding a pen — a large goose-quill— the 
 introduction of steel pens has ruined the old goose-quill business — - 
 utterly destroyed it. Ah ! what business have I seen in the good 
 old farces got out of a simple quill pen ! At the end of the table 
 tlie prodigal, arms folded, brows knit — a prodigal at bay — Trio.--t 
 eiiective figure I assure you. Enter the father, bowed with years 
 and grief, supported by his lovely daughter, who gazes reproachfully 
 upon her brother. 
 
 ' ' ' Will your Lordship sign 1 " 
 
 '"Give me," he says, feebly, "give me the pen. Thus . . . 
 thus ... I sign away — for ever — the honour of the House." 
 
 ' He dips the pen into the ink ; he raises his hand. The door 
 flies open — " Do not sign, my Lord ! " Tableau ! Very good indeed, 
 Violet, my dear. It makes up for the loss of that other beautiful 
 situation which you threw away. After all, it would not have taken 
 place for sixteen years, and one does not know where I may be in 
 sixteen years. Starring in the provinces, very likely.' 
 
 It did seem a very likely thing indeed, considering that he was 
 already over eighty ; but then Art knows nought of age. 
 
 'I thinlc you ought to go, indeed,' said Percival. 'If you 
 will allow me, I will go with you, unless Mr. Perigal would like 
 to go.' 
 
 ' I would rather go alone,' said Violet. ' And the boy shall 
 go too.' 
 
 The papers were to be signed at noon. Guy was instructed to 
 be in tlie study at that time ; he was also informed that his father 
 refused to speak to him, that he was to go away on the conclusion 
 of the inquiiy, and that he would be afterwards iixformed what pro- 
 vision, if any, would be made for him. The last clause was 
 uncomfortable, because men who are the heirs to great names are 
 not accustomed to consider even the possibility of a failure in the 
 corn and wine, the butter and the oil, and the honey, which go to the 
 daily bread. ' If any ! ' — but, of course, it could be only a figure 
 of speech. 
 
 It was a little after eleven when Violet asked to see Lord 
 Ferrier. She refused to send in her name, but said that she came 
 on business of the utmost importance, and wished to see his Lord- 
 ship immediately. She was taken to the study, where she w"aited, 
 and wondered how her communication would be received. 
 
 Presently Lord Ferrier appeared. Not quite the man Violet 
 
 A A 
 
354 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 exijected — she somehow thought he would be a fierce, baronial kind 
 of person, with the air of one who insists on all his rights ; a 
 French Seigneur of the good old time — though she knew little 
 about Seigneurs ; a melodramatic Lord, with large, white, fierce 
 eyebrows. On the contrary, he seemed quite a mild and gentle old 
 man, who bowed politely, and apologised for keeping her waiting, 
 and asked what her business with him might be, and added that he 
 was himself much engaged at the moment, and would be obliged if 
 she would come to the point at once. 
 
 ' Your business, my Lord,' said Violet, ' is connected with 
 your son ? ' 
 
 'It is.' 
 
 ' You are about to sign an agreement which will enable you to 
 sell your property — all your property — for the purpose of paying oflf 
 your son's debts.' 
 
 'I am ; though I do not know how you have learned this.' 
 
 ' Never mind that. I am thinking, my Lord, how I had best 
 put into words the things that I have to tell you. I am here in 
 hope of inducing you to reconsider that decision.' 
 
 Lord Ferrier rose. 
 
 'Madam,' he said, ' I cannot discuss this decision, or any other 
 private concerns of mine, with a stranger.' 
 
 ' Yet, you will listen to me, directly you know who I am. It is 
 only since yesterday that I have understood the meaning of your 
 Lordship's intention. Otherwise I should have been here long 
 ago.' 
 
 ' I am at a loss to know ' 
 
 ' You shall know directly. I have been told that your Lordship 
 is a . . . a . . . what they call ... I am told ... a tenant for 
 life of the property which you hold.' 
 
 'That is so, certainly.' 
 
 'And that your son, when he succeeds, is also a tenant for 
 life.' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' So that if you agree between you to sell it you will be selling 
 the property of your grandchildren.' 
 
 ' If you put it in that way — yes. But I have no grandchildren.' 
 
 Violet had been holding the little boy by the hand ; his back 
 was turned to the window, so that his face was in shade. She now 
 turned him round and pushed him gently forward. 
 
 iDoes your Lordsliip,' she asked, ' see any likeness in that boy 
 to any of your own family ? ' 
 
 It had been Violet's boast when she wrote to her husband that 
 the boy was not like him. That was only true in part. The boy 
 was exactly like what his father had been at his age. 
 
 ' It is Guy himself ! ' cried Lord Ferrier. ' The boy is like Guy 
 at six. What does this mean ? ' 
 
 ' Your Lordship has one grandchild. That is what it means. I 
 iiin your son's wife.' 
 
FAREWELL. 355 
 
 'Ts it possible ? ' 
 
 ' You do not, naturally, accept my statement. Wait. Your son 
 will be here himself in a short time. Let him be witness. I was 
 married to him six years ago, and separated from him five yeais 
 ago. It was an unlucky day for me when I met your son.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' 
 
 His eyes were fixed on the child. 
 
 ' I am an actress. I play under the name of Violet Lovelace.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' 
 
 He kept repeating these words. 
 
 ' My Lord, have no doubt that I shall prove what I say. Will 
 you make the future Lord Ferrier a pauper ] ' 
 
 ' The future Lord Ferrier. Yes . . . Yes . . . The future 
 Lord Ferrier. Then the house will have another chance. But, if 
 the child is not a pauper, his father will be dishonoured.' 
 
 Violet laughed. 
 
 ' Is he not dishonoured already ? Has he not engaged himself 
 to a young lady, hoping that I should keep silence 1 Did he not 
 come to me and threaten, if I did not keep silence, to take away 
 the boy and rob me of my salaiy ] What constitutes dishonour 
 among gentlemen, if these things do not ? I say nothing of the 
 cruel treatment and bitter words that drove me from him as soon 
 as my baby was born. I say nothing of being left to earn my bread 
 as best I might, and keep the child as well. It all forms part of 
 the man. If this is not dishonour. Heaven knows what it is.' 
 
 'Let me look at you,' he said. 
 
 She raised her veil, and looked up in his face. 
 
 ' The eyes,' he said, ' are honest eyes. You have a good 
 face.' 
 
 She blushed. She had not blushed for years ; but now she 
 blushed like an innocent, ignorant school-girl. 
 
 ' My Lord,' she said, earnestly, ' my child has no cause to bp 
 ashamed of his mother, unless he is asliamed that she is an 
 actress.' 
 
 ' It is well said,' he replied, gravely. 
 
 Then he rang the bell, and desired that Miss Ferrier should be 
 asked to come to him. 
 
 ' Maude,' he said, simply, ' this young lady informs me that slie 
 is — your brother's wife — and that this is his son. If this be true — 
 as I have very little doubt ' 
 
 ' At least, sir, let us tirst prove it to be true. ' 
 
 ' Let us prove it to be trvie,' echoed Violet. She was gentle and 
 soft witli the man ; but with this woman who looked at her with 
 cold distrust she became herself cold and distrustful. She drew tJie 
 child upon her lap. ' I shall prove that you, Miss Ferrier, are my 
 sister-in-law.' 
 
 ' Will you, then, take your proofs to the proper persons, our 
 lawyers ? ' asked Maude. 
 
 * No : T will not. I will wait here till my husband comes, he 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 will prove himself the truth of my statement. Your Lordship will 
 understand that I am here for no other purpose than to defend my 
 K:in's rights. Your nephew ' — she addressed herself to Maude with 
 some asperity of manner — ' may become an actor. I believe none 
 of his predecessors have ever followed this profession.' 
 
 Maude sighed. She did not doubt the story. A foolish 
 marriage was only one more episode in the history of her brother, 
 and a most natural episode. 
 
 They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Lord Ferrier 
 spoke. 
 
 'If it be as you say,' he said, slowly, ' I will respect the boy's 
 rights at the expense of his father.' 
 
 Violet made no reply. Then there was silence again. 
 
 ' The clock struck twelve. And at the moment, true to the 
 time appointed, the lawyer bearing the paper arrived ; with him, 
 Guy himself. 
 
 He started at the sight of Yiolet. 
 
 ' You here 1 ' he cried. ' You have broken your promise.' 
 
 ' Who is this lady, sir 1 ' asked Lord Ferrier. 
 
 -He looked from one to the other. He remembered the wit- 
 nesses to the marriage ; further concealment was hopeless ; besides, 
 it was useless. 
 
 ' She is my wife,' he said, ' and this, I suppose, is the boy.' 
 
 ' It is the boy,' said Violet. ' I have the other proofs, but . . . 
 is your Lordship satisfied ? ' 
 
 ' I am satisfied,' Lord Ferrier replied. '^ 
 
 ' First, then, you will sign this paper ' — Violet addressed her 
 husband, not Lord Ferrier. ' You acknowledge that you married 
 me under the assumed name of Richard Johnson. That is all. 
 Eut I wish you to sign it in the presence of your father and your 
 sister.' 
 
 ' If that is all,' said Guy, carelessly, ' let us sign.' 
 
 He read the paper, signed it, and returned it to her, with a bow. 
 'I suppose,' he said, 'that we part again. Quite so. You have 
 not kept your promise ; but do not fear ; I shall not interfere with 
 you.' 
 
 ' Give me, if you please,' said Lord Ferrier to the lawj^er, 'the 
 agreement which I was to sign. I have decided, sir,' he said to his 
 ^son, ' not to execute this deed. I will not join you in barring the 
 entail. The estates shall be kept — for your son. I think I ■ have 
 no more to say to you. Stay. You will learn in a few days what 
 I can do for you. An allowance of some kind shall be made to you, 
 on the condition that you leave England and do not return in my 
 lifetime. As regards your creditors, I shall see what sum I can set 
 aside every year, so long as I live, for their use. Go ; let me forget 
 that ever I had a son. ' 
 
 The young man turned and left the room without a word. 
 
 ' Guy ! ' cried Maude, catching his hand, but he shook it off with 
 an angry gesture. He had not even a single kind wol'd of farewell 
 
FAREWELL. 357 
 
 for the woman who had given him all she had. She sank into her 
 chair, and buried her face in her hands. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Lord Ferrier, taking Violet's hand and raising 
 it to his lips, ' you are my daughter-in-law. In this house you will 
 be always welcome.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my Lord. My secret shall still be kept. I will 
 not take your name to the theatre, and I will go on working for 
 myself. As for the boy, when he is older you shall decide about 
 hira. Boy, kiss your grandfather.' 
 
 She held upj the child to be kissed. 
 
 ' I will go, now. Do not cry for your brother,' she said to 
 Maude. ' He is not worth a tear. I haven't cried about him for 
 more than live years.' 
 
 But Maude made no sign, and Violet walked away, leading the 
 boy with her. 
 
 So Guy passed away, and will be seen no more. Nor can one 
 say what will be his end. Where cards and dice and roulette- 
 tables are to be found he will make his home. That is quite 
 certain. It is also certain that he will descend, slowly or rapidly, 
 deeper and deeper, until the outward semblance of a gentleman is 
 lost. As one thinks of him and his future, one remembers stories 
 of Mexican hells and New Orleans gambling saloons, and of shots 
 tired across a table, and a dead body thrown into the street. Or 
 one remembers ghastly things that one has heard : how men have 
 fallen among thieves and swindlers, and cast in their lot with them, 
 owing to the rare possession of a well-bred manner. Or one thinks 
 of the despair that falls upon a man when his last sou is lost, and 
 the cold river is close by. 
 
 Soon or late, the end of such men is certain. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN AUSPICIOUS DAT. 
 
 The cold season in Palmiste Island somewhat resembles the 
 summer in the Straits of Belleisle. That is to say, while the latter 
 begins on August the 31st and ends on September the 1st, the 
 former is said to begin on June the 30th and to end on July the 
 1st. It should be called the ' not-so-hot-as-usual ' season. In the 
 very height — or depth — of the season was Virginie married. 
 
 Her return to the island was announced by no letters : she 
 arrived alone and unexpected. There were few passengers by the 
 mail, and hardly anyone came on board when the quarantine boat 
 had done its duty. Therefore Virginie, leaving her boxes and 
 tilings to be forwarded by the trusty purser, landed by herself, and 
 by herself drove to Mon De'sir. 
 
S'iS THEY WERE MARRTED. 
 
 It was in the afternoon, about five of the clock, that she arrived 
 at the dear old Avenue of Palms. All the way out she had been 
 living over again the tumult and humiliation of the last weeks 
 in England. When she landed in the old familiar place her 
 London season vanished, and became like a dream of the past. 
 The sunshine lay upon the everlasting hills, the fresh breeze of the 
 afternoon fanned her cheek, the ragged old banana- trees waved a 
 welcome to her with their torn and disreputable rags of leaves. On 
 the wharves the dusky coolies shouted as they ran backwards and 
 forwards with their odorous sacks of guano ; the merchants and the 
 brokers sat beneath the trees upon the Place ; the drivers slept 
 upon their boxes ; the mules kicked and bit each other ; once more 
 she heard the old Creole patois ; once more she felt herself a Creole, 
 and, as the carriage took lier beyond the town, the tears came to 
 her eyes. What was England to her but a name and a glory ? 
 What was her pride of family worth any more to her 1 What had 
 been the vague wonders in her mind before she saw the birthplace 
 of her father ? How was she changed % How little it all meant 
 now. What were London drawing-rooms — what was the talk of 
 London societj'^ — what were the false friendships and pretences of 
 English life — what were the nights in crowded ball-rooms — to the 
 sweet, pure air of the Palmiste table-land ; the rustle and the light, 
 the colour and the shadow of the waving canes, the wooded hill- 
 side, the bare, hot rocks ; the breadth of sunshine, the deep ravines, 
 the waterfalls, and mountain streams ; even the ugly wooden huts, 
 witli their tin roofs, of the Chinamen — in her native land % 
 
 Wlien the carriage reached the avenue, she stopped it, and, 
 telling the man to follow very slowly, she went on before with 
 parted lips and eager eyes, thinking of how she should find them all. 
 
 Oh ! Look. In the verandah there sat, as they always had sat, 
 side by side, her mother with Madame Kemyss. They were not 
 reading — what real good comes by reading, when you tliink of it ? 
 Nor were they talking — you do not do any good at all, in general, 
 by talking. Nor were they working — why should they work, when 
 they had people to work for them % On a table between them lay a 
 book or two, and some work, just to look at. Thej^ were sitting there 
 as they sat every afternoon, quite still, silent, and happy, enjoying 
 the sunshine as it sloped across the lawn and lay golden on the distant 
 hills, feeling the joy of the cloudless sky, and the breath of the 
 fragrant air, and the scent of the roses on the lawn. Why talk ? 
 Why argue % Why waste breath in trying to prove the unknowable, 
 when these things can be enjoyed? Needless work, fuss, prattle, 
 chatter, fierce argument, and strenuous logic are for temperate 
 zones. To these ladies there was nothing wanting in their lives but 
 the return of their Virginie. And she was close at hand, though 
 they knew it not, looking at them through the branches of an 
 acacia. The Squire was there, too. But one is ashamed to say 
 that he was asleep. He had been of late so much troubled and 
 afflicted about the estate and the hesitation of the Banks that he 
 
AN AUSPICIOUS DAY. 359 
 
 often fell asleep of an afternoon. Now he lay back in his long chair 
 and slumbered peacefully. 
 
