LI E> RA R.Y 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS
 
 ^A 
 
 THE SCALLYWAG
 
 NEW NOVELS AT EVERY LIBRARY. 
 
 THE DICTATOR. By Justin McCarthv, M.P. 3 vols. 
 THE RED SULTAN. IJy J. Maclaren Couhan. 3 vols. 
 HEATHER AND SNOW. By Georgk MacDonalu. a vols. 
 THE REBEL QUEEN. Hy Walter Besant. 3 vols. 
 THE SCALLYWAG. By Grant Allen. 3 vols. 
 THE GUN-RUNNER. By Bertram Mitford. 1 vol. 
 
 THE CONSTABLE OF ST. NICHOLAS. By Edwin Lester 
 
 Aknoi.u. I vol. 
 
 DOCTOR PASCAL. By E. Zola, i vol. 
 
 'TO LET,' etc. By B. M. Ckokek. i vol. 
 
 A TRYING PATIENT, etc. By James Pavn. i vol. 
 
 London : CHATTO 8: WINDUS, Piccadilly.
 
 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 BY 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 THE TENT? OF SHEM,' ' IVAN CREET's MASTERPIECE." ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 EontJon 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 ' 1893
 
 v/ 
 
 ■^ 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 5 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 ? 
 
 r^< 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN WINTER QUARTERS - - - 1 
 
 II. ROOM FOR THE HERO - - - 18 
 
 III. AL FRESCO - - - - - 35 
 
 IV. AT ST. AGNESE - - - - 48 
 V. GOSSIP - - - - - 66 
 
 VL THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION - - 79 
 
 VII. SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME - 95 
 
 VIII. PAUL'S ADVISER .... 112 
 
 IX. TEMPTATION .... 130 
 
 X. THE HEIRESS IS WILLING - - - 147 
 
 XL BEHIND THE SCENES - - - 164 
 
 XII. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE - - - 178 
 
 XIII. BROTHER AND SISTER - - - 195 
 
 XIV. THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR TO THE 
 
 TITLE ----- 213 
 
 XV. COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY - - - 228 
 
 XVI. FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE - - 245 
 
 ^
 
 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IX WINTER QUARTERS. 
 
 ' For my part,' said Armitage, 'I call him a 
 scallywag. ' 
 
 ' What is a scallywag V Nea Blair asked, 
 looking up at him from her seat with in- 
 quiring w^onder. 
 
 Armitage paused a moment, and perused 
 his boots. It's so hard on a fellow to be 
 pounced upon like that for a definition off- 
 hand. 
 
 * Well, a scallyw^ag,' he answered, leaning 
 his back, for moral support, against the big 
 eucalyptus-tree beside which he stood, ' a 
 scallywag, I should say, well — well, is — 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 why, he's the sort of man, you know, you 
 wouldn't Hke to be seen walking down Pic- 
 cadilly with.' 
 
 ' Oh, I see !' Nea exclaimed, with a bright 
 little laugh. ' You mean, if you w^ere walk- 
 ing down Piccadilly yourself in a frock-coat 
 and shiny tall hat, with an orchid from Bull's 
 stuck in your button-hole ! Then I think, 
 Mr. Armitage, I rather like scallywags.' 
 
 Madame Ceriolo brought her eyes (and 
 eyeglasses) back from space, w^here they had 
 been firmly fixed on a point in the heavens 
 at an infinite distance, and ejaculated in mild 
 and solemn surprise : ' But why, my dear 
 Nea ?' 
 
 ^ Oh, because, Madame, scallywags are 
 always by far the most interesting people in 
 the world. They're so much more likely to 
 be original and amusing than all the rest of 
 us. Artists and authors, for example, are 
 almost always scallywags.' 
 
 * What a gross libel on two liberal pro- 
 fessions !' Armitage put in, ^vith a shocked 
 expression of face. 
 
 He dabbled in water-colours as an amateur 
 himself, and therefore considered he was
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 3 
 
 very nearly implicated in this wholesale 
 condemnation of Art and Literature. 
 
 * As far as I'm concerned,' Madame 
 Ceriolo said with angelic softness, re- 
 arranging her 2')'i''i^ce-nez, ' I hate originality. 
 And I'm not very fond of artists or authors. 
 Why should people wish to be different 
 from their fellow-Christians V 
 
 ' Who is it you're calling a scallywag, 
 any way ?' Isabel Boyton asked from her 
 seat beyond with her clear American 
 accent. 
 
 If Madame Ceriolo was going to start an 
 abstract discussion on an ethical question of 
 wide extent, Isabel meant, with Phila- 
 delphian practicality, to nail her down at 
 once to the matter in hand, and resolutelv 
 resist all attempts at digression. 
 
 ' Why, this new man, Gascoyne,' Armitage 
 drawled out in answer, annexing a vacant 
 chair just abandoned by a fat old French- 
 man in the background by the cafe, and 
 seating himself opposite them. 
 
 * It's a good name — Gascoyne,' Nea sug- 
 gested quietly. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed,' Miss Boyton echoed, with
 
 4 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 American promptitude. * A first-rate name. 
 I've read it in a history-book.' 
 
 ' But a o^ood name doesn't count for niucli 
 nowadays,' Madame Ceriolo interposed, and 
 then straightway repented her. Anybody 
 can assume a good name, of course ; but 
 surely she was the last person on earth who 
 ought to have called attention, just then, 
 to the facility of the assumption. For did 
 she not print a countess's coronet on top of 
 her own card on no better title ? and was 
 not her vogue in Rivieran society entirely 
 due to her personal assertion of her relation- 
 ship to the Ceriolos of Castel Ceriolo, in the 
 Austrian Tyrol ? 
 
 ' Well, he's a nice-looking young fellow 
 enough,' Nea added, pleading his cause with 
 warmth, for she had committed herself to 
 Mr. Gascoyne's case now, and she was quite 
 determined he should have an invitation. 
 
 * Besides, we're awfully short of gentle- 
 men,' Isabel Boyton put in sharply. * I 
 haven't seen him, but a man's a man. I 
 don't care whether he is a scallywag or not, 
 I mean to go for him.' And she jotted 
 down the name on her list at once, without
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 5 
 
 waiting to hear Madame Ceriolo for the 
 prosecution. 
 
 It was seasonable weather at Mentone, 
 for the 20th of December. The sky was as 
 cloudlessly blue as July, and from the 
 southern side of the date - palms on the 
 Jardin Public, where they all sat basking 
 in the warm rays of the sun, the great 
 jagged peaks of the bare mountains in the 
 rear showed distinct and hard against a 
 deep sapphire background. A few hundred 
 feet below the summit of one of the tallest 
 and most rugged, the ruined walls of the 
 Saracen fortress of Sant' Agnese just caught 
 the light ; and it was to that airy platform 
 that Nea and Isabel proposed their joint 
 picnic for the twenty-fourth — the day before 
 Christmas. And the question under debate 
 at that particular moment was simply this — 
 who should be invited by the two founders 
 of the feast? each alternately adding a name 
 to her own list, according to fancy. 
 
 ' Well, if you take Mr. Gascoyne,' Nea 
 said, with a faint air of disappointment at 
 losing her guest, '/ shall take Mr. Thistle- 
 ton.'
 
 6 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 And she proceeded to inscribe him. 
 
 ' But, Xea, my dear,' Madame Ceriolo 
 broke in with an admirable show of maternal 
 soHcitude, ' who is Mr. Gascoyne, and who is 
 Mr. Thistleton ? T think we ought to make 
 sure of that. I haven't even heard their 
 names before. Are they in society?' 
 
 ' Oh, they're all right, I guess,' Isabel 
 Boy ton answered briskly, looking up much 
 amused. ' Momma was talking to them on 
 the promenade yesterday, and she says she 
 apprehends Mr. Thistleton's got money, and 
 Mr. Gascoyne's got brains if he ain't got 
 family. They can just come right along. 
 Don't you be afraid, madame.' 
 
 * Your momma's opinion is very reassuring, 
 no doubt,' Madame Ceriolo continued dryly, 
 as who liked not the security, and in a 
 voice that half mimicked Isabel's frank 
 Americanism ; ' but still, as being in charge 
 of dear Nea's conduct and society while she 
 remains at Mentone, I should prefer to feel 
 certain, before we commit ourselves to in- 
 viting them, exactly who these young men 
 are. The fact that they're stopping at a 
 decent hotel in the town is not in itself
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS .7 
 
 sufficient. Such very odd people get into 
 good hotels on the Riviera sometimes/ 
 
 And Madame Ceriolo, measuring Isabel 
 through her eyeglasses with a stony stare, 
 drew herself up with a poker down her back, 
 in perfect imitation of the stereotyped 
 British matronly exclusiveness. 
 
 The fact was, having accepted the post 
 of chaperon - companion to Nea Blair for 
 the winter, Madame Ceriolo was laudably 
 anxious to perform her part in that novel 
 capacity with strict propriety and attention 
 to detail ; but, never having tried her hand 
 at the proprieties in her life before, and 
 being desirous now of observing them to 
 the utmost letter of the law — if anything, 
 she rather over-did it than otherwise. 
 
 ' Now, Mr. Armitage,' Nea said mis- 
 chievously, ' it's you who 're responsible for 
 our original introduction to the scallywag 
 and his friend. Speak up for their ante- 
 cedents ! You've got to account for your 
 acquaintances to Madame.' And she drew a 
 circle with her parasol on the gravel-path, 
 as if to point the moral of the impossibili- 
 ties of his ever escaping them.
 
 8 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' Well, to begin with, they're Oxford men,' 
 Armitage said, clearing his throat and look- 
 ing dubiously about him. ' They're both of 
 them Oxford men.' 
 
 Madame Ceriolo's back relaxed somewhat. 
 ' Oh, Oxford men,' she answered in an ap- 
 peased voice. * That's always something.' 
 Then, after a pause, under her breath, to 
 herself, ' Ja wohl, ja wohl ! C'est toujours 
 Cjuelque chose.' 
 
 It was part of Madame Ceriolo's point, 
 in fact, as a cosmopolitan and a woman of 
 the world, that she always thought to herself 
 in French or German, and translated aloud, 
 as it were, into English. It called attention 
 now and again in passing to what casual 
 observers mio^ht otherwise have overlooked 
 — her Tyrolese origin and her Parisian 
 training. 
 
 ' And Gascoyne, the scallywag,' Armitage 
 went on reflectively, 'appears to be a sort of 
 tutor or something of the kind to the other 
 one — Thistleton.' 
 
 Madame Ceriolo'sback collapsed altogether. 
 
 ' An Oxford tutor!' she cried, smiling most 
 genially. * Why, that's quite respectable.
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 9 
 
 The pink of propriety. Tout ce qu'il-y-a de 
 plus comme il faut ! Nothing could be more 
 proper.' 
 
 ' I don't think he's exactly a tutor — not 
 in the sense you mean,' Armitage continued 
 hastily, afraid of guaranteeing the scallywag 
 too far. ' I think he's merely come abroad 
 for the vacation, you know, bringing this 
 other young fellow along with him as a private 
 pupil, to give him a few hours' reading and 
 accompany him generally. I fancy he hasn't 
 taken his own degree yet.' 
 
 ' Then they're both of them students 
 still ?' Isabel Boy ton interjected. ^ Oh my ! 
 Ain't that nice ! Two Oxford students ! 
 You always read in English books, you 
 know, about students at Oxford.' 
 
 Armitage smiled. 
 
 ^ We don't call them students at Oxford 
 or Cambridge, though, for obvious reasons,' 
 he said, with British tolerance for Trans- 
 atlantic ignorance ; ' we know too well what 
 they go there for. Miss Boyton, for that. 
 We call them undergraduates.' 
 
 ' Well, undergraduates, any way,' Isabel 
 answered good-humouredly. She was ac-
 
 lo THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 customed to .snubbing. * It don't much 
 matter what you call them, I guess, as long 
 as they're men, and come from Oxford. Are 
 you satisfied about them now in your own 
 mind, Madame Ceriolo V 
 
 Madame Ceriolo smiled her gracious little 
 smile. She was as pretty and well preserved 
 a woman of forty as you would wish to see 
 across a table dlwte at dinner any day. 
 
 ^ If they're really Oxford men, and your 
 momma approves of them,' she replied, with 
 just the faintest little undertone of malice, 
 * I'm sure they'll be an acquisition to Men- 
 tone society. Though I could wish that one 
 of them was not a scallywag, if Mr. Armi- 
 tage has explained the meaning of the name 
 he applies to him correctly.' 
 
 * Chut !' Armitao'e murnmred in a orentle 
 
 o o 
 
 undertone. ' Talk of the devil ! — Here 
 comes Thistleton !' 
 
 * We say in Austria, '' Speak of an angel, 
 and YOU hear the rustle of her wingfs," ' 
 Madame answered demurely. ' C'est plus 
 poli, notre proverbe a nous ; n'est-ce pas, 
 monsieur ? And which is Thistleton I The 
 pupil or the scallywag ?'
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS n 
 
 * The pupil,' Armitage whispered in a 
 flutter of uneasiness. * But take care — 
 take care ! He'll see we're talkinof of 
 him.' 
 
 ' The pupil ! C'est bien !' Madame 
 mused in reply. And in effect it luas 
 well ; for experience and analogy led her 
 to conclude that the pupil is usually richer 
 in this world's goods than his master or 
 instructor. 
 
 ' Though, after all,' Madame reflected to 
 herself wisely, ' it isn't always the richest 
 people, either, you can get most out 
 of 
 
 Her reflections, however, philosophical as 
 they might be, were cut short by the arrival 
 of the pupil himself, whom Armitage ad- 
 vanced to greet with friendly right hand, 
 and presented duly to the ladies of the 
 party. 
 
 ^ Madame Ceriolo, Miss Boyton, Miss 
 Blair, Mr. Thistleton.' 
 
 The new-comer bowed. He was a 
 blonde young man, tall, hearty, and athletic, 
 with a complexion indicative of serious at- 
 tention to beefsteak for breakfast, and he
 
 12 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 wore a well-made knickerbocker suit that 
 suggested unlimited credit at a West-end 
 tailor's. 
 
 Madame Ceriolo cast her keen black eyes 
 over him once from head to foot through 
 those impassive glasses, and summed him 
 up mentally at a glance to herself; manu- 
 facturing interest, rich, good-humoured, a 
 fool with his money, strong, handsome, 
 Britannic — the kind of young man, in fact, 
 who, under other circumstances, it might 
 have been well for a woman of the world to 
 cultivate. But then, dear Nea ! that excel- 
 lent Mr. Blair ; the Cornish rectory ; her 
 British respectabihty ! Madame drew her- 
 self up once more at the thought and bowed 
 stiffly. 
 
 ' Xow, Nea, say, he's yours ; you've got 
 to ask him,' Isabel Boy ton remarked, after 
 the usual formalities of the weather report 
 and the bill of health had been duly ex- 
 changed by either party. * The seal ' 
 
 She checked herself; even Transatlantic 
 freedom of speech has its final limits. 
 ' Mr. Gascoyne's mine, and Mr. Thistleton's 
 yours, you know. So fire away, there's a
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 13 
 
 dear. *' On Saturday next — the pleasure 
 of your company." ' 
 
 ' What is it ?' the blonde young man 
 asked with a good-humoured smile. ' Ten- 
 nis, a hop, a dinner, a tea-fight V 
 
 ' Oh dear no ! only a picnic, Mr. Thistle- 
 ton,' Nea answered, blushing ; a blush 
 through that clear rich olive-dusky skin is 
 so very becoming. ' Miss Boyton and I 
 are stopping together at the Hotel des 
 Rives d'Or, and we've got up a little enter- 
 tainment of our own ' 
 
 ^ With momma and Madame Ceriolo,' 
 Isabel interposed promptly, to save the con- 
 venances. 
 
 ^ To Sant' Agnese on the hill-top there/ 
 Nea went on, without noticing the interrup- 
 tion. ' It's on Saturday, the twenty-fourth, 
 the day before Christmas. Are you and 
 Mr. Gascoyne engaged for Saturday V 
 
 ' Now, you're asking my man, too,' Isabel 
 put in, pretending to be vexed ; ' and I was 
 going to write him such a sweetly pretty 
 invitation.' 
 
 ^ We're not engaged, as far as I'm con- 
 cerned,' Thistleton answered, seating him-
 
 14 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 self ; ' I shall be awfully delighted. But 
 I'm not so sure about Gasco3me, Miss Blair. 
 He's such a shy sort of fellow, he won't go 
 out. However, I'll convey Miss Boyton's 
 message to him.' 
 
 ' But the trouble is,' Isabel said, glancing 
 seaward, ' that every man Jack of us is to 
 go on a donkey.' 
 
 ' And this meeting cordially recognises 
 the principle,' Armitage put in from behind, 
 ' that every man Jack of us, as Miss Boyton 
 so charmingly phrases it, is to engage, 
 provide, hire, and pay for his own animal.' 
 
 ' Where's Sant' Amese ?' the blonde 
 young man inquired, looking about him 
 vaguely. 
 
 Armitage and Miss Boyton pointed it 
 out together at once (of course in different 
 places), and Armitage's, as a matter of fact, 
 happened to be the right one. Such is the 
 perversity of men, that they actually insist 
 upon being usually accurate in these un- 
 important details. 
 
 ' Why, I could hop that lot on one foot,' 
 Thistleton exclaimed contemptuously. * I'll 
 walk, Miss Blair ; I don't need any donkey.'
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 15 
 
 * But you don't understand,' Armitage 
 answered, smiling. ' The point of this 
 particular entertainment is that it's to be 
 fundamentally and essentially an exclusive 
 donkey- j)icnic. ' 
 
 * For which reason, Mr. Armitage, we've 
 included you in it,' Isabel remarked paren- 
 thetically in a stage undertone. 
 
 Armitage severely ignored the cheap 
 witticism. A man of culture can afford to 
 ignore Pennsylvanian pleasantry. 
 
 ' And it would mar the harmony of the 
 entertainment,' he continued, as bland as 
 ever, ^ if any of us were to insist on goinsj- 
 up on our natural organs of locomotion.' 
 
 ' Meaning our legs,' Nea added in ex- 
 planation, for the blonde young man seemed 
 helplessly involved in doubt as to . Armi- 
 taofe's meaninof. 
 
 Isabel Bo^^ton glanced down at the 
 ground with modest coyness. 
 
 ' Limbs we say in Amurrica,' she mur- 
 mured half inaudibly to herself, with a rising^ 
 blush. 
 
 ^ We are all vertebrate animals,' Armi- 
 tage responded with cheerful ease. ' Why
 
 i6' THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 seek to conceal the fact ? Well, you see, 
 Thistleton, the joke is just this : wc shall 
 start some ten or fifteen donkey - power 
 strong, all in a row, to scale the virgin 
 heights of Sant' Agnese — is "■ virgin 
 heights " permissible in America, Miss Boy- 
 ton ? — and if any one of us were ignobly to 
 walk by the side, he'd be taking a mean 
 advantasre of all the remainder.' 
 
 * In short, we mean to make ourselves 
 ridiculous in a lot,' Nea said, coming to the 
 rescue : ' and none of us must be less ridicu- 
 lous than the main body. You can't think 
 what fun it is, Mr. Thistleton, and what a 
 cavalcade we shall make, zigzagging up and 
 down the mountain side like so many billy- 
 goats ! Why, fat old Mrs. Newton at our 
 hotel's going to come on purpose, if she can 
 get any donkey in Mentone strong enough 
 to carry her.' 
 
 ' The true philosopher,' Armitage ob- 
 served sententiously, * is never deterred 
 from doing that which suits his own con- 
 venience by the consideration that he is at 
 the same time affording an innocent amuse- 
 ment to other people.'
 
 IN WINTER QUARTERS 17 
 
 The blonde young man yielded with 
 grace forthwith. 
 
 * Oh, if it's only a case of making myself 
 ridiculous to please the company/ he said 
 with native good-humour, ' I'm all there. 
 It's my usual attitude. I accept the donkey 
 and the invitation. When and where do 
 we start ? We must have a rendezvous.' 
 
 ' At the Gare at ten sharp,' Nea said, 
 ticking him off on her list of the apprised. 
 ' And mind you order your donkeys well 
 beforehand, for there'll be a brisk demand. 
 Every donkey in Mentone '11 be in requisi- 
 tion for the picnic' 
 
 Madame Ceriolo sighed. ^ What a char- 
 acter you're giving us !' she exclaimed 
 lackadaisically. ' But never mind, my 
 child, la jeunesse s'amusera.' 
 
 And she looked as young and pretty her- 
 self when she smiled as a woman of forty 
 can ever reasonably be expected to do. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO. 
 
 An hour later the blonde young man 
 pursued the even tenor of his way, assisted 
 by a cigar and swinging a stout green 
 orange stick in his hand, along the Pro- 
 menade du Midi, the main lounge of Men- 
 tone, towards the Hotel Continental. 
 Arrived at the grand staircase of that 
 palatial caravanserai, the most fashionable 
 in the town, he leapt lightly up three steps 
 at a time into the entrance-hall, and calling 
 out, ' Here, you, sir,' in his native tongue — 
 for he was no linguist — to the boy at the 
 lift, mounted hydraulically, whistling as he 
 went, to the second story. There he burst 
 into the neatly-furnished sitting-room, being 
 a boisterous young man most heedless of
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 19 
 
 the conventions, and, flinging his hat on the 
 table and himself into an easy- chair before 
 the superfluous fire, exclaimed in a loud and 
 jolly voice to his companion : ^ I say, Gas- 
 cojme, here's games to the fore ! I've got 
 an invitation for you.' 
 
