WRAYFORD'S WARD, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 VOL. I.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive ' 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 httpV/www.archive.org/details/wrayfordswardoth01robi
 
 WRAYFORD'S WARD,"^ 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 BY 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S MONEY," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1872. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED BY MAODONALD AND TUGWKLL, BLENHEIM HOUSE, 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 ns 
 
 v./ • 
 
 WRAYFORD'S WARD.
 
 NOTICE. 
 
 It having been found, after these volumes were printed, 
 that a work called " A Girl's Romance" was published 
 a few years since, it has been thought desirable to alter 
 the title of the first story from " A Girl's Romance" to 
 11 Wrayford's Ward."
 
 WRAYFORD'S WARD 
 
 A GIRL'S ROMANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " OLD WRAYFORD." 
 
 JE was called Old Wrayford before he 
 -■— ■- was seven-and-thirty years of age. 
 His habits were old-fashioned ; he was an 
 old-fashioned, studious-looking man, and 
 what else could be expected ? The people 
 of Grey moor had no fine feelings of their 
 own, and did not profess to understand 
 fine feelings in other folk ; they were not 
 great judges of age, perhaps, and Abel 
 Wrayford was older than his looks, hence it 
 was always " Old Wrayford " in common 
 conversation. He did not like the title — he 
 had been heard to express himself a little 
 
 b 2
 
 4 WRAYFORD S WARD : 
 
 querulously at it, by one who brightened 
 his home, and him ; but the name had 
 been bestowed as if by general agreement, 
 and there was no changing it in Greymoor. 
 Grey moor was a place where nicknames 
 clung to one. 
 
 Well, he looked " Old Wrayford," espe- 
 cially from a few yards distant, when he 
 was proceeding along thoughtfully, with his 
 head very much craned forwards, as if 
 the weight of his new ideas were a trifle 
 too much for it. He did not resemble 
 a man of seven-and-thirty then — his steps 
 were slow and measured, and he had a habit 
 of walking, pantaloon fashion, with one arm 
 crossed behind him, as if to prop his back 
 up during his progress ; he was high- 
 shouldered with hard study of chemicals 
 and books, and with much " writing-work " 
 for scientific periodicals in London, where 
 he was better known than in this wild 
 Cornish village that he loved ; he was grey- 
 haired even. He was tall and thin, and his
 
 A GIRL S ROMANCE. 
 
 face was lined beyond his years ; only his 
 eyes betokened light and life, for they were 
 clear, bright, grey eyes, full of fire and 
 power still. He had studied all his youth 
 away ; he had stepped aside from youth's 
 frivolities, and given himself up to a science 
 which ages its true votaries early, as a rule, 
 and to this rule Abel Wrayford was no ex- 
 ception. He was very young at heart ; an 
 earnest, simple-minded, clever, blundering 
 creature, knowing nothing of the world 
 itself, and but little of his fellow-beings ; a 
 man who thought the best of everybody, 
 and gave everybody credit for the best in- 
 tentions. 
 
 He had lived at Greymoor almost all his 
 life. Friends had told him long ago that 
 in London he would find prosperity and 
 fame ; but he had a horror of cities, and his 
 was a mind which was contented with a 
 little. He had been to London fifteen years 
 ago, and the place had unsettled him, and 
 made him ill — he had suffered from fever
 
 b A GIRL S ROMANCE. 
 
 there, and when his strength returned he 
 had been glad to get back to his Cornish 
 home. It had been his father's home before 
 him, and here he could study in peace, with 
 nothing more to disturb him than the wash 
 of the sea against the rocks in the Cove, a 
 hundred feet below him, and not a hundred 
 yards away. His father had died poor, and 
 there did not seem any probability of Abel 
 Wrayford becoming a rich man. He was 
 fond of experiments, and the money which 
 he earned in writing a treatise, or expound- 
 ing a theory for the Scientific Register, was 
 sure to be spent in new apparatus, or in 
 following out a new idea — very often a 
 fallacious one, despite his cleverness. Had 
 it not been for his ward, he would have even 
 drifted into debt, after the fashion of such 
 thoughtless, dreamy beings as he all the 
 world over; but she ruled his house and 
 home, and was a practical young woman in 
 her way. 
 
 Of this ward it is necessary to speak ere
 
 A GIRL S ROMANCE. 7 
 
 we commence our story proper. Grace 
 Edmonds became his ward, housekeeper, 
 and general manager at the early age of 
 nine. Her father had been the senior of 
 Abel Wrayford by three or four years, and 
 Abel Wrayford, who had left his father's 
 home early, went into partnership with his 
 friend Edmonds, and lived with him at 
 Launceston, until Edmonds, who had mar- 
 ried early in life, found children increas- 
 ing rapidly about him. Wrayford went 
 once more to Launceston to help his friend, 
 and be of comfort to him, when a terrible 
 epidemic, which had raged through Eng- 
 land, swept away Edmond's wife, and three 
 children out of four that had blessed a 
 happy but brief marriage. Here Wrayford 
 remained with his old friend for two more 
 years, and then Edmonds, who had been 
 long ailing, broke up suddenly, enjoining 
 his friend with his last breath to see to 
 Grace, and be to her all that he would have 
 been himself, had it been God's will to
 
 8 a girl's romance. 
 
 spare him. He died possessed of five-and- 
 twenty pounds, which he left in trust to 
 Abel Wrayford until his little girl came of 
 age ; and he adjoined to that trust a senti- 
 mental, even a foolish request that Grace 
 was never to marry without the consent of 
 her guardian, on whose judgment, good 
 feeling, and generosity he knew that he 
 could rely. It was a mere wish, involving 
 no pains and penalty, no forfeiture of the 
 little legacy — merely a simple expression of 
 his confidence in the guardian whom he had 
 appointed, and a hint to Grace, as she grew 
 older, where he thought she would find her 
 best friend and truest adviser. Perhaps he 
 was the only one in the world who tho- 
 roughly understood Abel Wrayford, but he 
 had been like Abel's big brother at school, 
 and they had been staunch friends through 
 life together. 
 
 Abel was a young guardian, but his father 
 and mother were living when he took Ed- 
 mond's child back to his Cornish home, and
 
 A GIRL S ROMANCE. \) 
 
 bade them help him with his trust, which 
 they did cheerfully and willingly, as though 
 Grace had been a child of their own. They 
 both died before Grace was a woman, and 
 Grace had been Wrayford's fairy house- 
 keeper some years when our story opens 
 on them. She was close on eighteen years 
 of age, and he had passed his seven-and- 
 thirtieth Summer, and was "old Wray- 
 ford " to the world of Greymoor — old 
 Wrayford to his ward also, for she called 
 him father, and saw in him almost the 
 father whom she had lost. He was proud 
 of the title which her love had given 
 him, and often called her his child, and 
 there was no one in the world so near to 
 his heart as she was. The people in the 
 village below them — for Wrayford's house 
 was perched high up amongst the rocks — 
 called her Miss Wrayford more often than 
 Miss Edmonds, and thought her life must 
 be a very dull and lonely one with that 
 grey-haired, grave man whose soul was in
 
 10 a girl's romance. 
 
 his studies, and whose lamp, like a danger- 
 signal in the topmost room, burned always 
 far into the night.
 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE NEW CRAZE AND THE NEW-COMER. 
 
 TTTHEN an idea entered Abel Wray- 
 " ' ford's head — and he was always 
 beset by ideas which interfered with his 
 legitimate work — it was Grace's laughing 
 fashion to call it his new craze ; and late in 
 the keen November month when our story 
 opens on this chemist's life, a new craze had 
 suddenly seized on him. It came to him in 
 the evening, when the sea was rough, and 
 broke in thunderous masses upon the shingle 
 below, when the wind rioted without and 
 shook the house, and the rain was hurled 
 in sheets upon the old-fashioned lattice win-
 
 12 a girl's romance. 
 
 dows. A bitter night for a bright warm 
 fancy, which danced before the eyes of the 
 student like a truth within a hand's grasp. 
 He had been writing an article on colour 
 for the Register in his little wainscoted sit- 
 ting-room, the result of an analysis which 
 he had prosecuted in his laboratory up- 
 stairs that very afternoon ; and Grace was 
 humming blithely to herself by the fireside, 
 happy in his silent company, and not dis- 
 turbing him in his essay — for Abel was used 
 to her musical variations, and even affirmed 
 he liked them, and worked at his best if 
 she were not studying his peace — when the 
 thought came to him. The pen ceased to 
 travel over the paper, the eyes took a steady 
 survey of the opposite wall, the thin white 
 hand took a firm clutch of the chin, and he 
 began to mutter to himself in an insane 
 manner, not particularly exhilarating to an 
 observer, even to one like Grace, who knew 
 his idiosyncrasies pretty well. 
 " What is the matter, Gardy ?"
 
 a girl's romance. 13 
 
 " Hush, my dear — don't disturb me," he 
 said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Is it a new idea ?" she asked, in a low 
 tone, to match his own, taking up the key- 
 note which he had struck. 
 
 " Yes, I think so. An idea, Grace, which 
 might lead to fortune, if it were grasped at 
 once, and there were no flaws to mar its 
 successful issue." 
 
 " Oh ! but } T ou have had so many ideas of 
 that kind," Grace gently hinted; " and there 
 have been many flaws in them, which have 
 led us a long way out of the right road." 
 
 " Yes, as you say," he answered, absently; 
 " but don't talk to me just now." 
 
 Grace was silent after this entreaty. She 
 bent her head over her work, and feigned 
 to be industrious, glancing now and then 
 at her grey-haired, pale : faced guardian, 
 and wishing, in her heart, that he would 
 turn to the pages of his manuscript. Quar- 
 ter-day was close upon them, and she knew 
 that there had not been much cash set
 
 14 a girl's romance. 
 
 aside for it, much money saved for it, Abel 
 having been more theoretical and less practi- 
 cal than usual during the last two months. 
 The house had recently changed hands, 
 also, and Grace would have liked to look 
 well with the new landlord as a start off, 
 especially as that landlord was Robert 
 Trustworth, a master-fisherman in the vil- 
 lage, who had saved much money of late 
 years, and bought much property in the 
 neighbourhood, and of whom Grace would 
 not have liked to ask a favour, as she had 
 often done of her former landlord. But 
 Abel Wrayford was not thinking of land- 
 lords, the Christmas quarter's rent, or the 
 article for next month's Scientific Register, 
 and he continued to stare before him until 
 even his fair ward grew a little anxious. 
 
 " How the wind blows to-night !" she said 
 at last ; and he answered, still absently, 
 
 " Yes; don't touch it, Grace," and frighten- 
 ed her a little more. She was thinking of 
 calling his attention to the pages crumpled
 
 a girl's romance. 15 
 
 beneath his elbow as a last resource, when 
 he suddenly jumped to his feet, and clutched 
 the table-lamp before him. 
 
 "I shall not be long," he said. " A 
 minute or two — not more." He went rapidly 
 to his top-room, wherein he locked himself, 
 away from her, and, in his absence of mind, 
 left her in the darkness downstairs, until she 
 lighted a fresh lamp for herself, and sat 
 patiently awaiting his return, scarcely hoping 
 to see him again that evening, and knowing 
 too well where his new craze was likely to 
 lead him. 
 
 He came down, however, in an hour's 
 time, looking rather wild, with his grey-shot 
 locks rubbed all manner of ways, and laugh- 
 ing heartily as at a pleasant joke with which 
 some familiar upstairs had favoured him. He 
 took a place in front of the fire, spread his 
 hands before the blaze, and gave vent to one 
 incomprehensible word — 
 
 " Mud !" 
 
 Grace repeated the word, and looked at
 
 16 a girl's romance. 
 
 him wonderingly. He met her glance, and 
 laughed again. 
 
 " Yes, it was really a craze, Grace," he 
 said. "I thought that I had discovered 
 a new colour, a bran-span bright and daz- 
 zling tint, and the result was mud, my dear. 
 That is all." 
 
 " You will not work any more to-night?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "No," he replied, after a glance at his 
 papers. " Lock up my desk, child, and 
 put my papers away, like a careful amanuen- 
 sis as you are. That was a strange fancy to 
 get into my head about a colour. I never 
 had such an idea before, and it was very 
 ridiculous of me, just as I was in full swing 
 at my article, too. But one is led astray 
 now and then from the right track, and the 
 hours waste themselves sadly. Did you say 
 that the wind was howling very much to- 
 night?" 
 
 " I said so before you went upstairs to 
 your study," was the quiet answer.
 
 a girl's romance. 17 
 
 " Ah ! I know you mentioned it. Yes, it 
 comes full swoop at us from the sea, and 
 moans, like some one wounded and sore, 
 outside the house. An uncomfortable 
 night." 
 
 " Gardy," said Grace suddenly, turning 
 very white, " there is something moaning 
 outside the house beside the wind to-night." 
 
 " The deuce there is !" replied Abel 
 Wrayford, rising with his ward. " I hope 
 you may be wrong." 
 
 Grace had already risen, drawn aside the 
 heavy window-curtains, and looked out at 
 the night's darkness, and Abel took his 
 place beside her in the same watchful atti- 
 tude. On the alert for something strange 
 and eventful, they did not appear greatly 
 surprised when a cry of help, as from the 
 beach below the cliff on which Wrayford's 
 house was built, welled faintly to their ears. 
 Grace turned a shade paler, perhaps, and 
 laid her hand upon her guardian's shoulder. 
 
 " Did I not say so ?" she asked. 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 a girl's romance. 
 
 " Certainly you did. My hat and stick, 
 my dear — the lantern from the downstairs 
 room — I'll go and see if I can be of help. 
 I hope it's not another wreck." 
 
 Grace brought him his hat and stick, and 
 the lighted lantern which he had asked for. 
 He did not observe that she was dressed for 
 walking too until he was at the door. 
 
 " Why, Grace !" 
 
 " I would rather go with you," she said ; 
 "I may be of use to some poor sufferer 
 cast upon the beach." 
 
 " But " 
 
 She would not listen to his reasoning. She 
 shut herself outside with him in the wind 
 and rain, which came at them tempestuous- 
 ly, and extinguished the light in the lantern 
 to begin with. 
 
 " My dear, you must go back," said Abel, 
 solicitously. " I had no conception that it 
 was such an awful night, and you are young, 
 and delicate, and unfit for storms." 
 
 " Some one is abroad and in danger," she
 
 a girl's romance. 19 
 
 said, u and I will go along with you. You 
 are too near-sighted to venture near the cliff 
 without me." 
 
 " Oh ! that's nonsense," he answered ; 
 
 " ray sight improves, and Why, Grace, 
 
 look there ! Something is moving at the 
 edge of the cliff, crawling towards us, or the 
 night deceives me. We shall not have far 
 to go." 
 
 Guardian and ward hurried towards the 
 figure moving on the brink, as it were, of 
 the precipice, and a man's voice called to 
 them as they approached. An instant after- 
 wards, and Abel Wrayford's grasp had 
 saved the man from falling backwards to 
 the beach again. 
 
 " How came you here ? — what is it ? — 
 are there any more below?" 
 
 The man replied in French, " No one 
 else," and fainted away. Abel Wrayford 
 and his ward bore him with difficulty to 
 their house, seated him before the fire in 
 their warm parlour, and used every effort 
 
 c2
 
 20 a girl's romance. 
 
 to restore him to consciousness. Presently 
 his hand wandered to his forehead, as 
 though he were trying to remember some- 
 thing in his sleep, and those who were 
 bending over him knew that he was coming 
 to himself. 
 
 He was a young man of three or four- 
 and-twenty years, dark and handsome, his 
 white hands and his short, silky, black mous- 
 tache a great deal at variance with the sailor's 
 dress he wore. He opened his eyes, looked 
 round him wildly for an instant, and then 
 glanced from Abel Wrayford to his ward. 
 
 " Friends ?" he asked, in English this 
 time. 
 
 " Yes, friends, of course," replied Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 " English people ?" he said slowly. 
 
 Abel again replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " You are always hospitable — I thank 
 you for your solicitude," he said, with a 
 strong foreign accent. " I shall be better 
 in a few minutes, and will not trouble you
 
 a girl's romance. 21 
 
 longer than I can help. You will allow- 
 in e to rest for half an hour, I am sure." 
 
 " Half an hour !" said Wrayford — " you 
 must stay here all night, man, unless you 
 w r ant to risk your life again. You must go 
 to bed at once, and we will dry your clothes 
 by the morning." 
 
 "You are very kind," he murmured; 
 " but " 
 
 " But you must let us have our way," 
 said Wrayford, cheerily ; " you are not the 
 first sailor who has been dried by Abel 
 Wrayford's fire. We are used to wrecks on 
 this part of the coast." 
 
 " I thank you very much," he answered, 
 gratefully ; " but if you will allow me, I 
 would rather proceed upon my journey — I 
 am anxious to reach London. I am a very 
 — poor — man." 
 
 He made the confession reluctantly, ad- 
 dressing Grace rather than her guardian, 
 as though from a woman he anticipated 
 more of sympathy for his forlorn condition.
 
 22 a girl's romance. 
 
 She looked towards Abel Wrayford quickly, 
 as he concluded, and Abel understood her 
 glance. 
 
 " You do us an injustice in your thoughts, 
 young man," he said, gravely ; " poverty or 
 riches will make no difference in our treat- 
 ment of the stranger cast upon our shores." 
 
 " You will allow me first to explain how 
 it is that I am in this condition, and 
 then " 
 
 " I will see you into bed, and hear all 
 explanations afterwards," said Wrayford, 
 sturdily ; " man, do not you know that you 
 are wet through — and spoiling my carpet 
 with salt water," he added, drily. 
 
 Wrayford was a charitable and deep-feel- 
 ing man, it was evident — close study of his 
 profession, and little communion with his 
 race, had not narrowed his heart nor ren- 
 dered him ascetic. Human suffering always 
 touched him ; and the troubles of his fellow- 
 men were certain to arouse his sympathy. 
 The Frenchman was impressed by this geni-
 
 a girl's romance. 23 
 
 ality, and would have overwhelmed hini 
 with thanks, had the chemist allowed it; but 
 Abel was determined on getting the damp 
 stranger to his room, in which an actiye 
 maid-servant had already lighted a fire. 
 The stranger went up a few stairs with some 
 confidence, then paused, and motioned Abel 
 Wrayford to his side. 
 
 "I am weaker than I thought," he said, 
 faintly — " I am in great pain." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " Here in my left side — I am afraid, good 
 friend, that I must trouble you for a doctor." 
 
 Wrayford got him to his room, and into 
 his bed, and then went in search of the 
 doctor, as the stranger had desired. 
 
 " This is rather an awkward lodger who 
 has dropped upon us, Grace," he said, before 
 he started on his errand — " one who will be 
 an expense, and who has told us frankly 
 that he has nothing wherewith to reimburse 
 us for our outlay ; but we will make the 
 best of him."
 
 24 A girl's romance. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! — he seems very ill." 
 
 " I am afraid he is," replied Wrayford. 
 " I wonder if he has any friends in France 
 or England to whom we can write. 1 will 
 ask him when I come back." 
 
 The French stranger was not able to 
 give him an answer upon his return with 
 the doctor — he was tossing in his bed, and 
 singing the " Marseillaise " so very much out 
 of tune that every drop of blood in Grace and 
 the servant's body had become curdled by 
 the discord. He had passed away from the 
 consciousness of present surroundings, and 
 was fighting with fever, and with a madness 
 born of fever. He raved in French a great 
 deal of his country, a little of his mother, 
 w T hom he spoke as of one away from him in 
 Paris ; he anathematised tyrants, and he 
 called down vengeance on a government 
 which had cast him down ; and then he 
 dashed into his " Marseillaise " again, and 
 sang it worse than ever. 
 
 "This is a bad case," said the doctor.
 
 a girl's romance. 25 
 
 "How did he get here, Mr. Wrayford?" 
 
 11 Well, he came like Jonah — from the 
 sea," said Wrayford, drily; "and that is all 
 I know about him." 
 
 " Well off, I should say?" was the next 
 remark. 
 
 "Poor as Job," answered Wrayford, who 
 was great in Scriptural parallels that evening. 
 
 " You do not mean that ?" affirmed the 
 doctor. " Why, the man will not recover, 
 and who is to settle my account ?" 
 
 " I will settle that," replied Wrayford ; 
 adding to himself, " but who is to settle with 
 the undertaker, the Lord knows !" 
 
 " I believe that he will soon be better," 
 said Grace, a short time afterwards ; and she 
 was a truer prophet than the doctor. A 
 woman very often is.
 
 26 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CONVALESCENT. 
 
 TTICTOR DUFOY— for sucli wasthe name 
 * of the young gentleman who had 
 introduced himself, damp and dripping, into 
 the chemist's quiet home — recovered in due 
 course, though he took his time about it, 
 and kept his new friends in suspense con- 
 cerning his movements — towards life or the 
 grave — for several weeks. 
 
 He had broken a rib, he had taken to 
 himself an unpleasant fever, and there were 
 bad symptoms setting in ; but in the face of 
 these difficulties, and thanks to the care of 
 Abel Wrayford and his ward, he fought his 
 way back to the world. It was close on
 
 a girl's romance. 27 
 
 Christmas Day, when he was enabled to 
 come downstairs, sit by the fireside, and be 
 pronounced out of danger. He received the 
 congratulations of Abel and Grace as he sat 
 before the fire in Mr. Wrayford's dressing- 
 gown, wherein he had made himself at home, 
 after a few protestations against the confisca- 
 tion, all of which had been over-ruled — and 
 he hastened to reply. 
 
 " I do not know how I shall be able to re- 
 pay you for your kindness," he said, warmly. 
 u Scarcely am I able to thank you enough 
 for past and present care of me. Without 
 you both I must have died." 
 
 " And now that you are living and rational 
 — for you have been talking the most absurd 
 nonsense for weeks — perhaps you will tell 
 us who you are, and how you came here?" 
 said Wrayford. 
 
 " Cheerfully," he answered. " It is a long 
 story, and will try your patience a little." 
 
 " Keep to the facts, and we shall soon get 
 through them," said Wrayford, encourag-
 
 28 a girl's romance. 
 
 ingly. " And remember that divergence is 
 an infliction." 
 
 Wrayford was in high spirits at Victor's 
 recovery, and probably at the prospect of 
 getting him out of the house safe and sound. 
 His last article in the Scientific Register had 
 been a success also, and the papers had 
 been talking of it, praising and attacking 
 it, after their several fashions ; and a reply 
 had been called for from Abel Wrayford's 
 pen, which was at work at the present 
 moment, in his defence of that particular 
 theory as regarded colour which had nearly 
 set him off after another ignis fatuus. He 
 had earned more monev than usual that 
 month, for he had been more than usually 
 industrious, and the quarter's rent would 
 have been put by for Mr. Trust worth, the 
 new landlord, had it not been for the sick 
 man and his wants. Abel wrote his article, and 
 professed to be listening to the young man's 
 account of himself at the same time ; he 
 only caught the salient points of the story,
 
 a girl's romance. 29 
 
 but as the narrator diverged horribly — Abel 
 was sure that he would do it, despite his 
 warning— there was not a great deal lost. 
 Grace Edmonds would hear every word, 
 and would be able to throw a clearer light 
 on matters of detail, if required. She did 
 not tire of Victor Dufoy's animated descrip- 
 tion of the sufferings of his beloved France, 
 of his fierce struggle with a maniacal few 
 to redress her wrongs, of his misfortunes 
 and failures, and his hurried escape from 
 his country, leaving his mother in Paris. 
 It was the old story of the patriot in diffi- 
 culties, ending in much the same way as 
 the red shirt and blue blouse generally end, 
 only Victor had undergone a few perils 
 at sea, by way of a wind up. He had left 
 France, where it had grown too hot to 
 hold him, in a fishing-smack, that had trans- 
 ferred him to another fishing-smack, English 
 bound, which had been caught in a strong 
 gale, and thrown out of its course, and 
 which, in making for a Cornish harbour,
 
 30 a girl's romance. 
 
 that November night, whereon he was found 
 first, had contrived to pitch him — owing to his 
 indifferent sea-legs — overboard when sight- 
 ing shore. Victor had managed to swim in 
 the darkness to land, and battle his way 
 through the surf to Grey mo or Cove, and rest 
 on the beach panting for awhile, and won- 
 dering where he was. There he became 
 convinced that the tide was advancing fast 
 upon him, and that he was hemmed in by 
 a semicircle of rugged cliffs; and taking Abel 
 Wrayford's light in the top-room window for 
 a beacon, he climbed his way towards it, 
 praying for his life, and reaching the summit 
 at last, minus one rib, which had been since 
 patched up by a Cornish doctor very suc- 
 cessfully. 
 
 " May I inquire what was your profession 
 before you took to politics ? " said Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 " Certainly," was the answer ; " I was a 
 student of chemistry." 
 
 " How strange !" said Grace.
 
 a girl's romance. 31 
 
 " Ah ! it would have been better to stick to 
 the profession," said the chemist, " there are 
 less dangerous explosions to be feared from 
 our gases than from the meeting of opposing 
 political atoms. Where did you study — 
 what did you learn — under whom did you 
 practice — what do you know ?" 
 
 Abel was more interested in his friend's 
 scientific acquirements than in his red-re- 
 publican tenets, and he set aside his work 
 to cross-examine the convalescent. He found 
 that Victor knew more of chemistry than he 
 had given him credit for knowing, that the 
 Frenchman was wrong in many things which 
 he had learned, but that it would not take a 
 great deal of trouble to set him right; for he 
 was shrewd and clever, and somewhat of a 
 thinker for himself. 
 
 Abel Wrayford took a greater interest in 
 Victor Dufoy from this day ; he discovered in 
 him a companion who was of service, and as 
 Victor grew stronger, the chemist even began
 
 32 a girl's romance. 
 
 to think that he should be sorry to lose him 
 presently. Thus Christmas faded into the 
 new year, and still found Victor a guest at 
 Abel Wrayford's table. 
 
 . It was time for Dufoy to take his depart- 
 ure at last. He had been six weeks at 
 Grey moor, and the place had grown more 
 like home to him than he cared to reflect 
 upon — it pained him deeply to think of 
 leaving it. Abel Wrayford and Grace had 
 both been very kind, more than kind, and 
 his was a heart that had been touched by 
 their generosity. Abel had been as an 
 elder brother to him, and Grace more like 
 his sister than a stranger, and in all England 
 besides he had not one friend. He did not 
 see his way clearly to a means of living in 
 England ; he had come over very poor ; he 
 and his mother had been poor for years, 
 owing to the sequestration of an estate 
 which had belonged to their family ; and in 
 England he was friendless as well as pen- 
 niless. He was a proud man too, and it
 
 a girl's romance. 33 
 
 wounded him deeply to know that he must 
 leave Wrayford in debt — in debt as to 
 money that was due, and which he was 
 unable to pay. All this on his mind, and 
 a something more perhaps which he did 
 not care to give voice to, or bestow more 
 thought than he could help upon, and he go- 
 ing away from Greymoor ! Well, the sooner 
 the better, though his heart sank very much 
 when he fixed the day, and told Wrayford 
 that he should leave on the Friday. 
 
 " And if I can repay back to you all the 
 past kindness, dear friend," he cried, " if my 
 family step into its rights, and I am less the 
 slave of circumstances, yours shall be the 
 first house to which I will come, asking you 
 and your ward to rejoice with me over my 
 good fortune. I think — that is, I hope, that 
 I shall be able to repay your kindness some 
 day." 
 
 Later that day — it was the day before 
 Victor's departure — when Wrayford and his 
 ward were alone, the former said suddenly, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 a girl's romance. 
 
 " I shall be sorry to lose Victor ; he is a 
 modest young fellow, and he has been of 
 service to me. It will take time to get over 
 his absence." 
 
 Grace knew that Abel Wrayford was 
 watching her very intently as he spoke — 
 looking at her from his desk in the corner, 
 as though he were anxious to learn if she 
 was sorry too that Victor was going away. 
 She was more sorry than she was aware 
 of herself at that time ; but she did not 
 care to show, any regret for the depart- 
 ure of the young Frenchman, even to so 
 old a friend as Abel was. She had not ana- 
 lyzed her feelings respecting Victor Dufoy ; 
 and as Victor had simply seemed to regret 
 the home he was quitting, and the kindness 
 he was leaving behind him— not the people 
 so much — it was not her place to affect any 
 particular regret. Besides, she was a wo- 
 man, and her womanly instinct was to hide 
 her real sentiments for the present ; and if 
 Victor did not care about his going away —
 
 a girl's romance. 35 
 
 that is, for losing sight of her — for ever, too ! 
 — why, it was not very likely that she was 
 going to cry her eyes out for him, or at 
 least let anybody think — not even her dear, 
 old-fashioned, faithful guardian — that she 
 was indulging in that process surreptitiously. 
 
 " I suppose we shall miss him," she said 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Perhaps he will go back to France, 
 and marry the young lady whom his mo- 
 ther has in store for him," said Abel Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 " Oh ! is there a young lady in store for 
 him over there ?" asked Grace, more care- 
 lessly, although she worked a little more 
 energetically as she made the inquiry. 
 
 Wrayford was near-sighted, and did not 
 notice this. 
 
 " So he tells me — a cousin of his, with 
 the same blood in her veins, and who has 
 been marked out for him from the time that 
 he was ten years old." 
 
 " And he likes her, of course ?" 
 
 d 2
 
 36 a girl's romance. 
 
 "He thinks that he shall like her in time ; 
 his mother is sure that he will," said Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 " I don't admire such a match as that !" 
 said Grace. 
 
 " Why not? It is the best of matches in 
 its way. The young folk have time to 
 understand each other — to grow up together, 
 believing and trusting in each other. There 
 is nothing hasty or foolish about it, Grace." 
 
 " No ; but it is very unromantic," replied 
 Grace. 
 
 " Are you romantic ?" he asked, very 
 anxiously. But Grace's merry laugh at his 
 suspicions re-assured him, and he bent down 
 with a smile over his manuscript again. He 
 was glad that Grace was not romantic, but 
 looked at life seriously and methodically ; 
 and he was more than glad that she was 
 not as sorry to part with Victor Dufoy as 
 he was. Convinced of this, reading his 
 ward's heart like an open book — it had 
 always been easy to read, for she was free
 
 a girl's romonce. 37 
 
 from guile, and had not a secret from him, 
 and she never would have, he was assured 
 — he mooted another idea which had been 
 troubling him that morning. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Grace, whether it 
 is not possible to render Victor's stay in 
 Greymoor profitable to him and me." 
 
 11 Is that another craze, Gardy ?" asked 
 Grace, very demurely. 
 
 " No, I don't think it is," he replied ; " for 
 Victor is useful, and the only question is, 
 whether there is work enough for the two 
 of us. There is a great deal of my work 
 that he can take off my hands, leaving me 
 free to write more often, or to go off more 
 frequently on those wild-goose chimeras at 
 which you jest so pleasantly." 
 
 u We will say to write more frequently ; 
 for write you must, Abel," said Grace, 
 gravely. " I have been going to tell you 
 that the rent " 
 
 "Yes, yes — I know all about that," said 
 Abel, interrupting her ; " it is just due, and
 
 38 a girl's romance. 
 
 I am not so well prepared for it as I should 
 be. But Robert Trust worth is a rich man, 
 and will not come running after his money 
 at twelve o'clock on quarter-day/' 
 
 " And if he should, there is twenty-five 
 po 
 
 " No, there is not," said Abel, sharply, and 
 looking so firm and hard at the suggestion 
 that Grace did not allude further to that ex- 
 pedient. She returned to the old question, 
 and was grave and demure enough to have 
 deceived Argus himself. 
 
 "And is it wise, with fresh difficulties 
 ahead of us, to talk of an assistant, Gardy ?" 
 she asked. " Had not the young man bet- 
 ter go his way ?" 
 
 " No, I think not," he replied; "for he 
 will give me time to myself; and I want 
 time immensely. And as for difficulties, I 
 will smite them down, expunge them from 
 the face of our daily life in less than a week, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Very well, guardian — you know best."
 
 a girl's romance. 39 
 
 Grace said no more, but went about her 
 work cheerfully — went down into the village 
 of Grey moor, after seeing Victor and her 
 guardian in conference together in the par- 
 lour, and gave her orders for the next 
 week's housekeeping, and that day's dinner, 
 with her usual alacrity. She was in high, 
 bright spirits it was observed by the shop- 
 keepers, and full of cheery gossip with the 
 villagers ; and as she was generally light 
 and bright, — the sunshine of the place, as of 
 Abel Wrayford's home, — it was strange that 
 her manner should have been especially 
 remarked that morning. Stranger still that 
 she was not aware that her spirits were 
 brighter and lighter, and that she would not 
 have acknowledged the fact had she been 
 questioned concerning it. Indeed, she had 
 risen with a dull heart and a headache, she 
 was sure, that very day ; and only her high 
 spirit had thrown off the depression. She 
 went up the ascent to Abel Wrayford's 
 home, and found Victor Dufoy standing on
 
 40 a girl's romance. 
 
 the edge of the cliff, looking out to sea, 
 with his arms folded, very much like a cer- 
 tain illustrious exile and Frenchman whose 
 portrait we have seen very often. He was so 
 absorbed in thought, that he was not aware 
 of Grace's presence until she touched him 
 lightly on the arm. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg pardon," he said ; "I did 
 not know that you were here." 
 
 u You are looking very cross, Mr. Dufoy," 
 she said ; " I do not think that I have in- 
 truded on pleasant thoughts, and so I hope 
 that I am sure of your forgiveness." 
 
 " No, they were not pleasant thoughts," 
 he answered, almost without looking at 
 her. 
 