 In a corner of the verandah sat old Suzette, in her cotton frock 
 and red turban, coiled up. In her hands was a piece of work ; but 
 she, too, was half asleep. 
 
 A sleepy, peaceful place. As Virginia looked, she thought of 
 the danger hanging over them, and how this peace might be inter- 
 rupted, this rest disturbed, and these dear old people sent adrift to 
 find such shelter as they might. To be sure, where her mother 
 liveii, there would be Madame Kemyss — there, too, the Squire. 
 But — Tom ! 
 
 And she blushed, because, during all the voyage, Tom had never 
 once been out of her thoughts. What would he say ? What would 
 he say ! 
 
 Now, at this juncture, Tom himself came sauntering slowly down 
 the avenue. He was dull because the house was dull, and its 
 silence almost intolerable to him. And in these days he was always 
 dejected, and found no joy in anything nor any brightness in the 
 
 sunshine. And, behold ! before him stood none other than ■ 
 
 Virginie ! 
 
 He took her in his arms, and, without a word of question or 
 explanation— perhaps he read her eyes — he kissed her a thousand 
 times, regardless of the driver who sat on his box and grinned 
 approvingly. 
 
 ' Oh ! Tom,' she cried, ' do you love me still 1 ' 
 
 Did he love her 1 Did the sun shine 1 Was the sky blue ? 
 Were the flowers growing under their feet ? Did he love her still I 
 
 And there were present at the wedding his Excellency the 
 Governor and her Ladj'ship, his illustrious consort ; also the Right 
 Reverend the Lord Bishop of Palmiste, with the young Padre, his 
 Examining Chaplain — it took the pair of them to read the service 
 — and ths Bishopess, and the Bishoplings and the Colonial Sec- 
 retaiy, and the Auditor-General and the Treasurer, and all the 
 Heads of Departments — with their wives and daughters ; also all 
 the members of the Legislative Council, with their wives and their 
 sons and their daughters, and their grandchildren ; and the General 
 in command of the Forces, and the Colonel and all the officers of 
 the Regmient in garrison ; and the Assistant Colonial Secretary 
 — he who had taken the Padre for a morning walk — and other 
 assistants in Departments ; and all the French and English mer- 
 chants, and as many of the planters as were white — you mustn't 
 mix colours in a tropical climate any more than in aesthetic zones ; 
 and among them the McAndrew and the McLoughlin. As for the 
 Pink Boy, he was there, too. His friend the Squire was saved from 
 ruin. His letter had been acted upon ; and, after all, this was the 
 sad and fatal result. Yet he bore up, and acted as best man, 
 louking very pink and young and handsome. 
 
 They were married, naturally, at the English Cathedral, which. 
 
360 THEY WERE MARRIED. 
 
 was inucli fuller than was ever before known in the memory of man, 
 except on St. John's Day, when the IMasons go there to solemn 
 service, and hear a sermon full of dark allusion to Masonic rites, 
 and feel reassured about that Greater Excommunication hurled at 
 them by my Lord the Bishop of the Older Branch, whose Palace 
 stands not a hundred yards away. The organ pealed continuously, 
 and the choir boys sang an anthem, and the service was presently 
 under way, and the Pink Boy and all the bridesmaids were in 
 tears. 
 
 After the service there was the most generous and noble banquet 
 ever spread, with culinary effects romantically tropical, artistically 
 suggestive of sugar planting, poetically, allegorically beautiful. 
 His PJght Reverence proposed the bride : his Excellency proposed 
 Captain Kemyss : the Assistant Colonial Secretary, himself a 
 bachelor, proposed the bridesmaids, and the Pink Boy in reply 
 wandered off to the bride and confessed his passion : and tlie 
 McAndrew went to sleep in the middle of the feast : and the 
 McLoughlin at the close ]iad to be supported by a friend on either 
 side. 
 
 They spent their honeymoon in a little shooting-box hidden in 
 the heart of the woods, where they wandered every day hand in 
 hand. Sometimes they sat beside a sparkling stream, upon some 
 fallen trunk, a.nd watched the flickering of the leaves in the sun- 
 light, or the herds of deer browsing in a lonely glade, in silent 
 happiness. Sometimes they gathered orchids and ferns. Some- 
 times Virginie would read to Tom, who never read anything for 
 himself. Sometimes she told him of the great world she had seen 
 for a little and left for ever. Once she told him the true story of 
 her engagement, and honest Tom was fain to own that the wicked- 
 ness of man may be very astonishing. He meant white man — • 
 because he knew the coloured varieties pretty well, and had gauged 
 their moral possibilities. Sometimes they came upon little clear- 
 ings inhabited by settlements of old maroons who had long since 
 forgotten their rancour against the white man, and among whom 
 there Avas now none living, unless some very old Patriarch, who 
 remembered the lash and the labour. Then the fair white lady sat 
 among them, and talked to the simple people. 
 
 A sweet and simple honeymoon ; the prelude to a sweet and 
 simple life. Perhaps Yirginie will be happier with her garden and 
 her flowers, her woods and hills, her sunsliine and peace, than if 
 she were the Lady of The Towers, even though her liusband were 
 the Bayard that Maude represented him to be. 
 
 Another wedding ; it was so obscure that I do not know on what 
 day it was held ; but it was about the same as Virginie's. That of 
 Mr. Percival and Elsie. Nobody was present except Daddy Perigal 
 and Violet and the boy. They have, as they proposed, clubbed 
 their resources. Elsie is to go on governessing, while her husband 
 
AX AUSPICIOUS DAY. 361 
 
 shapes that spoon. It will never, I think, be a very remarkable 
 spoon ; but there will be some neatness and freshness in the design, 
 some taste, with conscientiousness in the execution ; and the whole 
 of the man's heart will be thrown into his work, so that, perhaps, 
 tliere may presently happen to be found a few simple people who 
 vrill look upon the spoon with a little admiration and a little 
 sympathy. 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 It is now forty years since Josiah Membling, clock and watchmaker, 
 retired from Gracechurch Street and the Httle shop, where he had 
 done extremely well, to his native village in Essex. He was the 
 son of a small farmer and the descendant of sturdy yeomen ; the 
 instincts of old family were strong in him ; when, therefore, being 
 a good way past sixty, he thought the time had come to sell the 
 business and retire, he was encouraged by the fact that the Hall of 
 his native village was for sale, with the park and grounds. He 
 bought them ; took his family into the country with him, and 
 settled down, for the fifteen years of life which remained to him, 
 not as a country gentleman exactly, for the good man had no idea 
 of going into society, but as a mixture of reti-red tradesman and 
 farmer. He fai^med his own land, though he lost money by it ; he 
 found life dull after the stir of the city, and he continually yearned 
 after the manufacture of watches and clocks, in which he was no 
 mere seller of other men's work, but himself an ingenious and 
 accomplislied workman, who had duly served his seven years' 
 apprenticeship, and was besides a mechanician by native genius. 
 
 During the latter years of his life the old man spent most of his 
 time locked up in his own room. It was a very large room on the 
 first floor, having two windows facing the south and four looking 
 west ; beside it was a small dressing-room which he occupied as a 
 ])edroom ; and no one at all was ever allowed to enter the large 
 loom, which was always locked ; but his grandson knew that it 
 contained a bench, a lathe, and all the tools requisite for mechanical 
 wijrk. Sometimes he worked there till late at night, sometimes he 
 would not come out even for dinner. There was something uncanny 
 about the old fellow working by himself continually, nobody knew 
 at what. He might have made watches, but he brought none out ; 
 he might have turned things with his lathe, but none were ever 
 shown ; he might have been pjrosecuting some grand research in the 
 horological mystery, but he said nothing about it. 
 
 He kept on working till the day of his death. It happened, one 
 Saturday evening, that his unmarried daughter and his daughter- 
 in-law were in the drawing-room when the old man unexpectedly 
 walked in. He stood before the lire and looked at them, turning 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 3^3 
 
 from one to the other with a strange smile. It was so seldom that 
 he came out of his own room that the two ladies were perplexed 
 and a little frightened. 
 
 ' My work,' he said, with another weird and uncanny smile, 'is 
 finislied.' 
 
 The words were hardly spoken when he suddenly reeled, caught 
 at a chair, and fell heavily to the ground in a tit. 
 
 In the morning he became conscious again, and presently began 
 to understand that he was dying, and that he had better give any 
 directions that he had to give at once. They sent for his grandson 
 who was at Cambridge, and it was to him, liis heir, that the old man 
 gave the one injunction that he seemed to care about. ' Let no 
 one,' he said, shaking his long and lean forefinger in the most 
 solemn manner, ' let no one presume to enter my room. Let it 
 remain locked, or if any desire to enter ' — here he laughed and his 
 hearers shuddered — 'let him enter alone and after dark. I shall 
 be there,' he added, while they shuddered again, ' on the watch — a 
 day and night watchman — a watch that always goes — a repeating 
 watch, a keyless watch, with the newest improvements, an ever- 
 lasting watch ' — here his mind wandered a little — ' Watches neatly 
 repaired. Established forty years. Clocks kept going.' And then 
 he laughed again and breathed his last. It was dreadful to see an 
 old man die with a laugh upon his lips. 
 
 They buried him in the churchyard under a magnificent marble 
 tomb, among a great number of Memblings, including his only son. 
 And it was, as stated above, his grandson who succeeded, being then 
 only one-and-twenty years of age. 
 
 His successor shortly afterwards married, and in course of time 
 had a family, like most people, of sons and daughters. The young 
 people knew very little about the watchmaker's shop, but they 
 knew that the churchyard was full of Josiah Memblings, and very 
 easily they grew to believe in a legendary history about the family 
 greatness. They were the ancient holders of the estate, the lords 
 of the manor ; they were found on the spot by the Norman Con- 
 queror ; they experienced many adventures in the various civil 
 wars ; there came a time wlien their fortunes were quite fallen ; 
 even the Hall passed for a while out of their hands ; then came the 
 second founder, who amassed wealth in the City and bought back 
 the old house. And they really did not know — the innocent girls 
 who built up this legend — what a collection of fibs they were put- 
 ting together. 
 
 For fifteen years and more the old man's last wishes were faith- 
 fully and piously obeyed. No one entered the old man's room at 
 all : the key was in his grandson's possession ; it became a matter 
 of common belief that the old man haunted the room. The maids 
 at dusk, and after dark, would hurry past the door ; in full daylight 
 they would stop and listen, trembling, if by chance they might hear 
 the sound of a dead man's footfall ; and the young members of tlie 
 family were brought up to feel doubly grateful to an ancestor who 
 
364 TWE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 had not orJy restored the fortunes of the house, but had endowed 
 it with a haunted room. 
 
 One day, however, when Laura, the eldest daughter, was in her 
 father's study looking for something else, she found hanging up in 
 a cupboard the key of the haunted room. It was a bright sunny 
 morning ; there could be no fear of ghosts on such a day ; she 
 looked at the key ; she remembered the solemn injunction, which 
 of course everybody knew, but the sight of the key filled her with 
 strange and in-esistible curiosity and a longing such as she had 
 never before known : she took it down with a trembling hand ; she 
 crept like a thief out of the study and up the broad stair to the 
 door ; she put the key in the lock and turned it. It was a little 
 rusty, but the bolt flew back and she opened the door. Strange, 
 how hard she had to press that door with her shoulder before it 
 opened ; she went in and looked round curiously, yet but for a 
 single moment : a grating noise behind her caused her to turn 
 quickly ; to her horror the door was closing of its own accord, and 
 a great bar was slowly rising behind it. She shrieked and fled ; 
 there was just time ; the door closed as she rushed through, there 
 was a noise as of a falling bar, and Laura fainted away. When she 
 recovered the maids were running up the stairs and about the 
 house, wanting to know who had been ringing bells and who was 
 making such a strange noise in the house. 
 
 When Laura told her story, her father put on the semblance of 
 great wrath, but secretly he rejoiced because here was proof posi-. 
 five of the haunting. No family of yesterday ever got a ghost. 
 In fact, it is only the members of an old family who can be got 
 even to believe in ghosts at all. It is a curious thing that in poor 
 and new neighbourhoods, like the East End of London, there 
 seems no place for a ghost. Now, for a thick population of ghosts, 
 give me Northumberland. 
 
 The next day, Laiura said that she had felt a cold breath upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 The day after, she said that a heavy sigh had fallen upon her 
 ear as she fled. 
 
 The day after that, she said that the sigh was a faint whisper of 
 the words ' My dear child.' 
 
 It was enough. The ghost was established. Henceforth un- 
 pleasant things might be said of money made in trade, but the old 
 family tradition would not be attacked. There was the evidence 
 of the supernatural bar, there was the door closed by an invisible 
 hand, there was the voice, there was the ringing of bells, there 
 were the strange noises heard by the maids while Laura was lying 
 supine and unconscious. No ancient Scottish House ever had such 
 a ghost. The Squire, however, put away the key in his strong box, 
 among his valuables. The door, he said, should never again be 
 opened in his lifetime. But Laura used to stand outside like a 
 Peri, listening for another message from the other world, and it 
 became recognised in the family that she vras her great-grand- 
 
THE BUMBLING OF THE MEMB LINGS. 205 
 
 father's favourite. This gave her a kind of rank. Respect was 
 due to one thus singled out by an ancestor who liad been such a 
 benefactor as to become not only the restorer of fallen fortunes 
 (which is in itself romantic), but also the family ghost. All the 
 Memblings walked movQ upright than before ; they stuck out their 
 chins, so to speak ; they believed in their Coat of Ai'ms ; what 
 was better, other people believed in it as well. 
 
 They entertained people at the Hall, and when they offered 
 them quarters for the night spoke with reserve of the haunted 
 room ; they laughed, but with aifection and reverence, not with 
 scorn, at their ghost ; the girls bade their friends, when they left 
 them after a hair-brushing, have no fear, because their ancestor 
 worked very quietly and disturbed no one outside his own room, 
 though, they added, as might be plainly heard by anyone who 
 listened at the door after dark, he was always at work. It was, in 
 fact, one of Laura's fictions that she could hear the lathe at work, 
 and the Squire, who good-humouredly received the avowed incre- 
 dulity of his friends, always finished the conversation by saying 
 that the key of the room was in his strong box, where he intended 
 it to remain. 
 
 Things might have gone on in this quiet and peaceful manner 
 vmtil now but for a misfortune, the nature and extent of which 
 will become presently apparent. All misfortunes, said the Sage 
 . (who married his cook), proceed from love. 
 
 Yet, who would have thought that the Humbling of the Mem- 
 blings would have followed upon so simple and natural a thing as 
 the engagement of young Dalmahoy to Laura ? Certainly not she 
 herself, not her father, nor her sisters and brothers, because 
 Dalmahoy was in every respect a most eligible parti, being not only 
 young, tolerably well off, and handsome, a good waltzer, a good 
 rider, a good shot, a good actor, and one of those gallant headlong 
 lovers before whom feminine courage breaks down, but he was also 
 — a point naturally insisted upon by the Memblings — a man of un- 
 deniably good family. There was no trace or taint of ti'ade in tlie 
 long line of Dalmahoys. 
 