 His friend looked up inquiringly. ^ Who 
 from ?' he asked, laying down his j^en and 
 rising from his desk to sun himself in the 
 broad flood of light by the window. 
 
 ' A pretty American,' Thistleton an- 
 swered, knocking off* his ash into the basket 
 of olive-wood ; ' no end of a stunner !' 
 
 ' But I don't know her,' Paul Gascoyne 
 gasped out with a half-terrified look. 
 
 ' So much the better,' his companion 
 retorted imperturbably. ^ If a lady falls 
 over head and ears in love with you merely 
 from seeing your manly form in the street 
 without ever having so much as exchanged 
 a single word with you, the compliment's a 
 higher one, of course, than if she waited to 
 learn all your virtues and accomplishments 
 in the ordinary manner.' 
 
 * Dinner ?' Gascoyne asked, with a 
 dubious glance towards his bedroom door.
 
 20 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 He was thinking how far his evenino^ 
 apparel would carry him unaided. 
 
 * No, not dinner ; a picnic next Saturday 
 as ever was,' Thistleton replied, all uncon- 
 scious. ' The ladies of the Rives d'Or 
 invite us both to lunch with them on the 
 green up yonder at Sant' Agnese. It's an 
 awful lark, and the pretty American's dyini^r 
 to see you. She says she's heard so much 
 about you ' 
 
 * A picnic !' Paul interposed, cutting him 
 short at once, and distinctly relieved by 
 learning of this lesser evil. * Well, I dare 
 say I can let it run to a picnic. That won't 
 dip into much. But how did the ladies at 
 the Rives d'Or ever come at all to cognise 
 my humble existence ?' 
 
 Thistleton smiled an abstruse smile. 
 ' Why, Armitage told them, I suppose,' he 
 answered carelessly. * But do you really 
 imagine, at the present time of day, my 
 dear fellow, every girl in the place doesn't 
 know at once the name, antecedents, posi- 
 tion, and prospects of every young man of 
 marriageable age that by any chance comes 
 into it ? Do you think they haven't spotted
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 21 
 
 the fashionable intelligence that two real 
 live Oxford men are stopping at the 
 Continental ? I should rather say so 1 
 Gascoyne, my boy, keep your eyes open. 
 We've our price in the world. Mind you 
 always remember it !' 
 
 Paul Gascoyne smiled uneasily. ^ I wish 
 I could think so,' he murmured half aloud. 
 
 ' Yes, we've our price in the world,' his 
 friend continued slowly, cigar turned down- 
 wards and lips pursed, musing. ' The 
 eligible young man is fast becoming an 
 extinct animal. The supply by no means 
 equals the demand. And the result's as 
 usual. We're at a premium in society, and, 
 as economic units, we must govern ourselves 
 accordingly.' 
 
 ' Ah, that's all very well for rich men 
 like you,' Paul began hurriedly. 
 
 ^ What ! do you mean to say,' Thistleton 
 cried, rising and fronting him with a jerk, 
 * that half the women one meets wouldn't 
 be only too glad to marry the son and heir 
 of a British bar ' 
 
 Before he could utter the word that was 
 gurgling in his throat, however, Gascoyne
 
 22 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 had cla^jped his hand upon that imprudent 
 mouth, and cried out, in a perfect agony of 
 disgust, ' Xo more of that nonsense, for 
 heaven's sake, Thistleton ! I hope you 
 haven't breathed a word about it to anybody 
 here in Mentone ? If you have, I think I 
 shall die of shame. I'll take the very next 
 train back to Paris, I swear, and never come 
 near either you or the place again as long 
 as I live.' 
 
 Thistleton sat down, red - faced, but 
 sobered. ' Honour bright, not a word !' he 
 answered, gazing hard at his companion. 
 ' I've never so much as even alluded to it. 
 The golden-haired Pennsylvanian was try- 
 ing to pum}) me all she knew, I confess ; 
 but I listened not to the voice of the 
 charmer, charmed she never so wisely 
 through her neat little nose. I resisted 
 the siren like bricks, and kept my own 
 counsel. Now, don't cut up rusty about it, 
 there's a good, sensible fellow. If a man's 
 father does happen to be born ' 
 
 But a darted look from Gascoyne cut 
 him short once more with unspoken remon- 
 strance, and he contented himself with
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 23 
 
 pulling down his collar and flashing his 
 shirt-cuffs to imitate in pantomime a general 
 air of close connection with the British 
 aristocracy. 
 
 There was a short pause, during which 
 Thistleton slowly puff^ed his cigar, while 
 Paul looked out of the window in medi- 
 tative mood and scanned the blue bay and 
 purple sea, with Bordighera shining white 
 on its promontory in the distance. 
 
 It would have been impossible for any- 
 body to deny, as you saw him then, that 
 Paul Gascoyne was essentially a scallywag. 
 He looked the character to perfection. It 
 wasn't merely that his coat, though care- 
 fully brushed and conserved, had seen long 
 service and honourable scars ; it wasn't 
 merely that his tie was narrow, and his 
 collar demode, and his trousers baggy, and 
 his shoes antique : it wasn't merely that 
 honest poverty peeped out of every fold and 
 crease in his threadbare raiment ; the man 
 himself had something of that shy and 
 shrinking air which belongs by nature to 
 those poor souls who slink along timidly 
 through the back alleys of life, and fear to
 
 24 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 tread with a free and open footste}) the main 
 highways of respectable humanity. Not 
 that, on the other hand, there was anything 
 mean or small in Paul Gascoyne's face or 
 bearing ; on the contrary, he looked every 
 inch a man, and, to those who can see below 
 the surface, a gentleman also. He was tall 
 and well built, with handsome features and 
 copious black hair, that showed off his fine 
 eyes and high white forehead to great 
 advantage. But the day of small things 
 had weighed upon him heavily : the iron of 
 poverty and ancestral care had entered into 
 his soul. The sordid shifts and petty 
 subterfuges of a life far harder than that of 
 his companions and fellow-students had left 
 their mark deep upon his form and features. 
 He was, in short, what Armitage had called 
 him, in spite of his good looks — an obvious 
 scallywag, nothing more or less : a person 
 rightly or wrongly conscious that, by acci- 
 dent or demerit, he fills a minor place in 
 the world's esteem and the world's con- 
 sideration. 
 
 He stood and gazed out of the window 
 abstractedly, reflecting to himself, after all,
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 25 
 
 that a climb up those glorious gray crags to 
 Sant' Agnese would be far from unpleasant, 
 even though clogged by a golden-haired 
 Pennsylvanian, no doubt wealthy, if only — 
 when suddenly Thistleton recalled him to 
 himself by adding, in an afterthought, 
 ' And we've got to order our donkeys early, 
 for donkeys, too, will be at a premium on 
 Saturday. Political economy very much to 
 the front. Supply and demand again un- 
 equally balanced.' 
 
 Paul glanced up at the silent rocks once 
 more — great lonely tors that seemed to 
 pierce the blue with their gigantic aiguilles 
 — and answered quietly, ' I think I shall 
 walk, for my own part, Thistleton. It can't 
 be more than a couple of thousand feet or 
 so up, and half a dozen miles across country 
 as the crow flies. Just about enough to 
 give one an appetite for one's lunch when 
 one gets there.' 
 
 ' Ah, but the pretty American's com- 
 mands are absolute — every man Jack to 
 ride his own donkey. They say it's such 
 fun going up in a body like so many fools ; 
 and if everybody's going to make himself a
 
 26 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 fool for once, I don't object to bearing my 
 part in it.' And the blonde young man 
 leaned back in his easy-chair and stuck his 
 boots on the fender with a tolerant air of 
 perfect contentment with all mankind and 
 the constitution of the universe. 
 
 ' I shall walk,' Paul murmured again, not 
 dogmatically, but as one who wishes to 
 settle a question off'hand. 
 
 ' Look here, now, Gascoyne, as the 
 Highland meenister said in his prayer, this 
 is clean rideeklous. Do you mean to say 
 you're too grand to ride a donkey ? You 
 think it infra dig. for a B. of B. K. — 
 there, will that suit you ? — to be seen on a 
 beast which is quite good enough ' 
 
 Paul cut him short once more with a 
 gesture of impatience. 
 
 * It's unkind of you, Thistleton,' he said, 
 * to go on harping so often on that 
 threadbare string, when you see how very 
 much pain and annoyance it causes me. 
 You know it's not that. Heaven know\s 
 I'm not proud — not that way, at least 
 — what on earth have I got not to be 
 ashamed of? No, the simple truth is, if
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 27 
 
 you must have it, I don't want to go to the 
 expense of a donkey.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow ! Why, it's only five 
 francs for the whole day, they tell me.' 
 
 Paul Gascoyne smiled. ' But five francs 
 is a consideration to me,' he answered, after 
 a slight mental reckoning. ' Fifty pence, 
 you see ; that's four and twopence. Four 
 and twopence is an awful lot of money to 
 fling away for nothing !' And he rearranged 
 the logs on the fire reflectively. 
 
 ' Well, look here, Gascoyne : sooner than 
 mar the harmony of the meeting, I'll tell 
 you what I'll do — I'll stand you a donkey.' 
 
 Paul gave a little start of surprise and 
 uneasiness. His colour deepened. ^ Oh 
 no,' he said. ' Thistleton, I couldn't allow 
 that. If I go at all, I shall go on my own 
 legs, or else take a beast and pay my own 
 expenses.' 
 
 ' Who's proud now ?' the blonde young 
 man exclaimed, with provoking good- 
 humour. 
 
 Paul looked down at him gravely from 
 the corner of the mantelpiece on which his 
 arm rested.
 
 28 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 * Thistlutoii,' he said, in a serious voice, 
 growing redder still in the face as he spoke, 
 ' to tell you the truth, I'm ashamed already 
 of how much I'm letting you do for me. 
 When I first arranged to come abroad with 
 you, and have my expenses paid, I hadn't 
 the remotest conception, I assure you, of 
 what an awful sum the expenses would 
 come to. I've never lived at a hotel like 
 this before, or in anything like such ex- 
 travagant luxury. I thought the ten 
 pounds I charged for tuition would be the 
 chief item ; instead of which, I see now, 
 you've already paid almost as much as that 
 for me in railway fares and so forth, and I 
 tremble to think how much more you may 
 have to pay for my board and lodging. I 
 can't let you stand me my anmsements, too, 
 into the bargain.' 
 
 The blonde young man puffed away at 
 his cigar for a moment or so with vigorous 
 good-humour. 
 
 ' What a devil of a conscience you've 
 got !' he observed at last, in the intervals of 
 the puffs ; ' and what a devil of a touchy 
 sense of honour as well, Gascoyne ! I sup-
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 29 
 
 pose it's in the family ! Why, it's the 
 regular rule ; if you take a vacation tutor to 
 a place of your own choice abroad, you pay 
 his way for him. I call it only fair. 
 You contract to do it. There's no obliga- 
 tion on either side. A mere matter of 
 business.' 
 
 ' But you come to such a grand hotel 
 and live so royally !' Paul objected with 
 fervour. 
 
 * Am I to go to a cabaret and live upon 
 garlic, just to suit your peculiar views of 
 expenditure ?' Thistleton retorted with 
 spirit. ^ Can I drink sour wine and eat 
 black bread because you like to be econo- 
 mical ? No, no, my dear fellow. You 
 mistake the position. I want to come to 
 Mentone for the winter. Beastly climate, 
 Yorkshire ; dull hole, the governor's ; lovely 
 coast, the Riviera ; Monte Carlo always 
 laid on at a convenient distance ; lots of 
 amusement ; plenty of fun ; the very place 
 to spend the Christmas vac. in. If I go 
 and say to the governor : *' Look here, old 
 boy : I want a pony or two to run down 
 South and amuse myself, just to escape this
 
 30 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 infernal dull hole of yours, and to have a 
 turn or two at roulette or something," why 
 the governor 'd no doubt advise me to go 
 and be hanged, in language more remark- 
 able for force than elegance. Very well, 
 then ; what do I do ? I go to him and say, 
 pulling a long face, '^ Look here, sir, I want 
 to read up for my next examination. 
 Devilish clever fellow at my own college — 
 studious, steady, economical — excellent 
 testimonials — all that sort of thinof. Sure 
 to come out a first in * Greats ' next time. 
 I propose to read wuth him at some quiet 
 place in the South of France — say Men- 
 tone," suppressing the little detail about 
 Monte Carlo, you understand ; ''he'll go for 
 a tenner and his own expenses." What's 
 the result ? The governor's delighted. 
 Fishes out his purse — stumps up liberally. 
 Claps me on the back, and says, " Charlie, 
 my boy, I'm gratified to see you're turning 
 over a new leaf at last, and mean to read 
 hard, and get through with credit." And 
 that's the real use, you see, of a vacation 
 tutor.' 
 
 Paul listened somewhat afjhast to this
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO 31 
 
 candid explanation of his own true function 
 in the modern commonwealth ; then he 
 answered slowly : 
 
 ' It's rather hard lines on the governor, I 
 fancy. But I suppose I can't interfere 
 with that. Your arrangements with your 
 father are your own business, of course. 
 As to myself, though, I always feel a little 
 uneasy. It may be all right, but I'm not 
 accustomed to such a magnificent scale of 
 expenditure, and I don't want to put either 
 you or him to any unnecessary expense in 
 the matter of my living.' 
 
 Thistleton threw back his head once 
 more on the easy-chair and mused aloud. 
 
 ' What a conscience ! what a conscience ! 
 I believe you wouldn't spend an extra six- 
 pence you could possibly save if your life 
 depended upon it.' 
 
 ' You forget,' Paul cried, ' that I have 
 special claims upon me.' 
 
 The peculiar stress he laid upon that 
 emphatic word ' claims ' might have struck 
 anybody less easy-going than Charlie 
 Thistleton, but the blonde young man let it 
 escape his attention.
 
 32 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' Oh, I know what you mean,' he retorted 
 carelessly. * I've heard that sort of thing 
 from lots of other fellows before. Slender 
 means — the governor poor — heavy expenses 
 of colleofe life — home demands — a mother 
 and sisters.' 
 
 * I wish to heaven it was only that,' Paul 
 ejaculated fervently. ' A mother and 
 sisters I could easily put up with. But the 
 claims upon me are far more serious. It's 
 a duty I owe to Somebody Else not to 
 spend a single penny I can help, un- 
 necessarily.' 
 
 ' By Jove !' the blonde young man ex- 
 claimed, waking up. ' Not engaged ? Or 
 married ?' 
 
 ' Engaged ! Married ! No, no. Is it 
 likely ?' Paul cried, somewhat bitterly. 
 
 * The golden-haired Pennsylvanian's a 
 jolly good investment, I should say,' 
 Thistleton went on, meditatively. ' Rolling 
 in coin. A mint of money. She'll be 
 really annoyed, too, if you don't come to 
 her picnic, and, what's more, ride n 
 donkey.' 
 
 * Is she rich V Paul asked, with sudden
 
 ROOM FOR THE HERO Z3 
 
 and unexpected interest, as if a thought 
 had instantly darted across his brain. 
 
 ' Rich ! Like Croesus, so Armitage tells 
 me. Rich as Pactolus. Rich as wedding- 
 cake. Rich beyond the wildest dreams of 
 avarice.' 
 
 Paul moved from his place at the corner 
 of the mantelpiece, fiery red in the face 
 now, and strolled as carelessly as he could 
 across the room to the window. Then he 
 opened his purse, counted the money fur- 
 tively, and made a short mental calculation, 
 unobserved. At the end of it he gave a 
 very deep sigh, and answered aloud, with 
 a wrench : 
 
 ^ Well, I suppose I ought to go. It's 
 a precious hard pull ; for I hate this sort 
 of thing ; but, then, I have claims — very 
 special claims upon me.' 
 
 ^ Still, you'll go, anyhow ?' Thistleton 
 asked once more. 
 
 ' Yes, I'll go,' Paul answered, with the 
 air of a man who makes up his mind to 
 have a tooth drawn. 
 
 ^ And you'll ride a donkey V 
 
 ^ I suppose I must, if the golden-haired 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Peniisylvanian absolutely insists upon it. 
 Anything on earth where duty calls 
 one.' 
 
 And he sank, wearied, into the chair by 
 the window.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AL FRESCO. 
 
 Saturday dawned as lovely a morning as 
 the founders of the feast could possibly 
 have wished it. It was a day to order. 
 Not a touch of mistral embittered the air. 
 The sea shone liquid blue, with scarcely 
 a ripple dimpling its surface ; the great 
 gray peaks loomed clear and distinct in 
 hard outline agfainst a solid blue firmament. 
 It is only on the Riviera that you get that 
 perfect definiteness and contrast of colour. 
 Everything looked sharp as in an early 
 Italian picture, with an early Italian sky 
 of uniform hue to throw up and intensify 
 the infinite jags and tatters of the mountain 
 profile. 
 
 At ten sharp the first arrivals began to
 
 36 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 trreet one another with shouts of derision 
 
 o 
 
 on the road by the station. Thistleton and 
 Gaseoyne were among the earHest on the 
 scene. PunctuaHty, the blonde young man 
 remarked, was one of his companion's most 
 hopeless failings. As they trotted up upon 
 their mettlesome steeds — Paul's more met- 
 tlesome, in fact, than was either seemly or 
 agreeable — they found Armitage with four 
 ladies in tow drawn up in a hollow square 
 to receive them. Boys with the provisions 
 stood expectant at the side, and Paul 
 noticed with a distinct tinge of awe that 
 from one of the baskets several necks of 
 bottles protruded, wired and tied, and 
 covered with Qfold or silver tissue. Then 
 the picnic would actually run to champagne ! 
 What unbridled luxury ! The golden-haired 
 Pennsylvanian must, indeed, as Thistleton 
 had declared, be rich as Pact ol us ! 
 
 A stern sense of duty induced Paul to 
 look around the group for that interesting 
 personage. Unaccustomed to society as he 
 was, and in the awkward position of being 
 introduced from the back of a restive 
 donkey, he was at first aware merely of
 
 AL FRESCO 27 
 
 a fiery heat in his own red face and a 
 confused blurr of four perfectly unabashed 
 and smiUng ladies. Four names fell simul- 
 taneously on his unheeding ear, of the 
 sound of which he caught absolutely 
 nothing but the vague sense that one was 
 Madame Somebody, and that two of the 
 rest were Miss Whatsername and her 
 momma. A clear sharp voice first roused 
 him to something like definite consciousness. 
 * Mr. Gascoyne's my guest, Xea,' it said, 
 in a full and rich American accent, which 
 Paul had hardly ever before heard, ' and Mr. 
 Thistleton's yours. Mr. Gascoyne, you've 
 jest got to come and ride up right alongside 
 of me. And I'll trouble you to look after 
 the basket with the wine in it.' 
 
 So this was the golden-haired Pennsyl- 
 vanian ! Paul glanced at her shyly, as who 
 meets his fate, and answered with what 
 courage he could summon up, ' I'll do my 
 best to take care of it, but I hope I'm not 
 responsible for breakages.' 
 
 The lady in the deerstalker hat beyond 
 — not the Pennsylvanian — turned to him 
 with a quietly reassuring smile. ' What a
 
 38 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 glorious day we've got for our picnic !' she 
 said, flooding him with the Hght of two 
 dark hazel eyes ; ' and what splendid fun 
 it'll be going all that way up on donkeys, 
 won't it V 
 
 For those hazel eyes and that sunny 
 smile Paul would have forsworn himself 
 before any court of justice in all England 
 with infinite pleasure. As a matter of fact, 
 he disliked donkey-riding — he, who could 
 clear a fence with any man in Oxford — but 
 he answered sinfully (and I hope the record- 
 inof ans:el omitted to notice the trans^res- 
 sion), * Nothing could be more delightful ; 
 and with such lovely views, too ! The 
 look-out from the summit must be some- 
 thing too charming for anything.' After 
 which unwonted outburst of society talk, 
 lost in admiration of his own brilliancy, he 
 relapsed once more into attentive silence. 
 
 Nea Blair had never, indeed, looked more 
 beautiful. The tailor-made dress and the 
 unstudied hat suited her simple girlish 
 beauty to a T. Paul thought with a sigh 
 how happy he could have been had the call 
 of duty led him thither, instead of towards
 
 AL FRESCO 39 
 
 the service of the golden-haired Pennsyl- 
 vanian. 
 
 One after another the remaining guests 
 struggled up j)iecemeal ; and when all were 
 gathered together — a quarter of an hour 
 behind time, of course — for they were mostly 
 ladies — the little cavalcade got itself under 
 way, and began to mount the long steep 
 stairs that lead from the Borrigo valley 
 to the scarped hog's back which separates 
 the Val des Chataio-ners from the Val des 
 Prime veres. To Paul, in spite of the 
 eccentricities of his mount, that first ex- 
 pedition into those glorious mountains was 
 one of almost unmixed delight. As they 
 threaded their way in long single file across 
 the wooded col that divided the ravines, he 
 looked down with surjDrise and pleasure into 
 the gracious deep gorges on either side, each 
 traversed by the silver thread of torrent, 
 and reflected to himself with a sigh of 
 pleasure that he had never known the world 
 was so beautiful. 
 