 "Nothing has happened to disturb you, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 " N — no — nothing particular," he said. 
 "I am going away from my new friends — 
 the only friends whom I possess in England 
 — and am not in good spirits. There, I 
 confess it."
 
 a girl's romance. 41 
 
 But- 
 
 And Grace paused, and looked at him 
 steadily, and with the faintest increase of 
 colour on her pretty face. He waited 
 patiently for her to continue, and she said, 
 
 " But have you not seen my guardian ? — 
 has he not asked you to stay and assist him 
 for awhile ?" 
 
 "He has asked me, Miss Grace, and I 
 have refused." 
 
 " Refused P she repeated, in amazement. 
 "For what reason?" 
 
 " I would prefer your not asking me my 
 reasons," he said, folding his arms, and 
 looking out to sea again a la Bonaparte. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Dufoy," she said ; " it 
 is no business of mine, of course. If you 
 are tired of us, it is natural to go away." 
 
 She wished that she had not uttered 
 those words the instant after they had 
 escaped her ; but it was too late. He 
 looked quickly from the sweep of ocean, 
 flecked by a myriad of golden ripples that
 
 42 a girl's romance. 
 
 bright Winter's morning, and turned with 
 eagerness towards her. She began to 
 quicken her pace in the direction of the 
 house, bat his rapid strides soon brought 
 him up with her. 
 
 " For what reason, you asked me a mo- 
 ment since, Miss Edmonds," he said, in a 
 hoarse, agitated voice — " perhaps it is fairer 
 to tell you. Because you have all been too 
 kind and generous towards a poor refugee — 
 because I am too happy." 
 
 " I — I do not understand you." 
 
 " It is better for me that I go — it is my 
 duty to yourself and Mr. Wrayford. I 
 should be acting a dishonourable part to 
 remain — unless with your permission. Do 
 you understand me now ?" 
 
 He asked his question in a low, eager 
 voice, gazing intently into her downcast, 
 blushing face. She did not reply at once ; 
 but when he repeated his question, she said, 
 in as low a tone as his own, 
 
 " I scarce]y think that I do."
 
 a girl's romance. 43 
 
 " Tell me to go away, then — that you will 
 be glad to see me depart !" 
 
 "No — I cannot say that," she replied. 
 Then she went still more rapidly towards 
 the house, and he did not seek to follow her. 
 On the contrary, he went back to the verge 
 of the cliff, and looked out to sea again, and 
 down at the shingle below him, whence he 
 had climbed, one stormy night, towards 
 the light which guided him to Abel 
 Wrayford's study. Towards the greater 
 light which seemed now, to his sanguine 
 fancy, to be guiding him towards the English 
 girl whom, in his weeks of forced idleness, 
 he had learned to love. He could not own 
 that passion to the guardian yet awhile, for 
 he was penniless, and the confession would 
 only render him an object of suspicion ; he 
 would not confess it to her until he was sure 
 of her affection, till he read in her manner, 
 in her look, a something more than a wish 
 that he should not leave her guardian's 
 service. He took hope to his heart from
 
 44 a girl's romance. 
 
 that day — he believed in his future, and he 
 almost forgot his political faith. Presently 
 he went into the house in search of Abel 
 Wrayford, and found that gentleman in the 
 topmost room — a room which Abel Wray- 
 ford's father, a man of studious frame of 
 mind, had persuaded his landlord to build 
 for him on the leads of the house — deep in 
 his chemicals, measuring his acids with a 
 steady hand, and counting every drop which 
 fell from the vial into the saucer he held be- 
 neath it. 
 
 " I have come to ask you, Mr. Wrayford," 
 he said, " to allow me to change my inten- 
 tion." 
 
 " Intention ! What intention ?" said 
 Wrayford, absently. 
 
 " Of going away this afternoon. I should 
 like to remain, and be of use to you, if I 
 can." 
 
 " All right. I am glad to hear that you 
 are not foolhardy, and going away in search 
 of a start in London is foolhardiness in
 
 a girl's romance. 45 
 
 these times, Victor. What colour is that ?" 
 
 He passed the saucer to Victor, who scru- 
 tinized it, and could make nothing of it. 
 
 "It's a dirty kind of blue, I think," said 
 Victor, after a moment's reflection. 
 
 "Exactly," he replied. "That is the 
 second time that I have been pottering up 
 here in search of a colour that has no ex- 
 istence, save in my wool-gathering brains." 
 
 He took the saucer from the young 
 Frenchman's hand, and flung it and its con- 
 tents into the fire which was burning there 
 — flung it with great gravity and determina- 
 tion, and with no evidence of anger in his 
 thoughtful face. 
 
 " So an end to the last new craze, and a 
 beginning to sober work, Victor Dufoy," he 
 said.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A BEL WRAYFORD was a man as good 
 -*--*- as his word ; he worked hard after 
 that day, wrote early and late, kept to the 
 practical part of his profession, allowed no 
 new ideas to cross his mind, or, at all events, 
 to disturb it, and succeeded in having his 
 quarter's rent ready the day before Mr. 
 Trustworth called for it. Mr. Robert Trust- 
 worth, master-fisherman, it may be said here, 
 was an odd man in his way, and in every- 
 body else's way, and it did not surprise 
 Abel Wrayford that he took his cash with- 
 out a "Thank you," and tied the string
 
 a girl's romance. 47 
 
 round the throat of his money-bag with a 
 savage jerk, as though he were rather dis- 
 appointed at finding his rent ready. 
 
 Mr. Trustworth was not an amiable man 
 — had never been amiable within the know- 
 ledge of the oldest inhabitant of Greymoor. 
 Old folk in the place remembered him as 
 the surliest young man who had ever served 
 his time on a fishing-smack, and told strange 
 stories of his fierceness and hardness, and 
 doubted, more than one of them, how 
 Robert Trustworth had contrived to earn 
 money enough to set up in business for 
 himself, have a ship of his own, and pur- 
 chase a little house property about his 
 native place. There were ugly whispers 
 concerning the money that had been made 
 from wrecking in that part of Cornwall ; 
 cruel stories of false lights luring con- 
 fiding craft to the rocks, and cargoes mys- 
 teriously disappearing before the morning 
 showed the wreck upon the coast ; and 
 Robert Trustworth, in his youth, was sup-
 
 48 a girl's romance. 
 
 posed to have made his penny from this 
 noble little game — only supposed, for no 
 one had any proof to bring against his cha- 
 racter ; and when he married, and settled 
 down in life — shortly afterwards settling his 
 wife by hard words and harder treatment, 
 spiteful people said again — he was always 
 ready to explain how he had saved his 
 money, even to launch into details concern- 
 ing the process, being a trifle boastful at 
 most times and seasons. 
 
 He had earned his money by speculating, 
 he said — by taking shares in public com- 
 panies when they were starting fresh. Lon- 
 don, and friends of his in London, gave him 
 private information as to which were good 
 and which were bad. He made no secret 
 of how he had got on in life, bought his 
 own ship, his nets, his house property — it 
 was only common sense, not education, fine 
 manners, or anything of that sort. He had 
 been known even to draw a comparison at 
 times between himself and that old Wray-
 
 a girl's romance. 49 
 
 ford, although old Wrayford was four or five 
 years his junior. 
 
 " Look at that old man with his eddica- 
 tion, and his shutting hisself up in the house 
 on the hill away from everybody, and his 
 airs and graces, and dodges and ideas, that 
 never come to anything but grief; and then 
 look at me, sound and prosperous, and say 
 who's got on best in the world !" he would 
 say at times, as if Abel Wrayford preyed 
 upon his mind, or the airs and graces to 
 which he had referred had at one time 
 or another jarred upon his susceptibilities. 
 Be this as it may, certain it was that he did 
 not like Abel Wrayford, and even envied 
 him the good name in the village and the 
 respect which his contemporaries paid him ; 
 and certain it was, also, that, as dislike 
 breeds dislike, so Abel Wrayford did not 
 love Robert Trustworth, or admire that 
 kind of plain-speaking which Trustworth 
 called his frankness, and Wrayford, in ex- 
 cited moments, his infernal impudence. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 a girl's romance. 
 
 Therefore, after the rent was paid that 
 morning, Mr. Wrayford seemed waiting a 
 little anxiously for the pleasure of wishing 
 Mr. Robert Trustvvorth a good afternoon. 
 But Robert Trustworth was not disposed, 
 upon that particular afternoon, to depart 
 upon his way ; he sat with his back to the 
 window, taking up with his broad, burly 
 form all the light which Mr. Wrayford 
 wanted for himself, and staring stolidly at 
 the chemist. 
 
 "You're doing pretty well, I s'pose?" he 
 said at last. 
 
 " Yes, pretty well," was the laconic 
 answer. 
 
 " Anything new ?" 
 
 "Nothing new," was the reply. 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 Mr. Wrayford fidgeted with the papers on 
 his desk, and made no attempt to lead the 
 conversation. Trustworth continued to 
 stare in a very extraordinary manner at his 
 tenant.
 
 a girl's romance. 51 
 
 "How's Grace?" he jerked forth sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Who?" inquired Abel. 
 
 " Grace Edmonds — your ward as is — you 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, she is pretty well, thank you." 
 
 Mr. Wrayford knit his brows a little as 
 he replied. He did not relish the allusion, 
 or the friendly manner in which Trustworth 
 had mentioned his ward's name. 
 
 " And that furrin chap — is he about 
 still ?" 
 
 " Yes. He is my assistant." 
 
 " Ah ! so I've heard," said Trustworth, 
 carelessly. " I s'pose you look after him 
 and her a bit ?" 
 
 " What the devil do you mean by that !" 
 
 Wrayford lost his temper at this last 
 question of the master-fisherman, and 
 showed that he lost his temper, too, by the 
 strange, sharp expression of his features. 
 He felt himself insulted, and he was quick 
 
 e 2
 
 52 a girl's romance. 
 
 to betray the disagreeable impression which 
 Trustworth had created. 
 
 " I should, if I was in your place. As a 
 dooty — and a doubt. Them French chaps 
 are allers full of their monkey tricks, you 
 know." 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " He's young, and she's young ; and, 
 though she ought to look above him, still 
 there's no telling what is likely to get into a 
 woman's head. But she's a nice gal, mind 
 
 you." 
 
 " Do you mind getting a little more out 
 of the light ?" asked Abel Wrayford, setting 
 himself to his desk. "I am pressed for 
 time to-night, Mr. Trustworth, and have a 
 long paper to finish." 
 
 " I shan't keep you much longer. Look 
 'ee here." 
 
 Wrayford looked at his tormentor, who 
 had suddenly begun to clench his fist, and 
 to hammer at the broad, horny palm of his 
 left hand.
 
 a girl's romance. o3 
 
 "Well, I'm looking." 
 
 " I don't think any harm of your ward, 
 and lots of what's good." 
 
 "Is it any particular business of yours ?" 
 
 " Yes, for I'm interested in her." 
 
 " Thank you," answered Wrayford. 
 
 " Interested in her more than you thinks, 
 old man." 
 
 " Confo go on ! What have you to 
 
 say, Robert Trustworth, that you worry me 
 like this ?" cried Wrayford. " Has anything 
 happened? — have you any bad news for 
 me ? 
 
 " Bad news ! — no, I ain't." 
 
 "Then, for heaven's sake, get away to 
 your fish, and leave me to my work !" 
 
 " I ain't got no fish to go to," said Trust- 
 worth, surlily, "till I sails out with the 
 moon to-night. I want to talk to you about 
 your ward. I likes her." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " I say I likes her," shouted Trustworth ; 
 " I spose that's English, and you're not any
 
 54 A girl's romance. 
 
 deafer than usual, Wrayford. Oh ! she 
 knows it well enough, and you ought to 
 know it too, if you had any eyes for any- 
 thing save that silly work of yourn. I've 
 liked her from a child ; and as she's growed 
 and growed, so I've said and said to myself, 
 1 If ever that gal gets to be a woman, and 
 goes on well, I'll make her a good offer.' 
 It's been a kind of waiting of her that 
 I have been, Wrayford — there, that's 
 frank." 
 
 Wrayford had just breath enough to gasp 
 out, 
 
 " Yes, it's frank — damned frank !" 
 ; ' You know my position in this place," 
 he continued — " what I am, what I have 
 come to by my henergy. This house I 
 bought when old Selwyn died, you know, 
 and that there row down by the little jetty in 
 the village ; and my shop's my own, and three 
 hundred pound worth of nets ; and there 
 ain't a mortgage nowhere. I'm as good a 
 man — I daresay a better man — than anyone
 
 A girl's romance. 55 
 
 in Grey moor, and a catch for any woman. 
 It's a chance for Grace — she's young, but 
 I'm ony two-and-forty myself, Wrayford, 
 and full of health and sperits. It mayn't 
 strike her at fust, but she will get used to 
 the notion, for it's a good chance, that lots 
 of gals would jump at. Why, the widder 
 at the 'Lobster Inn ' has been a-jumping at 
 
 it ever since I buried Mrs. T ." 
 
 Wrayford had ceased to pay any attention 
 to this self-eulogium. He had made a savage 
 dash at the ink, and commenced writing ; 
 and, to Robert Trustworthy fancy, it seemed 
 as if the student were taking down in black 
 and white all those qualifications on which 
 he had waxed eloquent. But Wrayford 
 was trying to write him down, to forget 
 that this obnoxious individual had obtruded 
 into his presence ; and although the effort 
 was an impossibility, he contrived to write 
 with great rapidity sentence after sentence, 
 of a vague and incomprehensible character. 
 When there was a pause, Wrayford looked
 
 56 a girl's romance. 
 
 up at the big, evil-looking man by the. 
 window. 
 
 " You wish to marry my Grace?" 
 
 " Well, I don't think you can make a 
 mistake there." 
 
 " When she has given you her consent to 
 the match, you can call for mine. Good 
 afternoon/' 
 
 " Then you've no objection?" 
 
 " Man, I will tell you my objection after- 
 wards, if it ever come to mine. If Grace 
 give you her answer, a flat and decisive 
 No, there will not be any occasion for us to 
 talk of this again." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, there will." 
 
 " I tell you there will not !" cried Wray- 
 ford, with more fierceness, and bringing his 
 hand smartly down upon the desk ; " can 
 you not see that ?" 
 
 " Blest if I can ! You don't mean to 
 say " 
 
 "I say nothing more, Robert Trustworth. 
 I would rather not speak out all that is in
 
 a girl's romance. 57 
 
 my thoughts at present — I am too excited. 
 I have work to do, and wish to keep calm." 
 
 "Yes; bu- 
 
 " I think I did say good afternoon ?" 
 
 " Oh ! good afternoon to you. It's never 
 not much good a-talking to you, Wrayford ; 
 but you'll think over all that I've said to 
 you after I am gone." 
 
 He departed, very much like a man who 
 had been treated unceremoniously ; and he 
 slammed the door noisily behind him. He 
 went away cursing Abel Wrayford's want of 
 ceremony. He was a rich man, and had 
 made a noble offer, of which the silly 
 chemist did not see all the advantages at 
 present. In good time he would, no doubt. 
 He marched down the hill from the lonely 
 house as if all Greymoor belonged to him ; 
 and Abel, who had left his desk, watched him 
 along the sloping path towards the village. 
 
 " He will meet Grace," he muttered to 
 himself, "and frighten the poor girl with 
 his outrageous love-making. What an odd
 
 58 A GIRLS romance. 
 
 idiot he is, to be sure ! What a mad fancy 
 to get into his ugly head !" 
 
 He sat down by the window in the full 
 glare of the afternoon sun, which came in 
 upon him there, and thought, of all the 
 oddities and inconsistencies of life, this was 
 the oddest and the strangest. An old man 
 like Trustworth — not very old perhaps, not 
 old at all, in fact, scarcely middle-aged ! — but 
 an illiterate, ill-mannered, ugly, and bad- 
 tempered fisherman, to insult him by a pro- 
 posal for the hand of Grace Edmonds ! 
 
 " I should not have dreamed of that man 
 thinking of my ward," he said ; and then 
 words which Robert Trustworth had spoken 
 in the room rang so forcibly in his ear that 
 he muttered them aloud. He sat down by 
 the window at last, and reflected deeply, re- 
 flected himself into .a bad temper, and 
 stamped upon the floor in his new rage. 
 " To think that I should be disturbed by 
 anything that that unlicked bear could say 
 to me !" he cried, getting up from the
 
 a girl's romonce. 59 
 
 window at last, and beginning to pace the 
 room to and fro in a bear-like fashion him- 
 self. How long he promenaded in that 
 manner he never knew ; the sunlight faded 
 from the room and from the sea, the twi- 
 light was upon him, and he was still forget- 
 ful of his work, when a voice, full of the 
 music that he loved best, brought him back 
 to waking life. 
 
 " Why, Gardy, what is the matter?" 
 
 He looked round. Grace was standing 
 in the room, taking off her bonnet and shawl, 
 and regarding him with anxiety. 
 
 " Nothing is the matter, my dear — that is, 
 not much the matter. I have been put out a 
 little." 
 
 " Has another idea failed ?" 
 
 "Oh! no." 
 
 " And you have not let another craze take 
 possession of you, or been carried off by that 
 old colour project, which was quite ten 
 pounds out of our way, Gardy ?" 
 
 u No. I have been put out of temper by
 
 60 a girl's romance. 
 
 a visitor. But I will tell you all over our 
 tea. Where's Victor?" 
 
 " Why, have you not sent him to Pen- 
 zance?" 
 
 " Yes, so I have," he said absently ; " and 
 we shall have a quiet tea together, as in the 
 old times before he came." 
 
 " Yes — father and daughter alone once 
 more." 
 
 "To be sure," he added, slowly, and after 
 a long pause. 
 
 Grace regarded him with great attention, 
 but did not press him with any anxious 
 questions. She would leave him to confess 
 what had disturbed him presently. She saw 
 that he was very different from his usual 
 self, and entrenching on a deeper line of 
 thought, which cast its shadow on a face 
 that had a habit of betraying anything that 
 disturbed its owner. He looked very strange 
 that afternoon — as if a great sorrow, a great 
 disappointment were weighing him down. 
 She could almost fancy that his dear patient
 
 a girl's romance. 61 
 
 face had become more lined, and his hair a 
 streak or two more grey since she had gone 
 marketing to Greymoor. She should be 
 glad to listen to all that had disturbed his 
 equanimity, and then she would tell him 
 something in return, to bring the smiles back 
 to him. 
 
 When they were taking tea together, and 
 she was sitting opposite, the fairest and best 
 of tea-makers, he said, 
 
 " Did you meet anybody this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Yes, I seemed to meet everybody in 
 Greymoor." 
 
 " Did you meet Mr. Trustworth ?" 
 
 "To be sure ! And what do you think ?" 
 she cried, laughing very pleasantly, and 
 clapping her hands together as she spoke — 
 " what do you really think that he said to 
 me? 
 
 u I think that I can guess. He asked 
 you to marry him." 
 
 " Why, who told you ?" 
 
 u He came here first of all with his pro-
 
 62 a girl's romance. 
 
 position, Grace, and I referred him to you, 
 knowing what answer he was sure to re- 
 ceive." 
 
 "Then it is he who has been troubling 
 you?" 
 
 " I suppose I must say it is," replied Wray- 
 ford ; " and yet what was there to trouble 
 myself about, after all ? What did you say 
 to him ?" 
 
 " That I was very much flattered by his 
 preference, but that I had no thought of 
 marrying at present; and I hinted, as delicate- 
 ly as I could, to a man who requires strong 
 hints to impress him— that under any cir- 
 cumstances it was not probable that I should 
 marry Robert Trustworth." 
 
 " What did he say, Grace ?" 
 
 " He was very much offended, but he told 
 me that I should think better of it." 
 
 Guardian and ward both laughed at this 
 — the guardian rubbing his hands together 
 in his excitement. 
 
 " There's an " end to poor Trustworthy
 
 a girl's romance. 63 
 
 dreaming," he said; "and I feel for the man 
 in my way, for I think he was sure of you, 
 and thought it impossible that so influen- 
 tial a being in the parish should be so sum- 
 marily set on one side. I daresay he has his 
 feelings, Grace, and will be very sorry in his 
 way — in his own heart, as it were." 
 
 " Why should he be sorry ? " asked 
 Grace. 
 
 " He has built his hopes on you — he said 
 this afternoon that he had been waiting for 
 you, that he had been watching you grow 
 up to womanhood, — waiting and watching 
 thus, and hoping year by year that you 
 would keep good and turn to him at last." 
 
 " Why, Guardian — is this really you ?" 
 she cried. 
 
 " Really myself. Why not?" he asked. 
 
 u You are arguing in defence of one 
 whom I am sure you dislike," she said, "and 
 pleading his cause, as if you thought it would 
 be a good thing for me to marry that cross, 
 evil-looking man."
 
 64 a girl's romance. 
 
 " No, no, I don't think that," he said hur- 
 riedly. " What was I saying ? God bless me, 
 child, I would not have you marry him for 
 the world !" 
 
 " Robert Trustworth of all men," she cried, 
 a little indignantly, " who has not spoken to 
 me twenty times in his life, and has always 
 been cruel and hard — who never gave a 
 kind word to a living soul, and at whose 
 past life and deeds men shake their heads 
 and whisper to each other. The idea is a 
 horror to me." 
 
 " Quite right. It is a horror to me." 
 
 " And yet " 
 
 " And yet I am thinking of his disappoint- 
 ment. True — forgetting that he was a man 
 not likely to grieve. Not a man who has 
 understood you, known your worth, seen 
 you grow up day by day under his own eyes, 
 a bright loveable thing for the heart to 
 cherish, and pray and hope for, as some 
 good folk here and there pray for heaven, 
 Grace."
 
 a girl's romance. 65 
 
 " No — his was not a love like that," she 
 answered very thoughtfully. 
 
 He glanced eagerly across the table at her, 
 and she looked across and smiled at him. 
 What a load that smile took from his aching 
 heart ! 
 
 " Still we will not make fun of Trusty 
 Rob, as I have heard Trustworth called be- 
 fore this," said Wrayford ; " no man asks a 
 woman to marry him without some respect 
 in his heart towards her — and he has riches, 
 Grace." 
 
 " Yes — he is rich." 
 
 " My theory is that no man has a right 
 to ask a woman to become his wife, unless 
 he has paved the way, by caution and fore- 
 thought, to a comfortable home for her. If 
 he can offer that, if he is sure of her future 
 and his own, then he has a right to speak 
 out — not else." 
 
 " I believe that," said Grace warmly. 
 
 Was she thinking of Victor Dufoy at that 
 moment, when her cheeks crimsoned, and 
 
 VOL. I. f
 
 66 a girl's romance. 
 
 her eyes sought the ground ? — was she con- 
 tent to wait for Victor to speak, feeling as- 
 sured that, when his future showed a pro- 
 mise, or gave forth a hope, he would tell 
 her of his love ? 
 
 " You believe that a man should be silent 
 until the path ahead of him is free from 
 difficulty?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It would be possible for you, Grace — 
 for you are a woman who should think a 
 little of all this, and expect to be troubled 
 by a suitor now and then — to wait for such 
 a man, confident in his love for you, and in 
 that honour which keeps him silent till the 
 better times ?" 
 
 " I would wait all my life for such a man." 
 
 " And yet position is difficult to attain, 
 and the man in striving for it may grow 
 grey and old," said Wrayford. 
 
 " Keeping his heart young for my sake, 
 though, and not turning from one getting 
 old along with him."
 
 a girl's romance. 67 
 
 She spread her hands before her face, 
 and cried a little to herself — for it was rather 
 a miserable picture, for all its romance, that 
 she had conjured up ; and a grey-haired 
 couple, sundered by want of means, was 
 not a cheering, soul-sustaining object. She 
 was startled by her guardian's hand upon 
 her shoulder. 
 
 " Courage, Grace ; we may be nearer 
 than you think." 
 
 He went away at once to his study on 
 the topmost floor, and Grace did not remind 
 him that it would be better to write on 
 steadily that evening than begin — as he was 
 sure to begin up there — his wild and useless 
 experiments. That work of stability was 
 her guardian's worst foible ; if he had been 
 less full of crotchets, less clever, perhaps, 
 he would have been a wealthier man. 
 
 She did not call him back. She want- 
 ed time to think of that which he had 
 said to her — the kind, cheering words 
 which had stirred her heart, and had im- 
 
 v2
 
 63 a girl's romance. 
 
 plied that he had guessed a great deal of 
 all that that heart contained. He was think- 
 ing of poor Victor's poverty, of Victor's 
 hopes of recovering his property some day, 
 and returning to them rich ; he had seen, 
 with his usual perspicacity, that, silent and 
 reserved as Victor was— as he was bound 
 in honour to be — and silent and reserved 
 as she was herself, they were waiting 
 in their hearts for one another. What a 
 girl's romance it was ! This good second- 
 father had read the story clearly — perhaps 
 more clearly than Victor Dufoy had — and, 
 with his natural gentleness and generosity, 
 had told her of his knowledge, in his own 
 kind way. It was like him — it was like his 
 great deep thoughts of her. 
 
 And Abel Wrayford, in his study, where 
 no experiments were attempted that night, 
 was thinking of his ward, and pacing the 
 room in the old wild-beast fashion which 
 Grace had interrupted downstairs. He 
 looked a vounger man by many years that
 
 a girl's romance. 69 
 
 night ; his face was bright and hopeful ; his 
 eyes were full of light ; he flung his head 
 back proudly as he walked, and stooped no 
 longer forwards with the burden of his 
 thoughts. There was a thought which had 
 given new life to him, and strengthened the 
 hope of many a year. 
 
 " She understands me at last — she be- 
 lieves in me, and will wait," he murmured.
 
 70 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GREAT SUCCESS. 
 
 AFTER that night there set in a run of 
 ill-luck to Abel Wrayford's home — 
 ill-luck so persistent and heavy that many 
 men with less faith in the future or in them- 
 selves would have given way beneath it. 
 Strange to relate, it did not affect for the 
 worse the spirits of the chemist of Grey- 
 moor ; on the contrary, they seemed to rise 
 at every disappointment, and no onewasmore 
 smiling or bright than hewho found the world 
 suddenly shutting its gates against him, and 
 leaving him without the walls which kept 
 prosperity away. The Scientific Register, a 
 paper on which Abel Wrayford had worked
 
 a girl's romance. 71 
 
 for years, died for want of patronage, after 
 being gradually extinguished by the light of 
 a showier and shallower contemporary. Abel 
 Wrayford suffered with the rest, and lost 
 much labour which had been pleasant and 
 profitable to him ; but he was not dispirited. 
 His old publisher, sitting complacently in 
 the shadow of the Bankruptcy Court, wrote 
 to him encouraging letters, and talked of 
 starting afresh when he was free ; and Abel 
 waited for the better times along with him. 
 
 "The long lane must have a turning, 
 Grace," he said, when she looked duller and 
 sadder than her wont. " You must have 
 confidence with me." 
 
 Grace tried very hard to have confidence ; 
 but it did not bring any ready-money 
 into the house, or stop running further and 
 further into debt at the little tradesmen's 
 shops lying at the hill's foot. Rent day 
 arrived, the bleak Lady-day quarter, and 
 there was Robert Trustworth to face, and to 
 ask for a little delay, as times had been bad
 
 72 a girl's romance. 
 
 with them. Wrayford asked the favour, 
 not Grace, when the big man came for his 
 money. He asked for it calmly and re- 
 spectfully, as befitted a tenant who was, as 
 Trustworth phrased it afterwards, "down on 
 his luck," but with a dignity which told not 
 of any great humility of spirit. Abel Wray- 
 ford considered that he had a right to ask 
 this favour, he and his father having lived 
 in that house for half a century at least ; 
 but, as Robert Trustworth had only recently 
 bought the property, he did not see the mat- 
 ter quite in the same light, and said so. 
 
 " You will understand that I can pay this 
 rent by the sale of a few books and my 
 chemical apparatus," said Wrayford, " and 
 that must be done if you are anxious for 
 your money. I am in your hands." 
 
 Robert Trustworth considered the position 
 for awhile. 
 
 " Well, I'll let it stand," he said at last. 
 " It doesn't matter to me, a few pounds. 
 I've a good income. Why, some shares I
 
 a girl's romance. 73 
 
 bought last year in the Joint Stock Amal- 
 gamated Company sent me down fourteen 
 per cent, last week." 
 
 " I congratulate you." 
 
 " Thank'ee." 
 
 He went from the house without asking 
 how Grace Edmonds was, or without men- 
 tioning her name, and he swaggered home 
 with his hands in his pockets, which were 
 lacking in their rights as to Abel Wrayford's 
 rent. Wrayford thought that he had for- 
 gotten the rejection of his suit, and had out- 
 lived any disappointment, like a sensible and 
 hard-headed man. But Wrayford had 
 formed a wrong conception of Robert Trust- 
 worth's character. Trustworth was dogged 
 and secretive. He had taken a fancy to 
 Grace Edmonds, in much the same way, 
 perhaps, as a dog-fancier might take a 
 liking for some lovely specimen of a King 
 Charles's spaniel, and he was " set on her " 
 none the less for the rejection of his suit. She 
 was pretty, young, and to his taste. " The
 
 74 a gikl's romance. 
 
 old gal," as he always called the preceding 
 Mrs. Trustworth, was hot-tempered, old, and 
 plain as he was. He had spent a great deal 
 of his life in knocking her about, but he was 
 sure that he should pet and spoil this darling. 
 He could not get her out of his thoughts, 
 or think of anybody else, although there 
 were heaps of better matches in a pecuniary 
 sense. He had resolved to try a different 
 tack, and go in for amicability and general 
 kindness to everybody ; and he was glad in 
 his heart when he found that Abel Wray- 
 ford was back in his rent. Grace would 
 think it kind of him to allow the rent to 
 fall into arrear ; and, by Heaven ! it should 
 go another quarter ! Then, when they were 
 very poor, and did not know which way 
 to turn, he would ask Grace again to be 
 his wife ; and if it came to No again, he 
 should show his teeth a little — just a little ! 
 He was not going to be kind, and to keep 
 his mouth on the eternal grin for ever — it 
 was painful to him, for he was not used to
 
 a gikl's romance. 75 
 
 it. But he would hold on as long as he 
 could — until the Midsummer quarter, that 
 was — and then he would clear the deck for 
 action. 
 
 When the Midsummer quarter arrived, 
 the ill-luck of the Wrayfords was still run- 
 ning on as swiftly and regularly as ever. 
 Abel Wrayford might be more thoughtful, 
 but his spirits had not undergone abate- 
 ment — he was a trifle more serious occa- 
 sionally, that was all. He spoke very 
 hopefully, though he might not exactly see 
 his way; and Grace noticed with a sigh that 
 he was fuller of experiment than ever, 
 and that the light in the upstairs room — 
 Wrayford's Nest, as it was called by the 
 townsfolk — burned far into the night. 
 
 Things were steeped very much in shadow 
 when the Summer weather came round, and 
 all was brightness out of doors, and across 
 the blue sea beyond the windows of their 
 room. The books, and much of the chemi- 
 cal apparatus, had been sold quietly by
 
 76 A GIRL S ROMANCE. 
 
 Wrayford, not to cover the rent, but to pay 
 poor shopkeepers who were pressing with 
 their claims from Grey moor. Trustworth 
 was a rich man, and would give them time ; 
 the lane was very long, but they must be 
 close upon a turning. 
 
 Abel Wrayford was surprised one day — a 
 fortnight after quarter-day — by young Dufoy. 
 He was waiting in the Summer-house — a 
 favourite haunt of his in Summer, that he 
 had built himself of lattice-work, over 
 which Grace had trained a hundred roses — 
 and deep in calculation, fighting his way 
 through an army of figures which required 
 grave, and earnest study, for they were 
 figures of quantity, and affected the life and 
 death of an old craze which had come sud- 
 denly upon him again in his misfortune — 
 like a hope that would not be set aside — 
 when Victor Dufoy's presence suddenly 
 robbed him of a little light. 
 
 " Ah, Victor !" he said, looking up, 
 " where have you been all the week ?"
 
 a girl's romance. 77 
 
 " I have been to Launceston, for one 
 place." 
 
 " That's not attending to work," he said, 
 beginning to trifle with his pen. 
 
 " But there was no work here ready to 
 the hand, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! that's true," replied Wrayford ; 
 " and, by the way — God bless me ! there is 
 money owing you, too, and you must live, 
 pay for your apartments down in Greymoor, 
 and all that, as well as other people. How 
 forgetful I am! How much can you do 
 with for a week or two?" And Abel felt 
 in his pockets, and found a few half- 
 pence there, which he jingled together dis- 
 mally. 
 
 " I was not thinking of money, sir," said 
 Victor, proudly ; "I am for ever in your 
 debt, not you in mine. But I have been 
 thinking," he added, as his voice changed, 
 and even faltered, "of leaving Greymoor 
 for a time." 
 
 " Indeed ! Are you thinking of La Belle
 
 78 A girl's romance. 
 
 France, or of the cousin of whom you told 
 me once ?" 
 
 " The cousin, sir ?" 
 
 "Yes, the fiancee — why, Victor, you have 
 not forgotten your engagement?" 
 
 " It was not an engagement — simply a 
 wish of my mother's ; and the cousin got 
 married some time since, against everybody's 
 desire, save her own — and mine. I thought 
 that I had told you." 
 
 "Not a word. Well," he said, a little 
 testily, " where are you going ? — why do 
 you wish to go ?" 
 
 " I wish to go, for the reason that I feel 
 I am of no further use to my benefactor — 
 rather an encumbrance." 
 
 " What makes you think that?" 
 
 Wrayford was a proud man, and had care- 
 fully concealed his difficulties from his as- 
 sistant. He would have struggled on with 
 him a little longer, trusting still to a turn 
 in his favour, rather than have confessed 
 that he was not able to keep him. And
 
 a girl's romance. 79 
 
 now this sharp-eyed Frenchman had guessed 
 the secret, unless Greymoor folk had been 
 talking too much amongst themselves. 
 