 When Jack Dalmahoy came to Membling Hall — the girls almost 
 believed that the place had never possessed any other name, so that 
 they could, if they pleased, call themselves the Memblings of Mem- 
 bling — one of the first things they did, after showing him their 
 gardens, stables, and other interesting parts of the establishment, 
 was to tell him of the family ghost. He naturally laughed, and 
 spoke with disrespect of the spectre. Laura rebuked him, letting 
 it be understood quite plainly that she was to be taken with her 
 ghost or not at all. Who would oflend his mistress by objecting to 
 such a trifle 1 ' I would gladly,' said Jack, ' have the ghost in my 
 room every night if that would give you any pleasure. Invite him, 
 Laura, to visit me.' 
 
 Laura gravely shook her head. This was not the proper spirit 
 in wliich to speak of an ancestor who walked. He might even be 
 
3G6 THE BUMBLING OF THE MEMBLIXGS. 
 
 listening at that very moment. Indeed, the opportune cracking of a 
 piece of furniture gave some colour of probability to the supposition. 
 
 After dinner, when the ladies had gone, Jack asked the Squire 
 to allow him to pass the night in the haunted room. His request 
 was refused, gently but firmly. 
 
 'lam not,' said the chief of the Memblings, ' a particularly 
 euperstitious man, but the fact that there is undoubtedly something 
 supernatural in the room, and the equally undoubted fact that the 
 appearances and manifestations are connected with my grandfather, 
 make me respect his desire to remain after death unmolested in 
 what was, in his lifetime, his favourite room. 
 
 Laura was angry when she heard of tliis proposal. Did Jack, 
 she asked, consider her great-grandfather in the light of a common 
 ill-bred ghost, one of those unthinking and vulgar ghosts who 
 break the crockery, throw the furniture about, rattle chains, and 
 are disagreeable in the house ? 'For my part,' she said, 'I look 
 upon the tenancy of this room by my dead ancestor as a singular 
 proof of the affection with which he continues to regard us. His 
 spirit remains with us,' she added, clasping her hands and turning 
 her soft eyes, which were as limpid as a pair of opals, up to the 
 heaven, ' because he loves us still. He is our guardian angel, he 
 watches over the house. We are under his special protection, and 
 if we were to lose him, through any act of irreverence or intrusion, 
 farewell the luck of Membling Hall ! ' 
 
 Jack desisted, though loth to relinquish his interview with 
 the ghost. Indeed, when one thinks how seldom one gets the 
 chance of a talk face to face with a ghost, it is not surprising that 
 Jack was sorrowful when it vanished. I have never myself had 
 such a talk, and with the exceptions of a friend who saw the ghost 
 of Joe Morgan, another who was privileged to amuse Lady Kitty, 
 and a third who received Lady Bab, I think I know no one who 
 has actually talked with them. And, without going quite so far as a 
 certain learned counsel of my acquaintance, who ardently desires a 
 half-hour's friendly interview with the devil, I must say that there 
 are many ghosts for whom one would suiTer a great deal of incon- 
 venience and loss of time. Doctor Johnson, Emaiiuel Swedenborg, 
 Cagliostro, Doctor Dee, Cotton Mather, George Psalmanazar, the late 
 Count of Albany, Robespierre, and Cornelius Agrippa, all occur to 
 one in a breath as most interesting ghosts, if they would only come 
 and talk in a friendly way and without frightening one. Two or 
 tliree days afterwards Jack tried another line. As he could not be al- 
 lowed to sit up all night and converse with the old watchmaker, he 
 begged permission just to see the room. He would not go in, only 
 open the door and look round. ' It is not, Laura,' he said, ' as if 
 one wanted to go against your ancestor's express rule, simply to pay 
 a kind of — mark of respect — you know — morning call — just to luok 
 at the place, not even to go into the room.' 
 
 I believe that one of the reasons why the Squire refused per- 
 mission to spend the night in the room was that he was afraid of 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. Snj 
 
 revelations. You see, he knew more than his children, he enter- 
 tained well-founded doubts as to the greatness of the House, he 
 knew all about the shop, and it did occur to him that a conversa- 
 tion between his grandfather and his son-in-law might be awkward. 
 Fancy a poor relation turning up when you have been comfortably 
 established for a generation and a half, to remind your friends that 
 the family crest was only forty years old or so, that the family 
 history was fudge, and that the shop, the good, old, honest, 
 despised shop, was the foundation, and not the restoration at all, 
 of the House ; and fancy a Membling asked to turn a guest into a 
 room where he might, and very likely would, be informed by 
 the purchaser of Membling Hall how his money was made. ' We 
 have,' the Squire might have reasoned, 'a highly respectable 
 family ghost. But there are reasons why that ghost should be kept 
 in the family, and if it have disclosures to make or garrulous remi- 
 niscences to prattle upon, let these things be conveyed to the ear of 
 a member of the family only. Or, as the ghost shows no inclination 
 to leave his own room, let there be no disclosures at all. There is 
 at least no occasion to invite revelatinns about the shop.' 
 
 The least ghostly time in the whole day, I take it, is the after- 
 noon. No one expects even a medium to have any luck in tlie 
 afternoon. Seances are alwaj^s conducted after dark ; old-fashioned 
 wizards used to conjure up spirits at midnight ; if devils, spectres, 
 hditis-, hobgoblins lasted till the morning, they were gone at all 
 events by dawn. The ' garish light of day ' is painful to super- 
 natural eyes ; they wink when it begins ; they wink hoiTiljly if 
 they have to endure it many minutes ; long, long before noon they 
 are away and in hiding. Who would have thought, then, that old 
 Membling would have played the tricks he did, actually in the 
 afternoon ? You shall hear. 
 
 It was an afternoon in January — in the first week of the year. 
 Snow was spread upon the fields, though it had melted on tlie 
 roads ; there was a gentle mist rising from the earth, througli 
 which the sun was shining feebly, a blurred circle of pale glory 
 without warmth. But the sun was already sinking, and the pale 
 winter twilight was going to begin, the mist and the white snow 
 making it lighter than usual and yet ghostly, if one can use the 
 word of a four-o'clock appearance — an afternoon-tea-time manifes- 
 tation. The light was strange. 
 
 Jack Dalmahoy and Laura, after luncheon, sat together, talking 
 of the little nothings which please young lovers. Presently the 
 conversation flagged. Then some young and sprightly devil, seeing 
 the chance of domg a little mischief by firing Jack's imagination, 
 which had at the moment nothing to work upon (being tired of 
 pretending imaginary perfections in his Laura), whispered in his 
 ear that it would be something to pay a visit to the kaunted room. 
 ' The very thing ! ' cried Jack with alacrity. 
 
 ' What is the very tiling, Jack ? ' asked Laura, looking up with 
 surprise. 
 
!568 THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMB LINGS. 
 
 ' My dear girl, ' he said, ' let us go this afternoon ; go, beg the 
 ke^'. we will pay a visit to the haunted room ! ' 
 
 Laura hesitated. 
 
 ' You know, dear girl,' said her lover, ' that you are yourself as 
 curious to visit the room as I myself.' 
 
 ' I have seen it,' she replied, ' and I heard ' 
 
 'Yes, Laura.' Jack had heard the story before. 'I perfectly 
 remember. But we shall only open the door and look in. Go, 
 dear, and ask your father for the key.' 
 
 The Squire gave his consent with some reluctance. He even 
 returned with his daughter, bearing the key with as much respect 
 as if it were the key of a city's gates, such as that which the citizens 
 of a mediteval town used to bring out when they had eaten up their 
 last rat. 
 
 ' Here is the key,' he said solemnly ; 'if you merely open the 
 door and look in, no harm will be done, I should think. As the 
 sun is setting, you might, even, if you please, go in. The injunc- 
 tion was that no one was to go in excejjt after dark, and alone. 
 But Laura may be considered an exception.' 
 
 Jack said that if he went in Laura should go with him, and 
 that, as regards respect, he would look on the room as the family 
 vault. Laura said he meant, she presumed, the church, not the 
 vault. 
 
 First he oiled the key, which was rusty ; then, accompanied*by 
 Laura, he turned it in the lock, and with some dilliculty, because, 
 he said, it was like some fellov-^ pushing on the other side. He 
 succeeded in opening it. 
 
 Could the 'fellow,' Laura thought, with a shudder, be her 
 revered ancestor ? 
 
 When the door was open Jack forgot his promise, and stepped 
 inside, looking about him curiously. 
 
 It was a long, low room, lighted by three narrow windows 
 looking west, and reaching from floor to ceiling. It was most 
 curiously furnished. For beside one window there was a table fur- 
 nished exactly like one of those used by working watch-makers, 
 with glasses in bone frames such as they stick in their eye when 
 they look at a watch, and, observing a piece of dust, which they 
 blow away and thereby release the machinery, declare that the 
 watch requires cleaning, which will be eight-and-six. By such 
 subtleties was the fortune of the Memblings commenced. Lamps, 
 jets for gas, low stools, trays containing portions — dissected bones 
 — of watches, small brushes and dusters, themselves covered with 
 dust, now covered this table. Before the next window stood a 
 lathe with tools, 'chunks,' and wheel. Before the next was another 
 table, larger than the first, and covered with books, papers, mathe- 
 matical instruments and drawnigs. 'My great-grandfather,' said 
 Laura, thinking of the mythical and almost disbelieved shop of 
 Avhich even the younger members of the family were somehow 
 conscious, ' was in his day a great mechanician.' 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLIJSGS. 3G9 
 
 ' "What did he hang the -avails with peacocks' feathers for % ' 
 isked Jack. 
 
 It was a strange thing : one side of the room was given over to 
 a watchmaker's table, a lathe, and books on mechanics ; the other 
 side was decorated with everything bizarre, as if the old man had 
 resolved on gratifying his own taste without consulting the taste 
 of the age. A Persian carpet lay on the floor ; there was a broad 
 sofa on wliich he had often slept, covered with costly skins, a 
 thair, also covered with skins, stood facing it ; common tobacco 
 pipes and a common tobacco jar stood upon the plain mantelshelf, 
 on wliich were such trifles as pots of glue and paste, glasses which 
 suggested the ' runniier ' of a country public-house, a spirit-case 
 open, a note-book, and and an umbrella. The fireplace itself was a 
 beautiful specimen of costly brass-work and tiles, there were carved 
 cabinets very precious, filled with china, though the old man died 
 befoi'e the great china revival was born, and there were pictures 
 worth crying over, so delightful were they. The whole of that side 
 of the room was covered with peacocks' feathers attached one over 
 the other to the wall. The ceiling of the room was of polished oak, 
 dark and deep, relieved with a little gold. The eflect of the pale 
 wintry light falling upon their splendours was very strange. Laura 
 clasped her lover by the arm and gasped. Then she looked round 
 and shrieked. 
 
 Six years before this, when she stood within the room, she had 
 seen the door closing slowly, and of its own accord, before her. 
 Now as she turned she saAV that the same thing was happening 
 again, but that it was too late ; for with a heavy, grating noise the 
 door shut closely, while, also of its own accord, there slowly fell 
 behind it a heavy wooden bar. 
 
 As the bar fell there was a sound as of a deep sigh. Then all 
 was silent. 
 
 The pair, thus strangely made prisoners, looked at each other 
 with pale faces. Even the man, as brave a fellow as may be, saw 
 with a terror which froze his blood this great bar lifted without 
 visible hands, and falling slowly as if guided into its place. He 
 rushed to the door and tried to lift it. Its free end was lying in a 
 strong clamp closed by some spring. He could not lift it out, nor 
 could he by any strength tear it away and open the door. 
 
 Another shriek from Laura called him to her side. 
 
 ' Fingers,' she cried, ' fingers at my throat ! Jack, save me 
 save me ! ' 
 
 Jack took her in his arms and soothed her. ' Nothing,' he said, 
 ' can hurt us. Wliatever it is, nothing shall hurt you till it first — 
 oh, Lord ! ' 
 
 He stopped, because a breath of ice-cold air blew violently into 
 his face, and again the solemn sigh was heard. Laura sank upon 
 the floor, in a terror the like of which she had never imagined or 
 suspected. Jack lifted her gently and laid her upon the chair 
 beside the fii'eplace. 
 
 BS 
 
370 THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 What next ? Laura held Jack by the hand, imploring him not 
 to leave her — not to leave her alone. He stood beside her, his heart 
 beating, his brain afire with wonder and terror. What next 1 
 
 A third time they heard the sigh as of one in deep trouble and 
 perhaps anger : again soft fingers touched Laura's throat, and again 
 cold airs vexed their cheeks. Meantime it was growing darker : 
 the sun was quite gone down ; the short winter twilight was deepen- 
 ing into gloom, and the snow-fields through the windows stretched 
 white and cold. 
 
 Then there began a ringing of bells and a beating of drums. 
 Jack held Laura more tightly and whispered to her to be of good 
 cheer ; nothing, he declared with a positiveness which he did not 
 feel, should or could hurt her while he was there. 
 
 The bells seemed all round them, as if they were being rung in 
 their ears ; they were soft and melodious bells, not harsh and 
 strident, and the drums, like the bells, were soft ; their rolling Avas 
 as that of muffled kettle-drums, and when they stopped for a 
 moment the heavy sigh was heard, as if lamenting the necessity for 
 making all this noise. The bells rang and the drums beat for an 
 hour and a half, as it seemed to the terror-stricken couple, prisoners 
 in the room, who were fain to listen. In truth, they rang and 
 beat for about five minutes, and then they stopped suddenly, and 
 that dreadful, unseen person began to sigh again, heavily. Also 
 Laura shrieked, because the fingers began to play again at her throat. 
 
 Of all forms of supernatural visitations, that of fingers at tiie throat 
 has always seemed to me the least desirable. The apparition of a 
 sheeted ghost, with or without chains, the squeezing of hands left in- 
 advertently outside the sheets, the cold breathing upon the sleeping 
 brow, the groaning behind wainscot walls, the dragging of cliauis, the 
 sighing or sobbing by the bedside, the shying about of crockery, 
 the sluieking in the garden, the upheaval of hea\y furniture, the 
 creaking on the stairs, the lurking in unsuspected places, the unrea- 
 sonable claim to property in a place after you have become a ghost — 
 all these things are eflective, though perhaps overdone. iS"ew ghost 
 machinery has to be invented if the popular imagination is to be 
 fired, and I take it that the miserable falling off in ghosts during 
 the last fifty years must be attributed mainly to the weariness nf 
 the imagination, which refuses any longer to be stirred by old- 
 fashioned modes of spiritual manifestations. Even rapj^iiig has had 
 its day, and one sees no hope for ghosts in the future, unless they 
 are prepared to bring trustworthy information as to the rules and 
 regulations d'outre-mer. Then, indeed, there would be so great a 
 run upon ghosts that the good old times would come back again, 
 and many a musty family ghost, long since laughed at, scorned and 
 forgotten, would return, to bloom and blossom again among a 
 curious and credulous posterity. 
 
 But to have one's throat felt, touched, and fingered by ghostly 
 fingers ! That is, if you please, a thing which in no way attracts tlie 
 curiosity or stimulates the imagination. Quite the contrary ; it 
 siinplj' terrifies. 
 
THE BUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 371 
 
 Laura shrieked and would have fainted, had she thought it would 
 be of the least use. But she was too much terrified for fainting. 
 In real moments of crisis, in supreme moments, as the prigs say, 
 one is too much in earnest to faint. One may faint comfortably 
 when a tooth is pulled out, and feel all the better for it afterwards, 
 but when a more serious operation is performed no one thinks about 
 fainting, and takes chloroform instead. 
 