 'Oh my ! ain't it jest lovely ?' Miss 
 Boyton called out to him from behind, for 
 he was sandwiched in between her and Nea
 
 40 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Blair ; ' and ain't they jest elegant, the 
 lemon-trees in the valley there !' 
 
 * Which are the lemoiis V Paul asked, 
 half dubious, for the ravine was filled with 
 trees and shrubs whose very names he knew 
 not. 
 
 ' Why, the awfully green trees on the 
 terraces down below,' Isabel Boyton an- 
 swered, a little offhandedly. 
 
 ' And the silvery gray ?' Paul inquired 
 with some hesitation. * Are they olives, 
 I wonder V 
 
 ' Of course they're olives,' the American 
 answered, with some little asperity. ' I 
 guess you've never been along this way 
 before, Mr. Gascoyne, have you V 
 
 ' It's the first time in my life I've ever 
 been out of England,' Paul answered humbly ; 
 ' and everything is so strange. I find I've 
 a great deal to learn all at once — to learn 
 and to remember.' 
 
 * But the olives are lovely, aren't they V 
 Nea Blair remarked, turning round upon 
 him with that sunny smile of hers for a 
 moment. ' Lovelier even than your own 
 willows round about IfHey, I think — if any-
 
 AL FRESCO 41 
 
 thing on earth can be lovelier than dear old 
 Oxford.' 
 
 ' Then you know Oxford?' Paul exclaimed, 
 brightening up at once. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; I had a brother a few years 
 ago at Oriel. And I know Mrs. Douglas, 
 the wife of the Professor.' 
 
 ' I wish I'd had a brother at Oxford 
 College,' Miss Boy ton put in parenthetically, 
 urging on her donkey ; ' I'd have made him 
 take me along and introduce me to all his 
 aristocratic acquaintances. I mean some 
 day to marry one of your English noblemen. 
 I've made up my mind to catch an earl, 
 and be Lady Isabel Something.' 
 
 ' But you couldn't be Lady Isabel by 
 marrying an earl,' Paul answered, smiling 
 a very curious smile. ' In that case, of 
 course, you'd be a countess.' 
 
 ' Well, a duke, then,' Miss Boyton 
 answered, imperturbable, ' or a marquis, or 
 a viscount, or whatever other sort of noble- 
 man was necessary to make me into Lady 
 Isabel.' 
 
 Paul smiled again. ' But none of them,' 
 he said, ' could make you Lady Isabel.
 
 42 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 You'd be Lady Somebody, you know — Lady 
 Jones, for example, or Lady Smith, or Lady 
 Cholmondeley.' 
 
 * Or Lady Gascoyne : that sounds jest 
 lovely,' Miss Boyton interposed with an air 
 of perfect simplicity. 
 
 Paul started at the sound, and scanned 
 her close. His ears tingled. Was she 
 really as innocent and harmless as she 
 looked, or had it somehow come round to 
 her — but oh no ; impossible ! ^ Yes,' he 
 went on quietly, without noticing the inter- 
 ruption ; ' but you must be born a duke's 
 or an earl's or marquis's daughter to be 
 called Lady Isabel.' 
 
 Miss Boyton's countenance fell not a 
 little. 
 
 ^ Is that so ?' she exclaimed plaintively. 
 * You don't tell, really ! Then I can'c be 
 Lady Isabel no matter who I married V 
 
 ' No matter whom you married,' Paul 
 answered with the stern precision of Lindley 
 Murray and a British Peerage in equal })ro- 
 portions. 
 
 ' Well, now, if that ain't jest too bad !' 
 Isabel Boyton exclaimed with deep mock
 
 AL FRESCO 43 
 
 pathos. ' Say, Nea, Mr. Gascoyne's crushed 
 the dream of my Kfe. I don't care a cent 
 to be Lady Somebody if I can't be Lady 
 Isabel. And I can't be Lady Isabel who- 
 ever I marry. I call it jest heartrending.' 
 
 ' Won't an honourable or a courtesy-lord 
 do as well V Nea asked, laughing. 
 
 ' Oh my, no !' Isabel answered promptly ; 
 though what manner of wild - beast a 
 court.esy-lord might be she hadn't the 
 faintest conception. ' I'd most as soon go 
 back to Philadelphia again, returned empty, 
 and marry a stockbroker. I've made up 
 my mind to be Lady Isabel or nothing.' 
 
 ' Then I'm afraid,' Paul said with a faint 
 little smile, ' I can do nothing for you.' 
 
 * But if it were onh' to make her plain 
 '' My Lady," now 1' Nea put in laughingly. 
 
 Paul laughed in return — an uneasy laugh. 
 They had just reached one of the sudden 
 steep ascents where the sure-footed little 
 donkeys, straining every nerve and muscle 
 in their stout, small legs, climb up the 
 bare rocks like mountain goats, with their 
 human burdens jerking in the saddles like 
 so many meal-bags. ' How the little beasts
 
 44 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 grimp !' Paul cried, half surprised ; ' such 
 plucky little creatures, and so strong for 
 their size ! They're really wonderful !' 
 
 * That's a good word — " grinip," ' Nea 
 answered from in front. 'Is it pucker 
 Enorlish, I wonder ?' 
 
 * I do admire it,' Isabel Boyton replied 
 from behind. ' Here, get up, donkey. My 
 Arab steed don't carry me regularly.' 
 
 Just at that moment a loud cry of ' Ach 
 Himmel !' resounded from the forefront of 
 the cavalcade, where Madame Ceriolo led 
 the way — Madame Ceriolo, even in the 
 most trying circumstances, never forgot to 
 keep up her French and German — followed 
 next instant by a sharp ' Mon Dieu ! quelle 
 affreuse petite bete !' and the shambling, 
 scrambling noise of a fallen donkey en- 
 deavouring to recover itself 
 
 Paul and Armitage were at her side in 
 a moment, to pick up Madame Ceriolo and 
 her unhappy mount. Madame made the 
 most noise, but Blanchette, the donkey, had 
 received by far the most injury. The poor 
 little beast's knees were cut and bleeding, 
 ' Je I'ai couronnee, la mechante,' Madame
 
 AL FRESCO 45 
 
 aaid carelessly, and Paul saw at a glance 
 it would be quite unable to continue the 
 journey. 
 
 It's an ill wind, however, that blows 
 nobody good. Paul seized the opportunity 
 to effect a double stroke of business — to do 
 a politeness to Madame Ceriolo and to get 
 rid of the onus of his own donkey. Almost 
 before she could have a voice in the matter, 
 or any other man of the party equally 
 gallant or equally uncomfortable could antici- 
 pate him, he had shifted the side-saddle 
 from poor, patient, shivering, broken-kneed 
 Blanchette, and transferred it forthwith to 
 the bigger beast he himself had been riding. 
 * Merci, monsieur, merci ; mille remerci- 
 ments,' Madame cried, all smiles, as soon as 
 she had recovered her equanimity and her 
 company manners. * And you, you little 
 brute,' turning to poor Blanchette and 
 shaking her wee gloved fist angrily in its 
 face, * you deserve to be whipped, to be 
 soundly whipped, for your nasty temper.' 
 
 * The poor creature couldn't help it,' Paul 
 murmured quietly, tightening the girths ; 
 ' the road's very steep and very slippery, you
 
 46 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 can see. I don't wonder they sometimes 
 come an awful crop})er !' 
 
 * By Jove !' Armitage said, watching him 
 as he fastened the buckles and bands, 
 
 * what a dab you are at donkeys, really, 
 Gascoyne! You do it like a groom ; you've 
 missed your vocation.' 
 
 Paul coloured up to the roots of his 
 hair. ' I've been used to horses,' he 
 answered quietly. Then he turned back 
 without another \vord to take his place on 
 foot beside Nea Blair and Isabel. ' Here, 
 boy,' he called out to one of the drivers 
 quickly, ' hand me that basket : I'll take it 
 on ; and go down to Men bone with this 
 poor little beast. She'll need looking after.' 
 
 He spoke in French fluently, and Xea 
 turned in surprise. 
 
 ' Why, you said you had never been 
 abroad before !' she exclaimed, taken aback. 
 
 * And now you talk like a regular houlc- 
 vardier. Were you born Parisian, or did 
 you acquire it by a miracle ?' 
 
 ^ I've had great opportunities of talking 
 French at home,' Paul answered, a little 
 embarrassed. * We — a — we ahvays had a
 
 AL FRESCO 47 
 
 Frenchwoman in the family when I was a 
 child; 
 
 * A governess ?' Nea suggested. 
 
 * Well, no. Xot exactly a governess. ' 
 ' A bonne, then ?' 
 
 ' No, not quite a bonne, either,' Paul 
 replied truthfully. Then, a happy thought 
 seizing him on the moment, he continued, 
 with truth, * She was a lady's-maid.' 
 
 After that he relapsed into silence for a 
 while, feeling joainfully conscious in his own 
 mind that his subterfuge was a snobbish 
 one. For though he only meant, himself, 
 to evade a difficulty, he saw at once that 
 Nea Blair would understand him to mean a 
 lady's-maid of his mother's. And as to 
 the possibility of his mother having ever 
 possessed that ornamental adjunct — why, 
 the bare idea of it was simply ridiculous.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT SANt' AGNESE. 
 
 Once restored to the free use of his own 
 two legs, Paul Gascoyne was himself again. 
 As the one member of the party, excei)t 
 the donkey-boys, who went afoot, he was 
 here, there, and everywhere, in waiting 
 upon everybody. What prodigies of valour 
 did he not perform in hauling fat old Mrs. 
 Newton's donkey up the steepest bits, 
 or in slipping down round the sharpest 
 corners to help Nea Blair safely round 
 some difficult gully ! What useful services 
 did he not lavish on the golden-haired 
 Pennsylvanian and her shrivelled mannna, 
 walking by their sides where the ledges 
 were narrowest and calming their fears 
 where the rocks towards the sloj)e were
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 49 
 
 loosest and most landslippy ! How he 
 darted from the rear up short-cuts of the 
 zigzags, and appeared in front again, a 
 hundred yards ahead, on some isolated 
 boulder, to encourage and direct their 
 doubtful footsteps ! How he scrambled 
 over inaccessible faces of cliff to fetch some 
 fern or flower for Nea, or to answer some 
 abstract question as to the ultimate destina- 
 tion of the minor side-paths from Isabel 
 Boyton ! He was a good climber, and he 
 enjoyed the climb — though he feared for 
 his old boots and his carefully-conserved 
 trousers. 
 
 The road was long — Sant' Agnese stands 
 some three thousand feet above sea-level — 
 but at every turn the views grew lovelier, 
 and the sense of elation in the mountain air 
 more distinct and delicious. They passed 
 from the region of olives into the zone of 
 pine woods, and then again into that of 
 bare white rock, scarcely terraced here and 
 there by Provengal industry to support a 
 few stunted vines and undersized chestnut- 
 trees. The path wound slowly up the 
 sides of a stony ravine, and then mounted 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 in a series of sharp elbows tlfe sheer peak 
 itself, to an accompaniment of cries of 
 Franco - German distress from Madame 
 Ceriolo and shrill Transatlantic exclamations 
 of horror from the golden-haired Pennsyl- 
 vanian. At last they reached the goal of 
 their j^ilgrimage — a rocky platform high up 
 the last j^eaks of the jagged mountain, with 
 a gray Ligurian village just clinging to the 
 slopes, and almost indistinguishable from 
 the still grayer wall of bare rock that rose 
 above it in sharp tors and weather-worn 
 chimneys against the deep blue heaven. 
 
 ' What a glorious view !' Nea Blair ex- 
 claimed, as they looked down unexpectedly 
 on the northern side into a profound and 
 naked basin of rock, at whose bottom the 
 Borrigo torrent roared and brawled amid 
 its scattered boulders. * And what magni- 
 ficent great peaks away across the valley 
 there !' 
 
 * I guess we'd better iix up lunch on that 
 flat piece by the chapel,' Isabel Boyton 
 remarked with Occidental practicability, 
 spying out forthwith the one patch of 
 tolerably level irround within reach of the
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 51 
 
 village. It was a spur of the mountain, 
 covered with that rare object in the 
 Provencal Alps, a carpet of turf, and pro- 
 jecting from the main range far into the 
 semicircle of the deep rock-basin. 
 
 ' We'll fix it up right away,' Madame 
 Ceriolo answered with good-natured mimicry. 
 Madame Ceriolo had the natural talent for 
 languages which seems to go inseparably 
 w^ith the role of Continental adventuress, 
 and she spoke American almost as well and 
 with almost as good an accent as she spoke 
 her other alternative tongues. ' If your 
 momma and Mrs. New^ton '11 set themselves 
 down right here, and make themselves com- 
 fortable, Mr. Gascoyne and I will jest 
 unpack the baskets. Come along here, 
 Nea, we want you to help us. Miss 
 Boyton, you get the plates and things 
 ready, will you V 
 
 For a few minutes they were busy 
 arranging everything, Armitage, the blonde 
 young man, and Paul rendering all due 
 assistance ; and Paul was aware in an 
 indefinite way that Madame Ceriolo was 
 somehow anxious to keep him off as much
 
 52 . THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 as possible from the golden-haired Pennsyl- 
 vanian. But as this gave hiiii the oppor- 
 tunity of conversing more with Nea, and as, 
 duty to the contrary notwithstanding, he 
 very much preferred Nea to the heiress of 
 Pactolus, he by no means resented Madame's 
 obvious anxiety in this respect. On the 
 contrary, he salved his conscience with the 
 reflection that it was Madame rather than 
 inclination that kept him away from the 
 lady of the golden hair and prospects. 
 
 Such a picnic as that December morning's 
 Paul had never before borne a part in. 
 There were dishes from Pumpelmayer's, 
 cunningly compounded of aspic and olives, 
 whose very names he had not so much as 
 heard, but whereof the rest of the party, 
 more instructed in cookery, talked quite 
 glibly. There were curious j^alads, and 
 garnishings of crayfish, and candied fruits 
 and pastry and nougat of artistic manufac- 
 ture. There was much champagne, and 
 vintage clarets, and Asti mousseux for those 
 who liked it sweet, and green chartreuse 
 poured from a Cantagalli bottle. For 
 though the picnic was nominally a joint
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 53 
 
 aftkiv of Nea's and the American's, it was 
 Isabel Boyton who contributed the Ron's 
 share of the material provision, which she 
 insisted upon doing with true Western 
 magnificence. The lunch was so good, 
 indeed, that even the beauties of nature 
 went unnoticed by comparison. The}^ had 
 hardly time to look at the glimpse of calm 
 blue sea disclosed between the ridges of 
 serrated peaks, the green basking valleys 
 that smiled a couple of thousand feet below, 
 with their oransfe and lemon oToves, or the 
 Hood of sunshine that poured in full force 
 upon the mouldering battlements of the 
 grim and wasted Alps in front of them. 
 
 After lunch, however, Paul somehow 
 found himself seated on the slope of the 
 hill with Nea. They had discussed many 
 things — Mentone, and the view, and the 
 flowers, and the village — and Nea had just 
 told him the strange old legend of the castle 
 that clings to the topmost peak — how it 
 was founded by a Saracen who levied tax 
 and toll on all the Christian folk of the 
 country round, and finally became converted 
 to the faith of Europe by the beautiful
 
 54 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 eyes of a peasant-girl whose charms had 
 enslaved him, when suddenly she came back 
 plump to the nineteenth century with the 
 point-blank question, * Where do you live 
 when you're at home, Mr. Gascoyne ?' 
 
 * In Surrey,' Paul answered vaguely, 
 growing uncomfortably hot. 
 
 ' Surrey's a big address,' Nea Blair 
 answered, pulling a tiny rock-rose from a 
 cranny in the precipice. ' Any particular 
 pait — or do you occupy the county gene- 
 rally ?' 
 
 Paul laughed, but not with quite a 
 gracious laugh. ' About twenty-five miles 
 from London,' he answered, with evasive 
 vagueness. 
 
 * I've lots of friends in Surrey,' Nea went 
 on innocently, unconscious of the mental 
 pangs she was carelessly inflicting on him. 
 ' Do you know Hillborough ?' 
 
 ' Why, that's just where I live,' Paul 
 answered, with a suppressed start. 
 
 ' Dear me ; how funny I haven't met 
 you !' Nea exclaimed in surprise. ' I'm 
 always down at Hillborough, stopping with 
 the Hamiltons.'
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 55 
 
 * Indeed,' Paul responded in a very dry 
 voice. 
 
 ' You must know the Hamiltons/ Xea 
 persisted, all innocence. ' Sir Arthur 
 Hamilton, of the Grange, at Hillborough. 
 He used to be Governor of Madras, you 
 know, or somewhere.' 
 
 ' I know them by name, of course,' Paul 
 admitted uneasily. 
 
 ^ But not personally V 
 
 ^ No, not personally. We — a — we move 
 in different circles.' 
 
 ' Then you must know the Boyd- 
 Galloways,' Nea went on interrogatively. 
 
 ' Only by sight. I haven't any large 
 acquaintance at Hillborough.' 
 
 ' The Jacksons ?' 
 
 ^ Colonel Jackson I sometimes see, it's 
 true ; but I don't know him. They're — 
 they're not the kind of set I mix with.' 
 
 ' Well, of course you know the rector/ 
 Nea exclaimed, nailing him. ' The dear 
 old Archdeacon — he's so nice with every- 
 body.' 
 
 * He comes to us occasionally,' Paul 
 answered with some reluctance. Then, after
 
 56 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 H pause, he added, lest lie should seem to 
 be claiming too great an honour : ' But 
 much more often he sends the curate/ 
 
 Even yet Xea failed to take in the situa- 
 tion, not because she was slow of under- 
 standing, but because it was quite a novel 
 one to her. * Perhaps you live alone V she 
 suggested in explanation. 
 
 Paul could put off the danming truth no 
 longer. 
 
 ^ On the contrary,' he said, ' my father 
 and mother live and have always lived 
 entirely at Hillborough. But they're not 
 in a position to see much of the local 
 society — in fact, they're not in society in 
 any way. We're quite poor people — what 
 your friend, Mr. Armitage, to use a 
 favourite word of his, would call scallywags.' 
 
 There was an awkward pause. Then 
 Nea said again, with a becoming blush : 
 
 ^ Forgive my pressing you. It — it never 
 occurred to me.' Next moment feminine 
 tact induced her to change the subject, not 
 too abruptly. ' I visit a good deal at Hill- 
 borough myself, and I thought we'd be sure 
 to have acquaintances in common. But I
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 57 
 
 live in Cornwall. Have you ever been in 
 Cornwall, Mr. Gascoyne ? In summer it's 
 almost as beautiful as this ; it is, really.' 
 
 ' No, I've never been there,' Paul 
 answered, grateful to her for the clever 
 diversion. ' But T shall hope to go,' he 
 added quite seriously. 
 
 ' Oh, you must, when I get back again 
 there next summer,' Xea cried most warmly. 
 ' It's so awfully lovely. As soon as I'm 
 well I shall lono- to o^et home ao-ain,' 
 
 ' You're not here for your health ?' Paul 
 inquired, catching her up. 
 
 ^For my health? Yes. But it isn't 
 serious. Not my lungs, you know,' for 
 Paul had laid his hand instinctively on 
 his chest. ^ Only to recover from the effects 
 of an upset in a boat last summer. I've no 
 mother, and papa couldn't bring me abroad 
 himself, because of leaving his parish ; so he 
 got Madame Ceriolo to take care of me. 
 She's accustomed to travelling — Madame 
 Ceriolo.' 
 
 ' Where on earth did he pick her up V 
 Paul inquired with some curiosity, for, in- 
 experienced in the ways of the world as he
 
 58 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 was, Madame Ceriolo's personality had already 
 struck him as a sufficiently singular one for 
 her present occupation. 
 
 * Oh, he heard of her from a governess's 
 agency,' Nea answered with much confidence. 
 * She had excellent testimonials from people 
 of title. She's well connected. And she's 
 a good little thing enough when you really 
 get to know her.' 
 
 ' I dare say,' Paul answered in that dubious 
 tone which means, ' I don't think so, but 
 I wouldn't be rude enough to contradict 
 you.' 
 
 What Nea said next he didn't catch, 
 for his ear was that moment distracted b}^ 
 a side conversation carried on at some little 
 distance, between Armitage and old Mrs. 
 Newton. They were talking low, but, in 
 spite of their low tones, he overheard more 
 than once the vao^ue murmur of his own 
 name ; and that man were surely more than 
 mortal whom the sound of his own name 
 overheard in his neighbours' talk would not 
 draw away even from a pretty girl's unim- 
 portant causerie. He listened without pre- 
 tending to hear, and put in * yes,' and * no,'
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 59 
 
 to Nea's remarks a tort ct a travers. ' Only 
 one family of Gaseoynes with a ''y " and 
 without a '' g," ' Mrs. Newton was observ- 
 ing ; ' and that's the baronet's. Old Sir 
 Emery Gascoyne, the last of the lot, was 
 very rich, and lived down in Pembroke- 
 shire — in Little England beyond Wales, 
 as they call it locally. But this young 
 man can't be one of tJwse Gaseoynes, be- 
 cause ' and there her voice sank still 
 
 lower. Paul strained his ears, but could 
 hear no more. ' So very odd, wasn't it ?' 
 Xea was saying appealingly. 
 