 " I can see, sir, that affairs are not going 
 so straight with you as I could wish — that, 
 in fact, I am, for a time, a little in the way. 
 I am sure, if I go, it will be the better for us 
 all." 
 
 "Well," said Wrayford, thoughtfully, 
 " perhaps you are right, Victor. I thank 
 you for your consideration. Luck has been 
 dead against me lately, and until there's 
 a rift in the clouds to let the sunshine 
 through, it may be as well to part. But I 
 shall be sorry to lose you." 
 
 " Oh ! sir, how sorry shall I be ! To you 
 and your kind ward, I owe all the happiness 
 of my life." 
 
 " I don't see much happiness in working 
 on here. You may do better in London. I 
 will run over all my correspondents pre- 
 sently, and see if any of them are worth 
 giving you a letter of introduction to. I
 
 80 a girl's romance. 
 
 never dreamed of your going away, Victor." 
 
 Victor shrugged his shoulders and looked 
 disconsolate. 
 
 " When do you think of departing ?" 
 
 "This very day." 
 
 " Why, that's hasty work !" 
 
 " Now that my mind is made up, it is 
 better to break off at once the ties which 
 bind me here." 
 
 The ties ! What was the young man 
 raving about ? thought Wrayford. Was this 
 French sentiment at parting, or real feeling? 
 Real feeling, probably, for he was sorry him- 
 self to lose this light-hearted, good-tempered, 
 tolerably clever young fellow. 
 
 "At all events, do not leave us till the 
 evening," said Wrayford, turning over his 
 papers again. " I may have something to 
 tell you." 
 
 Victor looked at him very eagerly. 
 
 "I may, or may not," said Wrayford, 
 " for I am perplexed with figures this morn- 
 ing, and there is really something in them.
 
 a girl's romance. 81 
 
 Do you remember my notion of the new- 
 colour — the new bright, heaven-sent violet 
 of which I have dreamed? Well, I have 
 come back to that idea, for the want of 
 something better to do, and last night I was 
 close upon it upstairs." 
 
 11 1 wish you every success, sir," said 
 Victor, regarding his senior almost com- 
 passionately. 
 
 " Of course. For it is to your interest as 
 well as mine," he said. " Now leave me, 
 Victor, to struggle with an old fancy." 
 
 Victor went a few paces from him, and 
 then returned. 
 
 " I — I should like to say a few words to 
 Miss Grace before I go away." 
 
 Wrayford was absorbed in his studies. 
 He did not look up, or the agitated expres- 
 sion of the assistant's face might have scared 
 him. 
 
 " She has gone down to the town with 
 some lace, which, poor girl, she hopes to 
 sell before she comes back. You cannot 
 
 VOL. i. G
 
 82 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 
 
 fail to meet her. She will be sorry — deci- 
 mal eight, ten, six — to hear of your leaving 
 us thus suddenly." 
 
 Victor darted away, and Wrayford did 
 not know he was gone. The chemist of 
 Greyraoor was really struggling hard with 
 his idea, endeavouring to wrest from it a 
 truth or a fact which might not lie within 
 it, study how he would, and the minutes 
 stole on that Summer afternoon without 
 his taking heed of them. At another time 
 the going away of Victor Dufoy would 
 have troubled him a great deal, for he had 
 " taken" to the foreigner ; but here was an 
 idea, gigantic, and teeming with material, 
 and it was necessary to work hard before 
 he dismissed it for ever — this time positively 
 for ever — from his thoughts, or clung to it 
 as to a promise of good fortune which should 
 make amends for all the bad by which he 
 had been beset. 
 
 He did not know that hours had passed 
 bv, and that Robert Trust worth had taken
 
 a girl's romance. 83 
 
 the place of Victor Dufoy, until his name 
 was called out harshly. Then he looked 
 up and saw — and an unpleasant sight it is 
 to a man back in his rent — his landlord 
 standing before him. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Trustworth. For 
 heaven's sake, man, keep quiet for a mo- 
 ment !" 
 
 " What for ? What's the matter ?" asked 
 Trustworth. 
 
 "I am half-way — three-quarters of the 
 way — towards a discovery, if figures stand 
 for anything. Figures denote quantities, 
 and I think I see my way." 
 
 " I wish you saw your way to making my 
 rent square, Wrayford — that would be a 
 mightier pretty prospect." 
 
 " It shall be all right in time. Do not 
 interrupt me at this minute, there's a good 
 fellow." 
 
 " But I ain't a good fellow!" cried Trust- 
 worth — u I ain't a-going to be a good fellow 
 no longer." 
 
 g2
 
 84 A girl's romance. 
 
 u Eh ? — what has happened now ?" 
 
 Abel Wrayford glanced at him half care- 
 lessly, observed that it was a dark and 
 lowering face which he encountered, but 
 he was only half interested. The spell of the 
 figures was on him, and he could not break 
 away from it. 
 
 " I saw your proud peacock ward this 
 afternoon, and I told her my mind, after 
 she was too high and mighty to be common 
 civil to me. I made her another offer this 
 afternoon, and was treated wus than ever. 
 Now that won't do." 
 
 " How foolish of you to subject yourself 
 to a second refusal !" said Wrayford — " to 
 dash head-first at an insurmountability, as 
 this is. You should have known — you must 
 have seen that Grace is not a girl to change 
 her mind." 
 
 " I've done with her — I've guv her up !" 
 cried Trustworth, passionately. " I ain't 
 lived all these years for nothing, to be jilted 
 and down-troclden by a chemical minx ! I'll
 
 a girl's romance. 85 
 
 have her know, and you know — 3^011 know, 
 Abel Wrayford," he shouted, bringing his 
 great dark hand down upon the desk, and 
 surprising the student at it, " that I'm not 
 a man who's a-going to be trifled with. If 
 I was poor, and as desperate as I have 
 been, I'd have her off in my ship one 
 night, and nobody should hear of her 
 again." 
 
 " Eh ! the devil you would !" 
 
 " But I have a stake in the place, a name 
 to keep up, and 'ouses to hold on by, and 
 she can go, and that for her !" he cried, 
 snapping his fingers in the air. 
 
 " That's a sensible way of putting it," said 
 Wrayford, his eyes turning again wistfully 
 towards the long rows of figures before 
 him. The spell was very strong upon him 
 then, for Trustworth might have been a 
 dream-figure, after the first signs of passion 
 had exhibited themselves. He was conscious 
 that Trustworth was abusing him and his 
 ward, demanding his rent, and threatening
 
 86 A girl's romance. 
 
 a distress-warrant ; he was even certain that 
 the master-fisherman had sworn a big oath 
 that there should be brokers in the house 
 before twenty-four hours had passed, but 
 he was dreaming on still, and trying to 
 check the torrent of rage by absent little 
 monosyllables. 
 
 Suddenly he woke up to life, and startled 
 his irate landlord. He rose to his feet with 
 a precipitancy that would have alarmed 
 most people, he upset his desk on the 
 gravel, and glared before him with his two 
 hands, full of papers, shaking violently : 
 
 " Ha !— I see it !" 
 
 "See it! — see what?" cried Trustworth, 
 taken off his guard, and turning round and 
 round — " is it anything alive ?" 
 
 " I see it all — all which has so long 
 baffled me — and there is fortune — glorious 
 fortune, within a stone's throw ! The new 
 colour, man, is mine — I'm sure of it ! I'll 
 call it Wrayfordine ; I'll — don't stop me ;
 
 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 87 
 
 don't stand in my way ; let me get up to 
 The Nest* 
 
 He rushed past Robert Trustworth, and 
 along the garden path, into the house, 
 tossing his arms wildly in the air, and heed- 
 ing not his broken desk, and the chaos 
 which had followed its disruption. Trust- 
 worth looked after him, and rubbed his 
 temples vigorously. 
 
 " He's quite mad. His troubles have 
 done it at last, and serve him right too ! He's 
 as mad as his ward, who doesn't know what 
 a chance she has lost — the stuck-up chit !" 
 
 Meanwhile Abel Wrayford was in his 
 study, mixing, compounding, bustling about 
 with nervous hands, running to and fro 
 from the furnace to several glass saucers 
 upon the table, tilting the contents of one 
 into another, measuring off certain liquids 
 into phials with accuracy, despite his shaking 
 hands, finally finishing his labours with a 
 yell of triumph which it was as well that 
 his friends did not hear.
 
 88 a girl's romance. 
 
 " Successful ! — successful at last !" he 
 cried. " It will bring — it must bring a 
 fortune to Grace and me. The new colour 
 is a fact — born of heaven, one of heaven's 
 gifts to me this lucky day !" 
 
 An odd man was Abel Wrayford ; for he 
 was a thankful one. Few philosophers 
 would have knelt down and thanked God 
 for the discovery; but he did, before he 
 repaired to his parlour more composed, 
 although very nervous still, to communicate 
 the glad tidings unto Grace. She was not 
 in the parlour, but she was advancing to 
 him, though his eyes had not seen her from 
 the window yet. She was close upon him, 
 and Victor Dufoy was by her side, his arm 
 round her waist, his handsome face looking 
 down into hers, as his lips discoursed the 
 eloquence of love ; of a passion which had 
 o'ermastered prudence, and leaped over all 
 conventionalities in the agony of the parting 
 which was close upon them. 
 
 They were coming on together, full of
 
 a girl's romance. 89 
 
 love for, and of trust in one another, forgetful, 
 perhaps, of all the world besides themselves 
 — even of Abel Wrayford waiting for their 
 coming. 
 
 The chemist of Greymoor saw them 
 finally, and the light which had lingered on 
 his face suddenly and strangely died away. 
 There were papers in his hands, but they 
 fluttered from his grasp to the ground, 
 and the hands wandered restlessly to his 
 heart, to his neckcloth, which he loosened, 
 as though a sense of suffocation was creeping 
 upon him, to which he must succumb. The 
 old triumphant words hovered on his lips 
 still, but with a bitter, sarcastic meaning, 
 which was the whisper of a terrible de- 
 spair : 
 
 " Successful ! — successful at last !"
 
 90 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Tl THEN Victor had left Abel Wrayford, 
 ' ' after broaching the subject of his 
 departure from Greymoor, he had gone 
 slowly down the steep path towards the 
 village, in search of Grace. The chemist 
 had told him that his ward was to be found 
 in that direction — a superfluous piece of in- 
 formation, however, he having accompanied 
 Grace some distance on her journey at an 
 earlier period of the day. Grace and he 
 had had a long and serious conversation 
 together that morning, and the result had 
 been Victor's suggestion to Abel, as we have 
 detailed in our preceding chapter. The
 
 a girl's romance. 91 
 
 result of his interview with Abel Wrayford 
 was now to be communicated to Grace, and 
 when he was within a stone's throw of the 
 village, he sat down on a grassy slope to 
 wait for her. 
 
 There was a fair prospect before him, but 
 it did not cheer his heart much, for he was 
 going away that evening in great trouble 
 and incertitude. The sea, which had cast 
 him a wounded man upon the shore, 
 stretched before him, fair, smiling, and de- 
 ceptive ; the peaceful village was at his 
 feet ; above him on the rocks was perched 
 the old picturesque house which had been 
 his home, and where he had spent his 
 happiest days ; and the bright cloudless sky 
 was over all. Gazing mournfully towards 
 the house in the distance, he fancied that he 
 could see the dim figure of the student pass 
 and repass the window of his " Nest," and 
 he shrugged his shoulders, as if in pity for 
 the last craze which had taken Abel from 
 honest work and sober care for his ward.
 
 92 a girl's romance. 
 
 He waited long and patiently for Grace 
 Edmonds, thinking of his future, and won- 
 dering if, in the far distance, hers would 
 cross it, and flood his life with light. The 
 sun sank lower in the sky — it was almost 
 time to think of going away, and still he sat 
 there dreaming. Only one man passed him 
 whilst he waited, for there was no cross cut 
 to a second village above him, but a round- 
 about and dangerous cliff-path, which no one 
 followed, save an adventurous tourist or 
 artist occasionally, in the long Summer days 
 which were upon them. 
 
 Honest Robert Trustworth had marched 
 by in hot haste, with his iron-looking hat 
 pulled over his brows ; but Victor had not 
 noticed him, so deeply were his thoughts 
 engrossing him. Trustworth had scowled 
 at Victor, and gone on to Wray ford's house, 
 had returned, and rewarded him with a 
 second scowl, blacker than the first ; but 
 the dark looks of the master-fisherman had 
 been lost upon the Frenchman. Victor was
 
 a girl's romance. 93 
 
 waiting for Grace — thinking only of Grace, 
 who came at last towards him, looking 
 almost as grave and thoughtful as he, until 
 aware of his presence. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Victor," she said, as she came 
 up with him, "have you been waiting for 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes, I have been waiting," he repeated, 
 sadly. 
 
 She cast a quick, shy glance in his direc- 
 tion as the words escaped him, and the 
 doleful ring of them suggested all the 
 truth. 
 
 " You have told him, then ? — he does not 
 suspect that I " 
 
 He interrupted her hastily. 
 
 " That you have asked me to leave Corn- 
 wall, and have told me of his trouble," he 
 said — u no, he gives me credit for having 
 discovered that myself. As if I could have 
 believed in his masking his distress so well, 
 or had eyes for anything save — save my 
 own selfishness," he added, after a short
 
 94 a girl's romance. 
 
 pause, during which Grace looked down and 
 crimsoned very much. 
 
 They went slowly together along the up- 
 ward path, both silent for awhile. Victor 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 " I am going away to-night," he said, with 
 a suddenness that startled her. 
 
 "To-night!" she exclaimed, in her sur- 
 prise. " Is there — is there any occasion for 
 this precipitation ?" 
 
 " Yes — he is poor," he answered. 
 
 " But " 
 
 " And I feel that I have, in my ignorance 
 — my blindness," he cried, passionately, 
 " added so much to his poverty by my pre- 
 sence that I cannot go away too soon." 
 
 " Have you told him that ?" 
 
 " Yes, and he was not greatly astonished. 
 I think in my heart that it was a relief to 
 him, and saved his pride a little." 
 
 " When — when shall we see you again ?" 
 she asked faintly. "You will return to 
 France, and forget us."
 
 a girl's romance. 95 
 
 " Is forgetfulness possible ? Oh ! Grace," 
 he said, more passionately still, " I think 
 you know that that is beyond me, though I 
 have said nothing — though my honour has 
 kept me silent until now — though I have 
 tried very hard, if very vainly, to hide my 
 secret in my own breast. But there are 
 times when one must speak out, and this is 
 one of them." 
 
 11 Oh ! say nothing to me now !" she said, 
 imploringly — " no matter what is in your 
 thoughts, remember that my dear old Abel 
 is in trouble, and that I am troubled also." 
 
 " He has given me permission to speak 
 to you, Grace, before I go away." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 Her cheeks flushed, and she veiled her 
 blue eyes from him once more, after a little 
 wondering stare into his face. Her heart 
 beat very rapidly with suspense, even with 
 joy ; for she, and this handsome young 
 Frenchman by her side, had been thrown 
 so much together that he had become the
 
 96 a girl's romance. 
 
 hero of her little world, and in her heart 
 she was assured that there was no one like 
 her Victor. Still she did not betray her 
 pleasure, only her confusion a little, aud 
 she said, a moment afterwards, with great 
 innocence of expression — 
 
 " But what can you possibly want to say 
 to me ?" 
 
 " Ah ! Grace, I hope you know," he cried 
 — " I hope that you have seen how much I 
 love you." 
 
 " Oh, dear !" 
 
 " And loving you with all my heart, 
 you can judge what I suffer in going from 
 you — how I am torn by necessity from 
 that happiness in seeing you, and in being 
 near you, which has been mine so long. 
 Oh ! dear Grace, you will give me a hope 
 to take away with me, to keep my heart 
 light in those days ahead which your pre- 
 sence will not brighten." 
 
 Grace was crying now, but there was 
 much happiness mingled with her tears,
 
 a girl's romance. 97 
 
 despite her words, even her half-reproaches, 
 which escaped her, and yet which told of 
 his affection being reciprocated. 
 
 " But the days ahead of us lie steeped in 
 so much shadow, Victor, it seems mockery 
 to speak of happiness." 
 
 " I do not seek to bind you by an en- 
 gagement — that would be dishonourable of 
 a poor man, Grace," he said, " and you will 
 give me credit for not acting impulsively in 
 this. But I am going away, and would take 
 one hope with me." 
 
 " And that hope ?" she asked softly. 
 
 " Is of your waiting for me for a little 
 while — of giving me time to strive to gain a 
 position for myself, here or abroad — of re- 
 turning a short while hence, and finding 
 you free, and glad to welcome me to the 
 old home. Grace, dare I hope as much as 
 that, or have I acted cruelly in speaking of 
 my love at all ? Pray answer me." 
 
 a Oh ! Victor," she murmured, " I will 
 hope with you." 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 girl's romance. 
 
 " My own dear Grace !" 
 
 Thus the day of parting was to Victor 
 Dufoy, in that first episode of bliss, a day 
 for great rejoicing. He had won her love, 
 she had confessed her wish to wait for him, 
 to believe with him in the better times of 
 which he had prophesied. For a few brief 
 moments — brief as measured by the hour- 
 glass, but strengthening many a strug- 
 gle in the future — they forgot all but 
 themselves. The path leading up to Wray- 
 ford's Nest was strewn with roses, and 
 steeped in sunshine — there were no troubles, 
 poverty, or disappointment in the world in 
 which they moved, and all the cares of 
 life vanished beneath their hopefulness. 
 They were intensely happy, proceeding side 
 by side along the upward path, recking not 
 of the jealous eyes which watched them as 
 they advanced, believing not in misconstruc- 
 tion, seeing only a hand's throw from them 
 the difficulties succumbing to their energy, 
 and, after that, — all glory !
 
 a girl's romance. 99 
 
 They were speaking of their love for one 
 another, and their courage to wait for each 
 other, as they came beneath the porch of 
 Abel Wrayford's house ; and it was not until 
 they had entered the sitting-room that they 
 went back to the real. And then it was a 
 step made slowly and reluctantly, and they 
 did not read at once all the meaning in that 
 haggard face before them. Victor Dufoy 
 said, cheerfully, 
 
 " Well, Mr. Wrayford, you see that I 
 have been fortunate enough to find her." 
 
 When Abel Wrayford's answer came, the 
 lovers were aware of a great change in him, 
 and yet only three words, sternly and hus- 
 kily delivered, escaped his lips. 
 
 " So I perceive," he replied. 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Grace, quickly ; but he 
 turned to her, and raised a hand by way of 
 entreaty not to interrupt him. She stopped 
 and regarded him very anxiously now. He 
 was looking very white and haggard, his 
 neckcloth was disarranged, a strip of his 
 
 h2
 
 100 a girl's romance. 
 
 collar had been torn from his throat, as 
 though a rough hand had grasped him there, 
 his grey hair was dishevelled, his hands were 
 trembling with passion or nervous agitation, 
 she was doubtful which, until he spoke 
 again. 
 
 " Keep still, Grace," he said. " Do not 
 interrupt me. I am in trouble to-day, and 
 this man is in the way. Why have you not 
 gone ?" he said, turning to Victor. " Did 
 you not say that you were going this after- 
 noon? 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Wrayford," replied Victor ; 
 " but not in that ungrateful haste, which 
 would prevent my saying good-bye to you. I 
 have something to communicate, which " 
 
 " I will not hear you I" said Wrayford, 
 hastily breaking in upon him. 
 
 "Not hear me, sir- — not hear me?" re- 
 peated Victor in his astonishment. 
 
 " I am only anxious that you should leave 
 this place," said Wrayford, "and never come 
 back to me, and her !"
 
 a girl's romance. 101 
 
 " Great heaven, his studies have driven 
 him mad I" cried Victor Dufoy. 
 
 u Oh ! I am sane enough," said Wrayford, 
 bitterly ; u and cessation from study has only 
 opened my eyes to the deceit that is around 
 me. 
 
 " Guardian !" cried Grace again. 
 
 " To his deceit, I should have said, more 
 justly," he replied. " For he has practised 
 his arts on both of us too well." 
 
 " Sir, I love your ward," said Victor, im- 
 petuously, "and I have attempted no dis- 
 guise of my affections." 
 
 " You are an adventurer !" 
 
 " Mr. Wrayford, you know — you must 
 know that I have acted honourably towards 
 you both." 
 
 " It is a lie !" was the fierce answer. 
 
 " You have seen my love for Grace — 
 guessed Grace's love for me — or we have 
 both been dreaming !" 
 
 " I have seen only the duplicity of a man 
 whom I saved from starvation," replied
 
 102 a girl's romance. 
 
 Wrayford sternly, " and who rewards me 
 for ray charity by seeking to gain the affec- 
 tions of my ward. Leave my house at 
 once, and God spare me from the affliction 
 of your presence again !" 
 
 "Dear Abel," said Grace imploringly, 
 " do you know that I love Victor ? — that this 
 man whom you treat so cruelly is my affi- 
 anced husband ?" 
 
 Abel Wrayford glared at her, and again 
 the doubt of his sanity crossed the minds of 
 his companions. 
 
 " I — I did not know it," he gasped forth ; 
 " but I dispute it — I set aside this beggar's 
 claim — this poor, paltry trick to take ad- 
 vantage of you. You have forgotten, Grace, 
 your dying father's wish, as much as you 
 have forgotten me and yourself." 
 
 " It was his wish that I should, not marry 
 without your consent, and I respect that 
 wish and you. But, Abel, your kind heart, 
 your generous judgment, will estimate more
 
 a girl's romance. 103 
 
 fairly Victor's affection for me. This is a 
 surprise." 
 
 " Ay, a great surprise." 
 
 " And presently " 
 
 " Tell him to go — for God's sake, tell him 
 to go away at once !" cried Abel, sinking 
 into a chair. " I cannot speak to him." 
 
 " But, Mr. Wrayford," said Victor, with 
 quiet dignity, " I must speak to you. You 
 have addressed words to me which in more 
 temperate moments you will regret ; you 
 have accused me of mercenary motives — of 
 ensnaring your ward's affections, and have 
 taunted me with the poverty which I can- 
 not help, and with an ingratitude which I 
 have not had. You will be sorry for this 
 charge presently. That I love your ward 
 better than my life is no warrant for your 
 suspicions. She is content to wait for me, 
 and I will not come again until I can offer 
 her a home. I will not bind her — I have 
 not bound her — by a promise to become
 
 104 a girl's romance. 
 
 my wife. With the uncertain future lying 
 before me, I could not do that. But she 
 has faith, and will wait a little while. When 
 she distrusts me, from the first moment 
 of her doubts she is free from any claim of 
 mine." 
 
 " I do not affect to understand this high- 
 flown nonsense," W ray ford said to Grace, 
 " and I do not believe in it." 
 
 "Mr. Wrayford," Victor hastened to 
 reply, " I am very poor, but I will outlive 
 your want of trust in me." 
 
 " Tell him," said Wrayford between his 
 set teeth, as he addressed his ward again, 
 " that coming here to-morrow a rich and pros- 
 perous man would only make me hate him 
 the more intensely. That there is nothing 
 in the past, nothing in his future, which can 
 win from me anything save contempt for 
 the trick which has been played upon my 
 confidence." 
 
 " I cannot tell him that ! " murmured 
 Grace.
 
 a girl's romance. 105 
 
 " Then tell him to go." 
 
 Wrayford went out of the room in haste ; 
 he went back to the Nest, where the bright 
 thought had come to him of which he had 
 been exultant, madly exultant, only a little 
 while since. Now, what a change ! — what a 
 long, blank misery, stretching on without a 
 break seemed before him from that day ! 
 He had struggled hard for wealth, but it 
 was wealth for Grace's sake ; and now ap- 
 proaching it, feeling that he had only to 
 stretch forth his hand to obtain it, knowing 
 the value to the uttermost farthing that his 
 discovery of the colour would bring to him, 
 lie had missed the opportunity of winning 
 her for whose prosperity he had toiled 
 for years. She was gone from him for 
 ever. 
 
 It was dark night when he went down- 
 stairs again, and found Grace sitting at the 
 table by the lamp-light, working diligently, 
 as in the old times before the robber came. 
 It was so like home still that he could
 
 106 a girl's romance. 
 
 almost hope for her, looking at the picture. 
 She was very pale, but it was with her old 
 smile that she glanced towards him as he 
 entered. The rival had passed away ; would 
 the passing fancy for him, born of a girl's 
 first romance, follow in good time ? He 
 tried to think so, for was not Victor Dufoy 
 a villain whom he had unmasked, and whom 
 it was possible that he should never see 
 again ? 
 
 " You are alone ?" he said, on entering. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That man has gone away for ever ?" 
 
 "Victor has left for London," was the 
 evasive answer. " May I speak of him 
 now t 
 
 " Not yet. Give me time to recover my- 
 self — give me a week or a fortnight, Grace, 
 to look this calmly in the face." 
 
 " Very well," said Grace, with a long 
 sigh. 
 
 " And now let us speak of something
 
 a girl's romance. 107 
 
 else — of better times, and a different estate 
 from this. The tide has turned, and there 
 is good luck in store for us." 
 
 Grace regarded him dubiously. Was this 
 another phase of that eccentricity which her 
 guardian had evinced that day? 
 
 "The colour is fixed — the problem is 
 solved, Grace. A week hence, and we shall 
 be rich." 
 
 " Rich !" said Grace, with a little shiver — 
 " oh dear — rich !" 
 
 She saw Victor receding further and 
 further from her as her guardian became 
 prosperous — she saw riches hardening Abel 
 Wrayford's heart, and increasing in him 
 that strange pride which he had already 
 exhibited. Had he made this discovery 
 before her last interview with Victor, and 
 was it that which had made him hard, 
 repellent, and unjust? 
 
 " When did you discover this colour, 
 Abel?" she asked, eagerly.
 
 108 a girl's romance. 
 
 "Early this afternoon." 
 
 " I knew it — I was sure of it !" she cried. 
 She gave way suddenly, and burst into 
 tears, burying her face in her hands. 
 
 Wrayford realized the position at once, 
 and accepted it. He drew himself away 
 from her, and searched for the papers which 
 he had dropped upon the floor in his first 
 agony ; finding them at last folded carefully 
 on his little table in the corner where he 
 was inclined to work at times. 
 
 " Let her think so," he muttered to him- 
 self ; "perhaps it is best." 
 
 He allowed her to weep on, though 
 every sob went to his heart, and he tried 
 hard to sink himself in the calculations 
 which he had worked upon the paper. But 
 he was not happy with the proof before 
 him of his oncoming wealth — in all his life 
 he had not known such awful misery. 
 
 " Rich," he muttered to himself, inces- 
 santly, as though it were a talisman which
 
 a girl's romance. 1 09 
 
 kept him strong, and threw across his loneli- 
 ness, his isolation, a reflex of that brightness 
 to which he had thought he was advancing.
 
 110 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FURTHER EXPERIMENTS. 
 
 A BEL WRAYFORD was not wrong in 
 -*- -*- the estimation of his success. He had 
 been a man of many failures, which he had 
 kept strictly to his Nest ; to the world out- 
 side he had been shrewd and practical, a 
 safe man, for nothing of which he was 
 doubtful had gone out to the world. He 
 was sure of his colour ; he knew the right 
 channel in which to work, and where to 
 make the most of his success ; he was 
 known in London, and chemists and manu- 
 facturers had faith in him. The new violet 
 found its way speedily into public favour ; 
 people talked of it ; silken and woollen
 
 a girl's romance. Ill 
 
 fabrics took new hues from it ; there was 
 that glorious proof of success which no 
 criticism can give, no extensive adver- 
 tising bestow, and only the giant impulse 
 of the public, following, as it were, its 
 instincts, can impart. Everybody talked 
 of Wrayfordine ; and the inventor of the 
 colour remained in his Cornish home, un- 
 stirred by the murmur of the crowd. He 
 had sold his rights to a speculative firm, 
 and was content with a few thousand pounds, 
 and a royalty on future profits. Before the 
 year was out, his royalty, even to the sur- 
 prise of those who had invested in the 
 colour, brought him some thousands more ; 
 and Abel Wrayford woke at last to the 
 reality of riches. 
 
 He did not look any the better or brighter 
 for his triumph ; he did not change out- 
 wardly ; the good folk in Grey moor were 
 not aware at first that he had come sud- 
 denly into money. His habits were as quiet 
 and methodical as ever ; the light in the Nest
 
 112 a girl's romance. 
 
 burned as late into the night ; he wore the 
 same shabby vestments ; and when seen in 
 the village, or met upon the cliff, he had 
 the same thoughtful, far-away look which 
 " Old Wrayford " always had. 
 
 Robert Trustworth, master-fisherman, was 
 the first to suspect that there had come a 
 change to Abel Wray ford's home. He put 
 the broker in for two quarters' rent, as he 
 had threatened ; he was building on the 
 humiliation of Grace, and her prayers to him 
 for mercy, which he would refuse con- 
 temptuously ; he was laughing quietly to 
 himself at Abel Wrayford's bewilderment 
 and rage, when the broker came to say 
 that the money was paid in full of all de- 
 mands, and that Mr. Wrayford would be 
 obliged by a receipt. Trustworth thought 
 that Abel Wrayford had made a great sac- 
 rifice of his cherished instruments to pay the 
 money, until weeks afterwards, when he 
 found Abel bidding briskly against him for 
 a piece of ground adjacent to the Nest,
 
 a girl's romance. 113 
 
 which had been put up for auction. Abel 
 secured the ground, and Trustworth felt 
 suddenly that he was no longer the greatest 
 man in Greymoor. 
 
 " That old man has been and stole some- 
 thing," he said, with an oath, as he marched 
 out of the coffee-room of the hotel where 
 the auction had taken place. And by 
 degrees it reached even Greymoor that Abel 
 Wrayford had stolen something — stolen a 
 secret from Nature, and made his fortune by 
 the theft. 
 
 Time went on ; the Summer gave place 
 to Autumn, and there were brown leaves 
 eddying about the Cornish lanes ; Autumn 
 succumbed to Winter, and to a fierce Winter, 
 which brought rough seas and keen winds 
 to this western point of England. Abel 
 clung to his home still, and his ward kept 
 house for him, as in the old days, when he 
 was poor. His first impulse had been to 
 quit Cornwall, to launch forth, to take Grace 
 abroad, and seek society with her, but he 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 a girl's romance. 
 
 shrank suddenly from his project, and Grace 
 was glad of his change of intention. Abroad 
 they might meet Victor Dufoy, he thought, 
 and he had a hope in his heart that she was 
 learning to forget him, that it had been a 
 passing fancy, which time would destroy, if 
 he took no heed of it. He had never 
 talked with Grace upon the subject from 
 that strange day of his disappointment, 
 when the fulfilment of one hope was check- 
 mated by the loss of another ; he had told 
 her, when they were verging upon the subject 
 once, that it would be merciful to him not 
 to speak of Victor ; that there was no rea- 
 soning of hers could alter his opinion that 
 Victor had taken an ungenerous advantage 
 of his position, and that, foiled in his schemes, 
 he had disappeared for ever. As time 
 went on, and no letter came from the hand 
 of him who had spoken of his love, Abel 
 watched furtively for the signs of her dis- 
 trust appearing with his own. They would 
 come in time ; Grace would not cling al-
 
 a girl's romance. 115 
 
 ways to the false — it was not in her nature ; 
 and when she owned to him that the scales 
 had fallen from her eyes, he would tell all 
 the truth at which she had never guessed. 
 Meanwhile, he was content to wait, although 
 in waiting he knew that he had changed a 
 great deal, and become a stern, hard man. 
 People in Grey moor said that his pros- 
 perity had made him very proud, and 
 thought that it was natural, and that they 
 would have been as proud as he with only 
 half his money ; but at that period he was 
 never more humble in his heart, and never 
 more unhappy. For though it was pleasant 
 to him, almost consolatory, to talk of hope, 
 there were many chances against him ; he 
 was growing older and greyer every day, 
 and there might be truth and honour in the 
 Frenchman, and defiance to him who sought 
 to sunder them. 
 
 In the early Spring, London was shaken 
 by one of its panics — the money-market 
 was agitated to its centre, banks collapsed, 
 
 i 2
 
 116 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 
 
 public companies shrivelled up by scores, 
 wealthy men became beggars, and ruin 
 seemed everywhere at once. Ruin came 
 down to Greymoor, seized one Robert 
 Trustworth by the throat, and cast him 
 back to his old place. His shares in the 
 Joint Stock Amalgamation Company, of 
 which we have heard him boasting, were 
 the main source of his ruin, for the Joint 
 Stock Amalgamation broke up, and there set 
 in an incessant call upon the shares — calls 
 of twenty-five and fifty pounds per share, 
 until Robert Trustworth was as grey as 
 Abel Wrayford. The fisherman had not 
 borne prosperity well — had not taken to it 
 gracefully — and his downfall was not com- 
 posed or philosophical. When he had lost 
 only half his money, he took to drinking — 
 the idiot's inevitable refuge — and was seen 
 staggering about Greymoor at all hours of 
 the day ; and when the last blow came, in 
 the shape of his bank breaking up, he had 
 delirium tremens, and then brain-fever, and
 
 a girl's romance. 117 
 
 it was rumoured that Robert Trustworth 
 would not live the Spring out. Still Trust- 
 worth recovered, and before the first of 
 June he was to be seen at the Greymoor 
 beer-shops very often, and to be found 
 idling on the beach with old companions, 
 whose society he had evaded in his afflu- 
 ence. It was a great drop, and he raved 
 a great deal of his losses, but the neigh- 
 bours soon grew accustomed to Trust- 
 worth's new position. He appeared to have 
 stepped back to his first sphere, and to the 
 company of the rough, ragged seamen who 
 haunted the shore ; he kept bad hours, and 
 worked with a common crew at any labour 
 which presented itself; he was the Bob Trust- 
 worth that many Greymoor worthies had 
 known a few years since. Everybody called 
 him Bob now, and by a strange whim he 
 preferred to encounter humiliation in his 
 native village, and shock his contemporaries 
 by the rapid change in him, to beginning 
 life afresh where he was not likely to be
 
 118 A girl's romance. 
 
 recognised. Had he borne his troubles bet- 
 ter, this might have been heroic ; but as he 
 drank hard, and grew a reckless, desperate 
 fellow, whom honest people shunned, it was 
 simply bravado. 
 