 'N — n — othing,' said Jack, with less heart in his tone than he 
 could have wished, 'c — can hurt you while I am here.' 
 
 Yet there were fingers at her throat, and just then Laura would 
 have sacrificed all the honoiu" and glory of the family ghost could 
 she have found herself safe outside that dreadful door with the bar 
 let down to keep them m. Or, suppose her Ancestor had appeared, 
 hungering, ravening for a life, I believe she would have given up 
 her lover in the same spirit of duty as prompted Agamemnon to 
 sacrifice Iphigenia, so as to get out of the mess with as much ease 
 and safety as possi1)le. But all that they had heard and seen were 
 mere trifles, bagatelles, skittles, apple tart, compared to what they 
 were about to see. 
 
 Suddenly the bells which had been ringing a melodious peal, and 
 the kettle-drums wliich had been beating a muffled harmony, clashed 
 and clanged in a horrific discord, at the hearing of which Laura 
 moaned and groaned, while Jack, clutching her hand as if for his 
 own safety, murmured mechanically, ' N — n — n — nothing c — c — 
 c — an h — h — h — hur — ' and here liis jaws stuck and he said no 
 more. 
 
 For at the clang and clash of the bells the cui'tains fell before 
 the windows, and they were in darkness absolute. 
 
 It seemed next as if the end of the room was taken away, and 
 another room opened to their eyes. 
 
 There was nothing at all in this room, but it was lighted by a 
 large window at the end, and a long narrow window at the side. 
 The glimmer from the snow without gave sufficient light for the 
 intruding pair to see the things which presented themselves. 
 
 The bells stopped, the drums stopped. Then there began a 
 wailing plaintive music, a tune never heard on earth, which seemed, 
 like the bells and the drums, to be played around them, above 
 them, below them. And while tliis weird and ghostly tune was 
 slowly played, there appeared suddenly, not, said Laura afterwards, 
 as if they sprang from the ground or flropped from the skies, but 
 suddenly, as if they came from nowhere, three skeletons. In the 
 dim light one could discern their shadowy forms, the lean fingers 
 with which they pointed, the long bony legs with which they 
 danced — they actually danced ! — the hollow, eyeless sockets and 
 grinning teetli of the skulls. As they came, so they disappeared, 
 as suddenjy, as silently. 
 
 But the music, the supernatural, weird, and ghostly music, went 
 on, and then — ah ! then — the final manifestion appeared. For, aa 
 if he had stepped from the wall, Laura saw her great-grandfather — 
 
 BB 2 
 
372 THE HTIMBLINQ OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 the Actual Family Ghost itself — walk slowly, and as if with diffi- 
 culty, across the room, and as he neared the opposite wall, he 
 turned, faced his great-granddaughter, and with his white locks 
 and white beard faintly visible, he seemed to hold up a warning 
 forefinger and disappeared. 
 
 Then the music ceased ; the room of the ghost and skeletons 
 disappeared"; the curtains wliich had fallen before the windows 
 were drawn back, and there was silence. 
 
 ' Jack ! ' said Laura. 
 
 * G — g — g — ood heavens ! ' cried Jack. 
 ' Are we living. Jack ? ' 
 
 * G — g — g — ghosts ! ' said Jack. 
 
 ' Do you think it is over, Jack ? ' asked Laura. 
 
 ' N — n — n — othing ' began Jack, when Laura, looking 
 
 round, saw to her delight that there was a gleam of artificial light in 
 the doorway, which showed that the door was open. She rushed 
 to the place ; the great bar was gone ; the door was ajar ; Laura 
 yelled for help, rushed through, and fell headlong in the passage. 
 The cause of her fall, I am ashamed to say, was no other than Jack 
 himself, who rushed after her. Both fell down, like Jack and Jill, 
 and lay sprawling together. 
 
 That evening Laura did not appear at dinner ; her mother sent 
 for the doctor, and she was ordered to bed. Somebody sat up all 
 night with her, and in the morning she was delirious : the system, 
 said the doctor, had sustained a severe shock. 
 
 As for Jack, he ordered his things to be got ready at once, and 
 drove straight back to Colchester, leaving word that he was ordered 
 back on regimental duty. But when he got there he was fain 
 to drink so much soda-and-brandy that he too, like Laura, was put 
 to bed. 
 
 Thus, for two or three days, the story of the dreadful apparition 
 at Membling Hall never got about. 
 
 When Laura got better she told the story, sitting up in bed, to 
 her sisters : she was a girl of a fine imagination and an eye to dramatic 
 situation, therefore the story lost nothing in the telling ; the sighs, 
 the sobs, the cold breath, the fingers at the tliroat, the skeletons, 
 the bells, and the weird music, with the dread vision of her great- 
 grandfather at the end, were all duly narrated. The sisters told 
 their father. The Squire enjoined secresy, but left a corner open 
 in the case of trusted friends ; everyone had a trusted friend. 
 Tlierefore, before Jack returned, he was assailed on all sides by 
 questions about the ghost of Membling Hall, and had to explain, 
 although witli fear of making himself ridiculous, that it was a 
 real, unmistakable ghost — a devil of a ghost, accompanied by every 
 kind of row and appearance calculated to shake a fellow's nerves 
 and make him feel uncomfortable. Jack was not a man of lively 
 imagination, but the things he had seen were so extraordinarj^ that 
 he had only to tell them exactly as he had seen them. And it 
 would be wonderful, had we the time, to relate the two forms which 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLIXGS. 37;^ 
 
 the story took when related by Laura the imaginative, and by Jack 
 the matter-of-fact. 
 
 Think, however, of the pride of the IMemblings at tliis proof 
 incontrovertible of their family ghost. Where was there, anywhere 
 in England, a house with such a ghost, so complete in all its parts, 
 so provided with machinery, material gear, and supernatural assis- 
 tants ? Was it not a great honour to them that their ghost did not 
 appear unattended, but was provided with a body-guard, or spirit- 
 ward, of three dancing skeletons 1 Was there any other ghost at 
 whose bidding bells would ring and drums would beat ? It was like 
 a royal progi'sss. Josiah Membling's spirit was welcomed, as he 
 himself would have wished, like a Lord Mayor on Lord Mayor's 
 day. Did ever man hear tell of any other ghost who could com- 
 mand, so to speak, a private orchestra of his own, to play music at 
 his coming ! 
 
 The mere telling of the story became a fearful joy to Laura and 
 to the faitliful Jack. It was a dreadful experience to have under- 
 gone ; but, like a shipwreck on a desert island, once worried 
 through, it became a grand and splendid distinction. Laura's sisters 
 envied her : Laura's brothers envied her. The Squire was proud 
 of her ; the story brought the gi-eatest credit to the family : Laura 
 might have adopted the motto of Queen Elizabeth, Duxfcmina facti. 
 
 She became an extremely interesting person, and began to culti- 
 vate the sadness which belongs, somehow, to all persons privileged 
 to hold communication with the outer world. She sat in shadowy 
 corners, or in the dim firelight without a lamp, in the long and dark 
 room called the library, where slie told her story with clasped 
 hands, while the light of the fu'e reddened her pale cheek and 
 showed up the luminous depths of her large soft eyes ; her audience 
 gathered round her catching breathlessly at her words, and looking 
 over their shoulders on the chance of seeing the spectre behind 
 them. But he never came. ' My great-grandfather,' said Laura, 
 ' will never, I am persuaded, leave the room in which he has chosen 
 to dwell. Let us have no fear. Indeed, ' she added, smiling sadly, 
 ' whj' should we fear ? He who restored the fortunes of the House, 
 and is good enough to watch over it after his passing away, can 
 hardly be feared. He may hear, no doubt he does hear, all that is 
 said and di me in the Hall, therefore let us always speak of him with 
 the Reverence and Awe which he deserves.' 
 
 They came from all parts of the country to hear the story. 
 Laui'a was obliged to be at home every afternoon. Jack was not 
 allowed to leave her chair, in order to be ready to corroborate any 
 statement. He shone as the lesser light, not being permitted to 
 tell the story himself because he was not a good raconteur, and 
 because a certain sterility of imagination forbade those develop- 
 ments of facts which are necessaiy in a perfect ghost stoiy. But 
 he could put in a word by way of proof, and was immenselj' useful 
 as the Witness. A ghost, like a miracle, requires the testimony 
 of two or more credible persona. 
 
37i THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 ' I shall never,' said Laura, ' never again bear to hear the leas^ 
 frivolous or scoffing allusion to the appearance of Spirits. The 
 subject will always be associated in my mind, with a Manifestation 
 which was truly Awful. 
 
 ' Awfully Awful,' said Jack, behind her chair. 
 
 ' I cannot understand, now, how I lived through it. Indeed, I 
 must have died with terror, had it not been for the invincible 
 fortitude of Jack, who, I will say in his presence, behaved with 
 perfect courage and reverence throughout. What reassured me 
 lirst, and convinced me that no harm was intended, was the celestial 
 music which preceded the most awe-inspiring sight, the last scene 
 of all.' 
 
 ' What was it like, the music 1 ' whispered a young lady. 
 
 ' Like a waltz tune,' said Jack. 
 
 ' Not the least like a waltz tune,' said Laura. ' You might as 
 well call a recitative from Handel a waltz tune : better, in fact, 
 because Handel's music is the work of a man, whereas this — oh ! 
 this that we heard — whose work was it 1 ' She lifted hands and 
 eyes, and remained silent in ecstatic contemplation of the ceiling. 
 'My dear,' she continued after an interval, during which the 
 gentlemen thought they were in church and looked into their hats, 
 ' it is impossible to describe that music. It fell upon the soul like 
 Bume utterance of Power : we were awed, not terrified by it ' 
 
 ' It was something like a musical box,' said Jack. 
 
 'It was nothing of the sort, sir,' Laura interrupted. 'The 
 sound was like no eartlily music. It w^as tuneful, but no human 
 ■^T^ice could reproduce the tune : the harmonies were too subtle 
 and too profound for human art ; the instruments may have been 
 in form like our own, but of a sweetness, of a force, which I could 
 never, never hope to convey to your imagination.' 
 
 ' Made a devil of a row,' Jack whispered, in corroboration, to 
 a man beside him. 
 
 ' Was there any singing 1 ' asked another lady. ' Oh ! if they 
 had sung a hymn — ivhat an addition to our choir it would have 
 been ! ' 
 
 ' I heard no words,' Laura sighed. ' That is, I could distinguish 
 none. But it seemed to me as if, far off — oh ! far, far away — there 
 was a choir of voices upraised in harmony.' 
 
 ' One fellow groaning ' Jack began, but was instantly 
 
 checked as Laura went on 
 
 ' The music preceded the Dance of Death ' — Laura stopped and 
 trembled — ' nothing more terrible could be conceived. As the 
 skeletons danced, pointing their long bony fingers at us, they 
 seemed to warn us of the flight of time. Their aspect was not 
 forbidding, nor were their gestures angry.' 
 
 ' Grinned at us,' said Jack, ' like the very ' 
 
 ' Could,' interrupted Laura, hastily, ' could such a pageant, 
 such a si)iritual apparition, have suggested the " Danse Macabre" 
 to Holbein and the mediijeval painters ? ' 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 873 
 
 'Like a hornpipe,' said Jack. ' Never saw such a lively lot : 
 flouble-shuffle, heel-and-toe, walk-round, all complete.' 
 
 ' How long did the dance continue 1 ' asked a visitor, shuddering. 
 
 ' We took no count of time,' replied Laura. ' I do not suppose, 
 that, as the clocks went, we were in the room for ten minutes ; 
 yet what we saw must have taken about a day and a half, at least. 
 How long. Jack, do you think the bells were ringing 1 ' 
 
 Jack shook his head, and said he thought they were never 
 going to stop. 
 
 'Then,' continued Laura, 'there were the sighings and the 
 sobbings, the cold winds, the beating of the drums, the playing of 
 the music before the Terrible Dance. Hour after hour passed 
 away : we were ravished out of ourselves : we were lost in wonder 
 and awe : we felt no hunger : our pulses stopped, and the beating 
 flf our hearts ! We were without any fear, were we not. Jack ? ' 
 
 ' Quite,' replied Jack. ' I was never more composed in my life.' 
 
 ' But there was more, was there not 1 ' asked another visitor. 
 ' We heard that you saw the spirit of your Ancestor himself.' 
 
 Laura sank her voice to a whisper. 
 
 ' You heard aright,' she said solemnly. ' The manifestations 
 ended with no less an appearance than that of my revered Ancestor 
 himself, the Restorer of the House — even the Second Founder.' 
 She spoke as if Julius Cassar himself or even King Alfred had 
 been the first of the Memblings. 
 
 ' How — how did he appear 1 ' gasped her audience. 
 
 ' He was dressed in a long dressing-gown, such as he usually 
 wore in his lifetime.' 
 
 ' And yet, ' murmured a triumphant spiritualist, one of the 
 audience, ' they say that ghosts have no clothes. Absurd ! Matter, 
 as has been proved over and again, can always be represented 
 visibly by spirits. Pray go on, Miss Membling. I have never 
 durmg all my investigations met with a more interesting experience 
 than this of yours. It will confound every sceptic' 
 
 ' Dressed in his long gown,' Laura resumed, ' he moved slowly, 
 almost painfully, across the I'oom. He appeared suffering from 
 the debility of extreme old age ' 
 
 ' Quite so — quite so ! ' the spiritualist rubbed his hands. ' I 
 have always maintained that they appear as they left the world, no 
 older and no younger. Pray go on.' 
 
 ' As he moved he turned his face towards us and smiled. You 
 saw him smile, Jack, as plainly as I did ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said Jack, with hesitation, 'he certainly wagged his 
 head, and I saw his beard wobble, but I can't honestly say that I 
 saw him smile.' 
 
 ' He would not smile for a stranger,' said the spiritualist. 
 
 ' The most benignant countenance : the sweetest smile : the 
 kindest look in his eyes : with long silvery locks and a white 
 beard. As he disappeared, he raised his hand as if to bestow hia 
 benediction upon us. You saw that. Jack?' 
 
876 TEE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! he lifted his hand.' 
 
 ' I think, but I am not sure, that I heard him murmur a bles- 
 sing as he disappeared.' 
 
 ' Did he, now,' — asked the scientific explorer of Ghostland — 
 ' did he sink into the ground, or did he ascend into the air ? ' 
 
 'He disappeared,' said Laura. ' He seemed to touch the wall 
 and to vanish.' 
 
 'He came out of one wall,' said Jack, ' and went into the other 
 wall.' 
 
 ' And did you,' asked the spiritualist, ' hear the Blessing 1 ' 
 
 'No, I did not,' replied Jack. 
 
 ' The Blessing,' explained the scientific specialist, 'was for the 
 House alone. You heard nothing, then 1 ' 
 
 ' Why,' Jack said, considering, ' he shuffled a bit with his feet 
 as if his slippers were uneasy.' 
 