 ' Extremely odd,' Paul assented like a 
 man, though to what particular proposition 
 he was thus boldly committing himself he 
 really hadn't the faintest idea ; but, as 
 Miss Blair said so, he had very little doubt 
 it must have been positively ludicrous. 
 
 ' I stopped there once, at Gascoyne 
 Manor,' Armitage was saying once more, 
 when next a scrap of the conversation was 
 wafted towards him : ' It was in old Sir 
 Emery's time, you know, before the present 
 man came into possession. The present 
 man's not a baronet, I fancy ; ah, no, exactly
 
 6o THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 SO ; that's just as I thought ; but he's 
 very rich, and will be lord-lieutenant of the 
 county some day, I'm told. A splendid 
 place, and awfully well kept up. No sort 
 of connection, you may be pretty sure, with 
 young Thistleton's tutor.' 
 
 Paul's ears were tingling hot by this 
 time, and it was with difficulty that he so 
 far roused himself as to understand, when 
 Nea said, ' Shall we start at once, then ?' — 
 that she had just been proposing a climb 
 to the castle ruins, and that he had un- 
 consciously promised to accompany her on 
 her scramble. 
 
 * Certainly,' he said, coming back with a 
 start ; and they rose at once, Madame 
 Ceriolo rising too to fulfil to the letter 
 her appropriate functions as contracted and 
 ])aid for. 
 
 ^ Come,' she said, ' Mr. Thistleton,' with 
 her most girlish smile — and she looked 
 seventeen when she meant to captivate — 
 * come and give me a hand over these 
 dreadful rocks. Mon Dieu ! quels rochers ! I 
 shall stumble and fall, I know, if I haven't 
 one of the lords of creation to lean upon.'
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 6i 
 
 As they passed through the dark and 
 vaulted alleys of the quaint old town — mere 
 filthy mole-tracks, built round on either side, 
 and strenofthened with vaults thrown across 
 from house to house for greater stability in 
 times of earthquakes — Xea glanced up 
 quickly at the gloomy old roofs, and ex- 
 claimed with a gay ease, ' Oh, isn't it pic- 
 turesque ! I should just love to sketch it.' 
 
 ' Very picturesque,' Paul answered, look- 
 ing down at the noisome small gutters under 
 foot, where barefooted children scrambled 
 and crawled among the accumulated dirt 
 of five-and-twenty centuries, ' but very ter- 
 rible, too, when you come to think that 
 men and women live all their life in it.' 
 
 * Oh, they're accustomed to it,' Nea re- 
 plied lightly, with the easy-going optimism 
 of youth and of the comfortable classes. 
 ' They've never known anything better, I 
 suppose, and they don't feel the want 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Miss Blair,' Paul said, turning round 
 and facing her suddenly and quite unex- 
 pectedly, ' that sentiment's unworthy of 
 you. You're only saying, of course, what
 
 62 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 everybody else says ; but we expect some- 
 thing better from }fou than from everybody. 
 Look at the misery and dirt in which these 
 people live, and if contentedly, then so much 
 the more terrible. Discontent is the only 
 spur to improvement. If they're satisfied 
 to live as they do, then they're so much the 
 less human, and so much the more like the 
 beasts that perish. Look how here, on this 
 breezy, open hilltop, among these glorious 
 rocks, their houses are built without sun or 
 air, turned only to the filthy, festering street, 
 and away from the light and the sea and the 
 mountains. They don't care for the view, 
 you say. Their views about views are, no 
 doubt, rudimentar\^ But isn't it just that 
 that's the saddest thing of all — that where 
 they might enjoy so much fresh air, and sun- 
 shine, and health, and beauty, they're content 
 with such gloom and dirt, and misery, and 
 squalor ? You talk like that because you 
 hardly think any class but your own is 
 wholly human. I know better. I know 
 that, up and down, high and low, gentle 
 or simple, all the world over, there's a deal 
 of human nature in men and women. And
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 3 
 
 it seems to me a terribly painful thing that 
 they should live like this — so painful as to 
 spoil, to my mind, the very sense of pic- 
 turesqueness in all this picturesque dirt and 
 wretchedness !' 
 
 He turned round upon her so sharply, 
 and his words flowed so quick, in such a 
 spontaneous outburst of natural eloquence, 
 that Nea Blair was fairly taken by surprise. 
 
 * You're right, I know,' she answered in a 
 very low voice. ' I spoke unthinkingly. I 
 was only saying, as you say, what everj^one 
 else says. In future, Mr. Gascoyne, I shall 
 remember to think of it and S23eak of it 
 more seriously.' 
 
 Paul blushed in return. He felt he had 
 allowed his natural indignation to carry 
 him away too hastily and unreservedly. 
 
 Two hours later, as he came back alone 
 from the Hotel des Rives d'Or, whither he 
 had gone to see his hostess home, he re- 
 flected, with some pangs of remorse to him- 
 self, that he had, perhaps, done wrong in 
 paying so much attention to Miss Blair and 
 so comparatively little to the American 
 heiress. Gold, gold ! he should have gone
 
 64 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 for gold. It was wrong of him, no doubt 
 — extremely wrong, with those heavy claims 
 upon liini. But, then, how very nice Miss 
 Blair was, and how thoroughly he detested 
 this hateful worship of the golden calf and 
 the golden image ! If only his lot had been 
 framed otherwise ! Marry for money — the 
 hateful idea ! How much a man must 
 sacrifice to the sense of duty ! 
 
 On the table of the salcm he found a 
 letter awaiting him, with the Hillborough 
 postmark. The handwriting on the envelope 
 was boldly commercial. He tore it open. 
 It was brief and succinct. And this was 
 what he read in it : 
 
 *■ My dear Paul, 
 
 * I ought to have written to you 
 before you left Oxford, to say that now you 
 are going abroad it would be a great pity — 
 in case you get thrown into good society 
 — to spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar, 
 as the common saying is. The time is now 
 coming when we may begin to expect to 
 ])ull off our roxip, as the sporting gentle- 
 men call it. Don't go singing small, as
 
 AT SANT AGNESE 65 
 
 you're too much inclined to do. Let them 
 know who you are, and take your proper 
 ]josition. At the same time, don't spend 
 too much, and don't get dragged into un- 
 necessary expenses. But keep up your 
 dignity. For this purpose I enclose a ten- 
 pound note, for which kindly sign note-of- 
 hand herewith, as usual. The noble bart. 
 and his lady are well and hearty, and send 
 their respects. 
 
 ' Your obedient servant, 
 
 ' JuDAH P. Solomons.' 
 
 Paul laid down the letter with a sigh of 
 relief It was a comfort, at anv rate, to 
 know he had not done wrong in paying five 
 francs for the beast which, as luck would 
 have it, he had never ridden. He entered 
 it without one qualm of conscience on his 
 accounts : ' Donkey for picnic, 4s. 2d.' The 
 item might pass. If Mr. Solomons ap- 
 proved, his mind was easy. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GOSSIP. 
 
 ' I THINK, for my part,' Nea said decisively, 
 enforcing her remark with a dig of her 
 parasol into the gravel walk, * the scally- 
 wag's much the nicest of the two. But 
 then, you know, I always did like scally- 
 wags. They've got so much more humanity 
 and reality about them than — than most 
 other people.' 
 
 They were seated once more, the morning 
 after the picnic, on the Promenade du Midi, 
 very stiff from their ride, and full of mutual 
 notes of last night's entertainment. 
 
 Madame Ceriolo smiled her conventional 
 smile, as she replied obliquely : ' And yet 
 the (jther one — ^je ne me rappelle plus son 
 noni — oh yes. Mr. Thistleton : he's very
 
 GOSSIP 67 
 
 agreeable too, and probably, I should say 
 an excellent jjarti.^ 
 
 ' Oh, he ain't much,' Isabel Boyton an- 
 swered with Yankee directness. ' He's a 
 lot too like a piece of putty for me. Of 
 course he's a fine big boy, and pretty nice 
 to look at ; but there's nothing in him. 
 I'm down on mind, I am, and the scally- 
 wag's got three times as much of that as 
 Mr. Thistleton.' 
 
 ' He's clever, I think,' Nea assented with 
 a nod. 
 
 ' Oh, you needn't talk, Nea,' the American 
 put in with a mock-injured air. ' I call it 
 real mean, the way you walked off with my 
 young man that I'd invited on purpose for 
 my own amusement, and left me to talk 
 half the day to that pappy, sappy, vappy, 
 big Englishman, with no more conversation 
 in his six feet six than a ship's figurehead. 
 It was jest downright ugly of her, wasn't it, 
 momma ?' 
 
 Mrs. Boyton was a dried-ujj old lady of 
 the mummified American order — there are 
 two classes of American old ladies : the 
 plentiful and the very skimj)y — who seldom
 
 68 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 contributed much to the interchange of 
 thought, save when her daughter called upon 
 her to confirm her own opinion ; and she 
 murmured now dutifully : * If you asked 
 him for yourself, Izzy, you'd a right to his 
 attentions ; but perhaps he most thrust 
 himself upon Miss Blair.' 
 
 * He was very kind and attentive to us 
 all,' Nea answered. ' In fact, he did more 
 than anybody else to make everything go off 
 smoothly.' 
 
 * I can't find out who the dickens he is, 
 though,' Armitage broke in with a sigh. 
 He was an old habitue of the Riviera, and 
 had imbibed all the true Rivieran love for 
 scandal-mongering and inquisitiveness. 'He 
 beats me quite. I never was so utterly 
 nonplussed in all my life. I've tried my 
 hardest to draw^ him out, but I can get 
 nothing out of him. He shifts, and evades, 
 and prevaricates, and holds his tongue. He 
 won't be pumped, however skilfully you 
 work the handle.' 
 
 And Armitage flung himself back in a 
 despairing attitude. 
 Nea smiled.
 
 GOSSIP 69 
 
 ' That's not unnatural,' she remarked in 
 parenthesis. 
 
 ' The worst of it is, though, the other 
 fellow's just as reticent as he is,' Armitage 
 went on, unheeding her. ' Not about 
 himself, I don't mean — that's all plain sail- 
 ing : Thistleton pere's a master cutler at 
 Sheffield, who manufactures razors by ap- 
 pointment to her Majesty (odd implements 
 for her Majesty !), and is as rich as they 
 make them — but about this man Gascoyne, 
 whom you call "the scallywag."' 
 
 ' Oh, say !' Isabel Boyton interposed 
 frankly, ' if that ain't real good now ! It 
 was you yourself that taught us the 
 word — we innocent lambs had never even 
 heard of it — and now you want to go and 
 father it upon us !' 
 
 ' Well, anyhow, Gascoyne seems to have 
 put Thistleton up to it to keep all dark, for 
 when I try to pump him about his tutor 
 he shuts his big mouth, and looks sheepishly 
 foolish, and can't be got to say a single word 
 about him.' 
 
 ' What was that Mrs. Newton was saying 
 to you yesterday about there being a Sir
 
 70 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Somebody Gascoyne somewhere down in 
 South Wales V Madame Ceriolo asked with 
 laiicruid interest. 
 
 For a foreigner, borne and bred abroad, 
 Madame Ceriolo's acquaintance with EngHsh 
 hfe and English topography was certainly 
 something quite surprising. But then, you 
 see, her dear manmia, as she was careful 
 always to explain to strangers, was English 
 ]>orn — the dauo-hter of a dean and niece of 
 
 o 
 
 a viscount. Very well connected person 
 on every side, little Madame Ceriolo ! And 
 a dean is such a capital card to j^lay in 
 society. 
 
 * Oh, there was a Sir Emery Gascoyne at 
 Gascoyne Manor, down near Haverfordwest,' 
 Armitage explained glibly ; ' a very rich old 
 gentleman of sensitive tastes and peculiar 
 opinions. I stopped there once when I was 
 an undergraduate. Splendid old place — 
 Elizabethan house — delightful park — square 
 miles of pheasants ; but ill-tempered, very. 
 If this young fellow's related to him — his 
 next-of-kin, heir-at-law, executor, assign, and 
 so forth — now's your chance. Miss Boyton, 
 to pick up that English title I heard you
 
 GOSSIP 71 
 
 say yesterday you'd set your susceptible 
 American heart upon.' 
 
 The golden-haired Pennsylvanian smiled 
 resignedly. ' It can never — never — never 
 be Lady Isabel,' she observed with pathos. 
 ' And yet I feel somehow like running a 
 coronet.' 
 
 ' I don't think Mr. Gascoyne can be in 
 any way connected with these Pembroke- 
 shire people,' Nea Blair put in, without the 
 slightest intention of contributing at all to 
 the general gossip. ' He told me his family 
 lived in Surrey — and,' she added after a 
 moment's faint hesitation, ' he implied they 
 were by no means either rich or dis- 
 tinguished.' 
 
 ' In Surrey ? Where — where ?' urged 
 a general chorus, in which Armitage's voice 
 and Madame Ceriolo's were by far the most 
 conspicuous. 
 
 ' I don't know whether I ought to say,' 
 Nea answered simply. ' I dragged it 
 out of him rather, and he told me in 
 confidence.' 
 
 ' Oh, if it's got to telling you things in 
 confidence already,' Armitage retorted with
 
 72 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 a very meaning smile, * I wouldn't for 
 worlds dream of inquiring any further into 
 the matter. Eh, Madame Ceriolo ? What 
 do you think about it ?' 
 
 Thus goaded to a reply, Nea answered at 
 once, with a very red face : * It wasn't so very 
 much in confidence as all that comes to. 
 He lives at Hillborough.' 
 
 ' Hillborough,' Armitage repeated with 
 a very abstruse air. ' Then that'll exactly 
 do. A friend of mine's a vicar near Hill- 
 borough — the very next parish, in fact, a 
 ()lace called Hipsley — and I'll write and ask 
 him this very day all about the mysterious 
 stranger. For when a man possesses a 
 social mystery, it's a sort of duty one owes 
 to society to turn him inside out and un- 
 ravel him entirely. Fellows have no right 
 to set us double acrostics in their own 
 ])ersons, and then omit to supply the 
 solution.' 
 
 ^ Here they come,' Madame Ceriolo cried. 
 ' The two Oxonians ! You'll have an 023por- 
 tunity now to try your hand again at him.' 
 
 Armitage's eye gleamed like a setter's on 
 the trail of the quarry.
 
 GOSSIP 73 
 
 * I'll have one more try, at any rate,' he 
 said with an air of virtuous resolution ; 
 ' his birth shall no longer be " wropped in 
 mystery," like Jeames de la Pluche's. He 
 shall tell us all. He shall be forced against 
 his will to confess his secret.' 
 
 The blonde young man approached them 
 carelessly. 
 
 ''Morning, Armitage,' he said with an 
 easy nod. Then he lifted his hat, ' Good- 
 morning, Madame Ceriolo. Miss Boy ton, 
 I hope your momma's not overtired this 
 morninof.' 
 
 ' We're all too stiff to do anything on 
 earth but sit still and scandalize,' the pretty 
 American answered with pert fluency. 'We 
 were scandalizing you two when you hove 
 in sight round the next block. I guess 
 you must have felt your ears tingle.' 
 
 Paul felt his tingling at that precise 
 moment. 
 
 ' What were you saying about us V he 
 inquired eagerly. 
 
 Miss Boyton made a graceful and lady- 
 like, though faint, variation on a common 
 gesture of street-boy derision.
 
 74 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' Wouldn't you jest like to know V she 
 responded saucily. ' You can't tell what 
 things we've all been hearing about you.' 
 
 * You can hardly have heard much that 
 was true,' Paul retorted with some an- 
 noyance. ' Nobody here at Mentone knows 
 anything of my family.' 
 
 ' What, have you no friends here V 
 Madame Ceriolo inquired, astonished. * How 
 very odd ! I thought ever3'body knocked up 
 against somebody they knew in Mentone. 
 The world's so absurdly small nowadays.' 
 And she sighed feelingly. 
 
 Paul hesitated. 
 
 ' Only one lady,' he answered, after a 
 brief pause. ' A friend of my mother's. 
 And I'm sure you haven't any of you met 
 her, or else she'd have told me so.' 
 
 * Are you all of you game for a brisk 
 walk to Cap Martin V Thistleton put in 
 abruptly, with a jerk of his thumb in the 
 direction indicated. ' We miiM do some- 
 thing to work off the effects of that infernal 
 jolting.' 
 
 ' Bar the swear- word, I quite coincide,' 
 Isabel Bovton answered.
 
 GOSSIP 75 
 
 ' The rest of us are too tired, I think,' 
 Madame Ceriolo yawned, gazing around 
 her affectedly, and darting a very meaning 
 glance at Armitage. 
 
 ' I'll go,' that inquiring soul responded 
 promptly, ' catching on to it,' as Miss 
 Boyton afterwards observed, like a detective 
 to the traces of a supposed forger. 
 
 ' You won't come, Xea V the American 
 asked as she rose to go. 
 
 ' I don't think I can,' Nea answered 
 hurriedly, looking down at her feet : ' I 
 don't feel up to it.' As a matter of fact, 
 nothing on earth would have pleased her 
 better ; but she didn't like to walk with 
 Paul after Armitage's insinuations that he 
 had been quick in taking her into his 
 youthful confidence. 
 
 ' Well, let's start at once, then,' the 
 blonde young man remarked cheerfully : he 
 was always as cheerful as health and wealth 
 and good humour can make one. ' We've 
 got no time to lose, I expect, if we mean 
 to walk out to the point and back before 
 lunch-time.' 
 
 As thev turned to set out, a woman
 
 76 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 passed them very unobtrusively ; a French- 
 woman, as it seemed, neatly, but by no 
 means flishionably dressed, and carrying 
 in her hand a small market-basket. She 
 looked at Paul very hard as she went by, 
 but had evidently not the least intention 
 of recognising him. The young man, 
 however, gazed at her for a moment in 
 obvious doubt : then something within him 
 seemed to get the better of him. He raised 
 his hat, and said, ' Bon jour, mademoiselle,' 
 with marked ])oliteness. 
 
 ' Bon jour. Monsieur Paul,' the French- 
 w^oman answered with a respectful smile, 
 evidently pleased at his recognition. And 
 they both passed on upon their respective 
 errands. 
 
 But as soon as they were gone, Madame 
 Ceriolo put up her tortoiseshell eyeglass 
 — the eyeglass she reserved for her most in- 
 solent stares — and regarded the unobtrusive 
 Frenchwoman from a distance with a pro- 
 longed scrutiny. ' Nea,' she said, turning 
 round to her charge with the air of one 
 who has made a profound discover}^ * did 
 you take it all in, cette petite comedie-
 
 GOSSIP 77 
 
 la 'i How simple ! How comical ! How 
 charmingly idyllic ! Ho didn't know 
 whether to bow to her or not, in such good 
 company ; but at the last moment he was 
 afraid to cut her. Poor little simpleton ! 
 How^ very fresh of him ! This is evidently 
 the lady who was his mother's friend, I 
 suppose. She would have saved him the 
 exposure if she could. But he hadn't the 
 tact or the good sense to perceive it.' 
 
 ' He was quite right to bow,' Nea 
 answered, growing hot, ' whoever she may 
 be ; and I respect him all the more for it.' 
 
 ' But do you know who she is ?' Madame 
 persisted, all overflowing with suppressed 
 amusement. 
 
 * No, I don't,' Nea answered ; ' and it 
 doesn't much matter.' 
 
 Madame braced herself up, like a British 
 matron compelled to announce a most shock- 
 ing truth. ' She's a lady's-maid with a 
 family at the lies Britanniques/ she answered 
 shortly. 
 
 There was a brief pause after the explosion, 
 in the course of which Nea and Isabel 
 Boyton's mamma each digested by degrees
 
 78 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 this startlini,^ item of information. Then 
 Xea murmured aloud once more, ' I always 
 did and always shall like scallywags. I ni 
 glad Mr. Gascoyne wasn't ashamed to 
 acknowledge her.'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IX ACTION. 
 
 The square party of pedestrians turned 
 away along the sea- front, and then, taking 
 the main road towards Nice, struck off for 
 the basking, ohve-coloured promontory of 
 Cap Martin. Thistleton led the way 
 with the Pennsylvanian heiress ; Paul and 
 Armitage followed more slowly at a little 
 distance. Isabel Boy ton had arranged this 
 order of malice prepense ; for she was a 
 mischievous girl, like most of her country- 
 women, and, though not inquisitive enough 
 herself to assist in the process of pumping 
 Paul, she was by no means averse to see 
 that application of social hydraulics put 
 into practice for the general benefit by a 
 third person.
 