 Robert Trustworth had one paramount 
 grievance in the midst of many wrongs. 
 He cursed The Joint Stock Amalgamation 
 Company, and the bank which had broken 
 with his savings in it, and all the petty 
 misfortunes which had followed in one 
 stream upon him, and swept him into beg- 
 gary, but he cursed nothing so heartily as 
 Abel Wrayford's luck, and hated no one so 
 persistently and well as the man who had 
 grown rich at the very time that his own 
 wealth had passed away. It was a strange 
 hate, but it was a genuine and an intense 
 one. Abel Wrayford made every allowance 
 for it, for he had become aware of it. He 
 considered that trouble had turned the few 
 brains which Robert Trustworth had ever 
 possessed, and that the man's bitter ran-
 
 a girl's romance. 119 
 
 cour was a part of the malady by which 
 he was afflicted. Trustworth would call 
 after him in the village, would dog his steps 
 at times, and, in his drunken moods, would 
 assail him with reproaches for buying up his 
 property in Greymoor, for no other pur- 
 pose than to lord it over him now that 
 he was a poor fisherman. Abel Wray- 
 ford, at these times, would turn away wrath 
 by dropping a few shillings into Robert 
 Trustworthy hands, and the recipient would 
 take them as his due, and go growling away 
 without any thanks for the gift. As Wray- 
 ford was weak enough to bestow his alms in 
 this fashion, there might possibly have been 
 a method in Robert Trustworthy madness, 
 but there was no mistake, for all that, in 
 the hate which the ruined man bore him 
 who had grown successful in the world. 
 In the "Lobster Inn" — the landlady of which 
 establishment had set her cap at honest Bob 
 in his better days — he would drink confusion 
 to the sulky chemist who lived upon the
 
 120 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 
 
 cliff, in the house of which he had robbed 
 hhn, and he would spend half the evening 
 detailing imaginary wrongs which the malice 
 of the upstart had wreaked upon him now 
 that he was " down." It was Trustworthy 
 turn to have a craze, Wrayford would say 
 drily, when rumours of these ravings reached 
 his ears. 
 
 This was the position of affairs when Sum- 
 mer came upon them, and it was twelve 
 months since Victor had gone away. Twelve 
 months to the very day, both Wrayford 
 and Grace remembered, and yet neither 
 spoke of it when they faced each other at 
 the breakfast-table that morning. Wrayford 
 had made up his mind to ask her if she still 
 believed in Victor Oufoy, and he was think- 
 ing, even at that early hour, of putting this 
 grave question to her, when the postman 
 brought a letter to the house for Grace. 
 
 The servant laid it on the table by Grace's 
 side, and the foreign face upon the postage- 
 stamp told of a long distance which the
 
 A GIRLS romance. 121 
 
 missive had come in search of her, and in 
 proof of him whom she had not learned to 
 doubt. 
 
 " There, did I not say that he would be 
 true ?" she cried, as though Victor had been 
 an unceasing topic of conversation for the 
 last twelve months. 
 
 " Who would be true ?" asked the che- 
 mist, turning very pale. 
 
 " Victor Dufoy. This letter is from Vic- 
 tor." 
 
 " Oh ! that man !" he said, disparagingly. 
 
 The cup clattered in his saucer as he took 
 it from the table, but Grace heeded not his 
 excitement. She had torn open her letter, 
 and was devouring its contents. Wravford 
 watched her, and saw how Grace utterly for- 
 got him, and remembered only the man who 
 had sent this message from his foreign home 
 to her. The light upon her face, the spark- 
 ling of her eyes, even the sudden dimming 
 of them by tears, and the quick heaving of 
 her bosom, were all against him — all against
 
 122 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 
 
 the last faint illusion which even his common 
 sense had not allowed him to dispel till that 
 day. 
 
 " Gardy," she said at last, "he is well. 
 He is in Italy — he will come back presently 
 to see us." 
 
 Abel regarded her stolidly, and she re- 
 membered that he had learned to distrust 
 Victor Dufoy. 
 
 " He has been a long time making up his 
 mind to relieve your suspense," he remarked, 
 coldly. 
 
 " He said, before he went away, that he 
 would not write until there were good news, 
 and words of promise for me." 
 
 " He has heard of my success," said Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 Grace would not take offence at her 
 guardian's remarks — she went on quickly, 
 
 "The French Government is considering 
 his mother's claim to the estates of which he 
 has spoken to us so often — there is a hope 
 of all being forgotten and forgiven. Oh !
 
 a girl's romance. 123 
 
 Gardy, if you would only rejoice with me, 
 how happy you would make me !" 
 
 " You forget," was the grave reproof. 
 
 " Forget what?" she asked quickly. 
 
 " That your happiness and mine are 
 things apart, and can never be reconciled 
 together. You will be happiest when he 
 returns — I shall be at my worst, losing a 
 daughter who has cheered my home, and 
 gaining no one's confidence." 
 
 u But Victor is generous — he esteems you, 
 and " 
 
 "And I despise him," said Wrayford — 
 "he will take you away without my con- 
 sent " 
 
 " Oh ! you will not refuse that again, 
 when he returns in all honour to prove his 
 love for me ?" 
 
 " When he comes back, Grace, we will 
 speak of this. I cannot be troubled now by 
 your romance. I have outgrown romances, 
 child — see how grey I am !" 
 
 From that day Abel Wrayford changed
 
 124 A girl's romance. 
 
 to his ward. He fostered no longer his 
 illusion, but turned stern and cold even to 
 her. He assumed his rightful position for 
 the first time, accepting, before its advent, 
 that isolation which he felt awaited him. 
 He studied very hard, early and late, as 
 though in the pursuit of new ideas he could 
 forget her ; and no remonstrance of her he 
 loved could wean him from his tasks. 
 Letters came regularly from Victor to Grace, 
 but he asked no questions concerning them ; 
 and Grace, aggrieved at last — as what 
 woman would not be when her lover was 
 slighted ? — did not speak of their contents 
 to him. 
 
 Grace was very sorry for her guardian's 
 sternness, but she felt there was no power 
 which she possessed that could alter it or 
 home ; he had receded from her ; he was 
 no longer the kind second father who had 
 shielded her from trouble, and studied 
 every little wish that she had had, but a 
 cold studious being, who wrapped himself
 
 a girl's romonce. 125 
 
 in his pursuits away from her. One day he 
 came downstairs earlier than was his wont, 
 in his gloomy, prosperous latter days, and 
 said, 
 
 " Do you visit the Lawsons as often as you 
 used, Grace ?" 
 
 The Lawsons were the only friends in 
 Greymoor whom Grace possessed ; and 
 about the one family in that out-of-the-way 
 fishing-village with whom it was possible 
 to make friends. Lieutenant Lawson had 
 charge of a coastguard station at Greymoor, 
 and his house was perched on the opposite 
 hills, by the side of the little station where 
 he held dominion. Lying between the 
 Lawsons' house and Wrayford Nest, was 
 the village of which we have spoken so 
 often ; and before all three was the great 
 restless sea. 
 
 Grace looked up with surprise at the 
 question. 
 
 " Yes, I visit them, Abel. Why do you 
 ask ?"
 
 126 a girl's romance. 
 
 " You like their company. Miss Lawsoii 
 is your own age ; the lieutenant is a gentle- 
 man, his wife a lady, and there is a certain 
 amount of society and cheerfulness about 
 their home which this] does not possess. I 
 want you to arrange to stay with them for a 
 while." 
 
 " Guardian ! — Abel !" she gasped forth — 
 " you wish this ?" 
 
 " Yes, I wish this. I am sure that it is 
 best. You are very much alone now — I 
 am compelled to leave you so often, and for 
 so long a time." 
 
 " Have I complained, Abel ?" she said, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 She was scarcely able to keep the tears 
 back ; he saw them in her eyes, and would 
 not be affected by them. 
 
 " Complained, child ! — no. But I am 
 thinking of your happiness." 
 
 " My happiness is with you, Abel," she 
 replied ; " and it is strange that, after all our 
 years together, I should have to tell you
 
 a girl's romance. 127 
 
 this, or that you cannot see it for yourself." 
 
 11 Ay, it is strange," he answered, thought- 
 fully. • 
 
 " Why have you altered like this ? Is 
 it 
 
 " Grace, I know what you are going to 
 say," he said quickly ; "let me ask you to 
 dismiss that thought — that old thought — 
 just now. You are still my daughter. I 
 love you none the less, and if I do not 
 think that your future happiness lies in the 
 direction you indicate, why, leave me to my 
 opinion, and say no more." 
 
 "But you are tired of me — I know it." 
 
 "My dear girl. I am thinking of your 
 safety, that is all." 
 
 "Safety!" 
 
 " Yes ; I have another of those crazes 
 concerning which you used to jest once 
 — a. greater craze than all the rest, and 
 that will make me richer than the Wray- 
 furdine ; and I think that I am as close 
 upon the secret."
 
 128 a girl's romance. 
 
 "And there is danger in your experi- 
 ments ?" 
 
 "Yes, a great deal of danger — I own 
 that, Grace." 
 
 " What is this discovery, Abel ?" 
 
 " A torpedo — a grand instrument for that 
 wholesale destruction which men call war," 
 he said — "a devilish device, which will hurl 
 a greater number of human souls to destruc- 
 tion in a quicker and more certain manner 
 than any invention of its kind that science 
 has hitherto discovered." 
 
 " And you will make this discovery 
 known ?" 
 
 "Ay, and make myself more famous and 
 rich than half-a-dozen paltry colours can 
 do. Here I study glory, not beauty, Grace." 
 
 "I am sorry — I don't understand, I 
 think." 
 
 " No ; you do not understand the value 
 of the discovery, or what an enthusiast I 
 have become," he replied ; " but you must 
 understand that I cannot, for mv conscience's
 
 a girl's romance. 129 
 
 sake, let you remain in this house twenty- 
 four hours longer. I am constructing a 
 gigantic specimen for government experi- 
 ment, and an accident — though I am a care- 
 ful man, and not likely to commit a blunder 
 of the kind — may blow the old Nest to 
 heaven." 
 
 Grace clasped her hands and shud- 
 dered. 
 
 "And you risk your life for this poor 
 ambition ?" 
 
 " My life is worth nothing — my ambition 
 a great deal," he said ; " my life is in my 
 own hands — yours I have no right to risk." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " But I have made up my mind, Grace, 
 and for a few weeks — perhaps a few months 
 — I must sacrifice home for the fame that, I 
 am sure, is awaiting me. And if I sacrifice 
 myself before the fame comes, by a mistake, 
 what does it matter, after all ?" 
 
 Grace endeavoured to persuade him from 
 his project, insisted for a time in sharing 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 a girl's romance. 
 
 his danger, but he was firm, and had his 
 way at last. There was more danger to 
 him when there were strangers in the house, 
 he explained, than when he was alone, and 
 careful of himself; and she went away at 
 last, a few hours after the servant had 
 packed her own boxes in hot haste, and 
 fled to Greymoor with the awful news that 
 old Mister Wrayford was turning his Nest 
 into a powder-mill. 
 
 " I feel that we are parting as if in anger 
 — that I shall never come back and call this 
 home," Grace said to him. 
 
 "That is superstition." 
 
 " And you do not love me less, Abel?" 
 
 " I love you better than anyone in the 
 world, Grace," he replied. 
 
 " And you will come and see me at the 
 Lawsons' house ?" 
 
 "Yes — sometimes, when I am not busy, 
 and I can leave my Robinson-Crusoe cabin 
 here." 
 
 " And if there is any danger to you, how
 
 a girl's romance. 131 
 
 am I to learn it, to be able to fly to your 
 help, or to bring help with me-, Garcly ?" 
 
 Wrayford smiled at this last question. 
 
 " The danger would be past before you 
 could reach me, child, and I should be past 
 all the help that you could bring." 
 
 " But vou inisrht be ill, or struck down 
 suddenly, and unable to quit the house, or 
 let Die know. No one comes up here." 
 
 " My dear Grace, your nervousness is 
 adding every possible horror to my posi- 
 tion. I will give you a signal from my 
 window, when it is necessary." 
 
 Grace reminded him of his promise when 
 he came the next week to the Lawsons, 
 and he went away, smiling at her care for 
 him, and yet grateful for her forethought 
 in his heart. Her anxiety pleased him, for 
 it showed that he had not outlived her 
 affection yet awhile ; and in his Nest, where 
 he toiled and strove at his new work, he 
 could fancy that her wistful looks were often 
 
 k2
 
 132 a girl's romance. 
 
 turned in the direction of his lonely home 
 from the house across the valley which 
 divided them.
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE RIVALS RETURN. 
 
 TTTRAYFORD began his solitary exist- 
 r ' ence with a morbid satisfaction, which 
 did not grow less with time. It was his 
 pleasure to set himself apart from his 
 kind, to grow more old, dogged, and un- 
 charitable in his <; Nest." The torpedo was 
 his excuse to shut himself from Grace, and 
 to separate her from him ; and though he 
 studied hard to perfect it, and to prepare it 
 for those experiments which the Govern- 
 ment had undertaken to make — it was still 
 a plea behind which he concealed, almost 
 effectually, his desire to live alone.
 
 134 a girl's romance. 
 
 He could no longer bear Grace in his 
 home ; he had given up every foolish hope 
 that he had fostered, and had acknowledged 
 to himself that she was too young for him, 
 and that he had grown too old. The letters 
 of Victor Dufoy to Grace, breathing of his 
 affection and undying passion for her, had 
 destroyed Abel's last chimera, and he felt that 
 he was far too weak to hide his sorrow 
 and his secret from one who was always at 
 his side. It was right that she should go, 
 and that he should remain in solitude until 
 he had learned better to disguise himself. 
 Grace had not dreamed of her grey-haired, 
 sober-faced guardian loving her with all 
 a youth's affection; and he would have 
 preferred to die, he thought, rather than 
 that she should guess the truth. So let 
 him study his torpedo, until disappoint- 
 ment had killed him, or hardened him to 
 stone — he cared not which. He had been 
 away some weeks when Grace surprised 
 him bv a visit. He met her at the door
 
 A GIRL'S ROMANCE. 135 
 
 with shaking hands, that would have almost 
 thrust her back from him. 
 
 " Grace, you must never come again. 
 This is rash of you — unfair." 
 
 " Am I in greater danger than yourself?" 
 
 " I have answered that question before," 
 he cried, with great excitement; "and you 
 have promised to keep away. This is a 
 mad step. If I had made up my mind to 
 destroy the old place, the wires might have 
 been connected, and I hiding in safety 
 somewhere. Who can tell ?" 
 
 Grace regarded Abel Wrayford with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " You look surprised, Grace," he said, 
 attempting a smile, "but I have resolved 
 upon an experiment of my own before I 
 submit my plan to a clumsy government. 
 Why should I not try it on the Nest?" 
 
 " Our home !" 
 
 "It is not like home now; it will never 
 be home again to me." 
 
 " Not when I return ?"
 
 136 a girl's romance. 
 
 " Oh, you will not return, Grace. I am 
 going to build a large house further inland, 
 where the wind will swoop less at me in 
 such bitter Winter weather as we have had 
 lately. I am getting old, and feel the 
 weather more acutely." 
 
 " But you will not destroy this place ? 
 This was your father's home." 
 
 "Yes," he said, carelessly, " I know that, 
 but I have outlived my liking for it. There ! 
 leave me, and do not come again ; wait for 
 me to come to you." 
 
 " But you come so seldom. Do you 
 know how lon^ it is since we saw you last 
 at Lawson's ?" 
 
 " A week or two," he answered. " I will 
 come soon — give me time." 
 
 " I have been afraid of your illness. I 
 have been watching for your signal very 
 often." 
 
 " You need not watch, Grace. I was 
 never better and stronger in my life." 
 
 Grace left him puzzled by his words,
 
 a girl's romance. 137 
 
 regretting the change, seeing not in the 
 distance any brighter days in store for 
 him. Did the pursuit of riches, the study 
 of philosophy, render all men so hard, she 
 wondered ? 
 
 Abel Wrayford surprised Grace and her 
 friends by a visit a few days after this, but 
 he was not agreeable company, and Lieu- 
 tenant Lawson, notwithstanding that he was 
 an old friend, was glad when he had taken 
 his departure. Abel was argumentative 
 and satirical ; he declined to give any 
 details concerning the Wrayford torpedo, a 
 topic which would have greatly interested his 
 friend, and he entered into discussions upon 
 naval matters, and flatly contradicted the 
 lieutenant in every particular. He returned 
 to his Nest in a sullen mood, and Grace 
 shed many tears that night over her guard- 
 ian's new manner. 
 
 As he went home, Abel Wrayford was 
 met by Trustworth, who railed at him in 
 his new abusive style, and told him, with
 
 138 a girl's romance. 
 
 great gravity of countenance, that he had 
 been the ruin of him, and that it was his 
 going up in life, which had somehow — he 
 did not intend to explain, never mind that 
 — cast him down. Wrayford was not so 
 readily charitable with this forlorn wretch as 
 usual ; and Trustworth marched somewhat 
 unsteadily by his side, talking very loudly, 
 and followed by half-a-dozen little urchins 
 who were out late that night, and who had 
 become interested in the conversation. 
 
 When Wrayford had passed through 
 Greymoor, and ascended some twenty or 
 thirty yards of the steep path leading to the 
 heights on which his house was built, he 
 stopped. 
 
 " Do not come any further, Trustworth, 
 or you may roll off the cliff when you return 
 this way." 
 
 " I've been up here too often for that." 
 
 " Don't follow me ; this is dangerous 
 ground. They will tell you in Greymoor 
 that I am likely at any moment to blow
 
 a girl's romance. 139 
 
 up the old house with my experiments." 
 
 " I know. I've heard of your last game, 
 and the torpedo, Abel Wrayford. It's in 
 everybody's mouth how clever you are — 
 what a new, big fortune you are likely to 
 make, if you don't bust yourself to bits. 
 What right have you to grow so big, and I 
 to be starving here?" 
 
 " Hooray!" squeaked three or four voices 
 behind him at this question, and Trustworth 
 turned round and made an ineffective kick 
 or two at his cortege. 
 
 " I say, what right have you, and who 
 are you, after all ? You've robbed me ; 
 you've taken all my property away, and I 
 was allers kind to you. Didn't I let you 
 run two quarters once? — wasn't I like a 
 brother to you allers ?" 
 
 Trustworth was venrin^ on the senti- 
 mental ; he generally began with abuse, and 
 terminated with maudlin reproaches, until 
 Wrayford gave him money, when he launch- 
 ed forth into abuse again, by way of perora-
 
 140 a girl's romance. 
 
 tion. Abel began to feel for his silver at 
 last. 
 
 -* And yet nobody respects you — nobody 
 likes you, Abel," lie continued. " Your own 
 ward keeps away from you, and is going to 
 marry a Frenchman." 
 
 il How do you know that?" asked Wray- 
 ford, fiercely. 
 
 " Oh ! I know. They talk at Lawson's, 
 the servants do ; they listen — they pick up 
 all the news." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 Wrayford had turned away, when Trust- 
 worth shouted after him — 
 
 " You'll give me some money — a little 
 help, won't you ?" 
 
 " Not a farthing !" cried Wrayford — 
 " keep sober, and earn money for yourself." 
 
 "Why " 
 
 " And don't follow me. I am in a hasty 
 mood to-night." 
 
 Robert Trustworth was cowed by Abel 
 Wrayford's look ; there was something new
 
 a girl's romonce. 141 
 
 about it which he did not admire, and which 
 he could not comprehend, save that it as- 
 sured even his benighted faculties that the 
 chemist was not to be trifled with that even- 
 ing. Trustworth had always set down Abel 
 Wrayford as a weak and feeble fellow, 
 and no match for a man of his size and 
 strength ; but there was an appearance of 
 toughness and ferocity about him on the 
 present occasion which suggested a man 
 who could hold his ground in conflict. 
 Trustworth was not a brave man at heart, 
 for all his bullying, and he gave in. He 
 did not follow Abel Wrayford to his Nest ; 
 he turned and ran after the little boys, 
 swearing fiercely in his pursuit, but failing 
 to catch those who had intruded on his 
 steps. 
 
 Abel Wrayford was seen no more for a 
 week, but one faithful watcher noted that 
 the light burned late in the topmost room, 
 and that the chemist's studies never seemed 
 to cease. He was studying hard in the
 
 142 A girl's romance. 
 
 midst of his dangerous material one wild 
 Winter's storm, which rocked the house, 
 and made every timber creak in it with 
 ominous forebodings. On such a night as 
 this, he thought, as he paused now and then 
 to listen to the rushing of the wind and the 
 roaring of the angry sea, Victor Dufoy 
 stepped from the unknown life, and blasted 
 the one hope which he had had. 
 
 And on such a night Victor Dufoy came 
 back again, came like a spectre into the 
 very room where he was brooding, and 
 faced the man who had learned so bitterly 
 to despise him. He stood in the doorway 
 looking in upon him, his hand upon the 
 door, which he had opened, his dark, hand- 
 some face sad and anxious, his eyes full of 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Dufoy !" exclaimed Wrayford, upon 
 perceiving him, u what has brought you to 
 my house ? — how dare you come into my 
 laboratory unannounced in this manner?" 
 
 Abel Wravford had recovered his sur-
 
 a girl's romance. 143 
 
 prise, and was cold and cutting as the 
 north-east wind which rioted without. 
 
 " Your pardon for my unceremonious 
 intrusion, Mr. Wrayford, but I knocked 
 three times at the door. I was afraid that 
 you were absent, or ill." 
 
 " How did you obtain admittance into the 
 place ? " 
 
 "The outer door was open." 
 
 " I must have left it unfastened, I sup- 
 pose," said Abel musingly. " Well," turn- 
 ing sharply to his visitor, " you are here — 
 what is it that you require ?" 
 
 " I have your permission to enter, Mr. 
 Wrayford?" he inquired. 
 
 11 1 have no power to forbid you the 
 house now" he said, almost regretfully. 
 
 Victor Dufoy entered the room very 
 sadly. He had come back to Greymoor 
 full of hope, full of faith in the power of 
 time to have cancelled an old injury, or that 
 which Abel Wrayford had taken to himself 
 as an injury, but his reception was a chilling
 
 144 a girl's romance. 
 
 one, and the young Frenchman saw at once 
 that the difficulty before him was insur- 
 mountable. 
 
 Abel Wrayford regarded his rival with 
 a cold but scrutinizing gaze, seeing that 
 the world had changed with Victor, and 
 guessing that he had brought news of his 
 good fortune. He waved his hand care- 
 lessly towards a chair, and took one himself 
 when Victor was seated. 
 
 " I am prepared to hear the reason for 
 your visit to me, Mr. Dufoy," he said. 
 
 " Oh ! sir," cried Victor, impetuously, 
 " you know the reason that has brought me 
 here. I have returned to claim Grace for 
 my wife — to assert that my position is estab- 
 lished — that the French Government has 
 been lenient, and forgiven all old follies. I 
 am prepared to take back Grace as my 
 wife, hoping for that permission which you 
 will be generous enough now to concede to 
 me. 
 
 "It is not a matter with which I have a
 
 a girl's romance. 145 
 
 right to interfere," said Abel, still more cold- 
 ly. " I have done with the subject for ever." 
 
 " But Grace looks forward to your con- 
 sent, sir ; and believes that I have only to 
 prove my good faith, for you to grant that 
 favour which I ask." 
 
 " I give no consent to this match," said 
 Wrayford, sharply. 
 
 " I have a right, then, Mr. Wrayford, to 
 demand your objections to my marrying 
 your ward ?" 
 
 " I have nothing to explain." 
 
 " And yet you," said Victor, " were my 
 benefactor — a kind, generous Christian, to 
 whose care and gentleness I owe my life." 
 
 " We need not prolong the discussion," 
 said Wrayford, rising again — " I am tired of 
 it. I am busy, and have a task to fulfil be- 
 fore the sun rises." 
 
 " But your consent " 
 
 " Does not stop the way to your marriage 
 with my ward," he said. " I am passive, 
 that is all. I will not utter one reproach at 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 a girl's romance. 
 
 a past deception ; but I do not pardon it, 
 and I have no consent to give." 
 
 " What possible reason can urge you, Mr. 
 Wrayford, to render your ward unhappy ?" 
 
 " Unhappy !" he repeated. 
 
 " What cruel stubbornness is it that steps 
 between her happiness and mine, and makes 
 you unworthy of yourself? Mr. Wray- 
 ford, is there a reason why you will not 
 think of me or study her, or is this mad- 
 n ess r 
 
 Abel Wrayford lost his presence of mind 
 and all that cold demeanour which he 
 had hoped would outlast the interview, 
 and turned upon his handsome rival 
 with eyes blazing with a long pent-up 
 fury. 
 
 " Shall I tell you, Mr. Dufoy ?" he hissed. 
 " Would you be glad to know the truth, all 
 the truth, from which I have suffered ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I should be glad." 
 
 " You might regard this in another light, 
 and go your way, if you were merciful," he
 
 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 147 
 
 said eagerly. " But, there — there, I cannot 
 expect mercy or sympathy from you. Think 
 me mad." 
 
 "No, I cannot withdraw now. Mr. 
 Wrayford, I will respect your secret, but I 
 ask you to trust me with it, for Grace's sake 
 — in Grace's name ?" 
 
 "And for Grace's sake you will keep 
 silence ? — you pledge your honour ?" 
 
 " I pledge my honour." 
 
 There came a wild hope to Abel — a 
 strange, wild hope — that Victor Dufoy 
 would see that his love was very poor and 
 weak in comparison with that which had 
 been the one growth of his own life, and 
 would retire before the greater passion. 
 
 "Then," he said, "I love Grace Ed- 
 monds !" 
 
 " You ! you !" cried Victor ; " yes, but as 
 a father " 
 
 " As a lover," interrupted he furiously — 
 u as a girl whose progress from childhood I 
 
 l2
 
 148 a girl's romance. 
 
 have watched, and for whose love I have 
 waited, yearned for, prayed for." 
 
 " Great heaven !" 
 
 " It was her father's wish that she should 
 not marry without my consent, she is aware, 
 but she does not know — she will never 
 know — that it was her father's wish that I 
 should marry her." 
 
 "I see it all," said Victor to himself. 
 
 " I promised a dying friend that I would 
 watch over Grace, that I would become her 
 guardian, and teach her step by step to love 
 me," Wrayford continued, with the same 
 passionate excitement. u And with this 
 thought before me, with my promise for 
 ever ringing in my ears, with Grace growing 
 up all that was beautiful and trustful, was it 
 strange that I should link the one hope of 
 my life to her, and let all other dreams go 
 by? And when her heart was turning to 
 me, and I had grown grey studying her 
 happiness, when to lose her was like losing 
 heaven, you came and took her from me.
 
 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 149 
 
 Judge now, Dufoy," he said, with bitter 
 emphasis, " how much I hate you !" 
 
 " Need this hate continue?" replied Victor, 
 quickly. "Is it impossible to become my 
 friend ?" 
 
 " We love one woman !" was the stern 
 answer. 
 
 " But Grace " 
 
 " Grace would have loved me had you not 
 stepped between us — she would have turned 
 to me again, guessing, at last, my long de- 
 votion, if you had kept away. And I de- 
 served her more than you." 
 
 Victor made an effort to speak once more, 
 and once more Wrayford interrupted him. 
 
 " You are a young man, with life before 
 you. and there is a world of fair women to 
 choose from. I have grown old in loving 
 Grace, and she only is left me. Will you 
 have pity on my isolation ?" 
 
 " I love Grace !" said Victor. 
 
 " What will you take to leave here for 
 ever — to be heard of no more ?" said Wray-
 
 150 a girl's romance. 
 
 ford, bitterly. " Will my wealth, my 
 secrets, which will produce more wealth, 
 tempt you to be merciful ?" 
 
 u Sir, you insult me," replied Victor. " I 
 love Grace. I would prefer resigning my 
 life to acting dishonourably to her." 
 
 " I have no more to say," said Wrayford. 
 " Quit my house before my resolution falters, 
 and I hurl you and myself to perdition." 
 
 Victor looked up wonderingly at this re- 
 mark. 
 
 " You are not safe here. Your life is a 
 temptation to me — and I have grown very 
 desperate. Go !" 
 
 " And your consent " 
 
 " Is refused," cried Wrayford. " Will you 
 leave my house at once ?"' 
 
 " I regret your obduracy," said V T ictor, 
 sorrowfully ; " but I have a hope that you 
 will be just." 
 
 Victor bowed and withdrew, and Wray- 
 ford listened to his footsteps down the stairs 
 and along the corridor, until the door closed
 
 a girl's romance. 151 
 
 heavily behind him. Then he gave way 
 somewhat, and folding his arms upon the 
 table, he leaned his grey head upon them, 
 and sunk his grand scheme of distinction in 
 the depths of his sorrow.
 
 152 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ANOTHER SUCCESS ! 
 
 A BEL WRAYFORD remained in that 
 -*--*- strange prostration for a longer period 
 than he was aware ; and it was only a 
 startling innovation on his solitude that 
 roused him from his reverie. He had 
 thought all his life over again there, see- 
 ing where his fault had been, where his 
 love had been too deeply hidden, and 
 deceived his ward, and where her over- 
 confidence and childish trust had allowed 
 the rival to supplant him. So he had lost 
 her, and even yet had not reconciled his 
 mind to the loss. He was not generous 
 enough to think of Grace before himself
 
 A GIRL S ROMANCE. 153 
 
 at present, although he believed that 
 her felicity would have been with him 
 rather than with Victor. The man's return 
 had startled him, and his defence had 
 shaken past convictions, but not utterly 
 destroyed them. If he had only kept away 
 — if Abel could have believed him a villain 
 unto the end, and Grace have lived him 
 down ! 
 
 He thought of these things long into the 
 night, forgetting his new scheme, so close 
 upon completion, and the fame which was 
 to follow its fair trial. This man of a great 
 intellect, of whom the world was to talk 
 one day, could think only of a girl's love, 
 and see in her only his ambition. The 
 wind and rain, and hoarse roar of the sea 
 breaking on the beach below, spoke alone 
 of Grace to his ears, and moaned with him 
 at her loss ; and the lamp upon the table 
 lit up the student's grief, not his deep 
 researches. The surprise of that memorable 
 night was close upon him when he was brood-
 
 154 a girl's romance. 
 
 ing still ; but he had not met it yet. He 
 was unconscious that the door had opened 
 softly, and a man's head, rough, unkempt, 
 and remarkable for two great glaring eyes 
 within it, had peered round and vanished 
 again. He was not dreaming of intruders, 
 but of a fair-haired girl whom he had 
 pledged his word to a dying man that he 
 would marry ; and when the wild-looking 
 head came round the door once more, his 
 own was bowed down, as it had been for 
 hours. 
 
 There were strange men in his laboratory 
 at last, rough-looking specimens of hu- 
 manity, in heavy sea-coats and great boots, 
 who had entered with precaution, and were 
 now staring with a fierce kind of surprise 
 at the sleeping student. It was not till one 
 touched him on the shoulder that Abel 
 woke up to the new danger which was 
 threatening him, and sat back in his chair, 
 looking before him, and breathing very 
 hard.
 
 a girl's romance. 155 
 
 Abel Wrayford was not a timid man, 
 but the appearance in his room of these 
 threatening figures was not to be received 
 quite calmly even by a philosopher, or by a 
 man who thought — or tried to think — that 
 there was nothing worth living for in this 
 world. The intrusion was so sudden and 
 unlooked-for that Abel could almost imagine 
 that it was a dream, a nightmare, from 
 which he should start presently, and find 
 himself alone. So deeply had this impres- 
 sion been made upon his mind that his first 
 words were — 
 
 " Is this— real ?" 
 
 " It's real enuf," said a harsh voice, which 
 he recognised, and which dispelled all 
 fancy ; " and you needn't be under no man- 
 ner of alarm." 
 
 " Trustworth !" said Abel, quickly. 
 
 "Yes, it's me, guv'nor," answered Robert 
 Trustworth, with an air of bravado that was 
 a little forced — " it's me, the down-trodden,
 
 156 A girl's romance. 
 
 druv to desperation by all the wrongs 
 you've put upon him." 
 
 " Why are you here ? — what men are 
 these ?" 
 
 " These men are my partikler friends — 
 old salts, who stick by me in my troubles, 
 and help me at a pinch ; and the pinch has 
 come now, by all that's holy ; and men must 
 live." 
 
 " I do not see the necessity," said Abel 
 Wrayford, contemptuously. 
 
 The chemist of Greymoor had recovered 
 himself, and had realized the danger in 
 which he was placed. There was a villain- 
 ous plot against him; those men would 
 not have forced themselves into his house 
 and confronted him in this manner had 
 they not matured some cunning scheme by 
 which he was to suffer. They had taken 
 advantage of his lonely existence at last to 
 profit by it, and the desperate men at Grey- 
 moor, in whom he had not believed until 
 to-night, were about him in that house. It
 
 a girl's romance. 157 
 
 was a question of robbery or of extortion ; 
 and he must hold his ground as well as he 
 could against them, or, seeing the helpless- 
 ness of his position, give in to their demands, 
 if it were possible. 
 
 " We must live," said Trustworthy in a 
 louder voice, " and one man must not have 
 all the good things to hisself. You can't 
 lord it over all of us like this, when there's 
 lots of us don't know which way to turn for 
 a bit of bread or a drop of drink. We 
 won't have it no more without a fight for it 
 — we're druv wild. Look at my friend Bill." 
 