 And so it went on, day after day, Laura receiving the visitors 
 and telling the story over and over again. Jack was neither imagi- 
 native, nor was he properly impressed. He had seen things and 
 heard things : that was undeniable. But he drew no conclusions. 
 He was thus a foil to Laura, and by his very downright matter-of- 
 fact doggedness he corroborated her statements. The story, little 
 by little, improved : the heavenly music was, in a few days, provided 
 V ith a heavenly choir ; the bells were a peal ; the dance of death 
 was a procession of skeletons, who danced as they crossed the room, 
 in number about a hundred and fifty ; the Benediction of the 
 Ancestor was pronounced in a solemn whisper which could not 
 reach the grosser ear of Jack, but was perfectly audible to Laura. 
 The fair narrator herself became daily more penetrated with the 
 greatness and grandeur of her position : she also, to Jack's disgust, 
 became more spiritualised, tried to live on nothing, grew certainly 
 pale and thin, and ceased to take the same interest as of old in the 
 little tendernesses which her lover was willing to lavish upon 
 her. 
 
 It was agreed, by the advice of the spiritualist, that the liistory 
 should be written down— soberly, he said, and with due attention 
 to dates, times, and the corroborative testimony of Jack — and 
 printed, for the good of the world and the solace of mankind. 
 Laura spent, therefore, a fortnight in the production of what was 
 called a ' Plain Statement.' Her intimate friends observed that 
 the written narrative did not quite correspond with her former 
 statements, and Jack owned that he had not heard the choir singing 
 hymns, nor seen the Blessing with both hands. But these things 
 mattered little in the face of so tremendous and undoubted a series 
 of apparitions. 
 
 The Squire gave his consent to have the story printed — but, he 
 said, for private circulation only. Let the knowledge of the Ghost 
 be whispered abroad : that could not, he supposed, be avoided : but 
 the actual facts concerned only the immediate friends of the House, 
 and not the general public, whose curiosity he, for one, W9,s not 
 
TEE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLIKGS. 377 
 
 disposed to gratify by relating private events, and the experiences, 
 however singular, of his daughter. The ' iSTarrative ' or 'Plain 
 Statement ' was accordingly printed on the finest and creamiest of 
 toned paper, with a portrait of the Ancestor. The date of his death 
 was not stated, but from the mediiieval appearance of the face and 
 the cut of the beard, in which the limner improved on the original 
 oil painting (that of Josiah Membling as a Common Councilman), 
 the venei'able Ancestor might have belonged to the thirteenth or 
 fourteenth century. All this greatly added to the glory of the 
 family, and tended to confirm their position as belonging to the 
 County. With what face could any one sneer at people as new 
 comers whose ancestors remained in their old rooms, and appeared 
 to give benedictions to the female branches of their posterity ? 
 Could the Howards, the Courtenays, the Montmorencies, the Lusig- 
 nans, expect more ? 
 
 The ' Narrative ' off her hands, Laura began to descend slowly 
 from the higher spiritual levels and to talk of ordinary things in 
 her ordinary manner, so that Jack Dalmahoy plucked up courage 
 and renewed his courtship at the point where the ancestral spirit 
 had broken it off. He was by this time growing weary of the 
 worship or cult of the old ghost, and it bored him to be perpetually 
 recalling the dancing skeletons and the shadowy figure with the 
 long white hair. Then, it was annoying for a plain man to be con- 
 stantly invited to remember a heavenly chorus, a benediction, a 
 warning look, or a sweet and gracious smile. Therefore he was 
 anxious to get his courtship over and to carry away his bride. 
 When he mentioned the desirability of naming the day, Laura de- 
 clared at first that nothing should ever persuade her to leave a 
 house possessed of so many and such rare blessings. Jack argued 
 that if a girl gets engaged she means to have her own house. Laura 
 replied that she had not, on entering into the engagement, foreseen 
 that she should receive the benediction of her Ancestor. Jack 
 responded that the benediction did not tell her that she was not to 
 get married, 'unless,' he added, with unusual bitterness, 'you 
 are going to marry your great-grandfather yourself % Don't be- 
 lieve ' He stopped short here, thinking it would be well not 
 
 to say anything about the heavenly choir or the gracious smile till 
 after his marriage. 
 
 Laura reflected, sweetly holding her hands clasped and her head 
 a little on one side in the attitude of reflection. The thought 
 crossed her mind that it would be a pity to give up such a good- 
 natured, good-looking, and well-to-do lover for the sake of a ghost 
 whom, perhaps, she would never see again. And presently she 
 murmured softly, ' Jack, do you think my Ancestor would come 
 with us to our new home and abide with us '? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Lord ! ' cried Jack in a voice of such genuine consternation 
 that Laura foi'got her affectation and burst into a hearty laugh, 
 after which Jack found no difliculty in getting her to talk about a 
 day. 
 
378 THE HUMBLING OF TUB MEMBLING8. 
 
 They were to be inarr'ed after Lent, that was agreed upon, and 
 after an infinite amount of discussion it was further covenanted that 
 the day should be the last day of April. This gave them a clear 
 five weeks for preparation, and Jack was ordered back to his garri- 
 son work to be out of tlie way until he should be wanted to take 
 his part in the approaching ceremony. 
 
 The excitement of the time that followed kept Laura's thoughts 
 a good deal from her ghost, whose home was not further intruded 
 upon. By some curious current of feeling, assisted, no doubt, by 
 Laura's appropriation of the family ghost to heiself, it was generally 
 considered that the ghost might feel ofi'ended at the departure of 
 the one member of the family to whom he had cc^ndescended to 
 reveal himself, one lady going so far as to prophesy disaster. And 
 when it came, in way and manner as shall be presently set forth, 
 she only said it was what she expected and always said would hap- 
 pen, and that if Laura had not been bent upon going away, no doubt 
 evil spirits would not have been allowed to work their wicked will, 
 and all this shame would not have fallen upon the family. 
 
 Among the members of the Dalmahoy family was a first cousin 
 of Jack's, a young fellow of an inquiring mind, who was reading at 
 Cambridge for mathematical honoui's. He was invited to be best 
 man to his cousin on the joyful occasion, and joined the wedding 
 party at Membling Hall two or three days before the auspiciou.-^ 
 morning. Tlie house was cjuite full, and the usual excitement of 
 looking at the wedding presents, flirting with the bridemaids, 
 dancing, and the rest of it, parsed the time more agreeablj' for Mr. 
 Ueorge Dalmahoy than if he had been dining in the college hall and 
 Bj^ending his evenings in an undergraduate's room. Of course 
 almost the first thing which he heard of was the ghost, and this 
 immediately fired his imagination. 
 
 He read the 'Narrative.' Then he cross-examined Jack, and 
 elicited from him that the superstructure, so to speak — the heavenly 
 choir and the rest of it — was an addition made by Laura herself 
 after the event ; that is to say. Jack neither saw nor heard any of 
 it. On the other hand, there could be no manner of doubt that the 
 ' Narrative ' was substantially true, and that very strange things 
 had happened. 
 
 Mr. George Dalmahoy determined that he too would, if possible, 
 witness these things. Why should not the ghost appear to him as 
 well as to his cousin ? As for the Benediction, he dismissed it with 
 cmtempt. Jack had seen an old man's tigui'e, bent, with streaming 
 white hair, ' shuffling,' as he put it, across the floor. That was by 
 itself quite remarkable enough. ' No need,' said George, ' of any 
 benedictions ; enough to be able to show himself, lucky old ghost ! ' 
 He considered himself an expert in the art of investigating stories 
 of ghosts. He was, to begin with, entirely incredulotis, and, in the 
 second place, he knew that it is nonsense to deny phenomena. 
 Raps, for instance, are certainly heard, ears are boxed in the dark, 
 noses pulled, heads banged. He had once inflicted unspeakable 
 
THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLIXGS. 373 
 
 mortification on a medium by beginning the raps himself before she 
 was ready, and spelUng out dreadful messages which she did not 
 understand ; and on another occasion, wlien a spirit had been good 
 enough to ' incarnate ' herself, this untrustworthy person lit a match 
 and disclosed no other than the medium herself dancing about 
 wrapped in a newspaper. He had also written an article on the 
 subject for a college magazine, and had a shelf full of books treating 
 of spiritualism. He was thus fully preiiared for an encounter with 
 the Ancestor of the Meniblings, and ardenily longed to begin. 
 
 He first approached the subject with Laura, asking her, reve- 
 rently, if one could be allowed to visit the haunted chamber after 
 dark. She replied with emotion that no one with her consent 
 should be allowed to open the door of that room at all. She con- 
 sidered that to disturb its occupant was pardonable only when dorj e 
 by inadvertence and ignorance, as happened to herself and Jack. 
 As for a stranger presuming to do so, that, she said, would most 
 likely draw upon his head the most fatal consequences. She could 
 only compare the daring of such a deed with the audacity of the 
 ancient king, who drew the lightning down from heaven and was 
 killed by it as a punishment. 
 
 Thus rebuifed, George Dalmahoy went to head-quarters and 
 sought the Squire in his library. Mr. Membling was an easy man, 
 a little touchy about his ancient birth, but now in excellent spirits 
 and on the best of terms with everybody, in consequence of the 
 highly creditable match his daughter was making. Naturally he was 
 disposed to receive all the bridegroom's people with great civility. 
 
 It was after luncheon, and a glass or two of burgundy had 
 disposed the Squire to benevolence towards all mankind. He was 
 seated before the tire, his legs crossed, his hands folded, prepared 
 for the sleep which sometimes overtakes middle-aged gentlemen 
 after a comfortalde midday meal. To him George stole softly, and 
 taking a chair by the fire, turned the conversation adroitly on 
 ancient families. Then he began to talk about the peculiarities of 
 families, their ways, their distinctive marks, their little characte- 
 ristic possessions, how a stutter distinguishes the sons of one house, 
 and a distinctive birth-mark the sons of another ; how in one house 
 no eldest son ever succeeds, and in another ill luck pursues all the 
 daughters ; how a Banshee belongs to one family, a Wliite Lady to 
 another, and a little child to a third. ' As to your own house,' said 
 George, 'we liave all heard of your ancient ghost.' George put it 
 as if the ghost had been established many centuries. 
 
 The Squire laughed jdeasantly. 
 
 ' Yes, we have our ghost, and I assure you, Mr. Dalmahoy, that 
 we are rather proud of the distinction, as one may call it.' 
 
 ' A distinction truly ! Particularly so well authenticated a 
 ghost as it is. You keep the chamber locked, I believe ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. You see, we would not have the maids frightened, 
 nor would we— perhaps you think us superstitious — disturb the 
 occupant.' 
 
580 THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMB LINGS. 
 
 ' Quite so — quite so,' said George. 'HoAvever, ghosts only Avalk 
 at night, and as there is no possible fear of disturbing the occupant 
 by daylight, I wish you would lend me the key ; I should like just 
 to look round the room, if you have no objection.' 
 
 ' Well, you see,' replied the Scjuire, 'the fact is, we have rather 
 a strong objection. The last words of the — the spirit — were that 
 no one was to dare enter the room unless alone and after dark.' 
 
 ' I respect your feeling, ' said George ; ' yet I think it would be 
 most injudicious to invade the privacy of the room — after dark. 
 Everything that we know, my dear sir' — here he assumed the 
 character of a believer — ' everything that we have learned respecting 
 apparitions, the manners and customs, the preferences, so to speak, 
 of the outer world, shows us that its inhabitants, when they reside 
 ■among us, are in some way prevented from feeling our intrusion or 
 aven our presence in the daytime. They may be sleeping ; they 
 may be ' — here he dropped his voice and paused — ' elsewhere. 
 Their power to be seen and heard is given them for use after dark 
 alone.' 
 
 ' That seems very true,' said the Squire ; ' it was after dark that 
 Laura ' 
 
 ' So that, in asking you to hand me the key of the room,' his 
 visitor went on, ' I am really doing nothing more than seeking to 
 gratify a curiosity — call it idle, or say it springs from reverence — a 
 desire, in fact, only to see the theatre of these curious and unique 
 manifestations.' 
 
 The Squire, moved by these Avords and by the benevolence of 
 burgundy, and recognising the spirit in which they were uttered, 
 went to his safe and produced the key, adjuring his guest, at the 
 eame time, should he see anything, to leave the room immediately. 
 
 With a cheerful mien George Dalmahoy proceeded to the 
 haunted chamber. 
 
 He experienced the same difficulty in opening the room which 
 had been felt by his cousin. The key turned pretty easily, but the 
 door stuck. And when he pushed it open there was heard a grating 
 noise which did not seem natural to the nature of a door. 
 
 We have seen what manner of room was the haunted chamber. 
 But when it was last visited it was in the pale twilight of a January 
 clay. Now, at the end of April, the sun was shining brightly 
 through the windows, and the room was cheerful. Certainly not at 
 all the sort of time for a ghost to walk. Spectres shun sunshine, 
 as the copy-books might say. George looked about him with a 
 little disappointment. A curiously furnished room : that was all. 
 
 His disappointment did not last long : a creaking sound behind 
 made him turn round. A large bar was slowly descending across 
 the door. The progress was slow, but it finished by dropping into 
 its place : the door was closed. George tried to lift the bar. It 
 was immovable. 
 
 ' Good ! ' he said. ' This is how Jack began. Can it be that the 
 Ancestor is going to take an afternoon dander round the room ? ' 
 
THE HU3IBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 381 
 
 Apparently he was, because the closing of the door was foUowtd 
 by the ringing of bells, beating of drums, sighs, a breath of cold 
 air which had so terrified his cousin. 
 
 While he was listening and watching — in some disquietude, it 
 must be owned — he felt something delicate and light touching his 
 cheek ; he turned quickly. Nothing. 
 
 ' Bells, ' he said, ' there certainly are, and drums ; and there is 
 a noise which Tom said was sobbing ; it seems to me like — Hallo ! ' 
 
 Again the gentle touch upon his cheek ; tliis time he put up his 
 hand as one catches at a troublesome fly, and caught — one of the 
 peacock's feathers. He then observed that several of them were 
 slowly lifting themselves up and down. 
 
 'This,' said George Dalmahoy, 'is more curious than the bells.' 
 
 Mounting on a chair he examined the place where the feather 
 was attached to the wall. To his great surprise he found that it 
 was fitted into a small brass tube, and that the tube itself was 
 moving slowly up and down, carrying the feather with it. 
 
 'Very odd,' said George. 'It was not a ghostly finger at my 
 throat but a feather : and the feather is not lifted by a ghostly hand, 
 but by a brass tube. And what the devil lifts the brass tube ? I 
 suppose,' he added after a pause, 'that the same thing lifts the 
 brass tube which rings the bells and beats the drums. Is it the 
 Ancestor ? Would he come if I called him names ? ' 
 
 It seemed as if the Ancestor must have heard these irreverent 
 remarks, because at that moment the wall at the end of the room 
 seemed suddenly to disappear ; the bells ceased, and music of some 
 kind was heard. 
 
 ' All this,' said George, feeling more than a little afraid, ' is 
 most wonderful, and just as Jack reeled it all out. To be sure, I 
 could not make out how he could have invented it. Wliat next ? 
 Oh, Lord ! ' 
 
 For at that moment the skeletons appeared- and began to 
 dance. 
 
 The young man's knees knocked together for a moment and his 
 cheek turned pale. Then he rallied his courage and ' made for ' 
 the skeletons. 
 
 • They were capering with the most grotesque and extraordinary 
 agility, legs and arms moving all at once, skulls shaking and nod- 
 dnig ; even the backbone twisting, or at least seeming to twist, 
 (ieorge presently seized one of the arms. 
 
 ' Gad,' he cried, ' it's real bones — with wii'e in the joints — real 
 ribs — and ' — here he laughed aloud^' they are all three hanging by 
 strings !' 
 