 8o THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 * Queer sort of body, that little Madame 
 Ceriolo,' Armitage began as soon as they 
 were well out of earshot. He was one of 
 that large class of people who can seldom 
 talk about anything on earth except some 
 other human being. Personalities largely 
 outwei^rh generalities in their conversation. 
 With all the world to choose from, with 
 sun, moon, and stars, and heavenly bodies, 
 sea and land and air and ether, stone and 
 soil and plant and animal, history and 
 science and art and letters to form the text 
 of a possible talk, they can find nothing to 
 discuss except some petty detail in the 
 trivial life of some other fellow-creature. 
 That Mrs. Jones has quarrelled with Mrs. 
 Brown, or that Smith has been blackballed 
 at the Cheyne Row Club, seems to them a 
 far more important and interesting fact than 
 an eruption of Vesuvius or a cataclysm at 
 St. Petersburg. 
 
 ' She seems good-natured,' Paul answered, 
 without profoundly gauging the depths of 
 the subject. It was the most charitable 
 thinof he could find in his heart to sav about 
 her.
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 8i 
 
 ' Oh, good-natured enough, no doubt !' 
 Armitage went on confidentially ; ' but 
 what a curious person for a man of the 
 world to think of entrusting the care of his 
 dauofhter to !' 
 
 ' Perhaps Mr. Blair's not a man of the 
 world,' the younger speaker replied with 
 rare sagacity for his age. ^ Country parsons 
 are often very simple-minded people.' 
 
 ' He must be precious simple-minded if 
 he took the Ceriolo for anything but what 
 she is,' Armitage continued, sneering. ' A 
 brazen-faced specimen of the cosmopolitan 
 adventuress, if ever there was one. But 
 how clever, too — how immensely clever ! 
 'Pon my soul, I admire her ingenuity ! 
 Having accepted a situation as guardian of 
 the morals of an English young lady, she 
 rises to the full height of her post with 
 astonishing success and astonishing dignity. 
 Her simulation of virtue's something quite 
 sublime in its own way. Why, you'd hardly 
 believe it ; I attempted to flirt with her in 
 the mildest possible manner — I, w^ho am 
 the discreetest and least compromising of 
 mankind, a mountain of prudence — and 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 the British indignation and icy coldness 
 with which she repelled my gentle advances 
 was truly edifying. No Belgravian mamma 
 that ever lived could have done it more 
 beautifully.' 
 
 * Perhaps she didn't care for you,' Paul 
 suggested dryly. * Even a born flirt doesn't 
 want to flirt with everybody indiscrimi- 
 nately.' 
 
 * Perhaps that may be it,' Armitage 
 echoed, somewhat crestfallen. He was over 
 thirty, and he took it ill that a young fellow 
 barely of age as yet should thus calmly snub 
 his pretensions to the role of lady-killer. 
 ' But, at any rate, her respectability is 
 beyond reproach. Being cast for her part 
 by pure force of circumstances, she accepts 
 the situation and plays it to perfection.' 
 
 * She's quite right to respect Miss Blair's 
 youth and innocence,' Paul answered quietly. 
 * As far as that goes, I think all the 
 better of her for it. Even if she is an ad- 
 venturess, as you say, she's bound, as things 
 stand, to do the very best she can for her 
 present employer.' 
 
 * Oh, of course, of course ! You speak
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 83 
 
 like a book, a nice little Sunday-school book, 
 with a picture on the cover. But from the 
 other point of view, you know, the thing's 
 so ludicrous. Her careful assumption of 
 the highest morality's so transparently 
 absurd. Whenever she delivers herself of 
 one of her little copybook platitudes, I 
 always feel inclined to put my tongue in my 
 cheek and wink gently. There's no doubt 
 about it, though, she's devilish clever. She 
 can talk every blessed European language 
 with equal ease. She seems, like the famous 
 prima donna in the story, to have swindled 
 in every civilized country of the world — and 
 also in Germany.' 
 
 Paul smiled. 
 
 ' Her French is certainly admirable,' he 
 said. ' Her accent's so good. She speaks 
 like a Parisian.' 
 
 Armitage darted a hasty glance at him 
 sideways. So the fellow pretended to be a 
 judge of French accent, did he ? That was 
 certainly remarkable. A scallywag on 
 accent ! ' But her English, too,' he per- 
 sisted once more ; ' what's still odder is her 
 English. She rolls her rs a little, to be
 
 84 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 sure, and she slurs her ths ; that's only 
 natural ; but what admirable fluency and 
 what perfect command she has of even our 
 slang and our stock quotations ! She can 
 pun and jest and bandy chaff in English, 
 French, Italian, and German. She can 
 bully a cabman or browbeat a landlord in 
 ten languages. If her name's really Ceriolo, 
 which Heaven only knows, the way she's 
 learnt English alone is something to my 
 mind trul}^ miraculous.' 
 
 ' Her mother was English, she says,' 
 Paul suggested in his simplicity. ' A 
 clergyman's daughter, she told me — a Dean 
 Something or other.' 
 
 The older hand laughed at him to his 
 face. ' Do you really mean to say,' he 
 cried with an amused air, ' you believe all 
 that ? Oh, what charming simplicity ! 
 Why, you might as well believe in the 
 Countess's coronet and the family legend and 
 the late lamented Count who was killed at 
 the head of his noble troop of Austrian 
 sympathizers by an infuriated Turk in the 
 war in Servia. No, no, my dear fellow. 
 Don't you see how cleverly all that's been
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 85 
 
 arranged ? Madame has to deal with a 
 respected papa who happens to be an Eng- 
 hsh clergyman. Whatever or whoever the 
 Ceriolo may be, she thoroughly understands 
 our Enoflish Philistinism and our Eno^lish 
 prejudices. The respected papa won't 
 entrust his precious budding daughter to 
 anybody who's not a highly respectable 
 married woman and a member of the 
 Church of England as by law established. 
 Very well, then ; we can easily manage that 
 for you ; Madame' s mamma was an English 
 lady — Anglican, of course — yes, and clerical 
 too — a Dean's daughter ; and Madame her- 
 self, though born at the ancestral Schloss 
 in the Austrian Tyrol, was brought up by 
 agreement in her mother's religion. Could 
 anything be simpler, more natural or more 
 convincing ? And how very well planned ! 
 French and German, with the Paris accent 
 and the Viennese culture, and yet all the ad- 
 vantages of an English lady's care and the 
 precise and particular type of Christendom 
 exactly adapted to the needs and require- 
 ments of a country clergyman's daughter ! 
 By George, she's deep — extremely deep !
 
 86 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 But if it were a Frenchman of clerical sym- 
 pathies she had to deal with, I bet you 
 she'd be a Parisian and a fervent Catholic. 
 Not too devotej you know, nor austerely 
 rigorous, but as Catholic as a dame du 
 mondc ought to be.' 
 
 Paul shifted a little uncomfortably in his 
 pea-jacket. This cynic had clearly devoted 
 all his energies to the study and compre- 
 hension of his fellow -creatures, and he 
 read them, it seemed, a trifle too easily. 
 In such a man's hands, who was safe 
 for a moment ? Paul was afraid what 
 the fellow might screw and worm out of 
 him. 
 
 * The funniest thins;" of all,' Armitasfe 
 went on after a short pause, * is that she 
 speaks all languages well, but none exactly 
 like a born native. Her English is splen- 
 did, but her rs and ths are a trifle German. 
 Her French is good, but her us and her ens 
 are a trifle English. Her German's pro- 
 digious, but her clis and her final gs are 
 scarcely Hanoverian. And she can't talk 
 in any one of those languages for five 
 minutes at a stretch without helping herself
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 87 
 
 out now and again quite naturally by a word 
 from another.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' Paul said, ' she lived as a child 
 in all three countries.' 
 
 ^ Perhaps so,' Armitage repeated ; ^ but 
 there's no evidence. However, I mean in 
 any case to clear up her history. I was 
 writing last night to a friend of mine, a 
 parson, who knows Mr. Blair ; he's the 
 Vicar of Hipsley, near Hillborough, in 
 Surrey ' — he eyed his man close to see the 
 effect upon him — * and I've asked him to 
 find out all he can about her.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' Paul said, never showing 
 surprise by a muscle of his face. ' I 
 wonder you care to take so much pains 
 about so unimportant a piece of intelli- 
 gence.' 
 
 ' Oh, for the girl's sake, don't you know !' 
 Armitage added hastily. ' Of course she's 
 hardly a proper person to have charge of a 
 young lady alone on the Continent. Be- 
 sides, one naturally likes to know what sort 
 of company one's committing one's self to, 
 doesn't one V 
 
 * I don't think it much matters, as long
 
 88 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 as they're decent people,' Paul answered 
 evasively. 
 
 * Ah, but that's just the question at issue,' 
 Armitage went on, trying another tack. 
 ' My man at Hillborough will hunt it all up. 
 He's a capital hand at tracking people down. 
 He ought to have been a detective. By the 
 way, I fancy I heard Miss Blair say you 
 came yourself from somewhere near Hill- 
 borough.' 
 
 ' I come from Hillborough town/ Paul 
 answered shortly. 
 
 ' Then you know Rimington, of course.' 
 
 * No, I've never met him.' 
 
 ' Dear me, how odd ! He's vicar at 
 Hipsley. And he's so very much re2)a7idn, 
 as the French say. Spread about at every 
 tea-fight and lunch and garden-party for 
 twenty miles everywhere round Hillborough.' 
 
 ' Yes ?' 
 
 * Yes, really. You omist have seen him. 
 Though perhaps you took him for a layman 
 or a trainer's assistant. A bull-doggy-look- 
 ing parson — a regular slogger, with a taste 
 for loud tweeds and a most unclerical neck- 
 tie.'
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 89 
 
 ' Oh, I know him well by sight,' Paul 
 answered in haste ; ' I only meant I'd never 
 spoken to him.' 
 
 Armitage altered the venue once more. 
 * I've been down in that part of the world 
 myself,' he went on reflectively, ' and I don't 
 remember to have met any Gascoynes 
 there.' 
 
 ^ Most likely not,' Paul answered with 
 energy. 
 
 * You spell your name like the Pembroke- 
 shire people,' his persecutor went on. ^ It's 
 a very rare way. Do you happen to be 
 related to them ?' 
 
 Thus brought to bay, Paul answered, 
 ' Yes ' with a very great effort, and then re- 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 But Armitage was not going to let him 
 off so cheap. * You don't mean to say so !' 
 he exclaimed with real interest, for the scent 
 was growing very warm now. ' Then what 
 relation are you to the present baronet ?' 
 
 There was no escape from it any longer. 
 Paul gasped for breath. ' Mr. Armitage,' 
 he said, turning suddenly upon him like a 
 hunted creature at bay, ' you've no right to
 
 90 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 question a stranger like this. My private 
 affairs are my private affairs. I refuse to 
 answer. I decline to say what relation I 
 am to the present Sir Emery.' 
 
 He slipped out the words without weigh- 
 ing them well. Armitage leapt upon them 
 with the true joy of the chase. * The 
 present Sir Emery !' he exclaimed with much 
 irony, ' why, that's a queer thing to say ! 
 You must be very ill-informed as to the 
 history of your own family, it seems, Gas- 
 coyne. I should be sorry to pit my in- 
 formation against yours, but I was under 
 the impression, shared, I believe, by society 
 at large, that the late Sir Emery was the 
 last of the name, and that the property in 
 Pembrokeshire had gone to a distant cousin, 
 who's not a baronet at all, Mrs. Newton 
 tells me.' 
 
 No man can stand having his veracity 
 impugned by such an obvious innuendo of 
 falsehood as that. Paul Gascoyne drew a 
 deep breath once more and answered 
 warmly : ' There you have been misinformed. 
 It's not my business to set you right. You 
 can correct your mistake by looking in a
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 91 
 
 peerage. But if you must know, the present 
 baronet is my father, Sir Emery Gascoyne, 
 and he lives at Hillborough.' 
 
 Armitage gazed at the flushed young 
 face and angry eyes in blank astonishment. 
 Apparently, the fellow believed what he 
 said ; but how absurd, how incredible ! 
 This scallywag the heir of the Gascoyne 
 baronetcy and the Pembrokeshire estates ! 
 What blunder could he have made ? What 
 error of identity ? What mistake of fact ? 
 What confusion of persons ? 
 
 However, being a very politic young 
 man, and having now obtained all the in- 
 formation he wanted or was likely to get, 
 he hastened to answer, in his most soothing 
 tones, ' Dear me ! I must have been misin- 
 formed. I fancied I'd heard so. A very 
 great family, the Gascoynes of Pembroke- 
 shire. I stopped once down at — at your 
 uncle's place,' and he glanced inquiringly at 
 Paul, who fronted him angrily ; ' what a 
 magnificent house, and so well kept, too, 
 with such lovely gardens 1' 
 
 ' Old Sir Emery was not my uncle,' Paul 
 answered curtly. ' I never saw him. But
 
 92 THE SCALLyWAG 
 
 the subject's one I don't care to talk 
 about.' 
 
 At the top of the hill they changed 
 {)artners. Armitage, all agog with his news, 
 took Isabel Boyton ahead quickly. * Well, ' 
 I've found out who he is,' he cried, with 
 triumph in his face ; * or, at least, what he 
 calls himself Xow's your chance for that 
 English title, after all. Miss Boyton. He 
 tells me his father's a real live baronet.' 
 
 ' He's quite nice,' Isabel answered, gravely 
 diofesting" the news, ^ and I don't know that 
 he mightn't fit the place. I hook on to 
 him, Mr. Armitage.' 
 
 The Englishman smiled at her credulous 
 simplicity. A baronet's son ! That thread- 
 bare scallywag ! 
 
 They returned by the inland road in 
 varying moods. Paul, hot with the thought 
 that that horrid secret would now get 
 abroad all over Mentone and make him 
 the lausrhinof-stock of the Promenade du 
 Midi, went home alone to the Hotel Con- 
 tinental. Armitage burst radiant into the 
 Jardin Public, big with his latest item of 
 gossip.
 
 THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 93 
 
 He found Madame Ceriolo equally 
 excited with her own discover}^ 
 
 * Just fancy,' she said, as he sat down by 
 her side : ^ figurez-vous, mon ami, you saw 
 that woman Mr. Gascoyne bowed to the 
 moment he left us ? Well, who in the 
 world do you suppose she is ? A lady's- 
 maid — a lady's-maid at the lies Britan- 
 niques ! And he raised his hat to her 
 exactly like an equal !' 
 
 * And who do you think he is himself ?' 
 Armitage cried, all eagerness. ' You'll 
 never guess. It's too absurd. He says his 
 father's a British baronet.' 
 
 * Oh no !' Nea Blair exclaimed, flushing 
 hot with a burst of sympathetic shame. 
 ' He never said that ! He told me quite 
 the contrary. It can't be possible.' 
 
 ' He did, honour bright, I give you my 
 word for it,' Armitage answered, exploding. 
 ' He's the heir to the finest estate in all 
 South Wales, and he's the last descendant 
 of an ancient and noble family that came 
 over, like the Slys, with Bichard Con- 
 queror.' 
 
 ^ I don't believe it,' Nea exclaimed
 
 94 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 stoutly ; meaning, not that she disbeheved 
 Paul, but disbelieved the report of his ever 
 having said so. 
 
 ' No more do I, Miss Blair, if you ask 
 my honest opinion,' Armitage answered, 
 laughing. ' I expect his uncle's the same 
 sort of baronet as the unfortunate nobleman 
 who lately languished so long in Portland 
 Prison.' 
 
 ' There's a good deal of doubt about 
 baronetcies, I believe,' Madame Ceriolo 
 mused to herself aloud. ' They're not so 
 regularly looked into as peerages. And I'm 
 given to understand there are a great many 
 baronets knocking about loose on the world 
 at present, who have no more claim to be 
 called Sir Somebody So-and-so than 1 have 
 to be called — well, the Queen of England.' 
 
 Very dangerous ground for you, Madame 
 Ceriolo !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME. 
 
 Sir Emery Gascoyne, Baronet, sat in his 
 own easy-chair in front of his own fireplace 
 at Hillborough, Surrey. It was evening, 
 and Sir Emery rested after his day's 
 labours. He had been out driving from 
 two ill the afternoon, and it was cold winter 
 weather for holding the reins, for Sir 
 Emery always drove himself He had 
 ample reason. His fingers were numbed 
 and cramped with driving. He found it 
 difficult, indeed, to enter in a book a few 
 notes he was endeavouring to make of his 
 afternoon's engagements. ' 'Ere, Faith, girl,' 
 the British baronet called to his daughter 
 in the adjoining room, ^ I can't 'old the pen. 
 Come along and enter them drives to-day.
 
 96 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 will you ? I'm most clemmed with cold, 
 it's that keen and bitter up o' Kent's '111 
 this w^eather/ 
 
 ' Just wait a minute, father dear/ Faith 
 answered cheerily from the kitchen behind. 
 * I'm coming directly. We're hotting up 
 some soup for your sup2)er, here, mother 
 and I. It's lovely souj), darling, and it'll 
 thaw you out just beautifully as soon as 
 you drink it.' 
 
 The voice was a voice like her brother's 
 own — soft and sweet, with a delicate intona- 
 tion that made each syllable clear and 
 distinct as the notes of a bell. Sir Emery 
 listened to it with a fatherly smile, for he 
 loved her well. ' God bless that girl !' he 
 said to himself, laying down the pen he 
 could scarcely wield. ^ It's a comfort to 
 'ear 'er. She do make a man glad with 
 that pretty small voice of 'ers.' 
 
 Sir Emery's room was neither large nor 
 handsomely furnished. It was entered 
 direct from the street by a buff- coloured 
 door, and it led by a second similar one into 
 the kitchen behind it. The centre of the 
 apartment was occupied by a square table,
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 97 
 
 with flaps at the side, covered with that 
 pecuHar sort of deep-brown oil- cloth which 
 is known to the initiated as American 
 leather. A sideboard stood against the 
 further wall, decorated with a couple of 
 large spiky shells and a spotted dog in dark 
 red-and-white china. The spotted dog 
 Faith had attempted more than once sur- 
 reptitiously to abolish, but Sir Emery 
 always brought it back again to its place in 
 triumph : it had been his mother's, he said, 
 and he was sort of attached to it. A 
 couple of cane-bottomed chairs, a small 
 horsehair couch, and the seat which Sir 
 Emery himself occupied, completed the 
 furniture of the baronet's reception-room. 
 
 And yet there were not wanting, even in 
 that humble home, some signs of feminine 
 taste and aesthetic culture. The spotted 
 dog was an eyesore that Faith could never 
 quite get rid of; but the cheap porcelain 
 vases, with the red and blue bouquets 
 painted crudely on their sides, and the pink 
 paper flowers stuck into their yawning 
 mouths, she had sternly and successfully 
 repressed some months ago. In their place 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 two simple little monochromatic jars of 
 Linthorpe pottery were installed on the 
 mantelpiece, and some sprigs of green and 
 late-lingering chrysanthemums usur[)ed the 
 former throne of the pink-paper mon- 
 strosities. The curtains were plain, but of 
 a pretty cretonne ; the covering of Sir 
 Emery's chair itself was neat and cheerful ; 
 and the antimacassar on the couch, worked 
 in simple crewels, had at least the negative 
 merit of unobtrusiveness and harmony. 
 Altogether one could easily see at a glance 
 it w^as a working man's cottage of the 
 superior sort, kept neat and sweet by loving 
 and tasteful hands, which did all in their 
 power to relieve and diversify its necessary 
 monotony. 
 
 For the British baronet was not known 
 as Sir Emery at all to his friends and 
 neighbours, but simply and solely as 
 Gascoyne the Flyman. Most of them had 
 heard, indeed, in a vague and general way, 
 that if everybody had his rights, as poor 
 folk ouo-ht to have, Martha Gascovne 
 would have been My Lady and the flyman 
 himself would have ridden in a carriage
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 99 
 
 through the handsomest park in the county 
 of Pembroke. But as to calHng him any- 
 thing but plain Gascoyne — him, the driver 
 they had known so well from his childhood, 
 when he played in the street wdth them all 
 as children — why, it would no more have 
 occurred to those simple souls than it 
 occurs to any of us to address the ordinary 
 familiar descendant of Welsh or Irish 
 princes as ' Your Highness ' or ' Your 
 Majesty.' 
 
 Sir Emery knocked the ashes out of his 
 black clay pipe, and waited patiently for 
 the advent of his soup. As soon as it 
 arrived he ate it heartily, at the same time 
 dictating to Faith the various items of his 
 day's engagements (for at Hillborough long 
 credit businesses were the order of the day) : 
 ' Cab from station, Mrs. Morton, one-and- 
 six ; put it two shillin' ; she'll never pay till 
 Christmas twelvemonth ! To Kent's '111 an' 
 back, Cap'en Lloyd, 'alf a suverin' ; no, 'arf 
 a suverin's not a penny too much, missus ; 
 and then to the Birches, Mrs. Boyd- 
 Galloway ; that lot's worth 'arf a crow^n, 
 Faith. If ever we see the colour of 'er
 
 loo THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 money, 'arf a crown's not a farden too 'igh 
 for it; 
 
 Faith entered the items dutifully as she 
 was bid, and laid down the ledger with a 
 sigh as soon as they were finished. ' I 
 can't bear to think, father,' she said, ' you 
 have to go out driving cold nights like 
 these, and at your age, too, when you 
 ought to be sitting home here comfortably 
 by the lire.' 
 