 Wrayford looked in the direction which 
 Trustworth had indicated, and saw in Bill a 
 broad -faced, big- whiskered, scowling vaga- 
 bond. 
 
 " There's a man, with nine children starv- 
 ing. He's druv to it with me." 
 
 " How much money do you want?" asked 
 Wrayford. " Be moderate in your demands, 
 gentlemen, for I have not much in the 
 house."
 
 158 a girl's romance. 
 
 " We know that. But you keep a 
 banker," said Trustworth, with low cunning ; 
 "just as I did once, before the beggar bust 
 up with 'arf my money — cuss him ! And if 
 you write us out a cheque, one of us will 
 stop to cash it, whilst the others takes you 
 out to sea until the money's paid." 
 
 " Out to sea ?" muttered Abel Wrayford. 
 
 " And if there's a trick, and our pal gets 
 into trouble," said Bill suddenly, in the 
 hoarsest of voices, "we shan't stand nice 
 about dropping you overboard ; and, if all's 
 square, why we'll land you in good time." 
 
 " No, that will not do." 
 
 " But it must do, Mister Wrayford," said 
 Bill, who suddenly assumed the part of 
 principal spokesman ; " and you must come 
 with us to-night. We ain't children ; we 
 ain't planned this for nothing ; we ain't all 
 like Bob Trustworth, chichen-'arted when 
 the drink is out of him, and we've done 
 rougher work than carrying off an old man 
 like you for a sea- voyage."
 
 a girl's romance. 159 
 
 " Who the devil are you calling an old 
 man?" said Wrayford, testily. 
 
 In the midst of his clanger he objected 
 with all his force to the appellation. It 
 was the title of " Old Wrayford ' which had 
 first suggested to Grace what a kind father 
 he was to her ! 
 
 " Mister Wrayford — if you like it better," 
 said Bill ; " and that's our mind, you see, to 
 take you off. I don't see any safer way, 
 myself." 
 
 " And the sooner the better," added the 
 man who had not spoken yet. 
 
 Wrayford looked at the third speaker 
 attentively, and recognised in him a man 
 who had been imprisoned some years since 
 for his share in wrecking a schooner with 
 false lights. From these men there was no 
 mercy to be gained ; they had matured 
 their plans, and he had been the object of 
 much plotting, which, at last, had found its 
 opportunity. The dark night was against 
 him ; the wind and rain were allies in these
 
 160 a gikl's romance. 
 
 desperate men's favour — his own voluntary 
 isolation had brought about his peril. 
 
 u I may as well be frank with you," said 
 Wrayford, coolly. " I have not a heavy 
 balance at my bankers, at present." 
 
 " I don't believe it," cried Trustworth. 
 
 "I have money in the Bank of England 
 — money sunk in land, lent on mortgages — 
 but not much money that can be drawn 
 at sight. My balance is less than usual, 
 owing to experiments which I have been 
 carrying out." 
 
 " Wot's your balance ?" asked Trust- 
 worth. "Leave this to me, Bill — you've 
 never knowed much about money matters." 
 
 " Mv balance is not more than a hundred 
 pounds at present." 
 
 Trustworth swore violently at this state- 
 ment, which he told Wrayford was a lie — a 
 big lie, which would cost him dearly, for 
 now Wrayford was trying to deceive him. 
 Abel opened a drawer of the table at 
 which he was sitting, and threw his
 
 a girl's romance. 161 
 
 pass-book towards Robert Trustworth. 
 
 " You have had experience in these mat- 
 ters — judge for yourself." 
 
 Trustworth seized the book, and opened 
 it eagerly. Abel Wrayford was right. The 
 balance was one hundred pounds, fifteen 
 shillings, and seven pence. 
 
 " Will that sura content you ?" 
 
 Wrayford was prepared for that sacrifice 
 — for a strange wish had come suddenly 
 across him to be spared for Grace's sake, a 
 strange fear also that he should be taken 
 away by these villains, and be heard of no 
 more, or that he might die in resisting the 
 capture, and Grace, in mourning for him, 
 would for ever think how hard and ungener- 
 ous a man he had become. 
 
 " No, it won't do," said Trustworth, laying 
 down the pass-book again. "Why, Wray- 
 ford, you don't understand us yet. This is 
 not a light business — a little business — a 
 fancy of one or two of us. There's a boat 
 in the cove, and there's a ship out yonder 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 a girl's romance. 
 
 waiting for it. The ship breaks the blockade 
 at Charleston — you know about the war ? — 
 and we're all going to offer our help as 
 sailors for the Confedder — Rats. We go to- 
 night — and you with us. But we want 
 money — two or three thousand — awful bad." 
 
 " I have not the money at my disposal. If 
 I had, I should think twice of satisfying your 
 rapacity," said Wrayford. 
 
 " Well, you'll have plenty of time to think, 
 Abel Wrayford, for go with us you must. 
 We're too deep in this to start off empty- 
 handed, and we built on you." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" 
 
 " It don't signify. We shall gag you and 
 carry you down to the beach," cried Bill ; 
 u and if you disappoint us altogether, we 
 drop you over !" 
 
 "Let me consider this again," said Wray- 
 ford. 
 
 He could not see his way out of the trap, 
 and he could think only of Grace Edmonds 
 and her lover. That he should disappear for
 
 a girl's romonce. 163 
 
 ever, and her remembrance of him for all 
 time should be only of his obduracy, of that 
 selfishness which had narrowed his heart 
 and wounded his ward's, was a thought 
 which rendered him as desperate as the 
 villains by whom he was surrounded. Why 
 could he not think of himself, of some plan 
 to secure his safety, or to bribe these men ? 
 Why that pale, sweet face ever before him. 
 confusing those keen wits on which he had 
 prided himself before that night ? 
 
 " Well ?" said Trustworth, impatiently. 
 
 " Well," said Wrayford, compressing his 
 lips, " I decline to accompany you." 
 
 " By !" shouted Bill, advancing a step 
 
 or two towards him, as Wrayford rose in 
 self-defence, "how are you to help it?" 
 
 " I will not trust my life with you. I 
 would sooner, weak as I am, fight in my 
 own house for it," he said ; " but I will make 
 you one more offer." 
 
 Bill paused, and Trustworth and his silent 
 
 m 2
 
 J 64 a girl's romance. 
 
 friend in the wrecking line of business 
 craned their heads forwards, all attention. 
 
 "I am anxious to remain in Grey moor, 
 and I will not go to sea with you," said the 
 chemist ; " but I will show you that secret 
 of the colour which has made my fortune, 
 and can make yours, upon the condition of 
 your departure afterwards." 
 
 ''What's the good?" began Bill, when 
 Trustworth touched his arm. 
 
 " Wait a bit. Let's hear him out. I know 
 what that colour's brought him in, and what 
 he would have been without it ? Is it 
 easy?" 
 
 " A child can understand it. And you, 
 in America, can sell the secret for a large 
 amount." 
 
 " We'll see if we can make it out fust," 
 said Bill. " I don't believe in this game for 
 a minit." 
 
 " You shall judge for yourselves — and you 
 shall try the experiment for yourselves be- 
 fore you leave me."
 
 a girl's romance. 165 
 
 " Blest if this ain't a rum start," said the 
 third intruder, who had said little, but 
 had intended a great deal ; u are we going 
 to stop all night ? A hundred pounds is 
 better than nothing ; and I say take that, 
 and his torpedo thing, which we can sell at 
 Charleston ; and him, too, till the cheque's 
 cashed, and we get news that it's all right." 
 
 " Wait a bit," said Trust worth, " for " 
 
 Then the three men conferred together in 
 a low tone, inaudible to Wrayford, and 
 quarrelled amongst themselves, he could see, 
 as to what was to become of him, now that 
 they had been disappointed in his banker's 
 balance. He could see that they w T ere not 
 to be trusted for an instant, and that the 
 danger would be no further removed from 
 him after his revelation. Whilst they argued 
 together, he thought deeply also ; and Grace 
 was in his thoughts again — Grace far away 
 in that house across the valley, wherein the 
 village of Greymoor nestled out of sight. 
 In the house across the valley — the house
 
 166 a girl's romance. 
 
 from the windows of which he suddenly 
 remembered his Nest could be perceived, 
 and where Grace had spoken of her watch 
 at times, in her concern for him ; remem- 
 bering also his promise that he would in a 
 time of danger signal for help, if it were 
 necessary ! If he could make some sign, 
 and if by chance Grace should draw aside 
 her blind and look forth into the night, he 
 might be saved to do her justice. He could 
 but think again of what a hard-hearted, 
 envious wretch he had become. 
 
 " Lookee here, Wrayford," said Trust- 
 worth, " we've talked it over. We will see 
 the colour made, and if it's easy, we'll be 
 square with you. There, that's fair." 
 
 " Very well," said Wrayford. 
 
 He opened a cupboard in his. room, and 
 took therefrom several bottles and phials, 
 which he placed upon the table. Bill and 
 his friend sat down on the floor, with their 
 backs against the door of egress, and chewed 
 tobacco solemnly ; and Robert Trustworth
 
 a girl's romance. 167 
 
 looked at all the phials and their contents. 
 It was a strange audience for a chemical 
 experiment, and the half sullen, half vacu- 
 ous look of the three seamen would have 
 made Wrayford smile at a less momentous 
 crisis of his life. 
 
 " I don't see how it is to be remembered," 
 said Trust worth, gloomily ; " what's all that 
 cussed gibberish on them bottles ?" 
 u I will explain presently." 
 " What are you up to with that light?" 
 " I am making room for my experiment." 
 Wrayford had taken up his small oil-lamp, 
 and placed over it a green glass, which he 
 was accustomed to use at times, when his 
 eyes were weak with over-application to his 
 studies. This he placed, as if carelessly, on 
 the sill of his window, and proceeded very 
 quickly to direct the attention of his audi- 
 ence to the phials upon the table. 
 
 " A strong light affects my eyes, and dis- 
 turbs my experiments," he said. " Now 
 watch this piretic acid "
 
 168 a girl's romance. 
 
 "Piratic acid!" muttered Trustworth. 
 " Bill, he's chaffing us. No games, Wray- 
 ford — you'd better not — upon my soul, you'd 
 better not, old fellow !" 
 
 The experiment proceeded for awhile, 
 Wrayford explaining, the men stolid, but 
 attentive. Suddenly there was an inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 " I won't have the light there !" shouted 
 Bill, with a vehemence that made Trust- 
 worth jump again ; "it looks queer to any 
 one outside." 
 
 " It can't be seen from the village — it — 
 why, dash it, though," cried Trustworth, 
 a there's the coastguard lot, and the Law- 
 sons, where Grace Edmonds is. By Gord, 
 it's a signal — it's been arranged — we're done 
 for if anybody's looking out !" 
 
 As Trustworth moved the light away, 
 and the men at the door sprang to their 
 feet, Wrayford stepped back to his cupboard, 
 and to a small galvanic battery, which was
 
 a girl's romance. 169 
 
 on the bottom shelf. An instant afterwards 
 he was at his table again, looking so deadly 
 white that even his enraged antagonists were 
 struck with his appearance. 
 
 " It is a trick, then," gasped forth Trust- 
 worth. 
 
 " I have not said so," answered Wray- 
 ford. " But you have doubted me, and the 
 experiment is at an end." 
 
 He swept the bottles to the floor with an 
 impatient hand, and regarded his perse- 
 cutors with defiance. 
 
 "Tie him up, and take him away," cried 
 Bill; "we have not much time to lose; 
 and go he must — it's business." 
 
 " One moment," cried Wrayford in tones 
 which made them pause again, so clear and 
 startling were they. " Gentlemen, you are 
 losing valuable time, and every second 
 wasted here is a chance less for your life. 
 The torpedo is fired!" 
 
 Bill and his friend stared at Wrayford in
 
 170 a girl's romance. 
 
 a bewildered manner, and Trustworth stag- 
 gered back several paces as if he had been 
 struck. 
 
 "Do you mean it, Wrayford — do you 
 really mean it ?" he asked, after two futile 
 efforts to get his words out. 
 
 " I mean it," said Wrayford sternly. 
 "Those wires in my cupboard communicate 
 with a slow match leading to the torpedo 
 buried in my kitchen. Time is allowed to 
 quit the house, and only time, before the 
 explosion. Doubt my word, stay here 
 if you will, and the Lord have mercy on 
 your wretched souls !" 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and 
 whispered a hasty prayer. When he looked 
 up, the men were gone, and he could hear 
 their heavy feet galloping madly down the 
 stairs. One glance round, an instinct to 
 gather up a few papers which were scat- 
 tered on the table, and then he was fol- 
 lowing them with hasty strides. A minute 
 afterwards and three men were running
 
 a girl's romance. 171 
 
 along the deserted cliffway, and the fourth, 
 Abel Wrayford, making for the downward 
 path leading to the village. He was already 
 descending when he found that Trustworth 
 and his associates had turned again and 
 were gaining on him rapidly. He had no 
 idea how weak he had become, and how in- 
 cessant application to his studies had sapped 
 his strength until he endeavoured to increase 
 the distance between himself and his pur- 
 suers. Then he gave way, seized by an 
 awful pain in the side that arrested further 
 progress, and Trust-worth's hands were on 
 his shoulders. 
 
 " It wa — wa — was a trick, then," gasped 
 Trustworth. " You can't go — we must take 
 you away. It's more than our lives are 
 worth to leave you in Grey moor." 
 
 " Coward !" 
 
 He turned and grappled with the fisher- 
 man, until the hands of the other were upon 
 him and bore him to the earth. At the 
 same instant there was a mighty roar, a
 
 172 A GIRL S ROMANCE. 
 
 trembling of the ground on which they 
 stood, a bright stream of flame leaping up 
 suddenly to heaven, and turning cliff, and sky, 
 and sea to crimson, and then Wrayford's 
 Nest was hurled into a thousand fragments. 
 
 They were thrown to the ground by the 
 concussion, and Wrayford for an instant 
 thought the sailors were dead, so still 
 were they. Suddenly the scream of a wo- 
 man brought them to life, and gave hope to 
 Abel. 
 
 " He has destroyed the Nest," cried 
 Grace. " Oh ! haste, Victor — haste, good 
 friends ! " 
 
 There followed the tramping of many 
 feet, and Trustworth and his men were on 
 their legs again. 
 
 " The coastguard !" cried Bill ; and with 
 one bound he went to the cliff's verge and 
 slid downwards like a huge cat, whilst 
 Trustworth and his companion, holding 
 their hands to their faces, disappeared in the 
 darkness of the night that had followed the
 
 a girl's romance. 173 
 
 explosion, and were seen no more in Grey- 
 moor. 
 
 Grace, Victor, and the coastguards, who 
 had been aroused by Grace's energy, dis- 
 covered only a grey-haired man lying on 
 the wet grass in their path. 
 
 " Oh ! Abel — my dear guardian !" cried 
 Grace, bending over him. 
 
 "I am well — and safe," he whispered. 
 " Let me rest a moment." 
 
 " You signalled to me ? In the green light 
 there was danger !" 
 
 u Yes. Thank heaven you saw it !" mut- 
 tered Wrayford. 
 
 " What has happened?" asked Victor. 
 
 " I will tell you presently," he said, " the 
 experiment has been tested, and — and the 
 torpedo is a success." 
 
 " It has frightened Grey moor into fits, and 
 broken all the windows in the place," grum- 
 bled Lieutenant Lawson. 
 
 " I thought it would," said Wrayford, 
 drily. He was on his feet.
 
 174 a girl's romance. 
 
 He made an effort to move after awhile, 
 and when Grace and Victor drew his arms 
 within their own for his support, he made no 
 effort to withdraw them. 
 
 " I think that I have learned a lesson to- 
 night," he said to Grace. "You were look- 
 ing for me, then ?" 
 
 " Yes. And seeing the signal, I found 
 Victor, and " 
 
 " Oh ! he was not far off, I wager," Abel 
 answered, in a cheery tone, that made their 
 hearts leap. 
 
 " I found Victor, and we started off with 
 those of the coastguard who were on 
 duty." 
 
 " Saving my life," he said, " saving my 
 life. Well, you came for me," he added, 
 " presently, you must go to him." 
 
 " Oh ! Gardy !" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Wrayford !" exclaimed Victor, 
 gratefully. 
 
 " Seeing you two happy — you two faithful 
 lovers," he said, " I shall be happy myself, I
 
 A GIRLS ROMANCE. 175 
 
 think. Why, what will old Wrayford have 
 to regret ?" 
 
 He pressed Victor's arm, and Victor under- 
 stood him. 
 
 Lower down the cliff they met all Grey- 
 moor coming up, with much whooping and 
 shouting, towards the Nest. Abel did not 
 appear to heed them, and when Grace said, 
 laughingly, that here were more friends ad- 
 vancing to the rescue, he replied — 
 
 " My sight has failed me a little — I don't 
 see them." 
 
 Grace and Victor looked eagerly into his 
 face. 
 
 " Oh ! he is blind !" she cried. 
 
 "Yes, yes; don't make a scene, Grace," 
 he said, calmly. " Get me to Lawson's home, 
 and there nurse me for a time. I may re- 
 cover this shock in careful hands. That tor- 
 pedo was very powerful. It is a great suc- 
 cess, thank heaven !" 
 
 And in careful hands, and in the hands of 
 her he loved, his sight came back slowly,
 
 176 a girl's romance. 
 
 after grave doubts of learned oculists. When 
 he was well again, he gave Grace away at 
 the altar of old Greymoor Church, which 
 was not big enough for all those good neigh- 
 bours who thronged the edifice to see the 
 wedding. Robert Trustworth was not there. 
 A man with only half a nose reached 
 America about that time, in company with 
 one gentleman who was thumbless, and 
 another who was eyebrowless, and generally 
 disfigured. They were sufferers by the war, 
 they told folk who were curious — a little 
 powder had blown up and damaged them. 
 
 Abel Wrayford nurses two of Grace's 
 children now, and Victor, settled in Eng- 
 land, helps him in his studies, as in those 
 past days when he stole the chemist's hope 
 away from him. And Abel as he bends his 
 head over Grace's eldest girl — his hair is as 
 white as snow now, and he is not forty-five — 
 whispers again, as on that night they led him 
 down the cliff, " What has old Wrayford to 
 regret ?"
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONYILLE. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONYILLE. 
 
 II MERCENARY motives, sir ! You may 
 **■*- call them mercenary if you like, but 
 I know better. I feel still that it was a re- 
 spect for her reasoning faculties, and a rever- 
 ence for her powers of debate, as exemplified 
 in her Social Science paper of "Have Church- 
 wardens Emotions?" as read before an en- 
 lightened audience at Mircham, that laid 
 me a captive at her feet. Had she been the 
 possessor of the mines of Golconda, without 
 talent, sir, — real and indisputable talent — 
 not a fibre of my heart would have thrilled 
 to secure her. For it was not beauty that 
 attracted me ; she was not beautiful. It was 
 
 n2
 
 180 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 not form ; she had no more grace of out- 
 line than a deal plank. It was not youth, 
 for although she was not fifty-one, as her 
 detractors were in the habit of affirming 
 — she came into her property at the age 
 of twenty-one, in the year of our Lord 1825, 
 for I have read her deeply-lamented father's 
 will very carefully over in Doctors' Commons 
 — still the bloom of the peach had been 
 lightly brushed aside by Time's relentless 
 hand. Young Griffin told me once that 
 " that did not matter very much, because she 
 had a lot more bloom in a box," which was 
 a coarse remark, and shocked me. 
 
 I am easily shocked, for I am of a sensi- 
 tive and retiring disposition. And he in- 
 tended to shock me ; but no matter. There 
 were reasons ; he did not like me ; he was 
 her second cousin, and she had expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 Let me repeat that it was a pure admir- 
 ation for her talents. 
 
 Had she been beautiful, graceful, and
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 181 
 
 youthful, I would have paused ; for I was 
 not — in all candour, I confess it — a Gany- 
 mede. Spiteful people called me an old 
 bachelor, but they were a long way out in 
 their reckoning. I had no love for isolation, 
 and was sighing for a kindred soul who could 
 share my heart, and home, and human 
 sympathies, and who, with a little property 
 of her own to add to my pension from the 
 Custom House, would make my middle age 
 and after life enjoyable. 
 
 I was not mercenary ; I wanted talent ; I 
 was talented myself. I had written poems, 
 and dedicated them to the crowned heads of 
 Europe, and received answers the most flat- 
 tering — poets are no worshippers of Mam- 
 mon. Those poems, if they brought me 
 fame, still cost me a deal of money, and I 
 did not shrink from the expenditure. 
 
 Our ideas were in perfect accord ; we were 
 both sensitive, delicate minds, with acute 
 perceptions of the Real and the True and 
 the Sublime. We were thrown into each
 
 182 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 other's society a great deal at the table d hote, 
 and at the drawing-room of the Royal Hotel, 
 Seasonville, afterwards, and I felt that my 
 time was come. 
 
 I was surrounded by enemies, and when 
 it was discovered that Adelina had w T on me, 
 I became the prey to such studied slights and 
 indignities from Adelina's relations that my 
 blood boils at their very recollection. Her 
 nieces — some of them were grown up and 
 married, and should have known better — 
 surrounded her in shoals, and sought every 
 opportunity to place me in a ridiculous light ; 
 they ran down my figure, and ran up my age, 
 called attention to my false teeth — I would 
 not have worn them if I could have helped 
 — and tried to convince her that my hair 
 was not my own, which I stood out for, as 
 Adelina's mind was tender on the subject of 
 baldness. She took my word for it, and 
 never closely examined my parting. 
 
 I became the victim of many practical 
 jokes — I call no attention to them. Great
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 183 
 
 minds are above little indignities. Her re- 
 lations even went as far as forgery in their 
 revolting malice, and wrote as from Adelina, 
 making an appointment on the pier at half- 
 past nine, after the band had gone : and if 
 the result was mortifying, I say little. Let 
 it pass. Eugene Gratts can afford to forgive 
 criminal malevolence. 
 
 From her male relatives, her brother in 
 the army, her cousins, her nieces' husbands, 
 I expected coarseness, and I got it. I was 
 called an old fool by Major Batskin, and had 
 duelling been in fashion, I should have 
 stretched him a gory corpse on the sands at 
 sunrise. 
 
 I was ironically complimented on my con- 
 quest by young Griffin, who was the only 
 one ostensibly civil. I was looked down 
 upon, cut on the pier, or laughed at by the 
 rest of them. 
 
 But I loved Adelina, and I persevered. 
 It was she who smiled upon me, who told 
 me in confiding moments that she respected
 
 184 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 my motives, and regarded me as the most 
 genuine of men. She was determined to re- 
 main in Seasonville, and she remained, and 
 her relations took it in turns to keep guard 
 upon her, and to decry me. They even 
 went so far as to decry her at last, but they 
 failed miserably. 
 
 " It's no use, Gratts, your dodging about 
 here after my aunt ; upon my soul, it is not," 
 young Griffin said to me once in his usual 
 coarse manner. " Lots of fellows have tried 
 it on before — young fellows, too, and worth 
 looking at — but she does not know her own 
 mind for two months together ; she's ro- 
 mantic, vain, and foolish, dear old girl, but 
 she'll never marry you. She'll never marry 
 anybody, I can assure you." 
 
 His assurance went for nothing with me 
 — I despised it — he was all assurance. I 
 told Adelina what he had said at the first 
 opportunity — it was in Sims the pastry- 
 cook's, behind a jelly-stand — and I urged 
 her to fly with me.
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 185 
 
 She was angry with her cousin, but she 
 would not fly ; she had never wholly pledged 
 her faith in me, she said — neither had she — 
 but she had learned to value my sentiments, 
 and every day was telling in my favour, and 
 drawing us together by the tenderest and 
 strongest of ties. 
 
 I again begged her to fly with me, away 
 from my defamers and persecutors — I im- 
 plored her to remember that she was her 
 own mistress in every respect, and she waver- 
 ed, and sobbed, and choked a little over her 
 strawberry ice, and spoke of all her dear 
 nieces and nephews and cousins, and of the 
 impossibility of her lending herself to an act 
 of deception as regarded them — as regarded, 
 she added very prettily, herself. 
 
 For the third time I begged her to fly 
 with me. We were the victims of a cruel 
 plot, I said, and our enemies were legion. 
 They spared no pains to make us ridiculous, 
 and there was no necessity to study them. 
 I grew very eloquent, Adelina Batskin had
 
 186 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 been never wooed in language so fervent 
 and impassioned. 
 
 But she did not fly. I suggested that I 
 should fly without her to town and get the 
 license and return to claim her in the face 
 of the world, and to march with her — her 
 trembling hand upon my arm — to the altar 
 steps — and she wavered and said that I 
 might go at last. 
 
 It was a great success. In my mind's eye 
 I saw the glory of my triumph, as I de- 
 parted by the 6.45. Parliamentary next 
 morning. The chiming of my wedding- 
 bells was ringing in my ears all the way to 
 London. 
 
 When I returned to Seasonville, two 
 days afterwards, I discovered that the land- 
 lord of the Royal Hotel had let the bed- 
 room which I had been accustomed to hire. 
 It was an expensive room, and I had very 
 naturally objected to pay for it during my 
 absence in town. The landlord had not had 
 the courtesy to reserve it for me, notwith-
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 187 
 
 standing my long stay at his hotel, or had 
 been bribed by Adelina's designing relatives 
 to play this contemptible trick upon me. 
 The hotel was full, and the landlord re- 
 gretted that he could not accommodate me. 
 It was race week — a fact which I had for- 
 gotten — and every room in his house was 
 taken. There had been excursions all day, 
 and he really thought that I should find 
 some difficulty in getting a room anywhere. 
 He should be very happy to take care of 
 my luggage until I was suited with an apart- 
 ment, and that was all that he could possi- 
 bly do for me. I asked to see Miss Batskin, 
 but she had gone out with her brother to a 
 friend's ; he did not know where, and I said 
 very well, and went away, with my little 
 travelling-bag in my hand. 
 
 It was nine o'clock in the evening when I 
 set forth in search of apartments, undismayed 
 by the dismal prophecies of the landlord. I 
 was buoyant and hopeful ; the world lay 
 before me in its brightest colours, a path of
 
 188 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 roses leading on to Adelina. I saw the 
 whole town from beginning to end, but I 
 saw no bills of apartments in the windows 
 of the houses, and that became a matter 
 for grave consideration after every hotel, 
 inn, and little beer-shop in the place had 
 declined to take me in. I awoke to the 
 consciousness that the town was not only 
 full, but absolutely overflowing; and as I 
 passed the railway-station again, and found 
 that the last train had arrived with a fresh 
 batch of people — three-fourths of them 
 sporting men, with their hats on one side — 
 the dreadful thought of what was to become 
 of me rushed with tenfold force to my 
 troubled brain. 
 
 I could not walk the streets all night. A 
 place must be found somewhere, at any 
 cost, before the town closed for the night. 
 They were already putting up the shutters 
 before the shop-windows, and every minute 
 was precious. I went along the parade once 
 more, without success ; I tried every back-
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 189 
 
 street ; I begged for mercy of the fishermen 
 and boatmen in the " slums ;" I fought with 
 two men for the first possession of a 
 knocker, from which was hanging a card 
 with " A bed to let " written thereon, and I 
 found that the card had been left there by 
 mistake, the bed having been let to four 
 gentlemen and a little boy three hours ago. 
 I was weary, and forlorn, and despairing. 
 Every house was full, the last train had 
 gone, and there was no reaching the next 
 town ; people, with bags and trunks in their 
 hands, were still plodding up and down the 
 streets — what ivas to become of me ? 
 
 I took advise of Mrs. Browser, at last ; 
 she came upon me like a flash of inspiration. 
 She was standing at the door of her shop in 
 High Street, cooling herself after the heat 
 and bustle of the day. The shop was closed, 
 but she had come to the door for a mouth- 
 ful of fresh air, she said, the weather being 
 warm and " muggy." I had never liked 
 Mrs. Browser, for I had lodged at Browser's
 
 190 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 last Summer, and been preyed upon, and 
 missed my tea and sugar, and felt that the 
 whole Browser family had lived upon my 
 ham ; but she was a woman who knew 
 Seasonville. I asked after Mr. Browser; 
 he was poorly with the gout, and had gone 
 to bed ; I hoped the little Browsers were 
 well; and they were very well, she thanked 
 me. I hoped that she could accommodate 
 me with a lodging till the morning, or that 
 she knew of some one who could accommo- 
 date me at any price, I added ; for I knew 
 that Mrs. Browser was rapacious, and made 
 her harvest in these times, and I had grown 
 very desperate, and forgotten the value of 
 money. But Mrs. Browser only laughed 
 ironically. 
 
 u Lor' bless you, sir," — she had a kind, 
 motherly way with her, which was very 
 deceptive until you knew her thoroughly — 
 " the whole place 's been choked up since 
 five this afternoon. There's a greater sight 
 of people in Seasonville than I ever knowed
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 191 
 
 in all my life before. Mr. Smithers has just 
 told me that they've actually let the bathing 
 machines, and that they're full of sporting 
 gents, who are swearing orful." 
 
 " Good gracious ! what is to be done 
 now ?" 
 
 " I should have been so glad to 'commo- 
 date you, Mr. Gratts," she said ; " but it's 
 almost unpossible. There was a gent here 
 'arf an hour ago who prayed for me to make 
 him a bed in the shop, and to knock him 
 up at six, before we opened ; but I didn't 
 know him, and I couldn't trust him with all 
 the goods about, not even for a soverin' and 
 a half." . 
 
 The shop ! It was a bright idea, and I 
 seized it with a comprehensive grasp. Why 
 not the shop ? How much better than to 
 be wandering about the streets all night, 
 and looking in the morning, even in the 
 eyes of Adelina, as haggard as a horse. It 
 was a roomy shop — why not ? 
 
 " But I am not a stranger to v ou> Mrs.
 
 192 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 Browser," I said in my most persuasive 
 accents ; "and you would not be afraid of 
 my running away with the goods. And for 
 the sake of security, perhaps even a little 
 less than a sovereign and a half " 
 
 " Oh ! I couldn't do it for less, sir, even 
 if I thought of doing it at all," said Mrs. 
 Browser, very sharply here ; " for I should 
 have to borrow some trestles and boards of 
 Mr. Wilks, the undertaker next door, and 
 pay him for them, and drag the bed from 
 under my lawful husband, who's always ill 
 the next day after sleeping on a mattress. 
 It's only for the sake of old- times that I'd 
 undertake to do it." 
 
 " I'll agree, Mrs. Browser ; I'll take the 
 bed, with all its inconveniences ; I'll pay the 
 money. I'll be back in half an hour." 
 
 " Very well, sir ; we shall be ready for 
 you by that time." 
 
 I left my travelling-bag ; I went away re- 
 joicing. What were a sovereign and a half 
 but thirty shillings' worth of triumph over
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 193 
 
 crowds of my fellow-creatures despairing in 
 the streets? I wrote a note to Adelina, 
 begging her to meet me at seven on the 
 cliff, and carried it to the hotel myself. The 
 landlord was in the way ; he promised to 
 deliver my communication to Miss Batskin, 
 and he hoped that I had been successful in 
 obtaining a lodging, he said, with an ill-dis- 
 guised expression of doubt upon his count- 
 enance. 
 
 " I have obtained a very comfortable 
 lodging, thank you," I replied. 
 
 He did not believe it ; he thought I was 
 one of the bathing-machine division. I did 
 not touch a scrap of food at his hotel ; I 
 went to an eating-house in the town, and 
 fought my way to the counter with a mob 
 of profane individuals, and snatched a hasty 
 repast for one and threepence. Then I went 
 back to Browser's. 
 
 My room was ready for me, and Mrs. 
 Browser was waiting to bid me good night. 
 I shuddered at the look of the shop. The 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 accommodation was poor, and the proper- 
 ties meagre and unstable. 
 
 Mr. Browser was a paperhanger and 
 general decorator. He was accustomed in 
 the day time to hang his last new patterns 
 from London over a rod in the window, but 
 the papers had all been rolled away, and the 
 shop was very bare and ghastly in its roomi- 
 ness. There was no counter, and I regret- 
 ted its absence, after a glance at the under- 
 taker's trestles, which were depressing to 
 the spirits on account by their suggestiveness, 
 and alarming to the nerves of their appear- 
 ance of fragility. On the trestles was a 
 shutter, a cupboard door, a piece of carpen- 
 try of some sort, and upon it was a bed and 
 mattress. For furniture I had two chairs, 
 one with a basin and ewer on it, and the 
 other supporting my chamber candlestick 
 and a glass of water. 
 
 " That's all I can do for you, Mr. Gratts 
 — it's humble, but 'ealthy — and it's only a 
 short harvest that we get in Seasonville at 
 race time."
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 195 
 
 "Yes, — it looks humble — and I hope it's 
 healthy. It's a dreadful expedient, though, 
 and I shall have some trouble to get into 
 bed, I can see." 
 
 " It's as firm as a rock, sir." 
 
 11 Very good." 
 
 " Any boots or things that you'll put out- 
 side that parlour door shall be cleaned and 
 brushed in time. We open at six, sir ?" 
 
 a Yes — exactly," I said, with a nervous 
 glance at the shutters ; " and you'll call me 
 at half-past five. I didn't remark a bar to 
 those things. They are not likely to fall 
 down in the night, I hope ?" 
 
 u The boy that takes them down and puts 
 them up is very careful. When they are 
 all wedged in together, they fasten one 
 another, like." 
 
 " Oh, do they ?" 
 