 He contemplated this phenomenon with curiosity, but no 
 terror. 
 
 Then the lower panels of the wall beside him opened, and there 
 came out the figure of a man. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said George, ' here is the Ancestor ! How are you, old 
 boy '{ ' 
 
582 THE BUMBLING OF THE 2IEMBLTJS0S. 
 
 The figure was dressed in a long dressing-gown, and had on silk 
 stockings and old-fashioned knee-breeches. The knees were bent 
 and the figure stooping, and as it moved slowly and by jerks, it 
 seemed to be on the point of falling to pieces. George stopped in 
 front of it, and began calmly to feel and punch it. 
 
 ' You're stuffed with sawdust,' he said contemptuously, ' and 
 you are dropping to bits, and the moths have got into your poor 
 old sleeve ; and the white wool is falling oif your poor old pate, 
 and your mask is hanging by a thread. You an Ancestor ? You 
 ridiculous old mug ! ' 
 
 The miserable ghost made no reply, but continued its journey 
 across the room. When he reached the opposite wall the panels 
 (jpened to admit him, and he disappeared. 
 
 ' This is the Ancestor ! ' said George, in great enjoyment. 
 ' Shut up, you with your dancing, you poor old skeletons ! Nobody 
 cares about you. This is the benevolent Ancestor ! This is his 
 Benediction ! This is his sweet and winning smile ! Ho ! ho ! 
 ho!' 
 
 Just then the music ceased : the skeletons disappeared — that is 
 to say, they flew up into the ceiling : there was a sigh as if some- 
 body was tired and glad that the job was over ; George observed 
 that what he had taken for a disappearance of part of the wall was 
 really only the folding back of the middle of a wooden partition 
 wall cutting off one end of the room. He also observed that the 
 bar of the door was lifting as slowly as it had fallen. 
 
 All was over, therefure. 
 
 He had seen the family ghost : it was a big doll, dropj^ing 
 slowly to pieces with age, damp, and the ravages of moths ; he had 
 seen the fearful procession or Dance of Death, ' the gibbering 
 skeletons succeeding oile another in swift succession, each playing 
 its antics as it passed, and beckoning to us with lean and bony 
 fingers.' (Extract from the ' Narrative.') 
 
 Well, there were three musty skeletons let down from a trap in 
 the ceiling by strings or wires, the lifting and dropping of which 
 produced their contortions and dancings. He had heard the 
 ' celestial orchestra, faint, though complete in all its parts, playing 
 music not to be described, yet ever to be remembered, accompanied 
 by a choir of faint sweet voices, singing what seemed a hymn of 
 praise.' (Extract from ' Narrative.') Yes, he had heard it. 'By 
 Gad,' he said, ' it was a musical-box, and it played an old-fashioned 
 slow trois-tcwps ! As for choir and heavenly voices — fudge 1 ' 
 
 He had heard the bells and the drums. Yes ; there were bells 
 and drums ; who could liave rung the bells and beaten the drums 1 
 
 The bar was up : he could go : the show was over. 
 
 Yet, what did it mean ? 
 
 George went to one of the windows and looked out, thinking. 
 Beside him stood a table, of which we know. He took up one or 
 two of the things : they were instruments used in making and 
 mending a wat-cli. The table was an old, rough, black bench, 
 
TUE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 383 
 
 which, in fact, had been the old man's bench during all the years 
 of his working life. ' I i-eniember,' said George, ' one of them 
 made his money in trade : he was a watchmaker.' Then he saw 
 before the next window a lathe with all the appliances, and a car- 
 penter's bench fitted up with tools. Half-made things, rounded 
 blocks, pulleys, small light chains, lay about the bench. ' Old man 
 was a carpenter and turner too, I suppose,' said George. Then he 
 went to the next table. This was covered with books and papers. 
 'Old man read mechanics,' said George. He took up one of the 
 sheets covered with drawings. Then he took up another. Then 
 he looked round him and nodded. Then he laughed. Then he 
 looked at his watch. Then he went to the carpenter's bench, took 
 out some tools, and proceeded to work. 
 
 It was a quarter of an hour before he finished, and already past 
 five o'clock. He rubbed his hands with the greatest satisfaction. 
 ' This,' he said, ' is the best day's work I have ever done.' 
 
 Then he opened the door and stepped out. 
 
 ' Holy Moses ! ' he cried, sm-prised into an exclamation which 
 cannot be justified, and yet must be considered pardonable when 
 one has to tell what he saw. 
 
 Now it came to pass that, just as the bells began to ring in tlie 
 haunted chamber, Laura herself, accompanied by one of the bride- 
 maids, passed by the door. What was her terror and astonishment 
 to hear the dread sound, only heard by herself, begin again ! ' He 
 calls me ! ' she cried, grasping her friend by the ai-m. ' He calls 
 me ; I must go ! ' 
 
 She rushed to the door, but could not open it. 
 
 ' Can it be,' she gasped, ' that there is some one in the room \ 
 Is it Jack ? Oh, Katie, run, run to my father — he is in the library 
 — tell him to bring the key. . . . Ah ! it is in the lock — tell liim to 
 come — to come quickly ! ' 
 
 On being awakened, Mr. Membling acknowledged that he had 
 lent the key to George Dalmahoy, and followed the bridemaid to 
 the door. By this time the greater part of the guests were 
 assembled on the spot, grouped round Laura, who stood gazing at 
 the door, her hand clasping the faithful Jack's. The bells were 
 certainly ringing and the drums beating : presently the sound of 
 music was heard. 
 
 'Hush !' said Laura. 'It ia the heavenly music ; I hear the 
 voices of those who sing.' 
 
 She sank on her knees ; the other girls followed her example : 
 kneeling in a semicircle, reverential, but careful that their dresses 
 lay in becoming folds. An ignorant spectator might have thought 
 that they were rehearsing the ceremony of the next day. Behind 
 the kneeling girls stood some of the elder ladies and one or two 
 gentlemen. As for Jack, he stood, Laura still holding his hand, 
 visibly disconcerted. He had a round hat, having just come from 
 a walk, and when Laura implored him to kneel too, he compromised 
 by putting his head in his hat. 
 
884 THE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 They continued to kneel during the whole time of the noises ; 
 when they had ceased, they heard a tapping and a hammering. So 
 tliey went on kneeling, though all were getting anxious to see what 
 would come of it. And it was into this group that George Dalmahoy 
 plunged when he opened the door and uttered that rude and irre- 
 verent interjection. 
 
 Laura shrieked ; they all sprang to their feet, and shrieked 
 together like a chorus on the stage. 
 
 George looked in bewilderment. Then he laughed ; he laughed 
 long and loud. 
 
 ' He is mad, ' said Laura, suddenly. 
 
 George laughed louder still. 
 
 'Jack, this is dreadful,' said Laura. 
 
 The others stared in a sort of amazement ; what could the man 
 be laughing at ? It was like a comic song of which only the singer 
 eees the point. They all looked so bewildered, and Laura so awe- 
 struck and terrified, that George speedily ceased laughing. In- 
 deed, the belief in the ghost was now so deep in everybody's heart 
 that they had finally made up their minds that the rash young 
 man, like one who inadvertently looked upon Artemis in the 
 fi>rest, had been slain by the angry Ancestor, or else, like him who 
 chanced to meet great Pan, had been stricken by some madness. 
 And lo ! he was before them laughing like an idiot. 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen,' said the young man, 'I have an im- 
 portant announcement to make. The ghost walks by day a=5 well 
 as by night. If you will follow me into the room, you sliall see 
 him for yourself. He is a most obliging ghost, and will do no 
 harm to anybody.' 
 
 He laid his hand upon the handle of the door as he spoke. 
 
 They looked at each other. 
 
 ' Oh,' cried Laura, 'this is dreadful! Jack, stop him! Mr. 
 Dalmahoy, do not call others after you to their undoing ! Oh ! 
 Wliat shall we do 1 what shall we do ? ' 
 
 For now George pushed open the door and the wedding guests 
 crowded after. Jack and Laura following with the rest. Last of 
 all came the Squire, and upon liis face there was a look of anxiety. 
 He had a sense of impending evil. 
 
 ' Spirit of my Ancestor ! ' cried Laura, sinking upon her knees, 
 ' forgive them ! Forgive us all ! Let not this intrusion lead thee 
 to revoke thy Benediction.' 
 
 Strange to say, this appeal produced no effect upon the young 
 madman, Avho only laughed scornfully. 
 
 'You shall see him directly,' he said : 'you can then ask him 
 yourself.' 
 
 At this moment the door shut noisily. 
 
 ' Look at the bar, ' said George ; ' that is the first business ; 
 now we are shut in.' 
 
 They all looked at each other, after observing the descent of tha 
 bar. 
 
THE RUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 335 
 
 'The whole secret lies in the bar,' he went on. ' Now look at 
 this wall ; you will see the peacock's feathers jumping up and 
 down ; if anybody is within reach, they will feel the light touch of 
 ghostly fingers on their cheeks. Very fine business this, for Si 
 spectre in a country house.' 
 
 In fact this happened as he had foretold. 
 
 'Ghostly fingers, Jack,' said George to the joint author of tha 
 ' Narrative.' ' Next, bells and drums.' 
 
 They began ; George pushed aside two panels and showed a bell 
 ringing in each, and a small kettle-drum being beaten in each. 
 The drum-sticks were attached to the frame of the drum by hinges, 
 and were worked by some unknown machinery. 
 
 'Very fair business that,' said George. 'These are your 
 church bells. Jack, ringing a regular peal. Two little hand bells, 
 ladies and gentlemen. Next, the sighing and sobbing, with the 
 cold breath.' 
 
 He opened another panel and disclosed a great pair of bellows 
 pointed directly to the group of spectators. It began to heave up 
 and down slowly with a noise like a hollow groaning, and the cold 
 air was distinctly felt. ' The sigh of the grave and the breath of 
 the tomb,' said George, again quoting from the ' Narrative.' ' You 
 will next, ladies and gentlemen, observe- — ah ! there it is ' — for 
 then the partition fell back— ' now the skeletons.' Here they ap- 
 peared, and they really seemed to dance as if they had no heart 
 left for the work, and were quite ashamed of themselves. ' Threa 
 of them^go and feel them, anybody — simple bones, hanging frora 
 the ceiling, out of which they fell, by strings. This is the grand 
 procession where every .... eh. Jack 1 ' He did not continue 
 the extract from the ' Narrative,' because Laura was staring 
 straight before her, an angry light in her eyes, and a flush upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 ' Next,' he went on, ' we have the Ancestor himself.' In fact, 
 at that moment, the poor old doddering figure came out ; he looked 
 so palpably a stufled doll in the machine, his face was so evidently 
 a mask, his hair was so certainly white wool, his knees were so 
 groggy with loss of sawdust, and his whole appearance was so in- 
 expressibly moth-eaten, shabby, and woe-begone, that it was im- 
 possible to resist laughing at him. Everybody laughed, including 
 the Squire, though he felt sadly that the laugh was going to turn 
 against himself. There were two exceptions : Laura did not laugh, 
 she looked on in icy wrath and shame ; and Jack did not laugh, 
 because he felt that if he laughed at that moment, Laura would 
 most certainly never forgive him. Therefore he preserved great 
 solemnity. 
 
 This time it was not George Dalmahoy, but one of the bride- 
 maids who whisj)ered so that all could hear, quoting from the 
 ' Narrative ' : ' the sweet and gracious smile with which he turned 
 his face towards us, and, uplifting his venerable hands, bestowed 
 his benediction.' She was a pretty girl, who was said to have had 
 
 o c 
 
S86 TRE HUMBLING OF THE MEMBLINGS. 
 
 designs upon Jack Dalmahoy, and has since married his cousin 
 George. But for some reason or other Laura does not like her. 
 
 The poor old Ancestor disappeared in the opposite panel. ' He 
 goes backwards and forwards,' said George ; 'if we do this thing 
 again, he wdl come out and cross over to the other side. The per- 
 formance is about to conclude, and, ladies and gentlemen, I am 
 sure that, in retiring from this caravan, you will confess that you 
 have never before witnessed on so grarxd a scale so ingeniously con- 
 structed a piece of clockwork.' 
 
 Laura, as soon as the door was opened, passed out the first, 
 followed by Jack, whom, however, she pushed away roughly ; then 
 she went to her own room and no one saw her again that day, for, 
 when the second dinner-bell was rung, she sent down a message 
 that she had a headache. 
 
 The Squire, too, with abashed countenance, sought solitude for 
 a time. But at dinner he appeared jocund, in high spirits, even 
 forced spirits, and after dinner proposed the health of Mr. George 
 Dalmahoy, who, he said, had rid the house of a very unpleasant 
 occupant — its ghost, and they were all extremely grateful to him. 
 All the members of the family murmured their profound gratitude, 
 and a certain bridemaid, already mentioned, laughed a little laugh 
 which eveiybody understood to be the equivalent of the immortal 
 * Fudge ! ' 
 
 And then George proposed another performance, but the 
 Squire gently remarked that even of mechanical ghosts one might 
 have enough. The irrepressible young man therefore spent the 
 evening, until they began to dance, in explaining how he had dis- 
 covered the secrets of the machinery, the spring wound by the 
 door, the lubricating oil, and all the rest of the apparatus. All 
 this greatly pleased the family because it brought vividly home to 
 them the mechanical genius of their great-grandfather, and de- 
 stroyed their ghost and the ancestral glory of the House. It also 
 pleased one of the bridemaids — the one already alluded to. 
 
 The next day's wedding was rather a dull affair. Somehow, 
 the romance of the thing was gone. Ghost, indeed ! The impu- 
 dence of parvenus in assuming a ghost when there are already 
 many really old families with no ghost at all, or at best the mere 
 memory and shadow of a ghost. And the honeymoon would have 
 been altogether a time of rebuke, but that Jack put his foot down 
 and would hear no more nonsense about the ghost. 
 
THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 I "WAS playing euchre — cut-throat euclire^ — one night last September, 
 in a certain house at Niagara Falls, with two young ladies, when 
 this story was narrated to us ; but when we had heard it, we played 
 no more. 
 
 Cut-throat euchre, if one may be allowed a word of preface, 
 cannot, probably, have its fuU flavour brought out, and so justify 
 its sponsors, without the melo-dramatic accompaniments of a miner's 
 shanty, a cask for a table, a rock-oil lamp swinging from a beam in 
 the low roof, a whisky bottle for refreshment, and for players, two 
 hawks and a pigeon, or even three hawks. Played in a drawing- 
 room, for love, to the merry music of girls' laughter, it is a bur- 
 lesque rowdy hiding a jovial face behind a ferocious mask, a mere 
 play-acting creature of innocency disguised as a Bandit. 
 
 While we played, we talked of the one subject which most 
 interests visitors at Niagara, the rapacity and knavery of the hack- 
 men, the drivers of the hired buggies who infest the cliffs about the 
 Falls, make every walk a battle, and poison the springs of awe and 
 admii'ation . 
 