 ' I can't abear to think it myself neither,' 
 Mrs. Gascoyne echoed — for why keep uj), 
 now we're in the bosom of the family, the 
 useless farce of describing her as My Lady 'i 
 It was only in the respected works of 
 Debrett and Burke that she figured under 
 that unfamiliar and noble designation. To 
 all the neighbours in Plowden's Court she 
 was nothing more than plain Mrs. Gas- 
 coyne, who, if everybody had their rights, 
 would no doubt have been a real live 
 lady. 
 
 The baronet stirred the fire with medi- 
 tative poker. 
 
 * It's a wonderful pity,' he munnured 
 philosophically, * that nothing couldn't never
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME loi 
 
 be done in the way of makin' money out of 
 that there baronite-cy. It's a wonderful 
 pity that after all them years we should be 
 livin' on 'ere, missus, the same as usual, a- 
 drivin' a cab day an' night for a liveli- 
 hood, when we're acshally an' in point of 
 law an' fac' baronites of the United King- 
 dom. It beats me 'ow it is we can't make 
 money out of it.' 
 
 ' I always think,' Mrs. Gascoyne re- 
 sponded, taking out her knitting, ^ that you 
 don't understan' 'ow to do it, Emery.' 
 
 ^ Mother dear !' Faith said low, in a 
 warning voice, for she knew only too well 
 whither this prelude inevitably tended. 
 
 The baronet of the United Kingdom 
 slowly filled his pipe once more, as he 
 finished the soup and poured himself out a 
 glassful of beer from the jug at his elbow. 
 ' It can't be done,' he answered confidently. 
 ' There ain't no doubt about it that it can't 
 be done. It stands to reason it can't. If 
 it could be done, Mr. Solomons 'ud 'a done 
 it, you warrant you, long ago.' 
 
 * This ain't 'ow you'd ought to be livin' 
 at your age, though, Emery,' Mrs. Gas-
 
 102 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 coyne went on, sticking to her point. ' If 
 we only knowed 'ow, we'd ought to be 
 making money out of it some 'ow.' 
 
 ' Mr. Solomons is a rare clever man,' the 
 baronet replied, puffing vigorously away at 
 the freshly-lighted pipe. * Wot I say is 
 this, missus, if it could 'a been done, Mr. 
 Solomons 'ud 'a done it.' 
 
 Faith made a bid for a gentle diversion. 
 
 * I met Mr. Solomons this evening,' she 
 said, * as I was coming home from school, 
 and he told me to tell you he'd look in 
 on business to-morrow morning, before you 
 went down to meet the 10.40.' 
 
 * You're tired. Faith,' her father said, 
 eyeing her kindly. 
 
 Faith smoothed back the hair from her 
 high white forehead — so like her brother's. 
 
 ' Only a little bit, father,' she answered 
 with rather a wearied smile. * It's the 
 Infants that are so tiring. They wear one 
 out. They don't mean to be worries, poor 
 little souls ! of course ; but they do distract 
 one a bit sometimes.' 
 
 * I wish you was well quit of them Infants,' 
 Mrs. Gascoyne remarked, ' and could 'and
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 103 
 
 them over to the pupil-teachers. The big 
 girls don't give no trouble at all, in the 
 manner of speaking, by the side of the little 
 ones. It's when you've took the Infants, 
 I always take notice, you comes 'ome most 
 worn and tired-like.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's nothing,' Faith answered, taking 
 her mother's hand in hers and smoothinof it 
 gently. ' It'll be over soon for this term — 
 the holidays begin on Wednesday. And 
 when I think of father, driving out in the 
 cold on Kent's Hill this weather, I'm 
 ashamed of myself to think I ever complain 
 a word about the Infants.' 
 
 ' They're rarely trying, them Infants, I'll 
 be bound,' her father continued, philosojjhi- 
 cally slow. ' I mind what it was myself, 
 when you was all little ones, you an' Paul 
 an' the rest, afore we buried 'Ope and 
 Charity, playin' around among the 'osses' 
 feet, an' kickiii' up that row that a man 
 couldn't 'ardly 'ear to take a order. Charity 
 was a rare one to make a noise, she was ; 
 she was the biggest o' the three, when you 
 was all born : '^ for the greatest o' these," 
 says the parson, " is Charity." And wot it
 
 I04 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 must be to ave twenty or thirty of 'em, all 
 to once, a-cryin' and a-chatterin', why it 
 beats everything.' 
 
 ^ 'Ope an' Charity was two blessed little 
 creatures,' Mrs. Gascoyne interposed with 
 a tear in her eye. * They never got in 
 nobody's way, I'm sure, Emery. 'Ope 
 'ud be eighteen year old come May, 
 if she'd 'a lived. An' Charity was always 
 'eadofthe class in 'rithmetic. Miss Taylor, 
 she says to me more 'n once, '' Wot a 
 wonderful 'ead that there child o' yours 
 have got, to be sure, Mrs. Gascoyne, for 
 figgers and such-like !" ' 
 
 * 'E's a rare clever man, Mr. Solomons,' 
 the father repeated, relapsing, after the 
 wont of his kind, into the dominant subject; 
 * an' if any man could do it, you take my 
 word for it, missus, Mr. Solomons 'ud 'a 
 done it.' 
 
 ' It seems sort o' throwed away as things 
 stand now,' Mrs. Gascoyne went on, in spite 
 of a quick deprecatory glance from her 
 daughter's eyes. ^ It ain't no good at all,, 
 as far as I can see, except for a customer to 
 chaii' vou about sometimes.'
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 105 
 
 The baronet blew the smoke slowly 
 through his ringed lips. * I might 'a kep' 
 a public, an' made money out of it that 
 way,' he said, ' but you was always agin 
 a public, mother ; an' I don't blame you for 
 it. A public's a poor sort o' way for a 
 man to employ a historical name, as Mr. 
 Solomons put it. But if I 'adn't 'a been 
 married now, afore the title came to us, 
 I might 'a made something of it like that 
 myself, you see, missus — meaning to say, in 
 the way of a hairess.' 
 
 Poor Faith saw that the bolt had fallen — 
 that well-known bolt which descended with 
 periodical regularity from the clear sky of 
 her father's unruffled good-humour — and she 
 gave up the attempt any longer to delay 
 the rising tempest. 
 
 ' I'm sure, Emery,' her mother broke in, 
 with a stifled sob, ^ you needn't always be a- 
 castin' that in my teeth — that I stood in 
 your way agin' makin' your fortune. It 
 ain't no fault o' mine, nor my people's, 
 neither, that you was took with me and 
 arst me to marry you. Arnt Emily was 
 always agin my 'avin' you. An' there was
 
 io6 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 many as said at the time, you know your- 
 self well enough, I'd throw'd myself away, 
 and I might 'a done better far to take 
 another one. Why, there was Alferd 
 Dyke, him as owned the mill at Chase's 
 orner 
 
 The baronet of the United Kingdom 
 checked her threatened outburst of early 
 reminiscences kindly. ' It ain't for myself 
 I'm thinkin', mother,' he said, with a nod 
 or two of his chin — * it ain't for myself not 
 anyways, but for the children. Wot a 
 thing it 'ud 'a been for Faith and Paul, 
 now, if I'd 'a 'appened to be a bachelor, 
 don't you see, at the time wen this thing 
 fell in, and 'ad married a hairess, as would 
 'ave brought 'em up like ladies and gentle- 
 men — ladies an' gentlemen the same as 
 they'd ought to be !' 
 
 Faith couldn't forbear a gentle smile. 
 
 ' But, father dear,' she said, smoothing 
 his hand with hers, ' don't you see yourself 
 it wouldn't have been Paul and me at 
 all in that case ? It 'd be somebody else 
 we none of us know or care anything about, 
 wouldn't it ?'
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 107 
 
 ' But it do seem a pity,' her father 
 went on musingly, ' that the value of the 
 baronite-cy, for commercial purposes,' he 
 paused awhile, and then repeated once 
 more that high-sounding phrase, * for com- 
 mercial purposes,' rolling it on his palate 
 like one w^ho loved it, ' should 'a been clean 
 throwed away, as Mr. Solomons says, all 
 through the fack that I 'appened to be 
 married afore I come into it.' 
 
 Mrs. Gascoyne's handkerchief went up 
 to her eyes with dramatic rapidity ; and 
 Faith, holding up one finger in warning to 
 her father, stroked her mother's hair with 
 her other hand with filial tenderness. ' I 
 wash,' she said half angrily, * Mr. Solomons 
 had never put these ideas into your head, 
 father. I'm sure you'd never have thought 
 of it all for yourself You'd never have 
 dreamt of making money out of anything on 
 earth so sacred as that is.' 
 
 * I don't say, Faith,' her father went on, 
 eyeing his beer with the light of the paraffin 
 lamp shining through it, ' I don't say as 
 ever I'd 'a married for money, or made 
 capital like, as Mr. Solomons says, out o'
 
 loS THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 the title an' that. I don't say as I've the 
 manners or the eddication to do it. I'm 
 satisfied with your mother, as 'as always 
 bin a true an' faithful wife to me, in sickness 
 an' in 'ealth, an' no woman better.' 
 
 ' If you weren't,' Faith interposed, ' you'd 
 be the ungratefullest man in all Hill- 
 borough. ' 
 
 * If I wasn't,' her father repeated dutifulh% 
 following his cue, * I'd be the ongratefullest 
 man in all Hillborough. I know all that, 
 an' I ain't a-denyin' of it. But wot I says 
 is just this : I says to Solomon this very 
 last Sunday, '' Mr. Solomons," says I, '' if I'd 
 'a bin a bachelor wen this title fell in, 
 there's many a tidy woman as 'ad her 
 thousand pound or two put away in the 
 bank 'ud 'a bin glad to call 'erself Lady 
 Gascoyne on the strength of it." ' 
 
 ' Emery,' his wife sobbed, holding her 
 face in her hands, ' I call it most onmanly 
 of you. Many's the time I've done a good 
 cry, all along of your talking in that 
 onmanly manner.' 
 
 The father of the family turned round 
 to her soothingly. ' Mind you, mother,'
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 109 
 
 he went on, in a demonstrative voice, ' I 
 don't say as I'd ever 'ave wanted 'er for all 
 'er thousands. I ain't that kind, I'm not 
 one as sets so much store by the money. 
 Wot I do say is, as a matter o' business, it's 
 a pity the baronite-cy should be throwed 
 away, an' all for nothing.' 
 
 ' It won't be throwed away,' the mother 
 responded, drying her eyes hysterically, 'not 
 after our time. Paul 'ave 'ad a good educa- 
 tion, an' Paul '11 marry a woman as is fit for 
 'im.' 
 
 ' There ain't no doubt at all about that,' 
 the British baronet answered in a mollified 
 tone. ' As Mr. Solomons says, our Paul 
 'ave a splendid future before him.' 
 
 ' Oxford 'ave made a gentleman of 'im,' 
 Mrs. Gascoyne continued, gloating over the 
 words. 
 
 ' It 'ave,' the father replied, gazing deep 
 into the fire. ' There ain't no doubt of it. 
 We've all got reason to be main grateful to 
 Mr. Solomons for that much.' 
 
 ' I never feel quite so sure about that, 
 somehow,' Faith ventured to say. ' I often 
 wonder whether Paul wouldn't have been
 
 no THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 happier, and whether we wouldn't all have 
 been happier, if Mr. Solomons had never 
 meddled at all in our private business.' 
 
 * I do wonder at you. Faith !' her mother 
 exclaimed, aghast. ' You to talk like that, 
 when we ought all to be so beholden like 
 to Mr. Solomons !' 
 
 ' Look what 'e've done for Paul !' the 
 father cried eagerly. ' If it wasn't for 'im, 
 Paul might be tendin' the 'osses still, the 
 same as I do.' 
 
 ' But we've got to pay him for it,' Faith 
 answered stoutly. ' Sooner or later we've 
 got to pay him. And see what notes of 
 hand he's made you sign for it !' 
 
 ' Ay, but Paul '11 settle all that,' the 
 father replied with absolute confidence, ' and 
 afore long, too, I warrant you, little one ! 
 Why, if it 'adn't bin for Mr. Solomons, we'd 
 never so much as 'a thought o' sendin' 'im to 
 college an' makin' a gentleman of 'im. An' 
 now, Mr. Solomons says, 'e's a'most through 
 with 'is collegin', an' ready to make 'is start 
 in life. If 'e does as Mr. Solomon means 
 'im to do, 'e'll pay it all off, principal an' 
 interest, as easy as winkin'. We've all got
 
 SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME ii i 
 
 reason to be main grateful to Mr. Solomons. 
 'E's a clever one, 'e is, if ever there was 
 one. An' 'e says it as knows, says 'e to me, 
 '' Gascoyne," says 'e, '' your boy Paul, if 'e 
 plays 'is cards well," says 'e, " as 'e'd ought 
 to play 'em, 'ave a s^^lendid future," says 'e, 
 " before 'im." ' 
 
 * But he won't play them as Mr. 
 Solomons wants him, I'm sure,' Faith 
 answered, unabashed. ' He'll play them 
 his own way. He can't do any other.' 
 
 ^ 'E'll pay it all off,' the baronet repeated, 
 ruminating the words with infinite pleasure, 
 ' 'e'll pay it all oif, when 'e once gets 'is 
 start, principal an' interest, as easy as 
 winkin'.' 
 
 The happiness he derived from the mere 
 sound of those opulent expressions, ' prin- 
 cipal and interest,' as he rolled them on his 
 palate, seemed more than to repay him for 
 any little passing discomfort the sense of 
 indebtedness to his supposed benefactor 
 might otherwise have cost him. It makes 
 a man feel almost like a capitalist himself 
 when he can talk glibly about principal and 
 interest.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAUL S ADVISER. 
 
 In another room at Hillborough, that self- 
 same evening, two other people were 
 discussing still more eagerly together this 
 identical problem of the market-value of 
 a British baronetcy. 
 
 The house in which they discussed it had 
 a dingy, stingy, gloomy-looking front, com- 
 manding a full view of the market and the 
 Hiuh Street : and on the venerable wire- 
 blinds in the office-window the inquiring 
 wayfarer might make out through the dust 
 that clogged them the simple legend, ' Judah 
 P. Solomons, Auctioneer and Estate Agent.' 
 Not that Mr. Solomons really subsisted 
 upon the net profits of his auctioneering 
 and his commission on rents. Those were
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 113 
 
 but the ostensible and officially - avowed 
 sources of his comfortable revenue. The 
 business that really enriched Mr. Solomon^ 
 — for Mr. Solomons was undoubtedly rich — 
 was the less respectable and less openly- 
 confessed trade of a general money-lender. 
 Mr. Solomons was, in fact, by profession 
 a capitalist. He made those familiar 
 advances, on note of hand alone, without 
 security, at moderate interest, which have 
 so often roused our ardent admiration for 
 the generous mixture of philanthropic spirit 
 and the love of adventure in the amiable 
 lender when we read the tempting announce- 
 ment of the proffered boon in the advertise- 
 ment columns of our pet daily paper. 
 
 Mr. Solomons himself, the philanthropist 
 in question, was a short but portly man of 
 a certain age : it was clear he had thriven 
 on the results of his well-directed bene- 
 volence. His fiofure was rotund and his 
 face fat ; he had small, black, beady eyes, 
 rich in life and humour ; and his mouth, 
 though full, was by no means deficient in 
 human kindness. His hair was curly, and 
 displayed, ])erhaps, a trifling disregard of 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 Ti^E SCALLYWAG 
 
 economy in the matter of bear's grease ; but 
 his entire appearance was not wholly ini- 
 ])repossessing : he looked like a sharp and 
 cunning business man, in whom, neverthe- 
 less, the trade of assisting his fellow- 
 creatures in distress (for a modest per- 
 centage) had not altogether killed out the 
 heart that beat within the ample and well- 
 filled fancy waistcoat. The acute reader 
 may, perhaps, already have jumped to the 
 conclusion that Mr. Solomons was by race 
 a Jew, and in that conclusion the acute 
 reader would not, as a matter of fact, have 
 been quite unjustified. In creed, however, 
 Mr. Solomons had conformed so successfully 
 to the Church of England (mainly, perhaps, 
 for business reasons) that he filled at that 
 moment the onerous post of vicar's church- 
 warden for the parish of Hillborough. In 
 a country town Judaism is at a discount ; 
 and Mr. Solomons was too good a Jew at 
 heart ever to touch anything at a discount, 
 except, of course, for the purpose of bulling 
 or bearing it. 
 
 The younger gentleman, who sat opposite 
 Mr. Solomons at the first-floor firep)lace
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 115 
 
 above the dingy office, was half an inch 
 taller, and many inches smaller round the 
 waist ; but he otherwise bore a distinct 
 resemblance in figure and feature to his 
 prosperous relative. Only, in Lionel Solo- 
 mons' face, the cunning and the sharpness 
 of his uncle's eyes and mouth seemed, if 
 anything, to be actually exaggerated, while 
 the redeeming qualities of good-humour and 
 good-fellowship were both, on the contrary, 
 conspicuous by their absence. Lionel w^as 
 handsome w^ith the Oriental handsomeness 
 of the well-fed young Jew ; and he had 
 brought down from town with him the 
 offensive underbred jaunty cosmopolitanism 
 of the shady middle class in that great 
 desert of London which is so peculiarly 
 repulsive to a cultivated understanding. 
 His hair was even curlier and more 
 oleaginous than Mr. Solomon's own ; and he 
 held between his lips a cheap bad cigar, 
 which he managed with all the consummate 
 easy grace of a gentleman accustomed to ride 
 into the City every morning in the envied 
 weat beside the driver of the omnibus he 
 honoured with his distinguished patronage.
 
 Ii6 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Mr. Solonioiis unrolled a packet of greasy, 
 inuoh-folded papers, which he had taken 
 from a pigeon-hole in the safe by his side, 
 and laid them one after another upon his 
 knee, where he regarded them close with 
 evident affection. * Yes, Leo,' he said re- 
 assuringly, ' they're all right enough. 
 Every penny of that money's as safe as 
 houses.' 
 
 ' I'd like to see the collateral, that's all,' 
 Mr. Lionel answered, with a jaunty toss of 
 his curled head. ' It's a precious lot of 
 money to lend uj)on personal security, and 
 that a man of straw, or less than straw, if 
 it comes to that, Uncle Judah.' 
 
 Mr. Solomons took up the newest of 
 the lot and examined it tenderly. * Twelve 
 months after date,' he mused to himself in 
 a softly murmuring tone, 'for value received 
 — two hundred pounds — renewable with 
 twenty per cent, interest, Emery Gascoyne — 
 perfectly regular. It's a good investment, 
 Leo — a good investment.' He turned over 
 a second, and looked at the endorsement. 
 * Sir Emery Gascoyne, Bart.,' he continued 
 softly, * accepted as fair as an acceptance
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 117 
 
 can be. Good business, Leo, my boy — 
 very good business.' 
 
 ' How much did you give him for this 
 two hundred, now V Mr. Lionel asked in a 
 somewhat contemptuous tone, taking it up 
 carefully. 
 . The elder man seized it once more with a 
 nervous grasp, like one who fears to let a 
 favourite and fragile object pass for a 
 moment out of his own possession. 
 
 ' A hundred and fifty,' he answered, 
 refolding it and replacing it in due order ; 
 * and then twenty per cent., you see, on the 
 full two hundred, every time it's renewed, 
 after the first year, gives a good interest.' 
 
 Lionel looked up with an amused air. 
 
 ' Well, all I can say,' he put in with a 
 smile, ' is — that ain't the way we do busi- 
 ness in the City.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' his uncle answered with a 
 faint air of vexation. It was evident that 
 this was his pet venture, and that certain 
 vague doubts as to its perfect soundness in 
 his own mind made him all the more im- 
 patient of outside criticism. ' But, Leo, 
 you don't know everything in London.
 
 ii8 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 One of the great points in a country 
 business is just that — to be able to tell who 
 you can trust, and who you can't, on their 
 own sense of honesty/ 
 
 Mr. Lionel sneered. 
 
 ' I trust nobody myself,' he responded 
 vigorously, puffing at his cigar with a 
 violent ]3ufF, to enforce the full depth and 
 breadth of his sentiment. 
 
 ' Then that's bad business,' Mr. Solomons 
 answered, Avith one fat forefinger raised 
 didactically. ' Take my word for it, my 
 boy, that's bacj business. I wouldn't l^e 
 half what I am now, and you'd be helping 
 me in the old shop in the Borough, if I'd 
 trusted nobody. But I knew who to trust, 
 and that's what's made me. Bind 'em down 
 on paper as fast as you can, of course ; I'm 
 not one to omit having everything legal, 
 and fixed, and regular ; but all the papers 
 and stamps and parchments in the world 
 won't do you any good if you've got hold 
 of a rogue. No, never a stamp of them ! 
 A rogue can't be made to pay if he don't 
 want. A rogue '11 go through the court to 
 spite you. A rogue '11 take things before
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 119 
 
 his honour the county court judge, and 
 explain everything ; and his honour '11 give 
 judgment for reduced interest. It ain't the 
 paper and the stamps and the signatures 
 that does it ; it's the man himself you've 
 got to trust to. You once get hold of an 
 honest man, and if he works his fingers to 
 the bone, and his knees to the stumps, he'll 
 pay you somehow — principal and interest ; 
 he'll pay you somehow. And Sir Emery 
 Gascoyne, Bart., he's an honest man, and 
 so's Paul. He may be only a cab and fly 
 ])roprietor,' Mr. Solomons went on, giving 
 his debtor the full benefit of his whole legal 
 designation ; ' but Sir Emery Gascoyne, 
 Bart., cab and fly proprietor, of Plowden's 
 Court, Hillborough, is as honest a man as 
 ever stepped, and Paul, his son, is one that 
 takes after him.' 
 