 Mrs. Browser bade me good night, and 
 wished me pleasant dreams. I thanked her, 
 and in due course, after some acrobatic 
 efforts, found myself on the top of my 
 
 02
 
 196 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 trestles. I had put my boots and trousers 
 outside to be brushed for the morning, 
 double-locked the parlour door, placed the 
 chair against it for protection's sake, dropped 
 my teeth in the glass of water, as recom- 
 mended by the faculty, and hung my wig on 
 a nail that I had found in the window. 
 After all these precautions, I tried to sleep, 
 and failed, which was the more aggravating, 
 because I had a great deal to pay for it in 
 the morning. My mind was excited con- 
 cerning Adelina, the shutter was exceedingly 
 hard on which I was stretched, and there 
 were the houseless and homeless visitors 
 walking up and down all night, and making 
 an unnecessary noise with the heels of their 
 boots. I dropped off to sleep at last, a long 
 sleep, chequered by strange dreams. The 
 trestles must have been on my mind as well 
 as beneath my body, for I dreamt that I had 
 been picked up in the street and carried to the 
 undertaker's to be taken care of till the in-
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 197 
 
 quest, and I felt that I was alive, but could 
 not make Mr. Wilks understand that if he 
 would kindly run into Mrs. Browser's, the 
 whole matter might be satisfactorily explain- 
 ed. Then Adelina came to my rescue, and 
 there was a struggle between Adelina and 
 her brother the major, and young Griffin, 
 with Adelina calling for the police, bran* 
 dishing my marriage licence over her head, 
 and telling them to respect the majesty of the 
 law, at which they laughed so loudly that I 
 awoke, and sat up in bed, with the laughter 
 ringing in my ears still. 
 
 Heaven and earth, where was I? There 
 were people shouting and shrieking with 
 ribald laughter of the most terrible descrip- 
 tion, and it appeared as if I were in the 
 middle of the street. I realized sud- 
 denly and completely the terrible nature of 
 my position, and a cold perspiration began 
 to bedew my brow. I had over-slept my- 
 self, or the boy of the shop had come before
 
 198 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 his time and taken down the shutters. For 
 the^y were down ; I was lying in the full 
 light of day, like a Royal sturgeon wait- 
 ing to be cut up by the fishmonger, and 
 twenty people watching me with their noses 
 flattened against the windows. I gave one 
 agonized shriek for Mrs. Browser, and dived 
 beneath the bed-clothes. How was I to 
 escape ? Who would put the shutters up 
 again and save me ? 
 
 " Shall I bring you any shaving- water, 
 sir ?" shrieked a boy. 
 
 " Ain't it time you were up, bald 'un ?" 
 roared another. 
 
 " Twig the governor's gums in the glass," 
 said a third. 
 
 " Don't stand any of their chaff, sir ; fling 
 your wig at 'em," suggested a fourth. 
 
 " Hooray !" said number five, and a cheer 
 was set up which raised the street, and 
 brought another mob towards me. 
 
 What was to be done ? Where was Mrs.
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 199 
 
 Browser? The crowd had rapidly accumu- 
 lated ; those who had been out all night 
 were glad to exult over my painful position, 
 and the shopmen from over the way and 
 down the street were not slow to help them. 
 I lay with the sheet drawn over my head 
 listening to the comments of the people ; 
 their cruel remarks on my teeth — grinning 
 themselves at my misfortune — their com- 
 ments on my peruke hanging by a nail in 
 the shop-window from which all the paper- 
 hangings had been rolled, leaving a hideous 
 profusion of daylight on the shop and me. 
 If I could only reach the door and secure 
 an indispensable part of my attire ; but Mrs. 
 Browser, as if with fiendish malignancy, had 
 placed my bed at a long distance from it, 
 and I could not face the ordeal of walking 
 in deshabille across the shop. I gave one 
 more shout for Mrs. Browser, and the note 
 was taken up by the unruly ruffians, now a 
 hundred strong, on the other side of the
 
 200 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 window-panes, and more hideous laughter 
 followed, and curdled every drop of my 
 blood. 
 
 A hand at last tapped on the door lead- 
 ing from the shop to the parlour, and Mrs. 
 Browser's voice — it was like the voice of an 
 angel to me — said in a high scream, 
 
 " Are you there, Mr. Gratts ?" 
 
 " Of course I am here, ma'am. Oh, I am 
 so glad you have come !" 
 
 " Open the door, do. Why didn't you 
 get up when I knocked ?" she asked, in tones 
 far from civil, and far less angelic. 
 
 " You didn't knock, ma'am,'' I said 
 severely. 
 
 " Do you know the boy has taken all the 
 shutters down, and that you might as well 
 be in the street, Mr. Gratts ?" 
 
 " I should think I did know it !" I shouted 
 back indignantly ; and there was another 
 " Hooray !" from the crowd, and more fight- 
 ing on the narrow pavement to get a good 
 view of me, and one boy was run over the
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 201 
 
 foot by a donkey-cart which was coming 
 round with the milk. 
 
 " You're doing it on puppos, Mr. Gratts," 
 screamed Mrs. Browser through the key- 
 hole ; " you're without sense or decency." 
 
 " Dammee, ma'am, tell your boy to put 
 the shutters up !" 
 
 " He's gone for his holiday, and I can't 
 find him anywheres." 
 
 " Tell somebody else, then." 
 
 " The boy has locked the shutter-box, and 
 got the key, and won't be back till night. I 
 shall have every window broke if you don't 
 leave off making yourself a sight there, sir. 
 It's shameful !" 
 
 " Tell the people to go away. Send for 
 a policeman." 
 
 " Open the door and come out. There's 
 all your things waiting in the parler." 
 
 " Mrs. Browser, I will not get out of this 
 abominable bed in the sight of that wretched 
 mob." 
 
 " I can't tell half what vou are mumbling
 
 202 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 about, Mr. Gratts, underneath them clothes!" 
 she shrieked. 
 
 I put my head out, and repeated my ulti- 
 matum ; and at the sight of my egg-like 
 baldness the crowd whooped, and yelled, 
 and danced, and one window cracked omin- 
 ously beneath the pressure. 
 
 " You'll have to pay for this, sir," cried 
 Mrs. Browser ; " I'll have the law of you." 
 
 ; ' Where's your husband ? Tell him to 
 hang something before the windows. Bring 
 a tarpaulin — put up his paper-hangings — do 
 something, woman !" I roared ; " I shall go 
 raving mad." 
 
 " My husband's in bed with the gout." 
 
 " Then do it yourself." 
 
 " I'm subject to swimmings — I can't go 
 up steps. Come out, if you are a man." 
 
 " I will not come out. This is an infa- 
 mous transaction — a plot of somebody's, and 
 you are all in it." 
 
 " Oh, you base insinuator !" screamed 
 Mrs. Browser, shaking the door, " you wick-
 
 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 203 
 
 ed and depraved old man, to go on like 
 this!" 
 
 She was a violent woman, and commenc- 
 ed battering the panels with her hands, but 
 I would not get up. I knew how I should 
 look to the raging mob, for I was very thin, 
 and the little 1 had on was shortish. I should 
 possibly, and speedily, go raving mad where 
 I was, but there was no human power that 
 could make me move while my reason was 
 spared me. 
 
 " No," I muttered, rolling myself still 
 more completely in my sheets, " let me die 
 rather." 
 
 Mrs. Browser departed, and the mob 
 continued to increase. The news of my 
 terrible dilemma was circulating rapidly 
 through the town, and I could hear people 
 running from all quarters towards the house, 
 just as if it were on fire. The hotels were 
 turning out ; the fishermen were coming 
 from the beach ; the market people were 
 already there ; the police of Seasonville were
 
 204 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 nowhere in the face of a formidable mob, 
 and there was every probability, in another 
 five minutes, of calling out the military. 
 
 Suddenly there was a stir amongst the 
 people, some laughing and remonstrating, 
 and I, who was wondering if it were possi- 
 ble to enshroud myself in sheets and 
 blankets, and descend from my bed and 
 board and make for the door, peeped over 
 my counterpane and saw two flights of steps 
 and men upon them with a large tarpaulin 
 in their hands, borrowed from the corn- 
 chandler's. It was my own idea at last. I 
 saw young Griffin in the crowd, too, and I 
 heard him say, "Why, that's old Gratt's 
 wig, for twopence," as the tarpaulin was 
 held before the windows, and some cheerful 
 tapping with hammers commenced. I 
 breathed freer in the darkness, and I was 
 even stepping carefully out of bed, when 
 some barbarians made a rush at the bottom 
 of the tarpaulin, and dragged it from the 
 hands of those who would have spared my
 
 SENSATION AT SEASON VILLE. 205 
 
 delicacy, and whose heart had been touched 
 by roy distress. 
 
 I sprung back with a shriek, and covered 
 myself hastily over, and, of course, there 
 was more shouting and laughing in the 
 streets. But the police were on the alert a 
 second time, and once more the black cover- 
 ing was before the windows as a substitute 
 for the shutters, which Mrs. Browser would 
 not have tkaen out of the box. 
 
 That miserable woman's voice sounded 
 through the key-hole of the parlour door 
 again. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Gratts, will you get up or 
 not?" 
 
 "Begone, woman! — I'm coming," I shouted 
 forth. 
 
 I leaped from my bed, seized my teeth, 
 and dashed across the shop towards my 
 wig. I was leaning over the shop-board, 
 alle agerness and excitement, when — hor- 
 ror of horrors ! — there was a cracking, 
 and the tarpaulin of its own weight tore
 
 206 SENSATION AT SEASONVILLE. 
 
 out the nails, and descended with a rush ! 
 
 Oh ! that last peal of laughter ! I glared 
 at my accusers ; I heard a wild scream of 
 amazement from a lady in a fly proceeding in 
 the direction of the cliff to keep an appoint- 
 ment at seven ; I caught a glimpse of Adelina 
 fainting at the sight of me, I sprang wigless 
 to the door, unlocked it, passed into the 
 parlour, eliciting a scream from Mrs. Brow- 
 ser, who was retiring through the opposite 
 doorway, and had not bargained for my 
 celerity, slipped into my trousers and boots, 
 and fainted with my head through Mr. 
 Browser's portrait, which had been taken 
 down last night to be cleaned. 
 
 When I recovered consciousness the 
 crowd had departed, and all was over. All 
 was over with me, too, for I was scarcely 
 apparelled before a note, calm and dignified 
 and heart-freezing, came to me from 
 Adelina. It was as follows — 
 
 But no — I will not print it here. Her 
 susceptibilities had been wounded, and her
 
 SENSATION AT SEASON VILLE. 207 
 
 trust had been misplaced. She had believed 
 in my hair, and in my delicacy, and I had 
 deceived her. " Farewell for ever ! Oh, 
 Eugene !" were her parting words. I fare- 
 welled. I was in Bayswater before dark.
 
 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 T710RTY years ago I was a supemume- 
 -*- rary at the Royal George Theatre. 
 That honourable position in society was the 
 result of my " call " to the stage at the 
 early age of nineteen years. I had served 
 my apprenticeship to art on the floors of 
 barns, and in travellingThespian conveyances 
 for many weary years. When Mogg's com- 
 pany broke up — old Mogg took to the fried 
 fish business in Whitechapel, and made his 
 fortune — there was another drop, and a 
 lower depth, and much groping about in the 
 shadows. 
 
 My father — a respectable grocer in the 
 
 p2
 
 212 JENNY MERT0N. 
 
 country town of Fixature — was dead then, 
 and the little money that he had left a 
 rackety son had gone the way of all cash. 
 I came to London as a last venture, and 
 finally procured, after much hard fighting 
 and frequent kickings into the street out of 
 managers' sanctums, a supernumerary's berth 
 at the Royal George Theatre. 
 
 I dragged on this kind of existence for 
 three or four years, and then was discharged 
 for getting drunk, and putting a " star " out 
 in a crack speech. I tried the theatres due 
 east after that, and picked up an engage- 
 ment here and there at Christmas-time and 
 Easter ; but it was slow, up-hill, heart-break- 
 ing work, and I had often to sleep about 
 the markets, or under the dry arches of 
 bridges, or in the warmest corners of deep 
 doorways, when luck went dead against me. 
 
 Sometimes, in the very hard times, I have 
 hung about the coach-offices — there were 
 a few coaches still in the days of which I 
 speak — and offered to fetch or carry any-
 
 JENNY MERT0N. 213 
 
 thing ; I have held gentlemen's horses ; I 
 have begged for halfpence ; I have done 
 everything but steal. 
 
 I went back to the George Theatre when 
 the late manager became a bankrupt, and the 
 theatre passed into fresh hands, and was 
 engaged there, off and on, for years. I 
 became one of the oldest supernumeraries, 
 and had seen more great actors, and knew 
 more anecdotes concerning them than any 
 one in the establishment. They began to 
 call me Old Whitedrpp, and Father White- 
 drop, and Everlasting Whitedrop when I 
 was fifty-two years of age. I looked old 
 enough, I daresay; if anything will make 
 a man old, it is to live from hand to 
 mouth, to have a week's engagement and 
 a week's starvation, to exist behind the 
 scenes day after day, and night after night, 
 or, in some miserable Drury Lane garret, to 
 write begging letters to lessees, and pray 
 for mercy over them. 
 
 I was rather a favourite with my brother-
 
 214 JEXXY MERTOX. 
 
 supers, for I was a meek fellow enough, 
 a capital subject for practical jokes, and did 
 not mind running on errands, or copying 
 music, or even doubling my part, when a 
 comrade wanted to skulk, and the manager 
 had gone home, and could not see what 
 game we were up to. 
 
 1 jogged on, always a ragged, miserable, 
 half-fuddled fellow, fond of my half-quartern 
 over the way, or a pinch of snuff from a 
 liberal friend's box. 
 
 I took to snuff early in life. Every man 
 has one absorbing passion — mine was snuff. 
 It was a gigantic passion with me — I would 
 rather have expended my last pennies in an 
 ounce of rappee, than have had my roll and 
 saveloy for dinner. I have often had to 
 make the choice between them, and I have 
 never given up the snuff If by any 
 chance I was entirely destitute, I used to 
 beg for it of snuff-takers in the street, 
 and a well-filled box has been the only 
 thing my fingers have itched to snatch
 
 JENNY MERTON. 215 
 
 at throughout the period of my long ad- 
 versity. 
 
 It was getting on to Christmas, and we 
 were working hard at rehearsals ; there was 
 a great pantomime in preparation, and I 
 had twenty parts to play in it, and a busy 
 time of practice before me, and plenty of 
 bumps and contusions to look forward to, 
 my bones not being particularly supple, 
 and the clown being more than ordinarily 
 spiteful. 
 
 One morning I had taken a long pinch of 
 snuff at the stage-door, and was entering 
 the theatre very much refreshed by it, 
 when a little hand was laid upon my 
 arm, and a sweet voice said, close to my 
 side, 
 
 "If you please, sir, is this the stage- 
 door r 
 
 I looked down, and there was a child 
 of ten or eleven years old, gazing up 
 at me — a poorly-clad, shivering little girl, 
 but with one of the prettiest faces I had
 
 216 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 ever seen in my life. I was not much of an 
 observer of strange faces or strange people ; 
 I had never been struck with the looks of 
 any person before, that I could recollect, 
 but there was something so new about this 
 child, something so fresh, and innocent, and 
 extraordinary, that when she repeated her 
 question, I felt a tingling sensation all over 
 me, and nearly dropped my snuff-box in my 
 bewilderment. 
 
 " Yes, this is the stage-door," said I; " and 
 what do you want here, young lady ?" 
 
 u If you please, sir, I'm a fairy." 
 
 " Oh, you are — are you ?" I replied, 
 thinking how much more fitting she was to 
 be a real fairy than a gaslight one ; " you've 
 taken to stage-life young, my child." 
 
 " Mother said there were many younger 
 than I here." 
 
 " That's true, but, somehow, they don't 
 look out of place like — like you will," I 
 answered. "What's your name?" 
 
 " Jenny."
 
 JENNY MERTON: 217 
 
 "Jenny what?" 
 
 " Jenny Merton." 
 
 " And you are really going to take to the 
 stage ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Can you dance?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" 
 
 " You can ? — ah ! it's no business of mine 
 to interfere with any business of yours. 
 This way — mind the step. God help you !" 
 
 I took her on the stage, where the re- 
 hearsal had already commenced, and left 
 her to the questions of the ballet-master. 
 I was soon deep in my small parts, and add- 
 ing to my store of bumps and contusions by 
 falling the wrong way and getting damaged. 
 I tried not to bother myself about the child, 
 but at times she would seriously disturb 
 my peace of mind. I finished my clay's 
 allowance of snuff before the rehearsal was 
 over, in my perplexity. When I was not 
 "on," I leaned against the side wings, and 
 watched her, thinking what a different being
 
 218 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 she seemed from the pinch-faced, sunken- 
 eyed little waifs around her, and wondering 
 how long it would be before she grew up 
 like the rest of them. 
 
 It was a singular contradiction to the rule 
 that " people get used to everything," that 
 I never got used to Jenny Merton being 
 a stage-fairy. It was more singular still 
 that a time-worn, stage-beaten old fellow 
 like me should take so great an interest in a 
 child of eleven years of age. On second con- 
 sideration, I do not know whether it was 
 very singular, for she was always seeking 
 me out, and asking questions connected 
 with the "profession," and putting her 
 childish confidence in me about her home, 
 her sick father, and her hard-working 
 mother — in me too, an ugly little snuff- 
 taker, who had been passed over as 
 insignificant and foolish all his life ! Then 
 Jenny Merton used to remind me, with her 
 fresh, rosy face, of a little sister I had had 
 once— many, many years ago that was! —
 
 JENNY MERTON. 219 
 
 who died when I was a boy, and who was 
 very fond of me to the last. Perhaps that 
 association drew me to the child more than 
 anything else did — but drawn to her I was. 
 
 She got on very well in the pantomime. 
 I daresay there were many said, " What a 
 pretty little girl !" from the front of the 
 house, as she skipped about the stage in 
 her gauzy dress and spangled wings. She 
 was engaged nearly the whole season. 
 There was generally room for a few chil- 
 dren at The Royal George Theatre, and 
 the prettiest face had the best chance of re- 
 maining on the list when the pantomime 
 was over, and a lesion of extras had been 
 dismissed. I left with the majority, but I 
 did not lose sight of Jenny Merton for the 
 few weeks that I was out of place. No, I 
 caught myself waiting late at night for her 
 at the stage-door. 
 
 One night a tall individual, in a seedy 
 great-coat, hung about the back entrance 
 of the theatre, and eyed me most sus-
 
 220 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 piciously. There was a fair half-hour to 
 wait before Jenny Merton would issue forth, 
 and we spent it prowling round each other, 
 and exchanging supercilious glances. 
 
 Jenny Merton arrived at last, and perceiv- 
 ing the stranger, ran towards him with a 
 reproachful shake of the head. 
 
 " Oh ! father, father, you should not have 
 ventured out in this drizzling rain." 
 
 " It's too late for you to be out alone, 
 Jenny. I never liked it, and now I'm well 
 enough, I'll come and fetch you." 
 
 " But I never come home by myself, 
 father," she said. "Mr. Whitedrop — ah! 
 there he is — there he is !" 
 
 And her tiny feet came pattering along 
 the wet pavement towards me. 
 
 " And who is this man, Jenny ?" asked 
 the suspicious father, advancing, and draw- 
 ing his daughter from my side. 
 
 " One of the company, Mr. Merton," I 
 hastened to reply. " An old man, sir, who, 
 knowing the distance the child was from her
 
 JENNY MERTON. 221 
 
 home, has often taken the liberty of look- 
 ing after her." 
 
 "You're very kind," he answered ; " but 
 why — my Jenny ?" 
 
 " That's what I hardly know myself." 
 
 " Oh ! he is such a dear kind man, father," 
 cried Jenny. " He's been so very good to 
 me. It's old Mr. Whitedrop, the gentle- 
 man I have told you of before." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I've heard of him," said he, 
 still suspicious and distant. " And so you 
 are the man who sees my Jenny home ? I 
 wanted to find out what " 
 
 u What I was like?" I added, seeing that 
 he stopped abruptly. "Quite right, Mr. 
 Merton. I should have done the same ray- 
 self." 
 
 We were walking on during this dialogue. 
 
 " It seemed strange, that's certain," he 
 muttered, more for his own benefit than 
 mine. " I can hardly make it out. It isn't 
 charity, it isn't for what is to be got out of 
 her. What is it for, I wonder?"
 
 222 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 Jenny twitched him by the sleeve. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Whitedrop, what do you think 
 of my Jenny's acting now ?'' asked he, turn- 
 ing round with an abruptness that made me 
 jump. 
 
 1 'She is a graceful little dancer." 
 
 "She'll get on— eh?" 
 
 " Get on ?" I repeated. 
 
 "She'll work her way through all dif- 
 ficulties — she'll become a star in time ! She 
 has begun young, remember. She'll make 
 her twenty, thirty pounds a-week some 
 day?" 
 
 " Bless my soul, Mr. Merton, you don't 
 dream that she will ever get on at that rate, 
 I hope." 
 
 He regarded me suspiciously again, and I 
 lost the thread of my discourse. 
 
 " And why not ?" he asked, peremptorily. 
 " The child is clever ; she has genius, plenty 
 of it ! You know that well enough, or 
 you wouldn't come dancing attendance upon 
 her. We never do things without an ob-
 
 JENNY MERTON. 223 
 
 ject in this world. Your hopes are far off 
 enough, but still " 
 
 " Oh ! father !" whispered Jenny. 
 
 "Far off! — ah! well, perhaps they are! 
 Dear, dear me, what was I saying?" I 
 muttered. 
 
 " You can't blind me about Jenny, Mr. 
 Whitedrop ; it's no use attempting that," said 
 Merton, the rudeness of his behaviour in- 
 creasing every instant. " You might deceive 
 the child, but not her father !" 
 
 " I don't want to deceive anybody." 
 
 " Bid Mr. Whitedrop good night, Jenny," 
 said the man. " We're taking him out of his 
 way." 
 
 "Not at all," said I. 
 
 "Oh! yes, we are — you know we are!" 
 retorted the man. " 1 take care of her from 
 to-night, you understand ! Bid him good 
 night, Jenny." 
 
 Jenny bade me good night in a low voice. 
 There were two tears in her large eyes as 
 she looked up at me. I returned her salu-
 
 224 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 tation, and the surly father bore away his 
 daughter. 
 
 I repaired to my garret in a bad temper 
 — my feelings had been hurt, and my snuff- 
 box was empty. I had been used to slights 
 and insults all my life, and had in most 
 cases received them with an equanimity of 
 temper which was praiseworthy — but I felt 
 this coldness somehow. I can't tell why I 
 felt it so acutely at that time ; it was very- 
 foolish of me. 
 
 I did not see Jenny for several months 
 after that interview with her father ; I did 
 not think it necessary on my part to intrude 
 upon Mr. Merton or the child, and when 
 I got back to the " boards " I found that 
 Jenny had been dismissed, her presence not 
 being required either in tragedy or farce, 
 which the Royal George Theatre had come 
 out strongly in. 
 
 When she was re-engaged she came to- 
 wards me on the first day of rehearsal, and, 
 after shaking hands, said in her quiet voice,
 
 JENNY MERTON. 225 
 
 as if she were adverting to a topic which 
 had been discussed within the last five 
 minutes, 
 
 "You must not mind what my father 
 says, Mr. Whitedrop ; he's very fond of me, 
 and a very good man when you thoroughly 
 understand him. He was rude to you ; but 
 then he is — he is rather suspicious in his 
 way. So's mother." 
 
 "There, don't say another word, Jenny," 
 answered I ; " it's not worth speaking about, 
 my child. It was odd to be suspicious of 
 me, though. But never mind." I took a 
 hasty pinch of snuff to comfort myself. 
 
 " I know that I shall never be much of a 
 star," cried Jenny. "I am so dull, too ; 
 but they will build upon my rising in the 
 profession." 
 
 " Do you like the stage ?" 
 
 " Not much — it makes my head ache." 
 
 " Do you like but I won't bother you 
 
 with questions, my dear. I'm a foolish old 
 man, and too inquisitive for my age. There's 
 
 vol. i. Q
 
 226 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 the procession going on. Where's my 
 banner?" 
 
 After that evening, Jenny Merton and I 
 went our separate ways, and always bade 
 each other adieu at the stage-door. I found 
 Mr. Merton standing outside the door, night 
 after night, like a sentinel. He conde- 
 scended to nod to me now and then, and, 
 as his suspicions wore away, or as he 
 found his daughter making but small 
 way in her art, or as he discovered by 
 degrees that the newspapers, which he 
 pored over in the tap-rooms of public-houses, 
 totally ignored her existence, he became 
 more friendly in his manner to me ; we even 
 got to shaking hands a little before Boxing- 
 day ; but when I ventured to offer him my 
 snuff-box, in a moment of rash confidence, 
 he drew back with his old suspicious look, 
 and was reserved for the remainder of the 
 week. 
 
 Two years passed away thus, Jenny 
 growing prettier and prettier, and I be-
 
 JENNY MERTON. 227 
 
 coming more stage-beaten, and more of a 
 shrivelled, snuffy-looking old man. Jenny 
 was no more popular than on the day of 
 her debut, a natural consequence enough, 
 although Mr. and Mrs. Merton could not 
 readily account for it. The two years were 
 getting on to three when Jenny Merton was 
 taken ill. My affection for the child had 
 known no diminution — nay, had become 
 the more powerful for the studied coolness 
 of her castle-building father; therefore a 
 natural desire to learn how she was progress- 
 ing, and whether the fever by which she 
 had been attacked was increasing or di- 
 minishing, led me to brave the freezing re- 
 ception of her parents, and to call at the 
 home of the Mertons in Little Choke Street, 
 Drury Lane. 
 
 Jenny was no better. I called the next 
 day — she was worse ; I called three times on 
 the day following, and my real solicitude 
 for her, my more than natural yearning to 
 see her, to try to cheer the weary moments 
 
 Q2
 
 228 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 spent on her sick-bed, made some impression 
 on her parents, and I was admitted within 
 the precincts of her home. 
 
 The father, the mother, and I had many 
 long conversations together about Jenny, 
 whilst the girl lay sleeping in the little room 
 upstairs. Mrs. Merton was as suspicious of 
 evil influences keeping back her child, and 
 as sanguine of that child taking the world 
 by storm some day, as her silly husband. 
 Why should there be a doubt of the child's 
 getting on— so pretty, so graceful a dancer, 
 so clever as she was ? 
 
 For some time I was puzzled to discover 
 a legitimate reason for these sanguine aspi- 
 rations, but it oozed out one day. It appear- 
 ed that there was a Merton in the family 
 who had taken to the stage some forty years 
 ago, who had risen to the top of the tree, 
 and had died, bequeathing a large fortune — 
 much to the disgust of his relations — to a 
 missionary society ! 
 
 It had come into the heads of this foolish
 
 JENNY MERTON. 229 
 
 couple — fostered by the idle words of a 
 supernumerary like myself, lodging in the 
 cellar — that their daughter Jenny had in- 
 herited her relation's histrionic talent, and 
 that another Merton was destined to a 
 successful career upon the stage. They had 
 determined to begin early, and so they had 
 commenced with a dancing-master in the 
 next street. Jenny was quick enough at 
 her lessons, and her parents snatched at 
 this as at a promise of future excellence. 
 Visions of benefit nights, crowded houses, 
 heavy rains of bouquets, a carriage and four, 
 a deputation of managers, testimonials of 
 silver teapots and diamond bracelets, Miss 
 Jane Merton in the biggest of capitals on 
 every dead wall, floated before the eyes of 
 the visionaries, and sustained them in their 
 poverty. The Mertons were print-colourers 
 for a publisher of children's books, and 
 made money in their busiest times ; but the 
 greater portion of the proceeds were set apart 
 for Jenny's dancing-master, and Jenny's
 
 230 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 white muslin dresses, satin boots, and kid 
 gloves. Patience — she would pay them a 
 thousandfold some day — all in good time, 
 all in good time. 
 
 Jenny Merton's fever nearly put an end 
 to these ambitious dreams by carrying away 
 the object of them, but her youthful con- 
 stitution finally overcame the disease, and 
 she grew stronger. As she increased in 
 health, the old reserve and suspicion of 
 the parents increased likewise; so that, 
 finding my welcome at Little Choke Street 
 only visible in the child's eyes, I gave up 
 mv customarv calls and went back to my 
 solitary home. The Mertons did not want 
 any hangers-on to the skirts of their daugh- 
 ter when she rose to the pinnacle of fame. 
 They saw the game that I was playing; 
 they did not blame me — it was natural 
 enough — but they were people of the world, 
 and not to be hoodwinked in that manner, 
 at their time of life. 
 
 I left this couple of monomaniacs to form
 
 JENNY MERTON. 231 
 
 their own opinion of me without any oppo- 
 sition by sound argument. It did not matter 
 to me so that I saw Jenny at the theatre, 
 and she did not throw me off, and her head 
 was not turned by the family chimera. Jenny 
 was a sensible girl, and estimated her 
 parents' hopes at about their just value ; 
 but it pleased the Mertons to see her on the 
 stage. She made a few shillings at Christmas, 
 Easter, and Whitsuntide, and was only in the 
 way at home. She was an innocent, light- 
 hearted, gentle girl, but not a genius. 
 She grew up very fast ; the years drifted 
 rapidly by ; before I could believe it she 
 was a young woman, too big and too 
 pretty for the establishment of the Royal 
 George Theatre. I did some good as a 
 counsellor in her choice of friends. I 
 pointed out the black sheep in our flock — 
 there were a few of them. I watched over 
 her very closely — even jealously. I was as 
 careful about her companions as though 
 she had been that little sister of mine who
 
 232 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 had died when I was by many years a younger 
 man. 
 
 Jenny grew up a reserved and modest 
 girl — she grew up very beautiful. At seven- 
 teen she was permanently engaged at the 
 theatre ; she was handy as a waiting-maid, 
 a page, &c. ; and was always the fairy-queen 
 at Christmas. She had little speeches to 
 recite occasionally, and she got through 
 them so well that her parents fully believed 
 in her star rising at last. She only required 
 some disinterested friend high in the profes- 
 sion to push her forward, in order to prove 
 to the manager that there was great genius 
 in her, biding its time to take the British 
 public by storm. 
 
 It was a custom at the George Theatre — 
 and a custom not very uncommon at any 
 theatre in those bad old days — to allow friends 
 of the manager, or patrons of the establish- 
 ment, to lounge behind the scenes, and idle 
 away their time at the side-wings, hand and 
 clove with the great actors, and familiar and
 
 JENNY MERTON. 233 
 
 facetious with the prettiest of the super- 
 numeraries. 
 
 Jenny Merton, by her discretion, kept the 
 majority of these would-be admirers at a 
 distance ; but there was one person who 
 afforded her considerable anxiety, and caused 
 me and others no small amount of excite- 
 ment. This was the honourable and younger 
 son of Lord Boddles, a dashing, free-and- 
 easy, dissipated young scamp of one-and- 
 twenty. He was a source of alarm to every- 
 body on the staff of the Royal George 
 Theatre. He was not quiet for a single 
 moment. There were two supernumeraries 
 in the secret pay of the manager engaged to 
 keep a constant eye upon him, and they 
 could not. He was as full of practical jokes 
 as a monkey. One night he sent me before the 
 public with a dirty cloth pinned to the end of 
 a brigand's green velvet jacket, and exposed 
 me to roars of laughter from the whole 
 house ; he was constantly sparring up to 
 Sparks, the first comedian, and hitting him
 
 234 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 on the nose ; he would send round on Satur- 
 day night a dozen of wine for the ladies of 
 the ballet, and come in with reeling steps 
 to draw the corks ; he was partial to waltz- 
 ing with anybody whom he could seize 
 round the waist ; and he had a very strong 
 pe7ichant for pretty Jenny Merton. He was 
 a nuisance to the whole establishment, but 
 he was a patron, and to be relied upon for ten 
 pounds worth of benefit tickets at any mo- 
 ment. Poor Jenny was naturally alarmed 
 at the attentions of the Honourable George 
 Boddles — she hid from him in her room, 
 or kept close to the prompter when her 
 duties compelled her to the side-wings ; and 
 more than once I have been the shield 
 between her and the Honourable, and have 
 had to put up with a remarkable amount of 
 abuse for my officiousness. 
 
 It was only natural to suppose that the 
 Honourable George Boddles was as much 
 an object of solicitude to his friends and 
 relations as to the manager and his staff,
 
 JENNY MERTON. 235 
 
 therefore we were not surprised to find 
 his father, Lord Boddles, occasionally at the 
 back of the stage, making inquiries for 
 " George," and using every means in his 
 power to induce George to go home. 
 
 Lord Boddles was a stout little man, 
 with grey hair and gold spectacles — a wad- 
 dling, pompous little fellow, who always wore 
 a long sky-blue coat, with gilt buttons, 
 and a pair of tight-fitting black panta- 
 loons. Lord Boddles had not borne the 
 most reputable character in his young days 
 — indeed, he was not entirely free from 
 public aspersion at the time of which I 
 write ; but, then, everybody knows what 
 public aspersion is. 
 
 It was Lord Boddles who condescended to 
 accost me one Saturday evening. 
 
 k 'Man." 
 
 " Did you call, my lord ?" 
 
 "Where's Stonger?" 
 
 Stonger was the lessee, by the way. 
 
 " Not here to-night, my lord."
 
 236 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 " Then go and tell Racket I want him." 
 
 Racket was stage-manager, and a very 
 good manager too. 
 
 " Mr. Racket has gone home, my lord." 
 
 " Dear me ! dear me !" said he, in a fidgety 
 manner. " Here, you sir, don't go. You'll 
 do as well as anybody else. Where's the 
 Honourable George Boddles ?" 
 
 "Talking to the fairies, sir." 
 
 "Tut tut, tut!" exclaimed his lordship. 
 " Shameful, shocking, shameful ! Have you 
 been long at this house ?" 
 
 " Off and on, some fifteen years, or 
 thereabouts." 
 