 They are, indeed, incomparable in their way. They are hack- 
 men in excess ; prigs among drivers, because they overdo their 
 extortions : they exalt their calling : they are superhumanly devoid 
 of conscience. Donkey boys at Cairo may be importunate ; the 
 cocher of Paris may be sulky ; the cabby of London may be extor- 
 tionate ; the New York driver may be fond of hurling the luggage 
 at your head as if you were an Aunt Sally, and of charging fifteen 
 dollars for a two-shilling drive ; but the Niagara hack combines in 
 himself the evil qualities of all his brethren ; alone among men and 
 drivers, he hath no bowels ; he would take the last dollar of the 
 orphan, and rob the widow of her mite, on the pretence of ' a dollar 
 and a he'f all the way : ' he is a brigand by profession ; he is a blot 
 upon the most glorious spot in all the earth ; it is he who mixes up 
 with the memory of grandeur undreamed of and splendour incon- 
 ceivable the incongruities of a bad dream. 
 
 He is, I believe, secretly drilled in a species of chariot charge 
 which I have never seen practised anywhere except at the Falls. 
 Thus it is : When the stranger emerges from the hotel, the hackman 
 waits until his victim is well in the middle of the road, and then, 
 with ail his band, two score strong, he charges him from all quarters 
 
 c c 2 
 
BS9, THE MURDER OF NICK VEDBER. 
 
 simultaneously. Thus the visitor suddenly finds himself the centre 
 < 'f a radiating wheel of horses, buggies, and hackmen, and, amid 
 the uproar of a shouting like that of the Homeric way of war, he 
 succumbs generally with a yell of terror, to inevitable fate. There 
 is a cloud of dust, a brief struggle, and in half a minute you will 
 catch your last glimpse of the captive — all that is left of him — 
 hurried off in a buggy to ?ee the whirli^ool. 
 
 Presently, to us discussing these and kindred topics, there was 
 added a son of the house. A long-limbed pleasant-faced boy of 
 seventeen, with an accent more than a little touched by the infec- 
 tious nasality of Yankee land, and an afiectation of Yankee slang. 
 And he joined in the conversation, which presently assumed the 
 character of a monologue. The future of that youth I consider 
 assured. Such fluency, such richness of digressive power, such 
 ready return to the main topic after episodes which might have led 
 astray altogether a less practised hand, can only meet with a proper 
 sphere of action in an auctioneer's pulpit. Auctioneers, as readers 
 of ' Middlemarch ' know, talk wild, but they make money. 
 
 ' Did you ever/ he began, ' hear the story of the murder of Nick 
 Yedder ? Well now, that's a true story for sure. And it's all 
 about those very hackmen you've been talking of. My ! ain't they 
 just the worst kind ? And all alike, all enough to ruin the morals 
 of an archangel. Not a pin to choose between the lot, only some 
 bigger and some cunninger. Jess Connolly is the biggest, and 
 l^'raps Seth Messiter is the cunningest. And I suppose that Dick 
 the guide, who's the politest, has done the most murders. Not 
 that the murdering is . anything like what it was, and they do say, 
 now, that a stranger can walk along the clifi' of an evening and 
 sometimes get back without being chucked over the edge and 
 then robbed, as used to happen regularly. But I don't think I'd 
 try, if I was a stranger. It might be safe ; but for certain, there's 
 a good many bodies do turn up every year in the pool, and 
 not one ever yet found with dollars in his pocket. Now how 
 did those pockets get cleared out ? Ask the gang. And if I 
 was you, mister, and I wanted to see the silver spray in the moon- 
 light and that, I'd go with a friend or two, unless Dick was drunk 
 that night. In that case, p'raps you'd be safe, and p'raps you 
 wouldn't. But the real meiTy time was five years ago when the 
 new judge hadn't come here, and before they murdered Nick Yedder. 
 Then they had it all their own way, robbing around all day and 
 highway plundering at night. Just a chance who they caught. 
 There was old ]VIr. Scadding, for instance, left this very house at 
 nine o'clock with fifty dollars, and only he had the good luck to 
 hide 'em away in the heels of his boots, he'd have lost every indi- 
 vidual dollar. It was a dark night, with snow falling soft, so that 
 you couldn't hear footsteps, and all of a sudden the old gentleman, 
 going along soft and easy, and only wishing he was warm in bed, 
 felt a hand, somebody else's hand, which didn't belong to him, in 
 liis coat collar. Naturally he stopped short and began to tliink fast. 
 
THE MURDEB OF NICK VEDDER. 389 
 
 ' Then a sheet was thrown over his head, and then a voice told 
 him to hand over what he'd got. Of course he concluded at once 
 to say nothing about his boots, and all he'd got outside of them was 
 a quarter-dollar and a five-cent piece. They pulled his pockets 
 inside out, and they cursed considerable, and then they let him 
 go. He didn't need twice to be told to go straight on and never 
 look behind him ; and when he took out those dollars from the 
 heel of his boot, like a brand from the burning, it was, as he 
 always used to say, with a thankful heart. 
 
 'As for the day jobs, they used to work in partnership. The 
 most eminent firm was probably that of Jess Connolly and Abb 
 Thomas. Abb is dead now, poor fellow ! — died of yellow fever in 
 New Orleans, and his wife went all the way there to see if he really 
 was gone. Seemed to her as if Abb never could die ; besides, she 
 wanted to marry another man, and she knew how Abb would carry 
 round if he came home after she'd done it. He was six foot high, 
 and the handsomest coloured man in all America, as he always said 
 himself. On sunny days he used to wax his moustache, and twist 
 it to a point six inches each side, like the Emperor Napoleon. 
 When it rained, he would comb it straight over his mouth and chin, 
 so as to look like a blackleaded poet. And he had such a way with 
 him that he never missed his fare. Nobody rightly knows what 
 that way was : some say he threatened to murder the stranger if he 
 didn't get in and be driven olf without more words ; some say he 
 bundled him in, head and heels, before he knew where he was ; 
 but I think he just persuaded him with soft words to the door of 
 his buggy, and then finished him with a gentle shove. Abb always 
 got the pick of the flock, too ; the loneliest of the English travellers 
 - — that kind of young feller who comes by himself straight out from 
 Oxford, with a field-glass and knickerbockers, and goes home on the 
 brag after he's been pretty well skinned alive in Niagara and the 
 States ; the tenderest and unprotectedest of the women ; the 
 shakiest of the old men ; that was the kind you would always find 
 in Abb Thomas's buggy. And he generally took 'em that quiet and 
 lonely road which leads to the whirlpool. Why did he take them 
 there 1 Because, about half-way back, who Avould meet him but 
 Jess Connolly ? Jess was the biggest of the gang, and he had a 
 fist like a fiying-pan. He's in chokee now for a year, because he 
 made a mistake, thinking the old times were come back again, and 
 tried to bounce an Englishman out of fifty dollars. But the English- 
 man had a revolver, and he pointed it at Jess's head. "Drive 
 right away to Mr. Hill," he said— Mr. Hill's the judge— " or I'll 
 shoot." But before this misfortune, in the old days, Jess would 
 meet Abb Thomas on the road, and the buggy would stop. Then 
 Abb would turn round: " Place where the fare always pays," ha 
 Would say. " This is my partner." 
 
 ' " Twenty dollars," says Jess, holding out his hand. 
 
 * ' ' You said a dollar and a half, " says the passenger to Abb. 
 
 * *' Lord forgive you ! " says Abb. 
 
390 TEE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 ' When they'd taken the twenty dollars, they would turn the 
 victim out upon the road, and drive away together. He was sure 
 to be oif the next day most likely, and then both of the men 
 were back upon the bank. Another of the gang was Tom Hudson. 
 He's in chokee too, like Jess Connolly, and for seven years, for 
 trying to murder Laurence, the gaoler. He was taken up for some- 
 thing of no great count— forgeiy, I think — and at the same time 
 Seth Messiter was brought in for a trifle — clearing out a Yankee's 
 pockets. They were both clapped in the same cell. Tom was mad, 
 because he didn't expect to get off; so he proposed to Seth that they 
 should bounce the gaoler, take the keys, and run. Seth agreed, 
 and when Laurence came in with their evening grub, Tom let him 
 have it once on the head with the wooden bench. Down dropped 
 Laurence, but, as bad luck would have it, he had the sense, before 
 he fell, to chuck the keys through the window-bars. Tom was real 
 ugly when he saw the keys fly through the bars, and made at 
 Laurence like a devil. " Let's kill him !" cries Tom. Now what 
 do you think Seth Messiter did 1 I said he was the cunningest of 
 the hull lot. He remembered that he was in for a little thing, and 
 Tom was in for a big thing, and he saw that Laurence wasn't hurt, 
 not to say considerable. So he set his two legs astride of the gaoler, 
 and when he saw him open his eyes, he struck an attitude like a 
 bold pirate. "Who strikes Laurence, strikes me !" he said, with 
 flashin' eyes and a thump on his breast. There ! It was beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 ' At the trial, Tom's forgery case broke down, because hia 
 brother, who drove on the American side, had hocussed the princi- 
 pal witness. Then they put him up for trying to murder Laurence, 
 the gaoler. When the evidence came to the heroic conduct of Seth 
 Messiter, there wasn't a dry eye in court. Tom got seven years, 
 and the Yankee who was there to prosecute Seth was ashamed to 
 come forward. Said that he felt as if putting forward his fifty- 
 dollar claim on such a credit to Canada was like prosecuting George 
 Washington, when he was President, for cutting down that pear 
 tree. So he walked over the bridge, and he went home. I think 
 he says now that he'd much rather be robbed by a common man 
 next time, and the commoner the better. Doesn't like heroism and 
 thieving to get mixed. 
 
 ' Gracious ! It's one out and the other in, most times. Often 
 the best friends don't get the chance of an evening together for 
 years, and when they do, there's always the chance of interruption. 
 Same as one night when Abb Thomas and Dick the guide were in 
 the bar of Prospect House together, and word came that Dick waa 
 wanted. 
 
 '"Poor Dick!" says Abb, "we shan't see you for another 
 year." And they didn't meet again tiU the day before Nick Vedder 
 was murdered. 
 
 'Last year, however, there was a case with a Yankee, who waa 
 just a little too sharp, and the men got off. Dan Lloriarty it was. 
 
THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 391 
 
 He saw a stranger in a store coat and a stove-pipe hat standing by 
 the bridge on the Canadian side, gazing with rapture at the Horse- 
 shoe Fall. Bloriartj'' drove up his buggy, so as the stranger was 
 bound to step into that or else to walk over the cliff. Every hack- 
 man has his little ways all to himself, and that was Dan Moriarty's. 
 Orantin' that Abb Thomas could lift his passenger in and carry him 
 off, whether he liked it or not, there was no one but Dan who could 
 give him a fair choice between suicide and his buggy. 
 
 ' But the stranger never moved, and even Dan didn't dare, in 
 broad daylight, to shove liim over. 
 
 ' Present^ he extended both his a.rms in a circular sweep and 
 sung out, just as if he'd sat upon a wasp's nest. 
 
 ' " Oh ! " he says ; " this is too much." 
 
 ' " What's too much 1 " asks Dan ; ' not hef a dollar to Table 
 Ptock and back." 
 
 '"No, /S'm'," says the stranger, "The prospect is what is too 
 much. It's sublime, Sir. It brings the tears to the stranger's 
 eyes. 
 
 ' " You bet," said Dan. " Step in and have a drive. Tote yer 
 round for two and a quarter." 
 
 ' "No," said the stranger, meditatively. ' ' Seems as if I'd rether 
 lic[uor." 
 
 ' They went together to the nearest bar, and Dan Moriarty paid. 
 
 ' It was gettin' on for evening and the sun was low. The stranger 
 returned to the Falls and sat down on the edge of the cliff with the 
 stump of a cigar and his pocket handkerchief. Dan Moriarty sat 
 beside him, and they wept together. When the sun went down, 
 Dan suggested that they should haveanotlier drink. So they went 
 off to a crib tliat Dan knew off, where they found two more of the 
 gang. Here they took drinks around, and Dan proposed a game 
 of euchre. The stranger was through with his weeping, but he 
 hadn't offered to pay for any of the whisky, and he wouldn't play 
 for stakes. All the same, he drank whatever was offered him, and 
 looked as if he could go on drinking for along time. So when Dan 
 ]3ut his hand under the table and pulled out a bottle half emptied, 
 that unsuspicious stranger set it to his lips and didn't take it away till 
 his back teeth were under whisky. Then Dan and his friends 
 looked at eacliotlier and smiled cheerfiil, because the next minute 
 tlie stranger roUed off his stool like a log. For they'd roped that 
 wliisky. 
 
 ' Next morning the stranger awoke. He was lying on tlie edge 
 of the cliff ; he was very cold, and he had hot coppers ; and the 
 worst was that his pockets were empty. 
 
 ' It was easj^ to identify the three men, and thej' were all had 
 up before ]Mr. Hill. Then the stranger told his tale. He narraucd 
 how his guileless nature was Avorked up to drinkin' point by the 
 poetry of the situation and the sympathy of Dan. And then he 
 said how Iie'd got ,5500 in his pockets and had lost all the little pile 
 by the hands of that treacherous villain. 
 
F.92 THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 ' This looked black for Dan. But he whispered his counsel for 
 a few minutes, and the cross-examination began. 
 
 ' " Wliere did you carry that pile of notes 1 " 
 
 ' " In my purse," says he. 
 
 ' " Show the Court your purse." 
 
 ' He pulled out a purse about big enough to hold a single dimfa. 
 All the prisoners laughed, and the Court called order. 
 
 ' " Where did you make your money 1 " 
 
 * "Working at Buffiilo for two months, at two dollars a day." 
 ' " That makes ^12U. Where did y> .u get the rest ? " 
 
 ' Well, you see this greedy Yank, heVl been drugged and rolled, 
 and he thought he'd go in for a big claim at once. He'd learned 
 liow that dodge pays from the Alabama commission. The sibse- 
 quents were that Dan got off, and the Court told the witness he 
 was a liar. 
 
 * But the most wonderful escape the gang ever had was in the 
 murder of Nick Vedder, that I've been coming to gradually. 
 
 ' It was five years ago. Nick was a young fellow of twenfy-one 
 or so, clerk to a dry goods store in Cliftonville. He was a good- 
 looking chap, and on Sunday afternoons dressed himself up like a 
 Butialo swell, wore an allround pot with a feather in it, and liad a 
 little moustache growing up like a pumpkin in a frame. AVhen he 
 came out o' church you could see by his eyes that he knew all the 
 girls were in love with him, and was only anxious to save one heart 
 from being broken by lettin' on in good time that her love was 
 returned. He parted his hair beautifully right down the middle, 
 so as you might walk straight up if you Uked, and finished at the 
 parting with two sweet little curls over his marble brow, so as you 
 could hang on if you slipped. 
 
 ' It was one Sunday evening in February, while the ice was 
 hanging about the Falls, and there had been toboggining all after- 
 noon down by the ferry. Nick was there, and after it he went to 
 church, just to cheer up the gells, and after church he started to 
 go home. It was a black night, and somehow, through seeing the 
 last of the sweet things go out, Nick was behind all the rest. But 
 lie thought nothing of that, and just walked along the planks 
 whistling to himself, till he felt all of a sudden the grip of two arms 
 round his neck and and two hands on his lips. 
 
 ' Nick liked philandering better than fighting, and when he felt 
 that two pair of foreign arms about liim, he just stood still where 
 he was, and concluded to let things slide. What inspired Nick 
 with prayerful gratitude was that he hadn't any money in his 
 pocket, not a single dollar, note, nor the chink of one quarter 
 against another. Dry goods store clerks don't have much money 
 as a rule. 
 
 ' They carried him without a word down the cross-road which 
 leads from Clifton Church to the Drummondville road, and presently 
 they came to a house, and they took him in. 
 