 ' It was that title of " Bart.," in my 
 opinion, that led you astray in the first 
 instance,' his nephew went on with a touch 
 of scorn in his voice ; ^ and having once 
 begun, you didn't like to confess your mis- 
 take, and you've kept to it ever since, 
 getting deeper and deeper in it.'
 
 120 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Mr. Solomons shuffled uneasily in his 
 chair. The young man had touched him 
 on a tender point. * I don't deny, Leo,' he 
 answered with apologetic softness, ' that the 
 title of " Bart." had a great deal to do with 
 it. A man's who's born a Jew can't get 
 over that ; and I'm proud to think, if I've 
 changed my religion, I've never attempted 
 to shake off my ancestors. It came about 
 like this, you see. It was six years ago or 
 more — let me see, I have it here — yes, 
 seven years ago on the fourth of February 
 — number one falls due on the fourth every 
 year ; it was seven years ago Gascoyne 
 came to me, and he says, ''Mr. Solomons, I 
 want your advice, knowing you to be a 
 better man of business than any lawyer in 
 the town " — for Gascoyne knows Barr and 
 Wilkie are fools — "and I've just come into 
 a baronetcy," says he. Well, when I heard 
 that, I lifted my hat, having always a 
 strong respect for rank and title and every- 
 thing of that sort — I wouldn't be one of the 
 seed of Abraham if I hadn't — and I said 
 to him, '' Sir Emery, I'm very glad to hear 
 it ; and if tliere's anything I can do for you
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 121 
 
 in the way of a little temporary accommo- 
 dation " — thinking, of course, there was 
 money coming with it, as a man would 
 naturally expect with a baronetcy — '' I'll be 
 happy to arrange it on the most moderate 
 terms for you." For when a man in his 
 position comes into a title and a big estate, 
 he's likely to want a little temporary 
 accommodation at first, just to make a good 
 show when he goes to claim his own of the 
 executors.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' his nephew assented 
 blandly. 
 
 ' Well, you see,' Mr. Solomons went on, 
 still in a very self-exculpatory tone, ' it soon 
 turned out that there wasn't any money — 
 that the money'd all gone to the other 
 branch of the family. But having made 
 Sir Emery a preliminary advance, and 
 having been the very first man in the world 
 to call him " Sir Emery " ' — Mr. Solomons 
 loved to repeat that title in private life 
 whenever he could ; it was so dear to his 
 soul to be thus brought into contact with a 
 real live baronet — ' I thought to myself, 
 " Well, having once begun, I'll see the
 
 122 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 thins: throufjh to the bitter end now, what- 
 ever it costs me." And I look at it 
 accordingly, Leo, as a long investment.' 
 
 * A very long investment indeed !' Mr. 
 Lionel answered, with an ugly smile. 
 
 * You'll never see a penny of your money 
 again, I take it.' 
 
 ' I'll see every farthing of it back in full, 
 I'll take my davy !' his uncle retorted, with 
 a rather red face — his heart was suspected. 
 
 * Gascoyne and his son are honest people — 
 good honest people as ever lived — and 
 they'll pay me all, if they work themselves 
 to death for it. But it wasn't only the 
 monev I thouofht of,' he continued, after a 
 short pause. * No, no, Leo. It wasn't 
 only the money I thought of 
 
 ' It's all / think of,' his nephew said 
 candidly. 
 
 * Then so much the worse for you, my 
 dear,' Mr. Solomons replied with equal 
 frankness. * That's a mistake in life. You 
 miss the half of it. What I thought was 
 this. Here's this man — a common flyman 
 — a petty little cab-owner with four horses 
 of his own — no more than four horses, and
 
 PAUVS ADVISER 123 
 
 screws at that ; but a British baronet. If 
 you and I were to work all our lives, Leo, 
 and slave and save, and toil and moil, we'd 
 never rise to be British baronets. But 
 this man's born one, d'you see, or born as 
 good as one ; born what you and I'd give 
 ten thousand pounds to be made this 
 minute. Says I to myself, turning the 
 matter over. What a pity to think there's 
 nothing to be made, for him or for me, out 
 of Gascoyne's baronetcy ! If Gascoyne was 
 younger, says I, and better brought up, he 
 might have made money out of it by 
 marrying an heiress. But he's married 
 already, and the old lady's not likely to die ; 
 or, if she did, he's not marketable now ; 
 he's too old and too simple. Still, there's 
 the boy : — there's the boy Paul. He's 
 young and pliable yet : clay fresh to hand : 
 you can make what you like of him. Well, 
 I don't deny there was a touch of sentiment 
 in it all ; for I love a title ; but I couldn't 
 bear either to think of a good chance being 
 thrown away — a chance of making money 
 out of it, for him and for me ; for a title has 
 always a value of its own, and it goes
 
 124 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 aLifainst the grain with me to see a thing 
 that has a value of its own thrown away, as 
 it were, and let go to waste, for want of a 
 little temporary employment.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' his nephew assented with 
 an acquiescent nod, for there he too could 
 sympathize most fully. 
 
 ' So the idea occurred to me,' Mr. Solo- 
 mons went on, ' couldn't I lend those two 
 people enough, on their own notes of hand 
 — three, six, nine, twelve, renewable annu- 
 ally — to give the young man Paul a 
 thorough good schooling, and send him to 
 Oxford and make a gentleman of him V 
 
 ' But the security ?' the younger man ex- 
 claimed impatiently — ' the security ? the 
 security ? Where's your collateral ?' 
 
 Mr. Solomons shook his head with a very 
 deliberate and sa2:)ient shake. ' There's 
 securities and securities, Leo,' he said, * and 
 you don't understand but one particular 
 kind of 'em. I'd as soon have Emery Gas- 
 coy ne's paper as any landed gentleman's in 
 all England. Anyhow, I made up my mind 
 to do it, and I did it, Leo ; that's the long 
 and the short of it. I made 'em both
 
 PAUVS ADVISER 125 
 
 insure their lives — the Hand-in-Hand, a 
 capital company — and I've paid the pre- 
 miums ever since myself ; here's the receipts, 
 you see, for the last six years, as proper as 
 proper.' 
 
 ' You've paid the premiums yourself?' 
 Lionel echoed with a cunning smile. 
 
 ^ But I've made 'em sign for 'em, of 
 course,' his uncle continued hastily, ^ I've 
 made 'em sign for 'em. They've covered it 
 all, and the bonuses go to increase the 
 sum insured, which balances premiums 
 almost. Here's the papers ; here they are ;' 
 and he fumbled the bundle with eao^er 
 fingers. 
 
 The nephew regarded them with pity- 
 ing contempt. ^ What's the good of 
 all these ?' he cried, turning them over 
 sceptically. ^ The fellow was a minor 
 when he signed the lot. I dare say he's 
 a minor still, if it comes to that. They've 
 no legal value.' 
 
 * My dear,' the uncle went on with a very 
 grave face, ' you think a great deal too much 
 about what's legal, and a great deal too little 
 about moral obligation, that keeps alive the
 
 126 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 money-lending. Yes, he icas a minor, and 
 he's a minor still ; but when he comes of 
 age, you mark my words, he'll sign again 
 for every penny of the money. He's a good 
 boy, Paul, an honest boy, and sooner than 
 let me lose a penny of my advances he'd 
 work as my slave to his dying day — and 
 him that '11 live to be a baronet of the 
 United Kingdom. Besides,' Mr. Solomons 
 continued more cheerfully, * he knows I've 
 done a orreat deal for him. He knows it's 
 me that has made his fortune. I've sent 
 him to school, and sent him to college, and 
 made a gentleman of him. He knows he's 
 got to behave fair and honest by tne, as 
 I've behaved by him. He knows he's got 
 to look out for money. As soon as 
 he's married, and married well, he'll pay 
 me back every penny, principal and in- 
 terest.' 
 
 * Suppose he don't marry well :'' the 
 nephew interposed with a provoking smile ; 
 * suppose the heiress don't choose to take 
 him V 
 
 Mr. Solomons folded the notes of hand 
 and other documents into a neat little
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 127 
 
 bundle, and tied them up once more with a 
 dirty red tape, preparatory to locking them 
 up in the safe in their accustomed pigeon- 
 hole. 
 
 ^ There's more heiresses than one in the 
 world,' he said with a determined air. ' If 
 heiress number one won't rise to the fly, 
 heiress number two will swallow it, you 
 warrant you. Xo, no, Leo ; don't 3^ou talk 
 to me. A baronet's worth his price in the 
 market any day. Young women don't get 
 a My Lady for nothing, and Paul's been 
 taught exactly what he's worth. He know^s 
 it's a duty he owes to me and he owes to 
 his father ; that jointly and severally 
 they're bound to pay ; and that to marry 
 an heiress is the cheapest and easiest way 
 to pay me.' 
 
 ' Her money'll be all strictly tied up,' the 
 nephew exclaimed. ' I know their way, 
 these landed people, with their contracts 
 and their settlements.' 
 
 ' A man of title can always dictate his 
 own terms,' the money-lender answered with 
 more worldly wisdom ; ' at least, among the 
 manufacturers. He can sell himself for as
 
 128 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 much as he chooses somewhere and hang 
 out for his price till they choose to pay it.' 
 
 Mr. Lionel gave a grunt of extreme dis- 
 satisfaction. ' Well, it's no business of 
 mine, of course,' he observed in a distinct 
 bad humour ; * but what I say is this : 
 you'd got no right ever to begin upon it ; it 
 ain't legitimate trading ; it's too precious 
 speculative.' 
 
 His uncle glanced back at him with a 
 reproachful look. ' There'll be enough for 
 you without it, Leo,' he answered ; ' any way, 
 when I'm gone. It's all for you, you know 
 very well, that I slave and hoard. And I 
 only wish you were such a young man as 
 Paul is. I take a sort of pride in him, I 
 don't deny. I only wish I'd put you to 
 college the same as him and made a gentle- 
 man of you.' 
 
 ' There ain't much to be made out of 
 going to college,' Mr. Lionel replied, pick- 
 ing his teeth with his penknife ; ' at least, 
 if you ain't going into business afterwards 
 as a British baronet.' 
 
 ' It's all for you, Leo,' Mr. Solomons 
 repeated, rising to put back the papers in
 
 PAUL'S ADVISER 
 
 [29 
 
 their places. ' And even if this turns out a 
 bad speculation — which I don't believe — 
 there'll be more than enough for you, any- 
 how, without it.' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 At Mentone the sun continued to shine and 
 the world to bask in the joy of his rays, in 
 spite of the snow on Kent's Hill and the 
 white fogs that enwrapped the county of 
 Surrey. To Paul's great surprise, too, when 
 once the dreaded secret was out, the burden 
 of bearing it became infinitely lessened. He 
 had shrunk with all the shyness of a sensi- 
 tive nature from letting the loungers on the 
 Promenade du Midi know the real truth 
 about his false position. He thought they 
 would find in it nothing but cause for veiled 
 ridicule. But, as a matter of fact, on that 
 very evening the indefatigable Armitage, 
 pursuing his quest through every villa he 
 knew in town, discovered at last in a friend's
 
 TEMPTATION 131 
 
 library a copy of Debrett's invaluable work 
 on the peojole whom one can really knoW; 
 don't you know, in England. Turning over 
 the pages with a triumphant hand, to put 
 to rout and confusion this absurd scallywag 
 with his cock-and-bull story about his fine 
 relations, Armitage was fairly dumfounded 
 to come upon the entry, ' Gascoyne, Sir 
 Emery, 14th baronet,' followed by half a 
 page of the usual profoundly interesting 
 genealogical detail, and ending with the fine 
 abrupt but concise information, ' Residence, 
 Plowden's Court, Hillborough, Surrey.' 
 
 The Plowden's Court of real life was a 
 narrow entry oiF the main street of the 
 sleepy little country town, but the Plow- 
 den's Court which these words naturally 
 conjured up before Armitage's fancy, seen 
 in such a connection, was a stately and 
 diofnified Elizabethan mansion, standinof in 
 its own grounds of heaven knows how many 
 statute acres, and surrounded by garden, 
 lawn, and park-lands. 
 
 Armitage rubbed his eyes in blank amaze- 
 ment. Was it possible, then, that the 
 scallywag had spoken the truth ? In spite
 
 132 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 of all ajjpearances to the contrary, was he 
 really the heir to a baronetcy of Charles II.'s 
 creation, and to the noblest estate in the 
 county of Pembroke ? 
 
 He glanced through the profoundly 
 interesting genealogical details with a 
 curious eye. Yes, that was all plain sailing 
 enough. ' Succeeded his second cousin, 
 Sir Emery Charles Emeric Gascoyne, 13th 
 baronet, vide infra J Armitage proceeded 
 to vide infra accordingly, and noticed at 
 once that the name of Paul seemed to 
 alternate regularly throughout the list with 
 the name of Emery as the distinctive mark 
 of the Gascoyne baronetcy. So far, clearly, 
 the scallywag's story seemed to hold to- 
 gether much better than he expected. And 
 next as to the estates ? Not a word said 
 about them, to be sure ; but then, the re- 
 spected and esteemed Debrett deals only in 
 exalted rank, and has nothing to say on 
 such inferior subjects as filthy lucre. ^ Re- 
 sidence^ Plowden's Court, Hillborough.' 
 Fancy the scallywag coming, after all, from 
 a baronial mansion in the county of Surrey ! 
 
 Next day the entire little world of Men-
 
 TEMPTATION 133 
 
 tone had duly digested the singular news 
 that the unobtrusive Oxford undergraduate 
 who had come out to the Riviera strictly 
 incog., as tutor to the blonde young man at 
 the Continental, was really the heir to a 
 baronetcy in disguise, and the scion of a 
 distinguished Pembrokeshire family. And 
 all the world remarked at once, with its usual 
 acuteness, that, in spite of his shyness, they 
 had said from the first Paul Gascoyne was a 
 delightful young man and had most charming 
 manners. 
 
 All the world, indeed, has always divined 
 these things beforehand, and is immensely 
 surprised at all the rest of the world's 
 stupidity in not having perceived them. 
 
 Three days later, however, at the usual 
 little conclave in the Jardin Public — ' The 
 School for Scandal,' Madame Ceriolo 
 christened the particular corner affected by 
 Armitage and his group of intimates — that 
 ardent inquirer came down quite triumphant 
 with a letter in his hand. ' After all,' he 
 said, as he seated himself with a comprehen- 
 sive nod on his favourite bench, ' it turns 
 out the scallywag's nobody much. I've just
 
 134 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 had a line from my friend Rimington at 
 Hipsley, near Hillborough, and he says, 
 though the lad's supposed to be heir to a 
 baronetcy, his father's a fellow in a very 
 small wa}' of business (reasons of dehcaey, 
 he writes, prevent him from particularizing 
 further) and not at all in society, or any- 
 thing like it, in Surrey. It seems the 
 grandfather of the present baronet was a 
 very bad lot, a scapegrace of low habits, 
 who consorted chiefly with grooms or stable- 
 boys and married a milkmaid or something 
 of the sort ; no doubt after circumstances 
 which, as Herodotus says, it is not lawful 
 to mention, after which he was very properly 
 cut off" by his papa, the baronet of the time, 
 with the traditional shilling. With that 
 modest capital as his whole start in life, the 
 scallywag's ancestor set up in town ; and 
 there his descendants, living on the change 
 for the shilling, I suppose, went from bad 
 to worse, till the present man has sunk 
 practically to the level of the working 
 classes. When old Sir Emery, whom I 
 knew in Pembrokeshire, popped off* the 
 hooks, some six or seven years ago, he
 
 TEMPTATION 135 
 
 entirely ignored this debased stock — they'd 
 intermarried, meanwhile, with cooks or 
 scullery-maids — and left the estates at Gas- 
 coyne Manor and elsewhere to a younger 
 branch, who had always kept up their 
 position as gentlemen. So the scallywag's 
 papa's only a bare courtesy baronet after all : 
 b}' birth and education the scallywag him- 
 self is — well, just what you'd expect him to 
 be. Rimington says in a postscript,' Armi- 
 tage went on, glancing around him with an 
 air of virtuous self-abnegation, ' he hopes I 
 won't mention these facts to anyone, for 
 young Gascoyne's sake ; so I'm sure I can 
 count upon all of you not to breathe a word 
 of it, or to let it make the very slightest 
 difference in any way in your treatment of 
 the scallywag.' 
 
 Madame Ceriolo, raising a pan^ of dove- 
 like eyes, saw her chance to score a point. 
 ' But he really is the heir to a baronetcy in 
 spite of everything, you see,' she put in 
 languidly. ' That's very satisfactory. When 
 people who are born of noble blood happen 
 to be poor or to be placed in any dependent 
 position, other people often cast most un-
 
 136 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 justifiable doubts upon the truth of what 
 they say about their own faniiUes. I sym- 
 pathize with Mr. Gascoyne;' and she glanced 
 down with a meaning look at the countess's 
 coronet engraved on the ])lain silver locket 
 she wore at her bosom. 
 
 * He'll be a Sir, though, any way, won't 
 he ?' Isabel Boynton asked, going straight 
 to the point with true American business 
 perception. 
 
 ' He'll be a Sir, any way. Miss Boyton,' 
 Armitage retorted sharply. ' And he'll 
 make his wife, when he catches one, into 
 a real My Lady.' 
 
 ' For my part,' Nea Blair put in with 
 quiet firmness, * I don't care a pin whether 
 he's heir to a baronetcy or whether he's not. 
 I take him for himself I think he's a very 
 nice, good, sensible young man, and, who- 
 ever his parents are, he's a born gentleman.' 
 
 ' One of Nature's o^entlemen !' Madame 
 Ceriolo interjected lackadaisically, with a 
 darted glance from her tortoiseshell eye- 
 glasses at Armitage, who, playing with his 
 button, and feeling the sense of the meet- 
 ing was entirely with the scallywag, retired
 
 TEMPTATION 137 
 
 gracefully upon a safe commonplace : ^ After 
 all, it doesn't so much matter what a man's 
 father is, as what he is himself — except, of 
 course, for purposes of probate.' 
 
 So, in the end, as it turned out, the world 
 of Mentone agreed to accept Paul Gascoyne 
 with a very good grace as a future baronet, 
 and to invite him freely to the afternoon 
 teas and mild ' at homes ' which form the 
 staple of its innocent invalidish entertain- 
 ments. A baronet is a baronet, if it comes 
 to that, be he more or less, as the lawyers 
 would gracefully put it ; and a baronet's 
 son who has been to Oxford, no matter 
 how poor, has always a possible future open 
 before him. Nay, more, the mere fact of 
 the little mystery as to his origin, and the 
 whispered story about the lady's-maid and 
 the dubious grandmamma, added just a 
 touch of romance to the whole affair, which 
 made up in piquancy for whatever Paul 
 lacked in exterior adornment. If there's 
 anything odd about a man's antecedents 
 (and still more about a woman's) it's a mere 
 toss-up whether Society chooses to pet him 
 or damn him. But when once Society has
 
 138 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 made up its mind to accept him, it becomes 
 forthwith a point of honour to stick up for 
 him at all risks, and to see in him nothing 
 but the most consunnnate virtues. The 
 very oddity is held to constitute a dis- 
 tinction. In point of fact, accordingly, Paul 
 Gascoyne became the fashion of Mentone. 
 And having once attained that proud posi- 
 tion, as the small tame lion of a provincial 
 show, everybody, of course, discovered in 
 him at once unsuspected mines of learning 
 or talent, and agreed unanimously over five 
 o'clock tea-tables that young Gascoyne was 
 really a most charming and interesting 
 person. 
 
 The consequence was that for the next 
 six weeks Paul saw a good deal of society 
 at Mentone — more, in fact, than he had 
 ever seen of that commodity anywhere in 
 his life before, and amons^st it of Nea Blair 
 and Isabel Boy ton. 
 
 Nea he liked and admired immensely. 
 And with good reason. For it was the 
 very first time he had ever had the op})()r- 
 tunity of meeting an educated English lad\' 
 and conversing with her on equal terms about
 
 TEMPTATION 139 
 
 subjects that both could ahke discourse of. 
 He was always flattered when Xea talked to 
 him ; the subtle delight of finding one's self 
 able to hold one's own fairly with a beautiful 
 and clever woman moved him strangely. 
 Hitherto he had only seen and admired such 
 beings from afar. To stand face to face 
 with Nea Blair, and find that she did not 
 disdain to talk with him — nay, that she 
 evidently preferred his society to Thistle- 
 ton's or Armitage's — was to the shy young 
 man from Plowden's Court a positive reve- 
 lation of delight and gladness. It is to be 
 feared that he even neglected Aristotle's 
 Ethics, and his dut}^ to Mr. Solomons, more 
 than once, in his readiness to go where 
 Nea Blair might possibly meet him. He 
 paid for it afterwards in qualms of con- 
 science, to be sure ; but as long as it lasted 
 it was perfect bliss to him. 
 