 " There's a sovereign for you." 
 
 You might have knocked me down with 
 a feather. A sovereign ! 
 
 " Now don't mention to a soul what I am 
 going to say — do you understand ?" 
 
 " Perfectly, my lord." 
 
 A sovereign ! What a heap of snuff it would 
 buy ! 
 
 "My misguided son, the Honourable
 
 JENNY MERTON. 237 
 
 George Boddles, spends half his life hanging 
 about this sink of iniquity, does he not ?" 
 
 " He's very often in the sink, my lord." 
 
 We could see the stage from our position 
 at the wing, and at this moment Jenny 
 Merton went dancing to the footlights, with 
 half a hundred of the corps de ballet Lord 
 Boddles, pointing at Jenny with his gold- 
 headed stick, asked — 
 
 " Who's that girl ?" 
 
 "That's Miss Merton, my lord." 
 
 " Now, in my solicitude for George — that 
 is, the Honourable George Boddles — it has 
 struck me that that girl is an especial mark 
 for my — for the Honourable George Boddles' 
 notice." 
 
 " Ah ! it has struck me too, my lord." 
 
 "Oh! has it?" 
 
 " It would be a sad thing for the family 
 if my — if the Honourable George Boddles 
 were to run away with that pink-faced 
 hussy," said he ; " and if she were to in- 
 veigle him into a "
 
 238 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 " No fear of that," I said, very sharply. 
 " She's a good girl, the best of girls, ray 
 lord, and is only too anxious to keep out of 
 his way." 
 
 " Ah ! that's cunning/' 
 
 "No, it isn't." 
 
 "Well, well, well," he replied, hastily, 
 " you have your ideas of human nature, and 
 it is not for me to argue the point. Now 
 I want you, despite your belief in the purity 
 and innocence of — what's her name?" 
 
 " Jenny Merton, my lord." 
 
 " Of Jenny Merton," he continued, " to 
 keep a strict eye on the actions of her and 
 the Honourable George Boddles, and to in- 
 form me, by letter or messenger, of their 
 goings on." 
 
 " Goings on !" I muttered, indignantly. 
 
 " Of course I shall reward you for your 
 information," said his lordship. 
 
 " Very well, my lord, I'll look after him." 
 
 " And what's your name ?" 
 
 " Whitedrop."
 
 JENNY MERT0N. 239 
 
 " That will do — I shall remember it." 
 He took his departure, leaving me some- 
 what puzzled with him. Why he should place 
 especial confidence in me was more than re- 
 markable, unless he had observed at any 
 time that I was a friend of Jenny's, or that 
 Jenny Merton had always something to tell 
 me between the parts about her father, 
 mother, or home. As for his interest in 
 his son, although it was natural enough, 
 still I thought that I discovered an extra rea- 
 son for it in a newspaper paragraph which I 
 came across soon afterwards, and which 
 spoke of a probable match between the 
 Honourable George Boddles and Lady Mar- 
 garet Millicent Millionacres, of Millionacres 
 Castle, Shropshire, a lady who had been 
 thrice a widow, and was then in blissful pos- 
 session of the four largest estates in the 
 kingdom. 
 
 I kept close watch on the Honourable 
 George Boddles after that evening. I was 
 often distressed at his boisterous behaviour,
 
 240 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 and his perseverance in following poor 
 Jenny ; but I could not detect any " goings- 
 on " worthy of informing his aristocratic 
 parent. 
 
 I had another subject on my mind which 
 was infinitely more distressing to me. This 
 was in the shape of young Ned Heartworth, 
 a fiddler in the orchestra. He called him- 
 self a violinist — I never owned him to be 
 anything but a fiddler. He was a general 
 favourite in the house ; I could not tolerate 
 him at the time, and it was a long while 
 before I took a liking to him. I had my 
 suspicions of him from the first. I very 
 quickly detected his eyes wandering to- 
 wards Jenny Merton, and knew how often 
 he lost his place in the music-sheet, and 
 fiddled away extemporaneously. He some- 
 times attended the rehearsals, and on those 
 occasions he behaved in the most designing 
 manner, coming on the stage and addressing 
 Jenny — he used to stammer and blush, 
 when he talked to her, like a great girl-*—
 
 JENNY MERTON. 241 
 
 asking unnecessary questions about the 
 parts, the time of the dances, etc., solely to 
 hear her musical voice in reply. The 
 young ladies and the few black sheep teased 
 Jenny about Ned Heartworth, and she 
 coloured and was indignant at their jests, 
 which were bad signs ; and Ned Heart- 
 worth began to bring flowers from his own 
 garden — Hackney-way, he said — and Jenny 
 used to take them home with her and keep 
 them in a vase in the little top window of 
 her room, which was a worse sign still. I 
 soon discovered that Ned Heartworth did 
 not live Hackney-way at all, but bought his 
 flowers at Covent Garden Market, which 
 completed the villainy of human nature, 
 and set me taking snuff by wholesale. 
 
 Jenny never mentioned Heartworth to 
 me — another bad sign this — and if it had 
 not been for my own observation, I should 
 have been unconscious of the fellow's exist- 
 ence. Heartworth bore a very good name 
 for his abilities, and was a favourite with his 
 
 VOL. i. R
 
 242 • JENNY MERTON. 
 
 brother-musicians ; but the more I heard in 
 his praise the more I disliked him. I 
 watched him more closely than ever I did 
 the Honourable George Boddles. When it 
 came to Heartworth dangling behind the 
 scenes between the parts, waiting for a word 
 from Jenny — when it came to my meeting 
 him and Jenny one Sunday afternoon in St. 
 James's Park, and to seeing them feed the 
 ducks with biscuit, I thought I should have 
 broken my foolish old heart. I thought, 
 also, it was quite time to put a stop to it, 
 and so early on the Monday evening I waited 
 for Jenny Merton's coming to the theatre. 
 
 " Jenny," said I, " I want to ask you a 
 few questions." 
 
 u No one more welcome to ask them than 
 you, Mr. Whitedrop," answered Jenny. 
 
 "No one?" 
 
 She blushed, but repeated the assertion, 
 adding the hope that I did not doubt her 
 word. 
 
 " Jenny Merton," continued I, " what I
 
 JENNY MERTON.. 2 ±3 
 
 am about to ask, you have no right to 
 answer — you have even a right to tell me 
 to go about my business, and to mind it 
 instead of yours. But I don't think you'll 
 do that. I knew you when you were such 
 a little girl, Jenny — you are the only one 
 I have ever thought or cared for since I 
 became an actor, and my sister died. Now, 
 for the sake of our old friendship, Jenny, 
 will you tell me ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will." 
 
 " That's spoken from your true young 
 heart," I said. " Can you guess what I am 
 going to ask you, Jenny ?" 
 
 " I think I can." 
 
 " I am going to ask if you think anything 
 of Xed Heartworth ?" 
 
 Her face flushed, but she replied in a 
 steady voice, 
 
 "He is very kind to me — he likes me 
 very much. I cannot help thinking of him, 
 Mr. Whitedrop, or of liking him in return. 
 
 k 2
 
 244 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 He is a very good young man — he is very 
 fond of me." 
 
 I kept taking snuff so rapidly that it 
 frightened her. 
 
 " Ah ! me, I'm sorry to hear it, Jenny — 
 there, it's all gone." 
 
 u What is?" 
 
 " Nothing— snuff." 
 
 "I have been going to tell you once or 
 twice, Mr. Whitedrop, for you — you are 
 so old a friend, but I could not find the 
 courage." 
 
 " Does your father or mother know of 
 this engagement ?" 
 
 " I have not mentioned it yet," answered 
 Jenny. " Ed — Mr. Heartworth is going to 
 speak to father himself; who I don't think 
 will listen to him — heigho !" 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 " Father builds upon my distinguishing 
 myself in the profession !" 
 
 " Do you fancy that he would refuse his
 
 JENNY MERTON. 245 
 
 consent to your engagement with Mr. Heart- 
 worth ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I am sure of it," answered 
 Jenny ; " although Mr. Heartworth is so 
 much above me. Why, his mother has 
 a shop in King Street, and yet he is not 
 proud." 
 
 " Mr. Heartworth must ask your father's 
 consent, Jenny, at once. Perhaps he'll 
 bring him to reason — if there's any reason 
 in him. T can't give advice — / can't tell 
 you what to do — I am a miserable, ugly 
 old wretch, without an idea. I'm a rascally 
 old fool !" 
 
 And with these vehement exclamations, I 
 ran into a tobacconist's, and spent my last 
 penny. 
 
 A week after this dialogue with Jenny 
 Merton I observed that she was very thought- 
 ful and low-spirited, and when I went 
 before the audience as one of a grand 
 assemblage of villagers, I instinctively glanced
 
 246 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 at Ned Heart worth for the reason. There 
 he was, in the orchestra, as white as a sheet, 
 fiddling away in an absent manner, and 
 frowning at the music-page as if it were a 
 death-warrant. Jenny came on during the 
 scene as an attendant to Miss Cruncher, the 
 great actress, and Heartworth brightened 
 up a little whilst she was on the stage. 
 They exchanged one quick glance of affec- 
 tum, I thought ; but it might have been 
 fancy. I had been full of fancies lately. 
 
 I found no opportunity to question Jenny 
 that night ; it w T as a busy time of marching 
 off and on, and in my spare moments at the 
 side of Jenny, the Honourable George Bod- 
 dles kept hovering so near, and keeping up 
 such an incessant state of stare, that there 
 was no getting a word of quiet conversation 
 from her. 
 
 The next morning there was too much 
 fagging at the rehearsal of a new piece to 
 afford time for any confidence on Jenny's 
 part. Richard Warnham, the great trage-
 
 JENNY MERTON. 247 
 
 dian, was engaged for fifty nights, and this 
 was the first day of his rehearsal. What a 
 wonderful man he was! How beautifully 
 he could feign rage and despair, and de- 
 vouring jealousy and all the passions of 
 humanity ; what salaries he took ; and what 
 grand airs he always gave himself! He was 
 a very great man ; he drove up in his car- 
 riage and pair to the stage door ; he turned 
 up his nose at the actors on the establish- 
 ment, and gave one finger to the lessee to 
 shake. What impressed me more than any- 
 thing was his diamond snuff-box — such a 
 snuff-box — it held three quarters of a pound 
 at least ! 
 
 Warnham was a fine man, but a trifle 
 baggy in the cheeks. He was quite an aris- 
 tocrat in private life. He did not bear a 
 very excellent character ; it was whispered 
 that he had broken the heart of his first 
 wife, and had so ill-used his second that 
 she had run away with Captain Fitzlight, of 
 the 107th, in sheer self-defence. Warnham's
 
 248 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 engagement was not many days old when 
 his rolling black eyes were turned in Jenny 
 Merton's direction. Warnham deigned 
 even to address Jenny, and was astonished 
 to find the object of his attention more 
 frightened than flattered. I guessed pretty 
 well what kind of annoyance Jenny Merton 
 would have to put up with duriug his fifty 
 nights' engagement. There was no denying 
 it, Jenny was not fit for the stage — no pure- 
 minded, modest girl was, in those days, for 
 the matter of that. Pestered by Warnham 
 and the Honourable George Boddles, and 
 harassed by her own unprosperous love affair, 
 the poor girl's life became a misery. 
 
 It would be hard to part with Jenny. I 
 had not been the same man since our 
 first meeting at the stage door ; but she 
 was better away from the theatre ; there 
 was danger lurking in her path, and I felt 
 that I must try to save her from it. Actu- 
 ated by a sense of rigid duty, 1 called one 
 afternoon at her father's house in Little
 
 JENNY MERTON. 249 
 
 Choke Street. Jenny was not at home, 
 which was all the better for my project. 
 Merton and his wife were in the front par- 
 lour, colouring prints and themselves very 
 diligently. I broke the ice at once ; there 
 was no use beating about the bush with 
 people of their calibre. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Merton, I suppose you have 
 given up all idea of Jenny's turning out a 
 genius by this time ?" 
 
 It was rather a rough commencement, 
 but I thought it was better not to study re- 
 finement with these Mertons. 
 
 11 Have you come all this way to ask me 
 that ?" he said bluntly. 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 "Then what have you come for?' 1 
 
 "Your Jenny has had a long appren- 
 ticeship to the stage," I began, " and as an 
 old actor, I may venture to say that she 
 will never rise higher than she has done. 
 She makes a neat waiting- woman, and a 
 good fairy- queen — that's all."
 
 250 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 "That's all you know about it," grumbled 
 Merton. 
 
 "As true as I am standing here, it's the 
 plain truth," I said, earnestly. " She is too 
 good for the stage ; she's too pretty — more 
 than that, she is exposed to too much — I 
 will not say temptation, for she is above 
 it — but to too much danger. You are her 
 parents — why don't you look to this more ?" 
 
 Mrs. Merton turned pale, but her hus- 
 band gave an angry grunt of disapproba- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah! it don't do, Mr. Whitedrop," said 
 Merton, " it don't do, I tell you. I can't 
 exactly see the drift of your argument, or 
 understand what the deuce your game is ; 
 but I have always had my doubts of you, 
 and shall have to my dying day. You're a 
 deep one !" 
 
 I bore up against this vile abuse, and took 
 refuge in my snuff-box. 
 
 "Why, we went to the play ourselves 
 onlv last week and saw her, and she is sret-
 
 JENNY MERT0X. 251 
 
 ting on wonderfully," continued Merton. 
 " She only wants a friend to help her on 
 now. I shall drop a line to Warn ham." 
 
 " No, don't do that I" 
 
 " What, you are afraid of getting expelled 
 for your underhand proceedings, are you ?" 
 he exclaimed. "There, Mr. Whitedrop, 
 we've done w 7 ith you for ever. Good day, 
 vou've got over Jenny somehow with your 
 artfulness, but you're no true friend to us or 
 her." 
 
 " It's no use talking," I exclaimed despair- 
 ingly, ; ' you are blind to good advice, and 
 you can't think for yourselves. You'll have 
 to rue it, though — you'll have to rue it pre- 
 sently r 
 
 I thrust the snuff-box to the depths of 
 my pocket, and ran out of the house. 
 
 I did not think that they would have to 
 rue it quite so soon, or that the day had al- 
 ready dawned for much mystery and trouble. 
 I remember that night was Warnham's bene- 
 fit night, and there were extra pieces, and
 
 252 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 plenty of hard acting in them. Jenny did 
 not perform in the last farce, and took her 
 departure half an hour earlier than myself. 
 I remember also that it was very late when 
 I got home, and one of the windiest nights 
 that I had ever known. I found no rest in 
 my garret, with the window clattering 
 furiously in its frame, and the wind shriek- 
 ing, whooping, and yelling over the house- 
 tops, and keeping me from sleep, despite the 
 long fagging night that I had had of it at the 
 theatre. I sat up in bed and finished my 
 snuff as a last resource against these horrors 
 — then I thought of Jenny Merton — then a 
 chimney-pot was blown off the roof of the 
 next house but two, and smashed into a 
 thousand pieces on the pavement, and finally 
 there came a sudden noisy knocking and 
 banging at the street-door below. 
 
 " I wonder who that is?" thought I, 
 " somebody from the country for the man in 
 the parlour, or the second-floor-back come 
 home drunk, or some one knocked down by
 
 JENNY MERTON. 253 
 
 the chimney-pot, and they want to bring 
 him in here — dear me, what an awful noise 
 they are making !" 
 
 They kept at it too; so, despite its being no 
 business of mine, I got out of bed, forced 
 open the window, and thrust my head out to 
 expostulate against the uproar. The wind 
 immediately whisked off my nightcap, and 
 nearly blew me backwards into the room. 
 Whilst I was holding on to the window-sill, 
 and seeking to recover my balance, I heard 
 a voice from the story below say, 
 
 " What the deuce is the matter ?" 
 
 " Does a man — Whitedrop — live here ?" 
 were words heard mumbling with the wind. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Whitedrop — an actor — GeorgeTheatre?" 
 
 11 1 can't hear a word you say — damn the 
 wind !" 
 
 And the speaker banged down the win- 
 dow, and put an end to further conver- 
 sation. 
 
 I had caught at the name more quickly
 
 254 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 than my fellow-lodger, and having obtained 
 a good hold of the sill, I ventured to lean 
 out. 
 
 " What is it ? My name's Whitedrop. 
 What is it ?" I called below. 
 
 " Is anyone up there ?" 
 
 " Yes. Whitedrop," I yelled. 
 
 " Is your — name — Whitedrop ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Please— down — then." 
 
 " I'll come directly." 
 
 I don't know whether they heard me, but 
 they left off knocking. I shut the window, 
 slipped into my clothes, and put my empty 
 snuff-box into the tails of my coat-pocket. 
 After I had groped my way down stairs in 
 the dark, I proceeded to open the door. 
 Three men instantly tumbled in, and two of 
 them roughly collared me. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " You must come with us — we're police 
 officers — it's no use struggling." 
 
 " What have I done ? I'm not going to
 
 JENNY MERTON. 255 
 
 struggle. Who charges me with anything?" 
 
 " I do, you artful, scheming, villainous old 
 rascal !" shouted a voice I knew. " I do, you 
 snake in the grass ! — you wretched, black- 
 hearted viper ! Give me up my child ! You 
 know where she is ! You're in the plot ! 
 You have something to do with it ! Where's 
 my daughter ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Merton, I hope no harm has 
 come to Jenny." 
 
 " Take the hypocrite away." 
 
 "But Jenny?" I cried. "Do tell me 
 what you mean, and I'll go peaceably any- 
 where. Has — hasn't she come home ?" 
 
 " You know she hasn't." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, dear me ! — Lord ! — oh ! 
 Jenny, poor Jenny ! Oh ! what is to be 
 done ?" 
 
 There seemed nothing to be done in my 
 case but to suffer myself to be walked to 
 the station-house, to be charged with the 
 abduction of Jenny Merton — her father 
 seemed to swear to anything in his rage —
 
 256 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 and to be finally thrust into a dirty police- 
 cell, already tenanted by a drunken Irish- 
 man and two young thieves. What a 
 host of torturing thoughts kept my mind 
 on the stretch all those weary hours of 
 inactivity. Jenny not at home — stolen 
 away, eloped, perhaps, with young Heart- 
 worth ! No, no, she would not do that. I 
 knew her too well. Oh ! where was she ? 
 Oh ! Jenny, Jenny ! 
 
 I rapped my skull against the wall. I 
 held my head between my hands, and 
 shivered with the worst of fears. I prayed 
 for her as for some one very dear to me. 
 And, ah ! no one but God and myself know 
 how dear she was to me ; dearer than that 
 sister who died when she was young; dearer 
 than my own purposeless existence ; dearer 
 than all the world in my eyes ! 
 
 And she was missing, perhaps dead, per- 
 haps in the power of some unscrupulous 
 villain. Let me out ! — let me out ! 
 
 The Irishman and the two voung thieves
 
 JENNY MERTON. 257 
 
 know how I spent the next four hours ; I 
 have no perfect recollection — nothing but a 
 dreamy idea of choking myself with sobs, of 
 kicking against the door, of knocking my 
 head against the wall, and of opening an 
 empty snuff-box. 
 
 I was carried away, at last, into the 
 streets, and round to the Police Court, 
 and into a little wainscot pew, from which 
 I could see the magistrate at a table on 
 my right, half-a-dozen policemen hanging 
 about the opposite doors, a reporter be- 
 neath me, sucking the end of a lead pencil, 
 Mr. Merton facing me in the witness-box, 
 and a few stragglers in the body of the 
 court, amongst them young Heartworth, 
 very pale and nervous. 
 
 Mr. Merton began his statement, but his 
 agitation and rage would not allow of a 
 clear statement of the case, despite the magis- 
 trate's injunctions to keep cool and take his 
 time. After a deal of blowing and snorting, 
 and wiping his forehead with his coat-sleeve, 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 he got through his case, which accused me 
 of being in a plot against his daughter, and 
 of carrying her away. He related her mys- 
 terious disappearance, and entered into a 
 minute account of my visit to him yesterday 
 afternoon, dwelling upon the dark threat 
 with which I had left him. 
 
 " What have you to say ?" said the magis- 
 trate, looking at me. 
 
 " Speak out," said a clerk at my elbow. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with it," I cried. 
 " I am more concerned than anybody here. 
 It was my interest for her safety that made 
 me beg of him to take his child away from 
 the theatre and the persecution of bad men. 
 I have dreaded something like this — I have 
 warned him of it." 
 
 I said a great deal more in my defence, 
 and begged to be set free, that I might try 
 my best to find her. 
 
 Heartworth here forced his way to the 
 witness-box, and pleaded somewhat inco- 
 herently in my defence. He knew Jenny
 
 JENNY MERTON. 259 
 
 Merton well — she had always spoken in the 
 highest terms of my affection for her. I 
 was a poor, inoffensive old man, generally 
 believed to be a little out of my mind, but 
 as harmless as a baby. 
 
 There was no occasion for that general 
 belief ; but I looked over it, considering the 
 present state of his own mind, poor fellow ! 
 
 This was the first day I had ever arrived 
 at a just opinion of Ned Heartworth. He 
 was not such a bad young man, after all ; 
 although he had no right to fall in love 
 with Jenny Merton. 
 
 The magistrate asked a few questions of 
 Heartworth as to his knowledge of Miss 
 Merton, and then said, 
 
 a It is a mysterious case, and must be 
 rigorously inquired into ; but I see no reason 
 to detain the prisoner. He was found at 
 home in his own house, and was evidently 
 astonished at the accusation brought against 
 him. He appears to be a man well known 
 for his simplicity and good feeling. An 
 
 s2
 
 260 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 officer has just returned from the George 
 Theatre, and has learned that the prisoner 
 did not leave the theatre for upwards of 
 half an hour after Miss Merton had taken 
 her departure. The prisoner is discharged." 
 I was led out of the witness-box ; but not 
 into the street. I found myself ushered 
 into a neatly-furnished room, where the 
 magistrate and two or three sharp-looking 
 gentlemen awaited me. They made some 
 minute inquiries as to the names of the in- 
 dividuals in the habit of frequenting the 
 theatre, and took special notes of the names 
 and addresses of Mr. Warnham and the Hon- 
 ourable George Boddles. After a few more 
 questions, varied by considerable muttering 
 between the sharp-looking gentlemen and 
 the magistrate, I was at liberty to go home, 
 and go mad if I liked. 
 
 I found Heartworth lingering in the 
 streets. Upon seeing me, he caught hold of 
 my arm, and hurried me along. 
 
 " Where are you going, Mr. Heartworth ?"
 
 JENNY MERTON. 261 
 
 " I don't know — I don't care — anywhere." 
 
 " Is there — is there any occasion to walk 
 so fast?" 
 
 He relaxed his speed, and began to groan. 
 
 " We mustn't give way yet, Mr. Heart- 
 worth." 
 
 " We /" he cried — u what have we to do 
 with it ? What share have you in my 
 agony, or in my awful suspense ? You can- 
 not imagine half the horror in my thoughts, 
 half the racking at my brain !" 
 
 " Yes — yes, I can. Don't speak any more 
 about that, if you please !" 
 
 " If he — her father — had not refused me 
 his consent, but had let me take her away 
 from the cursed stage, this would not have 
 happened. Oh ! we should have been so 
 happy ! I loved her so, Whitedrop ! — I 
 loved her so very, very dearly ! — I — where 
 are you going ?" 
 
 " Snuff!" I cried, in a choking voice, and 
 ran across the way. 
 
 My feelings were composed by the time I
 
 262 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 returned to Heartworth, who was pacing up 
 and down, like a wild beast, before the 
 tobacconist's. I offered him my replenished 
 box, but he pushed it abruptly away, nearly 
 knocking snuff and all out of my hands. 
 
 "What did they want with you in the 
 magistrate's room ?" 
 
 " They wanted the names of the gentle- 
 men who come behind the scenes." 
 " Ha ! I've been thinking of them." 
 " They took Warnham's name down too, 
 Heartworth." 
 
 He frowned terribly. 
 
 " She's told me of him, too — he's villain 
 enough for anything. I'll go directly to his 
 villa at Richmond, and keep a watch upon 
 the place." 
 
 " But I must do something. What shall 
 I do?" 
 
 " Do you suspect anyone else?" 
 "The Honourable George Boddles — they 
 put his name down." 
 
 " He's a drunken, dissolute fellow, but I
 
 JENNY MERTON. 263 
 
 don't think that there's studied villainy 
 enough in his composition ; and yet " 
 
 " I'll go to his father." 
 
 " For what reason ?" 
 
 " I may find out where his son is." 
 
 "True." 
 
 He was hastening away, when I called 
 him back. 
 
 " If you should hear anything of her, Mr. 
 Heartworth, I hope you'll send to me — I'm 
 very anxious." 
 
 "If I should hear anything." 
 
 So we parted, he to repair to Richmond, 
 and I to wend my way to the town mansion 
 of Lord Boddles. 
 
 I had great difficulty in obtaining an in- 
 terview with Lord Boddles. All the ser- 
 vants dangling about the hall were quite 
 Lord Boddleses themselves in plush and tags. 
 Lord Boddles was very much surprised to 
 see me, when I was finally ushered into his 
 presence.
 
 264 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 "What is it, man?" was his lordship's 
 sharp inquiry. 
 
 " I suppose you remember me, my lord, 
 as an actor at the George Theatre ?" 
 
 " I have a faint idea," answered Lord 
 Boddles — " man with snuff-box ?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Well, what is the news?" 
 
 " Jenny Merton is missing, my lord." 
 
 " Merton ! — Merton ! — is that the girl 
 who — oblige me by not spilling your snuff 
 all over the place." 
 
 " Beg pardon, my lord." 
 
 " And do you really think that her ab- 
 sence is attributable to my — to the Honour- 
 able George Boddles ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid to think, my lord," said I. 
 " I have come to ask if you have seen the 
 Honourable George Boddles lately, or if 
 you would mind favouring me with his pre- 
 sent address." 
 
 " The woman may have met with an acci- 
 dent — have you tried the hospitals ?"
 
 JENNY MERTON. 265 
 
 "All of them." 
 
 He appeared to reflect a moment. 
 
 "You can go," he said, suddenly look- 
 ing up. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " You can go," he repeated, loftily. " I 
 can't inform against my son. I have no- 
 thing to say. It's all very dreadful ; but go 
 away ! 
 
 " But " 
 
 He rang the bell. 
 
 But- 
 
 The footman stood in the doorway wait- 
 ing further orders. 
 
 " Show this man out," said his lordship ; 
 " and you'll know him again — don't let him 
 in any more. I don't want to see him — no 
 one wants to see him. Stay!" He drew two 
 sovereigns from his pocket, and pushed them 
 along the table towards me. " Do not 
 trouble your head about this affair," said he. 
 " If the girl's gone away with my son, it's 
 her own fault, and no business of yours."
 
 266 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 " She has been stolen away, my lord." 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh !" exclaimed Lord Boddles 
 — " young women are not stolen away in 
 the London streets now-a-days." 
 
 " She never went with her consent. I 
 won't take the sovereigns — I don't want 
 your money. Good morning, my lord. 
 May you never lose a child of your own !" 
 
 I did not wait for the footman to show me 
 the way, but marched indignantly past him, 
 and was soon crawling about the London 
 streets again, uncertain what to do. 
 
 I did not want to go home — I did not 
 know what course to adopt ; I did not care 
 about living another day even. I did not 
 see any good in living — it was slow work. 
 I walked up and down before the mansion 
 of Lord Boddles, but saw no sign of him 
 or his honourable son. I got through all 
 my snuff before a church-clock in some back- 
 street struck four in the afternoon. I was 
 hunting for a few grains in the corner, when 
 some one touched me on the shoulder.
 
 JENNY MERTON. 267 
 
 " What do you want here ?" 
 
 " I'm not aware that it is any business of 
 yours," I answered, staring at a lanky, 
 yellow-faced individual beside me. 
 
 " But it is business of mine." 
 
 "Oh! is it?" 
 
 " You were told not to interfere, and now 
 here you are sneaking about this place. 
 Why don't you go home ?" 
 
 " Are you one of the " 
 
 "Yes, I am. And now what have you 
 been up to?" 
 
 " I have been to Lord Boddles." 
 
 He gave a snort of disapprobation. 
 
 " Do you mind going home?" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Because I want you," said he ; " because 
 you're much better at home than interfering 
 with my business ; because I'll call upon you 
 to-morrow, or the day after, and take you 
 for a walk with me. Now go home, there's 
 a good fellow." 
 
 His manner was so persuasive, and my
 
 268 JENNY MERT0N. 
 
 ideas were so confused, that I passively 
 obeyed him. I took my usual post at the 
 theatre in the evening. What a miserable 
 evening that was ! Warnham acted magni- 
 ficently, and was called before the curtain at 
 the end of every act. I could not get rid of 
 my suspicions of that man, more especial- 
 ly when I found he was in a hurry to 
 leave the theatre, and did not stop to wipe 
 the rouge off his flabby face before he went. 
 As for Heart worth, I saw nothing of him ; 
 he was not in the orchestra. 
 
 I could not keep from theMertons the next 
 day. I found him and his wife haggard 
 and crestfallen through all their Indian- 
 paint. 
 
 " Any news of Jenny ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No message from the police-office, Mr. 
 Merton ?" 
 
 " Not any." 
 
 They were the only words exchanged be- 
 tween us. It was some relief to call, so I
 
 JENNY MERTON. 269 
 
 went round again after the theatre was 
 closed. The husband and wife were sitting 
 in their dark parlour. 
 
 " Any news of Jenny ?" 
 
 " Is that you, Whitedrop ?" 
 
 "Yes, it's Whitedrop. " 
 
 " Ah ! there's no news." 
 
 " I hope you don't think that I had a 
 hand in it, now, Mr. Merton ?" 
 
 " No, I don't." 
 
 " Nor you, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I never did." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," said I, " good 
 night." 
 
 u Good night," they answered ; and I 
 plodded home to my miserable garret. 
 
 I called several times the next day — no 
 news. When I reached home the last 
 time, the woman in the parlour informed 
 me that a tall gentleman had been inquiring 
 for me, and had left word that if I were 
 home within half an hour, I was to call at the 
 " King William " in the next street.
 
 270 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 I started off at once, and found the police- 
 officer, or detective, or thief-taker, or what- 
 ever he was, sitting in the tap-room, smok- 
 ing a long clay pipe. He got up when he 
 saw me. " Come on— how late you are ! 
 I told you to keep at home." 
 
 " Is there any good news?" 
 
 " I don't know whether it's good or bad 
 yet. Come on." 
 
 " Which way ?" 
 
 " We're going on the Croydon Road." 
 
 " Is she there?" 
 
 " We think so — somebody is." 
 
 " Let me run and tell " 
 
 " Run and tell nobody," said the man. 
 " You can identify her, that's all I care 
 about Hi ! hackney-coach there — hi !" 
 
 We were soon in a hackney-coach, and 
 rumbling on towards Surrey. We went 
 over Westminster Bridge, down the Ken- 
 nington and Brixton Roads, at a funeral 
 pace. 
 
 " How precious slow !" I remarked.
 
 JENNY MERTON. 271 
 
 "There's no occasion for hurry. We 
 can't do anything till after dark." 
 
 " Oh ! dear." 
 
 " You mustn't be impatient. The gal 
 has come to no manner of hurt or harm, 
 but has been only under lock and key there 
 since her kidnapping. Nobody's been nigh 
 her but an old woman. When we're sure 
 it is Miss Merton, we'll smuggle her off with- 
 out a fuss." 
 
 " Without a fuss ! — why, the law will 
 never let this matter rest." 
 
 " N — no, perhaps not," he said, after a 
 moment's thought. 
 
 " Is it far now ?" 
 
 " It's a goodish distance." 
 
 " Do you mind stopping at the next gene- 
 ral shop ?" 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " I should like some snuff. If there's any 
 waiting about — I can't do without snuff." 
 
 We stopped at a little house near Streat- 
 ham, where I filled my box. We dismiss-
 
 272 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 ed the man and his fly at the corner of a 
 green lane two miles from Croydon, and 
 proceeded leisurely along. At a very lone- 
 ly part of the lane we came upon a man in 
 a smock frock. 
 
 "Anything new?" asked my friend of this 
 individual. 
 
 " Nothing new." 
 
 " All right. Have you the chaise ?" 
 
 " Over there." 
 
 After this desultory conversation they part- 
 ed with a knowing wink at one another, and 
 my companion and I proceeded further down 
 the lane. When it was dark, and the stars 
 shining overhead, he said, 
 
 " Now, Mr. Whitedrop, we're going on 
 duty. Our plan is all arranged, and it's to 
 be acted with ease and caution." 
 
 " There is no one to be taken into cus- 
 tody ?" 
 
 " I told you that before." 
 
 a Do you mean to say that a man is 
 to steal away a young woman and not
 
 JENNY MERTON. 273 
 
 be punished for it ?" I asked indignantly. 
 
 " Merton can prosecute if he choose — he 
 has been advised not to do so." 
 
 " A pretty thing, indeed !" 
 
 " If we get away quietly we shall keep it 
 out of the papers — they'll be glad to keep it 
 out of the papers." 
 
 "They— who?" 
 
 He did not answer me. I pressed the 
 question a second time, and he still main- 
 tained silence. I was bold enough to re- 
 peat the question once more, and he caught 
 me by the arm, saying, 
 
 " Here's the house. Just hold your tongue 
 a minute." 
 
 " If there's a hair of Jennv Merton's head 
 
 *> 
 
 injured " 
 
 " She's all right enough," said he, "or we 
 should not go to work in this fashion." 
 
 It was a large brick-built gloomy-looking 
 mansion, standing at an angle of a broad 
 carriage-road. It might have passed for a 
 small nunnery or a private madhouse, and 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 ^74 JENNY MERT0N. 
 
 was admirably situated for either. The 
 windows were closed and dark, and there 
 was not a light to be seen glimmering in any 
 portion of the edifice. 
 