 'Just then Nick Vedder fainted. P'raps it was the heat of the 
 
THE MUBDER OF XICK YEDBER. !?93 
 
 stove, and p'raps it was the skear, but anyhow he went off, and 
 when he came to himself he was lying on his back upon the floor. 
 They'd set a chair across his legs, and one citizen was sitting in it, 
 a pistol in his hand, ready cocked, pointed straight at Nick Yedder's 
 face. He felt, without being told, that if that pistol went off, he'd 
 lose considerable of his beauty for the balance of his days ; so he 
 hoped it wouldn't. But that wasn't all. At his right side there 
 sat another gentleman, with a razor in his hand, and this he was 
 playfully drawin' across Nick Vedder's throat ; and at his left there 
 was a tliird citizen, who held a pair of scissors open, like compasses, 
 across his cheeks. 
 
 ' " Nick Vedder," said the one in the chair, and he knew it was 
 Chris Dalmage, "Nick Vedder, what the devil do you mean by 
 it?" 
 
 ' " IMean by it. Sir ?" asks Nick, as meek as he knew. 
 
 ' " We see a gentleman going along, on a dark night, easy and 
 qiziet over the planks ; we stop that gentleman, and he turns out 
 to be Nick Vedder, clerk in a dry goods store, without a cent. 
 And we've wasted our time. An example must be made, Nick 
 Vedder." 
 
 ' Then Nick saw that his time was come unless he made an 
 effort, so, because he didn't dare to move, on account of the scissors 
 and the razor, to say nothing uf the pistol, he prayed on his back, 
 that they would have pity on a poor dry goods store clerk, who had 
 always, from his humble station, envied the glorious freedom of the 
 hackmen. He had, he said, watched them when the helpless 
 tourist crossed the Suspension Bridge or emerged from the Clifton 
 Hotel. He drew a poetic picture of that tourist, confident as the 
 Gallic cock at starting, and returning like that bird plucked and 
 trussed ready for roasting. Warming with his subject, because 
 Nick was a real clever fellow once put to it, he compared, to the 
 advantage of each in turn, the bold privateering of Abb Thomas, 
 by whom the tourist, surrounded on all sides, was fairly captured 
 and driven whither he did not wish to go ; the suicidal alternative 
 of Dan Moriarty, which presented death or the buggy to the 
 terrified stranger ; the craft of Mr. Seth Messiter, and the admi- 
 rable politeness of that other excellent citizen, Dick the guide. I 
 think he would have gone on all night, but Abb Thomas told him 
 they didn't want any more chin music, and that his time was up, 
 
 ' Nick was mighty frightened. When they tied a napkin round 
 his neck he began to cry ; when they sharpened the razor he began 
 to say his prayers ; and when Tom Hudson advanced with the 
 weapon in his hand he began to skreek. But he needn't have been 
 so skeared, because, after all, they weren't going to cut his throat. 
 They only made the beautiful centre-parting in his hair a little 
 wider, and shaved him an inch broad from his forehead to his poll. 
 Then Nick Vedder looked like a clown. 
 
 ' It was Abb Thomas — he was always rough in his play — who 
 Eaid Nick was a pretty boy, and would look well in earrino;s if he 
 
394 THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 only had his ears pierced. So he took the scissors and did the job 
 for him. After that they let Nick go, and when he got home he 
 felt real ugly — more ugly he felt, and smaller too, in the morning. 
 His mother, when he showed up at breakfast, carried on so 
 shameful, that he was forced to go straight to Mr. Hill and lodge 
 his complaint. 
 
 ' They soon caught the men, and though they said it was only 
 a joke, Mr. Hill bound them over, all but one, against whom there 
 was no evidence, to appear the following week. No one in the 
 town knew whether it was burglary, or highway robbery, or plain 
 assault. If it was highway robbery, the town was likely to be 
 deprived of its most prominent citizens for a good long spell. 
 
 ' The next Sunday night, the night before the remand, Nick 
 did not go to church : he couldn't, because his hair hadn't grown 
 over the bald place yet. His mother, who was a Primitive Metho- 
 dist, and strict, did. Wlien she was out of the house and the 
 bells had done ringing, these four citizens, out on bail, dropped 
 in in a friendly way, and paid an evening call on poor Nick. They 
 didn't ask him if he'd like a walk that cold night, but they took it 
 for granted ; clapped a gag in his mouth, wrapped him up in his 
 warm great-coat, tied a comforter round his neck, and took him 
 along of themselves. " Because," said Abb Thomas, "if you so 
 much as wink, to show that you are not going of your own free 
 will, when anyone passes, we'll split your skull." 
 
 ' Nick went very quiet, but he was more frightened this journey 
 than the last. They walked up the road from Clifton, along the 
 rapids, where it's dark all the year r(jund, moon or no moon, with 
 the woods one side and the roaring river, tliree hundred feet below, 
 on the other, and they crossed over the suspension bridge, nobody 
 saying a word. Then' they turned to the right, past Prospect Park 
 till they reached Goat Island Bridge, and they crossed over the 
 bridge to that lonely and picturesque location. 
 
 ' It's a very different thing being on Goat Island in the day- 
 time, when you can see as well as hear the rapids above you and 
 the falls beneath, and you know where you're standing, to being 
 there on a cold, dark, Sabbath night in winter, in the company of 
 four virtuous hackmen, uncertain how long you're going to be with 
 them, the icy spray blowing into your eyes, the leafless branches 
 dropping their icicles on your liead, your feet crunching deep in 
 the falling snow, and all the time the cataract and rapids about 
 you, roaring like all the wild creatures of all the Zoological Gardens 
 in the wide, wide world. 
 
 ' Nick Vedder was very sorry just then that he wasn't in church; 
 although his head ti^as shaved for an inch all up his precious scalp ; 
 better to be laughed at by the girls, than be dragged along to 
 be murdered by the hackmen. I guess his heart was about down 
 to the heels of his boots as he went along. 
 
 ' It's a quarter of a mile, I s'pose, across Goat Island, unless you 
 make it longer by taking in Luna Isle, and this would have been a 
 
THE MURDER OF NICK VEDBER. 393 
 
 waste of time for Nick's enemies, because they were bound straight 
 for Terrapin Tower. You know Terrapin Tower, mister. They've 
 taken the tower down long ago, to prevent its tumbling down, but 
 the shaky wooden footway to it is there still, and then you can 
 walk clear out to where it stood right over the side of the fall, so 
 that a man standing at the edge of that ramshackle pier has got his 
 foot within a few inches of the great flood which rolls over the 
 edge below him. It is a skeary place on a sunshiny day in summer. 
 Think what it would be on a moonless night in February with the 
 black waters rolling and roaring beneath ; above, the clear sky, 
 and on the rocks around the snow and ice making with their white- 
 ness a little light, just to show how horrible it would be to go 
 over. 
 
 ' Three of the men dragged poor Nick to the end of the planks. 
 Then they lifted him up — Nick by this time was long past the 
 power of praying, or even asking for mercy — and held him right 
 out over the fall. 
 
 ' " Nick Vedder," said Abb Thomas, as solemn as a judge, "Air 
 you proposin' to give evidence against us to-morrow ? " 
 
 ' There was no answer, because Nick was too paralysed with 
 terror to say anything. 
 
 ' " One," said Abb. " If I say three before an answer comes — 
 over you go. And the Lord have mercy on what's left of you, when 
 you get to the bottom." 
 
 ' There was no answer. 
 
 '•'Two!" 
 
 ' Next day all the men, leaving their buggies outside, appeared 
 in the court at ten o'clock looking cheerful. But when the case 
 was called there was no Nick Vedder. 
 
 ' The charge was dismissed, but the judge cautioned the 
 prisoners. He said he had no doubt that there was an evasion of 
 justice somehow, and that a serious outrage had been condoned. 
 Let it be a lesson to them, for it was the last time — and so on. 
 
 'Later on, old Mrs. Vedder came into court screamin' and 
 cryin' that her son must be murdered, that he hadn't come home 
 all night, and that he was certainly made away with by the blood- 
 thirsty gang of Abb Thomas and his friends. But there was no 
 proof. 
 
 ' That was Monday. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday passed, 
 and Nick never came home. Everybody thought that he really 
 must have been made away with. A reward was offered for liim. 
 People began to look more shy of the men on the bank than ever. 
 Abb Thomas was hooted by the women. Chris Dalmage had a 
 quarrel with his own wife, who tlireatened to live no longer with a 
 murderin' cut-throat. And even old Mis' Fuller, who ought to 
 have known better, through her English high connections, put on 
 all her six frocks at once, went down to the bank and joined in the 
 general scream. It was an anxious time. Anditwasmoreanxiuua 
 
3;) 6 THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 Btill, when, on Friday morning, it was spread abroad that a body 
 was in the whirlpool. 
 
 ' We all made for the whirlfjool. Some walked, some drove : 
 but we all got there. In the pool, goin' round and round, was a 
 body, and no mistake. It went round and round the whole day, 
 while we stood on the bank under the clitf and tried to make out if 
 it was Nick Vedder. But the features were smashed beyond 
 recognition. 
 
 ' So many people crowded down that all the buggies were hired, 
 and it was noticed afterwards, as a most remarkable thing, that the 
 visitors that, day were actually enabled to see the Falls without 
 being robbed. No hackmen on the bank, no photographers, and 
 no dealers in Indian curiosities. The tourists thought it was Sun- 
 day, or a keeping of Dominion Day at the wrong time. 
 
 ' In the night the body left the whirlpool, and was found on the 
 bank in the morning, caught by the trees. They brought it up, and 
 held the inquest. 
 
 ' Although the face and features were quite smashed and broken, 
 there were two things by which they identified the remains. Old 
 Mrs. Vedder swore to a slipper which was on the foot as belonging 
 to her son ; and Dick tlie guide, who had reason of his own for 
 wanting to see Abb Thomas in trouble, swore to a tattoo mark on 
 the arm. Said he did it himself one SabVjath afternoon when Nick 
 Vedder and him was alone. And a coloured girl swore that she 
 saw Nick Vedder on Sunday evening with four men, Abb Thomas 
 being one, and going over the suspension bridge. 
 
 ' The verdict was "wilful murder " against the four who had 
 been bound over to appear for the lirst charge. They were imme- 
 diately arrested and Ljcked up. They took the matter quite cheer- 
 fully, and were, as the ' ' Drummondville Gazette " said, apparently 
 quite regardless of their awful position. 
 
 ' Time was required to get vip the case for the prosecution, and 
 it was a fortnight afterwards when the real trial came on. It was 
 a solemn sight to see the judge, the counsel, the jury, and the 
 citizens, all got together to hang four hack drivers. Everybody 
 was there, and among them old Mis' Fuller, in the front row, nod- 
 ding her head at all friends, and every now and then wiping her 
 eyes when she thought of poor dear Nick. 
 
 * First the prosecutor opened the case. A man had disappeared; 
 for no reason whatever he vanished from his home : when last seen 
 he was in company with four men ; these men stood before the 
 court in the dock : with them he crossed over the bridge to Goat 
 Island : the gate-keeper, it would be proved, could not remember 
 whether he came back with them : they had an interest in getting 
 him out of the way : a body w\as found in the whirlpool below the 
 Falls : in height it corresponded to the deceased, Nicholas A^edder : 
 on the foot was a slijiper to which the murdered man's mother 
 would swear : on the arm was a tattoo mark which a well-knowu 
 
THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 397 
 
 citizen of Clifton remembered to have himself punctured on the 
 arm of this unfortiniate young man so foully made away with. 
 
 ' He kept pilin' it up about foul play and the murdered man till 
 the folk were ready to lynch the lot if the prisoners had been free. 
 Tlien he called the evidence. First the coloured girl gave hers. 
 The counsel for the prisoners said he had no questions to ask. 
 Then Mrs. Vedder swore to the slipper, and was quite ready to 
 swear to the foot which had been in it. 
 
 ' The counsel for the prisoners, to everybody's astonishment, 
 said he had no questions at all to ask her. Was the man going to 
 fool away the case ? 
 
 ' Dick the guide swore to the tattoo mark. When asked if he 
 remembered the date of the tattooing, he burst into tears and said 
 it was when Nick and he were boys together. That was curious, 
 because Dick was forty and Nick was twenty. 
 
 ' But the counsel for the defence said he had no questions to 
 ask of him neither. And then we began to feel as if the rope was 
 round all four necks. 
 
 ' When his turn to speak came, however, he rose to his feet, 
 and said that he only had one witness to call. He would call — and 
 here he hesitated, and looked scornful at his brothers in the law : 
 he would call — and here he looked with a smile in the faces of the 
 citizens : he would call — and here he looked full in the eyes of the 
 jury, as if he was going to let them have a facer : he would call 
 — Nick Vedder himself : and as he spoke the words, the door 
 opened, and in came Nick. His hair was growing again very 
 nicely. But he looked meek and small. There's no denying that 
 the Court was a good deal taken aback : dignity shook out of it, 
 somehow. Mis' Fuller gave a fearful sliriek because she thought it 
 was a ghost, and went otf into hysterics. It took a few minutes to 
 get rid of her. The people jumped to their feet and began to 
 shout. The jury looked as if they'd been done out of something 
 good. And as for the prisoners, they just stepped over the dock 
 into the court and sat down. Abb Thomas the iirst, without being 
 invited to. 
 
 ' We got a little quiet after a while, and the case went on. 
 
 ' First the counsel told the Court the story about Nick's dis- 
 appearance. It was this : Cliris Dalmage, the only one of the five 
 who wasn't bound over, after they'd frightened Nick at Terrapin 
 Tower, till he was as meek as any two-year-old, kept him on the 
 other side, locked up with a friend or two to take care of him. 
 After the inquest, what with the general excitement, and the 
 impulse to the hack trade, because folk came from Hamilton and 
 Toronto and London to see the place where Nick Vedder's body 
 was found, and what with the pleasure of seeing his friends all 
 locked up together, a thing which no hackman could resist, Chris 
 could not bring himself to s*i'>*»iu-e his prisoner till the day of the 
 trial. 
 
393 THE MURDER OF NICK VEDDER. 
 
 ' The counsel only asked two questions. 
 
 ' " Is that your slipper 1 " 
 
 ' "No," said Nick. "I never had a slipper in my life, and if I 
 had my foot isn't as big as a boat. And who'd go out in slippers in 
 such weather as this 1 " 
 
 ' His mother, who'd been clinging to him and wiping her eyes, 
 let go of his hand, and looked as if she'd like to box his ears there 
 and then. 
 
 ' " Oh ! you ungrateful boy," she cried. 
 
 '"Then," said the counsel, "show the Court your left arm. 
 Turn up the sleeve ; where is the tattoo ? " 
 
 '"There is no tattoo," said Nick, "Why should I be 
 tattooed ? " 
 
 ' Dick the guide stepped out of court. He said it was a curious 
 and disappointing world — and who would have guessed that the 
 boy would round on him in such an ungrateful manner as that 
 after all he'd said and sworn to for his sake ! And catch him ever 
 taking any interest in a murder again. And that night there was 
 some of them at the Falls had a real high time : perhaps as high a 
 time as ever was had. But Dick the guide wasn't invited.' 
 
 LOSDOK : PEINTBD BT 
 
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 The Canon's 
 
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 Ward. 
 
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 29 
 
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 31 
 
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22 
 
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