 We went round to the back of the pre- 
 mises, and my companion, after bidding me 
 wait for him by the high garden-wall, cross- 
 ed the road and looked eagerly down a 
 grass-grown lane. Presently he came back 
 to me, saying, 
 
 " All right. Now then." 
 
 He tapped lightly with his knuckles at a 
 small door in the wall. 
 
 "Is any one waiting for us?' 7 
 
 " The old housekeeper." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 The door was opened cautiously, and a 
 sallow-faced woman admitted us. 
 
 " Has he come ?" 
 
 " He drove down here about ten minutes 
 ago." 
 
 u You don't mean that ! Where is he 
 now ?"
 
 JENNY MERTON. 275 
 
 " In his own room. He hasn't seen her 
 yet." 
 
 " And the girl ?" 
 
 11 She's all right — she's waiting for you. 
 There's a ladder for you under the bushes 
 near the greenhouse. Look sharp." 
 
 The woman retreated towards the house. 
 My friend began to steal cautiously along 
 the gravel walks, and I followed in his foot- 
 steps. When we were near the house he 
 stopped. 
 
 "Now, can you remain here for ten minutes, 
 and keep very quiet ?" 
 
 11 I'll try." 
 
 " And in ten minutes come after me along 
 that path and up the ladder." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " You're sure you can swear to her ?" 
 
 " Swear to Jenny Merton !" I cried, " I 
 could swear to a tone of her voice — I could 
 swear to her shadow — " 
 
 Before I had concluded ray speech, the 
 man had crept away. I kept my eyes fixed 
 
 t 2
 
 276 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 on the back of the house, and prayed silent- 
 ly for Jenny Merton's safety. I had not 
 looked long in one direction before the 
 shutter of a window on the first floor was 
 unfastened, and a light gleamed from with- 
 in the room as a signal. At the same mo- 
 ment a ladder was placed underneath, and I 
 fancied that I could detect the black figure 
 of my tall friend making his ascent. I saw 
 him plainly when he reached the window, 
 which was slowly opened as his head came 
 level with the sill. He clambered into the 
 room, the light was suddenly extinguished, 
 and there was I alone in the garden, listen- 
 ing to imaginary sounds in the direction of 
 the mansion, and half fancying — a pleasant 
 thing to fancy in a strange place — that some 
 one was creeping up behind me with a 
 knife. 
 
 Five minutes had not passed before I lost 
 my presence of mind, and began to fear that 
 the officer had fallen into a trap, and that 
 Jenny was farther from rescue than she had
 
 JENNY MERT0N. 277 
 
 ever been. I was far too nervous to remain 
 the allotted time in the garden, and after a 
 moment's hesitation I stole towards the 
 house, reached the ladder, ascended it, and 
 peered in at the window. It was a room 
 dark and tenantless. I crept in cautiously, 
 and began groping for a door in the oppo- 
 site wall. I had just discovered it when the 
 sound of feet softly descending a flight of 
 stairs outside the chamber gave me hope 
 that all was right, and they were coming. 
 
 I stood back behind the door, and the 
 gleam of a dark lantern came athwart the 
 darkness. 
 
 " This way, Miss Merton." 
 
 "What place is this? — who brought me 
 here ? — am I safe with you ?" 
 
 " You have always been safe, for the 
 matter of that, miss," said the voice, in 
 reply, " but this is the most quiet way of 
 doing the job. He's a very great man, 
 you see, and my orders are to be cau- 
 tious."
 
 278 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 li Is anyone waiting for me ?" asked 
 Jenny. 
 
 " A friend will be here almost directly." 
 
 " Mr. Heartworth ?— my father?" 
 
 Heigho ! she did not think of me ! I 
 gave vent to a deep sigh, and Jenny 
 cried, 
 
 " What's that ?" I stepped from behind 
 the door. 
 
 "It's only poor old Whitedrop, Jenny 
 Merton," I whispered. " I hope you don't 
 think any the worse of him for not resting 
 till he had found you, for not knowing a 
 moment's happiness from the hour they 
 stole you until now." 
 
 She sprung towards me, and flung her 
 dear arms round my neck. 
 
 "I am so glad — I am so glad, my second 
 father, my faithful, best of friends !" 
 
 She sobbed in her delight at meeting me 
 again, and I sobbed too, only I made a 
 greater noise about it, which offended the
 
 JENNY MERTON. 279 
 
 gentleman who had taken such pains to get 
 Jenny away secretly. 
 
 " Come, none of this," grumbled he, 
 " let's be off. What is there to stop 
 for?" 
 
 She disengaged her arms — I could have 
 let them cling there all my life ! — and moved 
 towards the window. 
 
 "Let me go first, and hold your hand, 1 ' 
 said the man ; and, after putting the dark- 
 lantern on the window-sill, he began to 
 descend the ladder, guiding and directing 
 Jenny, whose hand he held in his. 
 
 When they had reached the ground, I 
 took my snuff-box from my pocket, and 
 proceeded to enjoy a triumphant pinch over 
 the mysterious enemy. 
 
 " Bring the lantern down, Mr. White- 
 drop," called up Jenny's deliverer. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Look alive !" 
 
 Still holding the open snuff-box in my
 
 280 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 hand, I raised one leg towards the window, 
 when the room was suddenly lighted up, and 
 I found myself dragged forcibly backwards by 
 the tails of my coat. 
 
 " Villain ! wretch ! robber ! where's the 
 girl ? — where's the girl ? — where's the girl ?" 
 
 I contrived to turn my head, and to 
 behold Lord Boddles, purple and green 
 with rage, dancing, jumping, foaming, swear- 
 ing, and tugging me round the room by the 
 tails of my coat. A servant, with two lights 
 in his hand, stood by the door, aghast and 
 open-mouthed. 
 
 u Put the lights down, and help me to 
 secure this vagabond !" cried his lordship — 
 " to break into my house — to — don't stand 
 staring there, you fellow, don't !" 
 
 His lordship was too strong for me, and I 
 felt my resistance growing weaker. I had 
 onl} 7 one hand at liberty — I did not like to 
 drop my snuff-box. 
 
 " My lord, I never thought this of you I" 
 gasped I — "my lord, I can't believe it "
 
 JENNY MERTON. 281 
 
 " You consummate rascal ! — you con- 
 founded spy ! — you " 
 
 In our struggles I came, by a second 
 sharp twist, face to face with him again. I 
 felt that my strength and my coat-tails were 
 giving way together ; I had a dim percep- 
 tion of a tall form bounding through the 
 window to my rescue ; I lost all respect for 
 rank and title, I raised my snuff-box sud- 
 denly, and discharged its contents — the box 
 was brimming full — into his lordship's aris- 
 tocratic eyes. 
 
 The effect was awful. Lord Boddles let 
 go, and flung his arms wildly in the air ; he 
 spat ; he sneezed ; he groaned ; he swore 
 worse than ever ; he fought at an imaginary 
 opponent ; he danced wildly about the 
 room ; he wrung his hands ; he kicked the 
 wall ; he cursed his life and limbs, and me 
 and his eyes, for ever and ever. 
 
 " He has blinded me ! — I'm stone gone ! 
 — I'm a lost man ! — I'm completely done 
 for ! — it was a bottle of vitriol ! — oh ! Lord !
 
 282 JENNY MERTON. 
 
 — oh ! my poor eyesight ! — oh ! the devil !" 
 
 " You'd better let this matter rest, my 
 lord," said the officer, who had returned 
 to my side, " and not trouble yourself fur- 
 ther. You'd better thank friends at court 
 for this way of doing business. We're not 
 supposed to know whose house this is, or 
 who carried off the gal." 
 
 The servant, who had shown symptoms 
 of a combative disposition, immediately 
 turned down his sleeves, and put his hands 
 into his pockets. His lordship continued 
 to cut complicated figures about the room, 
 rubbing his face and eyes, and sneezing. 
 
 " Oh ! lor ! — oh my — may I die if I don't 
 have the man hanged for blinding me ! — I 
 can't see a bit ! — was it vitriol ?" 
 
 " Only snuff." 
 
 " Good God ! to throw snuff in a person's 
 eyes ! — to go and — oh !" 
 
 He gave another leap, flung out his arms, 
 and knocked the candles from his servant's 
 hands. The police-officer pulled my sleeve,
 
 JENNY MERTON. 283 
 
 and, taking the hint, although I was desirous 
 of giving the nobleman a severe lecture on 
 his contemplated villainy, I got through the 
 window, and descended the ladder. My 
 companion quickly followed me. We hur- 
 ried through the garden to a chaise waiting 
 at the gate, with Jenny safe within it. I 
 cried again to find her in safety, and she 
 cried, too, and then away we went to Lon- 
 don. 
 
 Towards London, her father, and Ned 
 Heartworth. 
 
 I felt more miserable at every whirl of the 
 wheels — I knew that she would give up the 
 stage, marry Ned Heartworth, and leave me 
 — a feeble and worn-out snuff-taker — to 
 mourn for her for ever. 
 
 I was right — she married him, and they 
 asked me to the wedding. I did not go — I 
 contented myself with watching her enter 
 the church from the corner of the street, 
 and in crying and taking my snuff behind 
 a post.
 
 284 JENNY MERT0N. 
 
 It was all over with me and my first 
 love ! I was very old to have a first love ; 
 and I should have become a rare laughing- 
 stock at the George Theatre if I had told 
 my secret, so I kept it to myself. But it 
 was a true love for all that, and none the 
 less deep and pure for having been fostered 
 in a shabby wretch like me, without a 
 word, a blush, a look to sustain it in its 
 youth. 
 
 I fell ill after she was married — that was 
 about the time Lord Boddles joined the 
 Ministry — relinquished the stage, and took 
 to starvation. I was passed from parish to 
 parish, until I came to Fixature, where they 
 have knocked me up a bed in the work- 
 house to go off comfortably upon. But I am 
 not inclined to die in a hurry, to oblige the 
 overseers — I am lingering on the verge — I 
 rally now and then, and wear out the patience 
 of my watchers. 
 
 All but one, who comes to see me with a
 
 JENNY MERTON. 285 
 
 little baby in her arms, and tells me how her 
 dear Ned's mother has given up the business 
 to her son, and how she is such a happy 
 wife. Heaven bless her, she deserves to be !
 
 A PROUD WIFE.
 
 A PROUD WIFE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE YOUNG COUPLE. 
 
 TTTE were scarcely more than boy and 
 " " girl when Gilbert and I made up 
 our minds to be married. Friends laughed 
 at us after the usual fashion — a few con- 
 descended to advise us, I remember — but 
 we thought that we knew our own minds 
 better than they who sought to influence 
 us, and we became man and wife. We 
 were not children, though we had begun 
 life early. Gilbert was alone in the world, 
 and I had only a mother to study, whose 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 wishes went with my own, and who relied 
 too much on my judgment. 
 
 Gilbert and I were what the world called 
 a clever couple. We commenced life with 
 fair prospects ahead, and I thought that we 
 should both have the patience to wait for 
 fortune, and courage to strive through the 
 usual difficulties to obtain it. Gilbert was 
 only one-and-twenty when he married me, 
 and I was seventeen ; but he was strong, 
 self-reliant, and energetic, I believed, and I 
 felt that his perseverance would make him 
 his name in good time. He was neither 
 weak nor vain. He saw the struggle with 
 the crowd before the race was won, and he 
 asked me very gravely whether I could be 
 content for years with a modest income and 
 a little house, knowing that contentment 
 would ever be with him, and not with his 
 surroundings. He had chosen engineering 
 for his profession. He had genius ; he had 
 passed his examination with that high honour 
 which I was assured he would do ; and
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 291 
 
 before he was three-and-twenty years of 
 age he had obtained a post of importance 
 that was likelv to lead to something great 
 one day. Gilbert's income was not large at 
 first. He was to work up to greatness by 
 degrees, and there was a small addition of 
 seventy-five pounds a year on my side to 
 back us in our first start together. 
 
 I had begun to write for the magazines, 
 following at a distance in the footsteps of a 
 father who had killed himself by editor's 
 work it was said, and in my way I earned a 
 few pounds occasionally, almost against my 
 husband's wishes. He would grow eloquent 
 at times on the folly of my aspirations, 
 demonstrate to me plainly enough how im- 
 possible it was that I could ever be more 
 than a literary drudge, an 1 outsider " as he 
 termed it, and how it militated against his 
 dignity, and lowered him as " lord and 
 master," to see me working with himself for 
 home. 
 
 Had we been blessed with children, I 
 
 u2
 
 292 A PKOUD WIFE. 
 
 might have reasoned with him in those early 
 days of which I treat — those days of early 
 struggles together, at which I look back 
 longingly, and see how happy they were — 
 but I knew how proud a man he was ; and 
 as he advanced slowly in his profession, so 
 I drew back from mine — if I could ever 
 call it mine — and let him work for both of 
 us. 
 
 Yes, they were happy struggles after all. 
 Our little household embarrassments were 
 almost pleasant jesting when our hearts 
 were young, and our friends were of our 
 own seeking. We made no profession of 
 being better off than we were ; the few to 
 whom we were well known understood our 
 position, and believed in our advancement. 
 We were ambitious, perhaps, but we kept 
 our ambition to ourselves. I was the hap- 
 pier of the two possibly, for I was more 
 easily contented, and I loved him better, I 
 think that still, for all my great mistake. 
 Had we remained poor all our lives, I should
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 293 
 
 not have experienced one regret at linking 
 myself with Gilbert Graham, unless his looks 
 or words had been significant of his own 
 disappointment. I say that now as fear- 
 lessly as I said it to him long ago, when we 
 were rising in the world. 
 
 It was when we were beginning to rise 
 that we encountered the first shadow, and 
 this is how it came about : — 
 
 Gilbert, before he was four-and-twenty, 
 had attracted the attention of the scientific 
 public to a new theory of his own as regard- 
 ed the construction of railway-bridges — a 
 theory that drew attention to his name, and 
 gained him some reputation amongst those 
 whom in his career it was necessary to 
 study. 
 
 We rose from that period. Gilbert's fame 
 extended ; men well known in the profes- 
 sion sought him out ; old friends re-ap- 
 peared, and fresh friends started up — or 
 rather, those fair-weather acquaintances 
 whom society calls friends. Let me men-
 
 294 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 tion one man in particular as the unwitting 
 cause of my troubles — a man who meant 
 well in his way, and who, after a fashion, 
 liked and even respected my husband ; but 
 who, before I had cause for one reproach, 
 cost me many a heart pang. Young wives 
 will understand me, though only a few men 
 will see fair reason for my first grief, when 
 I say that he was my husband's friend more 
 than he was mine. He sought Gilbert out, 
 and — here is the secret — he took him away 
 too much from home. He had been a 
 schoolfellow of my husband's ; he had risen 
 in the world very rapidly, and was a rich 
 man at six-and-twenty — rich, not by his own 
 exertions, but by those of his uncle, who 
 had died rich, and bequeathed to him the 
 savings of long years. When Charles E well 
 was a poor young man, I liked him better ; 
 it was his sudden wealth that seemed to set 
 me against him, even before he stepped 
 between Gilbert and me. It was not enw
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 295 
 
 at his sudden rise that disturbed me, for no 
 one congratulated him more from the heart 
 than Gilbert and I ; it was his own new 
 manners, which Gilbert did not see, or 
 would not see, but which I was certain he 
 had assumed with the greater dignity which 
 his higher position had entailed upon him. 
 Society knows these men — these youths 
 who have not been born rich, but have had 
 riches thrust upon them — and does not like 
 them much, for all the court it pays them. 
 Wealth had not spoiled Charles Ewell more 
 than it would have spoiled most men ; it 
 had altered his character, and given a new 
 turn to his thoughts, and it had rendered 
 him very objectionable to me. It has al- 
 ways been a mystery to me that Gilbert 
 was in this matter less clear-sighted than 
 myself; that with all his shrewdness and 
 his genius, he was so easily blinded by the 
 showy manners of his friend. He was the 
 last man to be affected by them in any way
 
 296 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 that was prejudicial to his interest, but they 
 changed him for all that, and they sowed 
 the seeds of discontent within him. 
 
 Charles Ewell married well in the new 
 sphere to which he had been raised, and 
 we hired a brougham for the occasion, and 
 went to his wedding, where his friends 
 turned up their eyes at our horses, and 
 laughed at our hack conveyance ; as well 
 they might, perhaps, for there was a great 
 deal to laugh at, and we had had some 
 fun from it ourselves driving to Hanover 
 Square. We went, also, to Mr. Ewell's 
 grand home in May Fair, in due course, to 
 his stately dinners and still more stately 
 balls, where the ladies looked down at 
 my toilette, and Charles Ewell informed 
 my husband what everything had cost in 
 the room — what he had given for his pic- 
 tures, what he was going to give for his 
 new carriage. It was this parvenu habit, 
 this common trait of the upstart, which irri- 
 tated me most, because it impressed my
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 297 
 
 husband a great deal, although he was not 
 slow to smile at the restless vanity of his 
 friend. 
 
 " I hope, Gilbert, your friend's grandeur 
 will not set you against our little home/' I 
 said to him one night, when we were re- 
 turning in a cab from one of Charles E well's 
 dinner-parties. 
 
 He had been looking very thoughtfully 
 over my head until my voice aroused him, 
 then he started and laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " Oh, no, Ellen. His grandeur will not 
 disturb my philosophy, though I would not 
 mind changing houses with him." 
 
 " And wives ?" 
 
 " No. I would take my wife to the big 
 home, and she should shed more gladness 
 round me there." 
 
 " Is there not gladness enough in the 
 old home ?" I asked, somewhat anxiously. 
 
 u To be sure there is. I am not envious 
 — I am the last man to covet my neigh- 
 bour's goods," he said lightly, " or to wish
 
 298 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 that little Charley's luck had fallen to my 
 share. He is a good fellow, who deserves 
 to succeed in the world. How welcome he 
 made us, Ellen !" 
 
 " Yes, very welcome, certainly." 
 
 " I think that he paid us more court than 
 he did the rest of his guests." 
 
 " Yes, he seemed anxious to show that 
 our position in life made no difference to 
 him." 
 
 "Ah! you speak satirically, Nell," he 
 said. " You dont like Charles ; and it is 
 his grand home that seems to cast a shadow 
 upon yours. You must not wish that we 
 were better off yet awhile — presently we 
 shall spread our wings, girl, and have a soul 
 above our shabby little crib in the Wands- 
 worth Road ; and if we never have quite so 
 many silver spoons and forks as Charley 
 Ewell, still we will drop the electro-plate, 
 and soar upwards." 
 
 This was turning my weapons against my- 
 self, and I could onlv smile at him, till the
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 299 
 
 satire that was couched in his last words 
 more forcibly suggested the new truth. 
 
 " I don't despise wealth, Nell," he con- 
 tinued, to my surprise, beginning again in 
 his odd soothing manner towards me, and 
 ending with the old bitterness towards a 
 something or other that was not apparent. 
 " I hope to grow rich in good time ; to have 
 as good a house, and keep as good a table 
 as half those people whom we have met to- 
 night, and whose only claim to be at 
 Charley's place was the money that they had 
 made in the City. By Jove ! there was not 
 an intellectual man or woman amongst them 
 — they were a well-off lot, that's all. When 
 my turn conies, see what friends I will have; 
 the worst of it is, it can't come very soon." 
 
 I fancied that he sighed then ; that it was 
 his first sigh of regret at the position he 
 occupied. We spoke of our own future the 
 rest of the way home, and forgot Charles 
 Ewell's rise to fortune. We spoke of our 
 patience to wait, and courage to fight the
 
 300 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 battle of life, with an undivided love to 
 keep us strong ; and when our small maid- 
 servant opened the door, we contrasted her 
 with Charles Ewell's plush-clad lackey, and 
 had our jest at the odious comparison. 
 
 But this was, after all, the beginning of 
 trouble. I date still the restless discontent, 
 the cruel mistakes and misconceptions, from 
 that night when the first sign was made that 
 Gilbert was dissatisfied with his progress 
 in life, despite all the success he had 
 achieved. He did not appear to have that 
 confidence in his own genius which carries a 
 man so forward into his future that he men- 
 tally rises above his present obscurity ; and 
 there ensued periods of re-action, when he 
 fancied that he was going back in the race, 
 and that fame and honour were never to 
 come to him. We had our cares when he 
 had become known to the profession as a 
 man of no common order of intellect. Fame 
 comes before money, as a rule, and I have 
 said that Gilbert had made many friends.
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 301 
 
 Gilbert's income might have been three 
 hundred a year, not more, when we were 
 still a young couple, and had changed, for 
 the sake of position, into a larger house 
 further west. Here we entertained, in a 
 humble way at first, those friends who we 
 thought valued us more for ourselves than 
 for the entertainment we could afford them; 
 or those friends, again, whon Gilbert asserted 
 it was necessary to keep up with, even at a 
 loss to ourselves, which was a theory I never 
 wholly understood. And we did not save 
 money ; indeed, we had a hard struggle, at 
 times, not to fall back into debt. 
 
 This was a greater struggle than Gilbert 
 ever knew ; for I concealed from him, in 
 every way that I could, all the petty household 
 cares which rose to the surface occasionally. 
 I knew how much they would have dis- 
 turbed him from his studies, and vexed him 
 for days afterwards ; and I did my best with 
 our income, gratified by the knowledge that 
 he was generally ignorant that at any period
 
 302 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 of a past week there had been a sharp 
 comer to turn. Men, I suppose, never give 
 us credit for all the efforts we make to keep 
 down the housekeeping expenses. They 
 are engrossed with their business, and be- 
 lieve that there is no trouble in paying a few 
 tradesmen's bills. Now and then there was 
 a little contretemps to face, and an extra de- 
 mand to make upon his purse; and then 
 Gilbert would do his best with me to stem 
 the tide, and would decline invitations, and 
 work hard at home, until our heads rose 
 above water once more. Once I fell ill — at 
 an inopportune period, when I should have 
 been at my strongest and best — and there 
 were nurses to hire, and a physician to con- 
 sult. I recovered to find that all things had 
 fallen into arrear, and that there were for- 
 midable bills to confront. Still we lived 
 down difficulties, worked hard, and were, 
 after all, tolerably happy in our way. There 
 were only a few up-hill years to surmount, 
 I told him, and then we could smile at our
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 303 
 
 past trials, and that happiness we had ever 
 found in their midst, cheered by the love 
 that had never grown less between us. He 
 would grow eloquent in his turn then, paint 
 his future as I had never dared to paint it for 
 him, speak of me as his best adviser and 
 truest friend, until Charles Ewell, or men 
 like him, whom I need not introduce here, 
 confronted him once more. 
 
 It was at my own house that the greatest 
 blow fell at last. Mr. Ewell and his wife 
 were there, and a few friends had been 
 summoned to meet them. Gilbert had been 
 inclined at first to extravagance in his ideas 
 for our party, and I had had to combat his 
 high notions, and to remind him that we 
 were not yet rich enough to launch forth. 
 It had been a successful little party in its 
 way, I was inclined to believe, and every- 
 thing had gone off well, though we had dis- 
 pensed with a French cook and the high est - 
 priced wines. I was a young wife, and 
 proud of my home and husband, and it
 
 304 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 vexed me to know that Gilbert would half 
 apologize to his friend Ewell for his small 
 establishment and the general appurtenances 
 around him whenever this grand young 
 man favoured us with his company. On 
 that night I detested him. I was a woman, 
 not a heroine, and words that he uttered, 
 and that I heard by chance, set my heart 
 against him for ever. 
 
 " You don't come to see me, Charley, for 
 my splendid dinners, or my old brands," 
 Gilbert was saying as I passed him, " but for 
 the sake of that old friendship which dates 
 from the school-form." 
 
 " And for the sake of that friend's genius, 
 which is so surely working its way, Gilbert 
 — which we all see and respect," was the 
 courteous answer enough. 
 
 My husband's saturnine mood assert- 
 ed itself, and I could see his face shadow 
 and his brow contract as he confessed to his 
 friend all the opposition that was still in his 
 path, just as he had confessed to me many
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 305 
 
 times before, and been reasoned out of by 
 my brighter prophecies. When I returned 
 five minutes afterwards, Gilbert had con- 
 cluded his long catalogue of the difficulties 
 in the way of a man rising to independence 
 in that profession which he had chosen for 
 himself. Charles Ewell's reply I heard, and 
 never forgave. 
 
 " Ah ! but you don't think, Gilbert," he 
 said, "how you have risen in comparison 
 with the nine hundred and ninety-nine men 
 of your own age and profession — risen in 
 the face of every obstacle, with a house to 
 keep up, and a wife to support, at an age 
 when no man in your position, as a rule, 
 thinks of taking such expenses on himself." 
 
 Gilbert should have spoken warmly here, 
 for indirectly it had been implied that I was 
 the barrier in the way of his advancement. 
 
 " Yes, I married early enough, Charley, 
 but — I don't regret it," he added, after a 
 pause, as though most men in his circum- 
 stances would have done so. 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 " As a single man, your income would 
 have been ample for your wants," Ewell 
 continued. " You could have travelled, 
 and thus have benefited by the experience 
 of all lands, instead of clinging to your own 
 insular prejudices; and at thirty-five you 
 might have chosen your wife from the first 
 families in the land." 
 
 "I should have chosen Ellen," he said 
 laughingly, and as I stole away I said 
 Heaven bless him for that answer. 
 
 I was wretched for the remainder of the 
 time Gilbert and Charles Ewell sat together. 
 I could think only of my husband, and see 
 on his gloomy brow, as I watched him from 
 the distance, the shadow of the dangerous 
 thoughts his friend had placed there. They 
 sat and talked together in a low tone, for- 
 getful of the company around them, and my 
 nervous fancies, if they were merely nervous 
 fancies, suggested that Gilbert's face grew 
 darker every instant, and that he nodded his
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 307 
 
 head more than once to the insidious reason- 
 ing of his friend. 
 
 Later in the night, when our guests had 
 gone and we were alone together, the gloom 
 still lingered on my husband's face, and no 
 effort of my own could dissipate it. 
 
 " Has anything occurred, Gilbert, to an- 
 noy you this evening ?" I asked. 
 
 "Nothing, Nell. It has been a very plea- 
 
 sant evening. 
 
 " I thought Charles Ewell might have said 
 something to vex you," I said quietly. 
 
 " He is too good a fellow for that. What 
 a pity it is, Nell, that you do not like him 
 much ! No man would do more to help me 
 to rise in the world than he." 
 
 u Or to render you discontented with the 
 present, from which you would escape." 
 
 I told him of the chance words that I had 
 heard, and of the mortification that I had 
 experienced in hearing them, till I broke 
 down, like the sensitive woman that I was 
 then. His arms were round me, and he drew 
 
 x2
 
 308 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 me to his side to reason with me — to assure 
 me that he was not dissatisfied with his success 
 in life ; on the contrary, very grateful for it, 
 and that he was content to wait with me 
 patiently for the better fortunes that he 
 thought were on their way to us. 
 
 " Yes ; but he spoke of your early mar- 
 riage as a mistake," I said pertinaciously ; 
 " of me as the clog upon your industry and 
 perseverance — the woman who retards your 
 progress, and is to hang round your neck a 
 dead weight for many years, and be always 
 a something that you must drag upwards 
 with yourself." 
 
 " No, he did not speak so forcibly as that, 
 Nell," he answered. " You never do Charley 
 justice — you never will. If he said that it 
 would have been easier for. me to have saved 
 money as a single man than as a Benedick, 
 why, there was no great harm, and a little 
 truth in the assertion." 
 
 " Yes ; and that assertion implied the 
 hindrance that I had been to you. Oh,
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 309 
 
 Gilbert ! and you think that too — you see 
 that without me you might have been a 
 richer man, and nearer the mark at which 
 you aim." 
 
 u What does it matter ? I am satisfied, 
 Ellen. I have nothing to regret. I have 
 been lucky in my profession, and in the wife 
 who supports me in rny efforts." 
 
 So we became reconciled to the present 
 again, and I believed all that he had told me 
 for a few days — a few weeks until a new 
 change came over him, which I did not 
 comprehend, and yet which I could only 
 guess was connected with myself. 
 
 There was the heavy look upon his face 
 that I had seen on the night Charles Ewell 
 dined with us, and spoke of me as Gilbert's 
 dead weight, and I connected it truly enough 
 with the man who called himself my hus- 
 band's friend. It was in taxing Gilbert with 
 the change in him that the truth escaped. 
 
 " You have seen Mr. Ewell lately, Gilbert," 
 I said.
 
 310 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 " Yes, how did you know that ?" 
 
 " I fancied that you must have met him, 
 for, forgive me for the thought, I fancy that 
 you are never your old self afterwards." 
 
 " It is an ungenerous thought, Ellen." 
 
 " He has spoken of me again. Perhaps 
 he has " 
 
 " Pardon me, but he has not mentioned 
 your name," said Gilbert quickly. " See 
 how you leap to conclusions that are un- 
 worthy of you, in your strange dislike to 
 him. He has offered me, Ellen, a lucrative 
 post abroad." 
 
 " Indeed, and you " 
 
 " Have declined it. It was impossible, 
 under the circumstances, that I could accept 
 it." 
 
 Under the circumstances that he was 
 married, that it would necessitate breaking 
 up home, perhaps, and leaving me ! 
 
 " Tell me all about the post which has 
 been offered you, Gilbert ?" 
 
 Then I heard all the truth, and guessed
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 311 
 
 that the first great disappointment of his 
 life had come. A post had become vacant 
 abroad, a post of some hardship, connected 
 with the construction of a foreign railway, 
 necessitating not only considerable talent, 
 but requiring strength of constitution to 
 combat an insidious climate, and much 
 strength of character to fight against the 
 opposition which was to be encountered 
 there. All save the strength of character 
 Gilbert possessed, perhaps ; but the whole 
 scheme did not appear to me, despite the 
 advantages which were proffered, a project 
 worth pursuing, or worth sinking all the 
 chances which remained to him in England, 
 and would come to him in time. I said 
 this, but he would not understand my rea- 
 soning — rather grew irritable under it, as 
 though he had outgrown my advice, or did 
 not care for it. There had been a chance 
 of sudden advancement ; there was the 
 novelty of adventure in it, if all Charles 
 Ewell's statements were correct, and there
 
 312 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 were opportunities of making money indi : 
 rectly in a variety of ways. It did not 
 matter that my husband's genius might 
 prove equally remunerative here — he had 
 lost much of his faith in himself lately. 
 
 "Why not accept this post?" I said at 
 last. 
 
 "Oh! Nell, I am sure that you would 
 not like me to leave you for a year — pro- 
 bably two." 
 
 " I will try to bear your absence, if you 
 think it is necessary for your advancement 
 in life — if you are dissatisfied with your 
 position here." 
 
 "This is a snail's progress. I may be 
 well off years hence, when a dozen people 
 have died to make room for me. I may 
 be talked of by my set when I am old and 
 feeble, not before." 
 
 "You are not content, then, with your 
 present position ?" 
 
 " No — I am not," he confessed.
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 313 
 
 " Had you been a single man, you would 
 have gone ?" I asked. 
 
 " I should not have hesitated one in- 
 stant." 
 
 "Then return to Charles Ewell, and tell 
 him that, if it be not too late, you will ac- 
 cept the proposal that he has made you. 
 Become a single man for a year or two 
 again ; you will never forgive yourself if 
 you hear of another man's success in that 
 sphere which you would have chosen — you 
 will never forgive me." 
 
 Heaven knows whether I meant him to 
 jump so readily at my offer — whether I had 
 not rather designed it in my heart as a test 
 of his affection, and had expected him to 
 say that he would remain content with his 
 wife, and with the position that he had se- 
 cured, rather than dash at the chances 
 offered him abroad. He did not dream of 
 asking me to accompany him — he feared for 
 my health, I knew ; but still I would have
 
 314 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 risked my life to be with him rather than 
 have remained alone in England. I had to 
 make this offer for myself, and he said that 
 it was impossible, and that, however I 
 might desire it at the present time, I should 
 know no happiness hereafter, and be one 
 incessant source of responsibility to him. 
 Perhaps he was right, but I only thought 
 that he was secretly anxious to be gone, 
 despite his affectation of wavering, his talk 
 of home and me. But I would have shared 
 all trials with him, oh, so cheerfully ! It 
 would have been a greater satisfaction to 
 have met troubles with him, to have light- 
 ened his cares by my presence, if that pre- 
 sence could have done it, than to have 
 remained at home in security and ease 
 without him. And he spoke of me as a 
 difficulty, never as a helpmate and a com- 
 forter, as I knew that I had been in our 
 English home together, and my pride rose 
 at last and held me tongue-tied. 
 
 He went away to seek Charles Ewell ;
 
 A PROUD WIFE. 315 
 
 he found the appointment had been almost 
 promised to a second person ; he spent the 
 next two days in excitement and suspense 
 which rendered him more churlish and irri- 
 table than I had ever known him, and he 
 broke forth into a childish delirium of joy 
 when the news came that it was not too 
 late, and that the post was open to him 
 still. 
 
 It was all settled ; Gilbert was to relin- 
 quish a good home, a certainty of rising in 
 the world, and a wife who loved him very 
 dearly, for the chance of a fortune abroad. 
 I did not believe that he would attain it, 
 though I would not damp him with my 
 prophecies. It was arranged that I was to 
 go back to my mother, and that the home 
 wherein we had been happy together was 
 to be broken up for ever. Presently Gil- 
 bert was to return, and with his riches to 
 build up a new home for us both — he said 
 so, but I did not answer to his promise. 
 The tears were in my eyes, and I could not
 
 316 A PROUD WIFE. 
 
 seethe new life beyond for the mist that 
 gathered there, and shut out the fairer 
 prospect which his hopes portrayed. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TTGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
 ■tTJ