 Not that he believed or knew he was 
 falling in love with Nea. If that expla- 
 nation of his mental phenomena had ever 
 occurred to his honest soul, Paul would 
 have felt that those mysterious Claims 
 which weighed on him so heavily made it
 
 I40 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 quite necessary for him to see as little as 
 possible of the fair enchantress. He knew 
 he was bound by solemn bond and pact to 
 Mr. Solomons to sell himself finally in the 
 matrimonial market for hard cash to the 
 highest bidder ; and though even then un- 
 comfortable doubts as to the justice or 
 morality of such a proceeding sometimes 
 forced themselves obtrusively upon Paul's 
 mind, while the day of sale seemed still so far 
 off, he would nevertheless have shrunk from 
 letting himself get entangled in any other 
 bond which might prove adverse in the end 
 to Mr. Solomons' fair chance of repayment. 
 After all, he thought casuistically to himself, 
 there was always a possibility that he might 
 finally happen to fall in love with some nice 
 girl who was also the heiress Mr. Solomons 
 dreamed about ; and then, and in that case 
 — but there he broke down. The nearer 
 he dre'vv to the actual fact and pact of 
 marriage, the more repugnant did the whole 
 wild scheme a])pear to him. 
 
 One sunny afternoon, a week or two later, 
 the whole little coterie of the Rives d'Or 
 had made an excursion tosfether on to the
 
 TEMPTATION 141 
 
 rocky hills that bound either side of the 
 old mule-path to Castellar. When they 
 reached the ridge where great rounded 
 bosses of ice-worn sandstone form a huge 
 hog's back overlooking the twin-valleys to 
 right and left, they dispersed by twos and 
 threes, as men and maidens will do. among 
 the rosemary bushes and the scanty umbrella- 
 pines, or sat down in groups upon the bare, 
 smooth rocks, in full view of the sea and the 
 jagged summit of the gigantic Berceau. 
 
 Paul found himself, quite unconsciously, 
 wandering among the low lentisk scrub 
 with Nea Blair, and, seating themselves at 
 last on the edge of the slope, with the lemons 
 gleaming yellow in the Carei Valley far below 
 their feet, they discoursed together, as youth 
 and maiden discourse, of heaven and earth, 
 and fate and philosophy, but more particu- 
 larly of their own two selves, with that 
 profound interest which youth and a free 
 heart always lend to that entrancing subject 
 when discussed a deux, under the spreading 
 shade of a romantic pine-tree. 
 
 ' And when you've taken your degree, 
 what then V Nea asked with some eagerness,
 
 142 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 after Paul had duly enlii^htcnod her mind 
 as to the precise period of his Greats exami- 
 nation, and the chances for and against his 
 obtaining a First in that arduous under- 
 takinof. 
 
 ' Well, then,' Paul answered with some 
 little embarrassment, ' after that, I suppose, 
 I must go in for a Fellowship.' 
 
 ' But if you get a Fellowship you won't 
 be able to marry, will you V Nea inquired 
 with interest. ' Haven't they got some 
 horribly barbarous rule at Oxford, that if 
 a Fellow^ marries he must lose his posi- 
 tion V 
 
 * No, no; not now,' Paul answered, smiling. 
 * "C'etait autrefois ainsi, mais nous avons 
 change tout cela," as Sganarelle says in the 
 play. A Fellowship, now, is for a fixed 
 period.' 
 
 '■ Well, that's well, anyhow,' Nea went on, 
 more easily. ' I hope, Mr. Gascoyne, you'll 
 get your Fellowship.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' Paul replied. ' That's very 
 kind of you. But I'm ashamed of havi no- 
 bored you with all this talk about myself — 
 the subject upon which, as somebody once
 
 TEMPTATION 143 
 
 put it, " all men are fluent and none agree- 
 able." ' 
 
 ' The somebody was wrong, then,' Nea 
 answered with decision. ^ Whenever one 
 meets an interesting individuality one wants 
 to know as much as possible about it. Don't 
 you think,' and she looked up at him with 
 her charming smile, ^ in our society, now^a- 
 days, we never really get to know half 
 enough about one another ?' 
 
 * I know nothing about Society,' Paul 
 replied frankly. ' I've never been in it. 
 I've had no chance. But I think — in as 
 much of the world as I know, which is a 
 very tiny world indeed — we do somehow 
 seem to go round and round, like people in 
 the maze at Hampton Court, and never 
 get at the heart and core one of the 
 other.' 
 
 Dangerous ground, dangerous ground, 
 dear Paul, for Mr. Solomons' chance of 
 recovering in full on that long investment. 
 
 Nea felt it so, perhaps, for she paused a 
 moment, and examined a little pink rock- 
 cistus that sprang from a cleft in the sand- 
 stone at her feet with unnecessarily close
 
 144 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 attention for anyone who was not a pro- 
 fessed botanist. Then she said suddenly, as 
 if with a burst of inspiration : 
 
 ' I shall be up in Oxford myself, I expect, 
 next summer term. Mrs. Douglas, the wife 
 of the Accadian professor — at Magdalen, 
 you know — means to ask me u]) for the 
 Eights or something.' 
 
 'That'll be just delightful!' Paul an- 
 swered warmly. * We shall have some 
 chance then of really getting to know one 
 another.' 
 
 ' I always liked Oxford,' Xea murmured, 
 looking down, and half afraid the conver- 
 sation was leading her too far. 
 
 ' I just love every inch of it,' Paul re- 
 plied with fervour. ' But, then, I've much 
 reason to be grateful to Oxford. I owe it 
 everything.' 
 
 ' You'll live there when you're a Fellow ?' 
 Xea asked, lo(jking up again. 
 
 Paul hesitated a second, and pulled grasses 
 in his turn. 
 
 * I've got to (jet my Fellowshij) first,' he 
 said with some reserve. * And then — and 
 then I suppose I must do something or other
 
 TEMPTATION 145 
 
 to make some money. I have heavy Claims 
 upon me.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, what a pity '/ Xea cried with 
 ofenuine reoTet. 
 
 * Why so, Miss Blair V 
 
 ' Because it's so dreadful you should have 
 to enter the world with Claims, whatever 
 they may be, to clog you. If you were free 
 to choose your own walk in life, you know, 
 you might do such wonders.' 
 
 ' I should like literature,' Paul went on, 
 relapsing once more into that egoistic vein. 
 ' But, of course, that's impossible.' 
 
 ' Why impossible ?' Nea asked quickly. 
 
 * Because nobody can make money at 
 literature nowadays,' Paul answered with a 
 sigh ; * and my circumstances are such that 
 it's absolutely necessary, before everything 
 else, I should make money, and make it 
 quickly. I must sacrifice everything to my 
 chance of making money.' 
 
 ^ I see,' Xea answered with a faint tinge 
 of displeasure in her tone. And she thought 
 to herself, ' Perhaps he means he must get 
 rich so as to keep up the dignity of the title. 
 If so, I'm really and truly sorry; for I 
 
 VOL. 1. 10
 
 146 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 thought he had a great deal better stuff 
 than that in him.' 
 
 * There are so many Claims I have to 
 satisfy,' Paul went on in a low voice, as if 
 answering her inmost unspoken thought. 
 * My time's not my own. It's Somebody 
 Else's. I've mortgaged it all by antici- 
 pation.' 
 
 Nea gave a start. 
 
 ' Then you're engaged/ she said, putting 
 the obvious feminine interpretation upon his 
 ambiguous sentence. (A woman reads 
 everything by the light of her own world 
 — courtship and marriage.) 
 
 ' Oh no,' Paul answered, smiling. ' I 
 didn't mean that, or anything like it. I 
 wouldn't mind that. It was something 
 much more serious. I start in life with a 
 grave burden.'
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING. 
 
 ' Say, Mr. Gascoyne,' Isabel Boyton ex- 
 claimed, catching him up, breathless, on the 
 Promenade du Midi, one day in the last 
 week of Paul's stay at Mentone : ' will you 
 come and ride with us over to La Mortola 
 to-morrow V 
 
 ' I'm sorry,' Paul answered, smiling at 
 her free Pennsylvanian mode of address, 
 * but I've no horse to ride upon.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mean ride horseback,' 
 Isabel explained promptly ; ^ momma and I 
 have chartered a kahrriage — a break, I 
 think you call it over here in Europe — and 
 we're taking a party of ladies and gentle- 
 men across to see the gardens.' 
 
 ^ I shall be delighted to go,' Paul
 
 148 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 answered truthfully — for Xea would be 
 there, he knew, and he went aecordino^lv. 
 
 At La Mortola, however, he soon found 
 out that Miss Isabel meant to keep him all 
 fur herself, and, indeed, that she stuck 
 to him with creditable persistence. This 
 was a very new sensation for Paul, who 
 had never before been made so much of ; 
 but he accepted it as youth accepts almost 
 everything — with the frank delight of a 
 new experience. 
 
 And how charming it was, that drive 
 across to La Mortola, wdth the hot southern 
 afternoon sun beating full upon the hills, 
 Bordighera gleaming white upon its sea- 
 ward point, and Cap Martin behind bathed 
 in broad floods of glorious sunshine I How 
 Grimaldi shone among its silvery olives ; 
 how the spires of Mentone rose tall and 
 slender in the gHstening background ! At 
 the deep dark gorge spanned by the Pont 
 St. Louis, they crossed the frontier, and 
 Paul found himself for the first time in his 
 life on the soil of Italy. Past the Italian 
 Custom-house and the old Saracen tower 
 in Dr. Bennett's garden, they wound along
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 149 
 
 the ledge to the corner by La Mortola ; 
 and then they skirted a deep rocky ravine, 
 all in darkest shade, with green pines 
 clambering up its steep sides, till they 
 halted against a broken cliff near the 
 summit. At last they reached those mar- 
 vellous hanging gardens, hewn out of the 
 bare rock, where feathery African palms 
 and broad-leaved tropical vegetation bask in 
 the hot sun as on their native deserts. 
 There they descended and w^andered about 
 at will, for it was a ' free day,' and Isabel 
 Boyton, taking possession of Paul, walked 
 ]iim off alone, with American coolness, to a 
 seat that overhung the villa and the sea, 
 with a view along the coast for a hundred 
 miles from San Remo to Toulon. 
 
 * You go back next week,' she said at 
 once, after an awkward pause, when Paul 
 had found nothing more to say to her, for 
 he talked far less freely with the heiress 
 than with Nea Blair. 
 
 ' Yes ; I go back next week,' Paul re- 
 peated vaguely. 
 
 ^ To Oxford V 
 
 ' To Oxford.'
 
 150 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 * We shall miss you so at Mentone,' the 
 Pennsylvanian went on with genuine regret. 
 * You see, we're so shorthanded for gentle- 
 men, ain't we ?' 
 
 ' You're very kind,' Paul nmrmured, much 
 abashed by this frank remark. ' But per- 
 haps somebody else will come who'll do as 
 well — or better.' 
 
 * What's a good time to come and see 
 Oxford in ?' Isabel asked abruptly, without 
 heedinor his remark, but i^azinof with a 
 vacant expression seaward. 
 
 ' Summer term's the best for visitors,' 
 Paul answered, taken aback. ' I should 
 say about the twentieth of May, for ex- 
 ample.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I'll fetch momma along and 
 have a look at it then,' the golden-haired 
 American continued, playing nervously w^ith 
 her parasol. ' We could have a good time 
 at Oxford about May, could we ?' 
 
 ' I'd do my best to help you enjoy your- 
 self,' Paul replied, as in duty bound, but 
 with a sinking recollection that just about 
 that precise date he would be straining 
 every nerve for his final examination.
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 151 
 
 ' I call that real nice of you,' Isabel 
 answered, still poking her parasol into the 
 ground by her side. ' Will you take us 
 about and show us the college, the same 
 as we read about in " Tom Brown at 
 Oxford " V 
 
 ' The University's changed a good deal 
 since those days,' Paul replied with a smile, 
 * but I shall be glad to do whatever I can 
 to make your visit a pleasant one. Though 
 Thistleton,' he added, after a short pause, 
 ' would be able to show you a great deal 
 more about the place than I can.' 
 
 The Pennsylvanian brought back her 
 clear blue eyes from space with a sudden 
 flash upon him. 
 
 ' Why ?' she asked curtly. 
 
 ' Because he's so much richer,' Paul 
 answered, boldly shaming the devil. * He's 
 a member of all the clubs and sports 
 and everything. His father's one of the 
 wealthiest men in Sheffield.' 
 
 Isabel drew a face with her parasol on 
 the gravel below. ^ I don't care a pin for 
 that,' she answered shortly. 
 
 * I suppose not. You're so rich your-
 
 152 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 self/ Paul retorted with a sigh. Then he 
 turned the subject clumsily. ' These are 
 lovely gardens.' 
 
 ' My poppa could buy up a place like 
 this with a month's income,' the young- 
 lady answered, refusing to follow the false 
 trail. She said it, not with any vulgar, 
 boastful air, but simply as if to put him in 
 possession of the facts of the case. She 
 wanted him to know her exact position. 
 
 ^ Why isn't he here with you ?' Paul 
 ventured to ask, just to keep the conversa- 
 tional ball rolHng. 
 
 ' Oh my !' Isabel exclaimed. ' What a 
 question to ask ! Why, he's got to stojD 
 home and mind the store, of course, like 
 every other man, hasn't he ?' 
 
 ' He's in business, then !' Paul said, with 
 a start of surprise. 
 
 ' In my country,' Isabel answered gravely, 
 * it ain't respectable not to be in business. 
 My ])oppa's the richest man in Philadel- 
 phia.' Then she looked down at her shoes 
 and added once more, * But I don't care a 
 pin about money myself, for all that. What 
 I care for is whether people are nice or not.
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 153 
 
 And I like Mr. Thistleton well enough in a 
 sort of way ; he's quite nice, of course, and 
 there's nothing grubby about him. But he 
 kind of don't take me.' 
 
 ' No V Paul said, feeling he was called 
 upon to say something. 
 
 ' No,' Isabel answered ; ' he don't,' and 
 then relapsed into strange silence. 
 
 For a moment or two they sat with their 
 eyes fixed on the ground, and neither spoke 
 a single word to the other. Then Isabel 
 began once more, just to encourage him a 
 bit, for she misinterpreted his awkwardness 
 and shyness — ' It ^.s- a lovely place. I'm 
 most inclined to make my poppa give up 
 the States and come across to reside for a 
 permanence in some elegant place like this 
 in Europe.' 
 
 ^ Your father would come if you wished 
 him, then ?' Paul asked, all trembling with 
 excitement, for he dimly suspected he was 
 neglecting his duty (and Mr. Solomons' 
 interests) in the most culpable manner. 
 
 Isabel noticed his tremulous voice, and 
 answered in the softest tones she could 
 command :
 
 154 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' He'd do anything most to make me 
 hapj)y.' 
 
 * Indeed,' Paul replied, and gazed once 
 more with a preoccupied air towards the 
 distant Esterels. They came out so clear 
 aofainst the blue horizon. 
 
 ' Yes, poppa just spoils me,' Isabel went 
 on abstractedly ; ' he's a real good poppa. 
 And how lovely it'd be to pass one's Hfe in 
 a place like this, with all those glorious 
 mountains and hills around one, and that 
 elegant sea tumbling and shining right in 
 front of one's eye — with somebody that 
 loved one.' 
 
 The running was getting uncomfortably 
 hot now. 
 
 * It would be delightful indeed,' Paul 
 echoed, very warm in the face, ' if only one 
 had got the money to do it with.' 
 
 Isabel waited a moment again with down- 
 cast eyes ; but her neighbour seemed dis- 
 inclined to continue the conversation. And 
 to think he had the power to make any 
 woman My Lady ! She paused and looked 
 long at him. Then she rose at last with a 
 stifled sigh. He was real nice, she thought,
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 155 
 
 this British baronet's son, and he trembled 
 a good bit, and felt like proposing, but he 
 couldn't just make up his mind right away on 
 the spot to say what he wanted. English 
 young men are so absurdly awkward. 
 
 ' Well, we shall meet at Oxford, any way,' 
 she said lightly, moving down tow^ards the 
 shore. ' Let's get along and see what those 
 great red plants on the rocks are, Mr. 
 Gascoyne. I expect by this time momma '11 
 be looking out for me.' 
 
 Paul went home to the Continental that 
 night with a terrible consciousness of neg- 
 lected duty. Modest as he was, he couldn't 
 even pretend to conceal from himself the 
 obvious fact that the gfolden-haired Penn- 
 sylvanian had exhibited a marked prefer- 
 ence for his conversation and society. He 
 fancied she almost expected him to propose 
 to her. And, indeed, the idea was not 
 wholly of his own suggestion. Thistleton, 
 when retailing the common gossip of the 
 Promenade du Midi, had more than once 
 announced his firm belief that Paul might 
 have 'the Yankee girl for the asking.' And
 
 156 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Paul liiiuself, much inclined to underrate 
 his own powers of attraction, could not, 
 nevertheless, deny in his own soul the 
 patent evidences that Isabel Boyton, for all 
 her wealth, was fully susceptible to the 
 charms of a British baronetcy. 
 
 He stood at last face to face in earnest 
 with a great Difficulty. 
 
 Could he or could he not carry out his 
 Compact ? 
 
 As he sat by himself in his room at the 
 Continental that night, he thought it all 
 over, how it had gradually grown uy) step 
 by step from the very beginning. It 
 seemed so natural, every bit of it, to him, 
 who had grown up with it himself, as a 
 sort of religion. So strange to anyone else 
 who heard it only for the first time now as 
 a completed transaction. 
 
 For six years past and more, his father 
 and mother and Mr. Solomons — the three 
 areat authorities that framed his life for 
 him — had impressed it upon him as the first 
 article of his practical creed, that he was 
 to grow uj) a gentleman and marry an 
 heiress.
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 157 
 
 To US, what an ignoble aim it seems ! 
 but on Paul it had always been enforced 
 for years by all the sanctions of parental 
 wisdom and commercial honesty as the 
 sujDreme necessity. He was indebted to Mr. 
 Solomons for his schooling, and his cloth- 
 ing, and his Oxford education ; and the way 
 he was bound to repay Mr. Solomons was 
 to follow instructions to the very letter and 
 marry an heiress. His stock-in-trade in 
 life was his prospective title, and he was to 
 sell that commodity, in accordance with re- 
 cognised commercial maxims, in the dearest 
 market. 
 
 And yet, strange to say, Paul Gascoyne 
 himself was not mercenary. He had pas- 
 sively accepted the role in life, as most 
 young men passively accept the choice of a 
 profession made for them by their parents, 
 without thinking very much, one way or 
 the other, as to either its morality or its 
 feasibility. He was so young when Mr. 
 Solomons first hit upon his grand scheme 
 for utilizing the reversion to a British 
 baronetcy — no more than fourteen — that he 
 had got the idea thoroughly dinned into his
 
 158 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 head long before he was able to recognise in 
 all its naked hideousness the base and sor- 
 did side of that hateful compact. Solomons 
 had supplied him with money from time to 
 time — not liberally, to be sure, for he did 
 not wish to make his 2'>rote(je extravagant, 
 but in sufficient quantities for the simple 
 needs and wants of a scallywag ; and Paul 
 had accepted the money, giving in return 
 his worthless notes of hand, as youth always 
 accepts its livelihood from its accustomed 
 purveyors, without much care or thought as 
 to the right or wrong of the customary 
 supplies. 
 
 And then there had been so much besides 
 to distract his attention from the abstract 
 question of the ethics of marriage. He was 
 occupied so much with reading for the 
 schools, and taking pupils in his spare time 
 to help eke out his scanty income ; for he 
 felt deeply what a drain he had always 
 made on the family resources, and how- 
 much his father was besrinnino: to stand in 
 need of a son's assistance in the manaofement 
 of his business. The question of the 
 moment — the definite question then and
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 159 
 
 there before him at each instant of his 
 Hfe — the necessity for reading hard and 
 taking a good degree, and the parallel 
 necessity for living at Oxford as cheaply 
 as even a scallywag could do it — had over- 
 shadowed and eclipsed that remoter question 
 of the underlying morality of the whole 
 transaction, which had been settled for him 
 beforehand, as it were, by his father and 
 Mr. Solomons. 
 
 Paul, in fact, was the inheritor of two 
 arduous heritages — the barren baronetcy, 
 and Mr. Solomons' Claims to principal and 
 interest. 
 
 Till that evening, then, though qualms 
 of conscience had now and then obtruded 
 themselves, he had never fairly and squarel}^ 
 faced his supreme difficulty. But to-night, 
 in the solitude of his room at the Con- 
 tinental, sitting by himself in the dark (so 
 as not to waste his friend Thistleton's bougies 
 at a franc apiece, hotel reckoning : for 
 economy in small matters had long since 
 become instinctive with him), he turned 
 the matter over for the first time in his 
 soul with the definite issue clearlv before
 
 i6o THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 him — could he or could he not ever con- 
 scientiously marry Isabel Boyton ? 
 
 His whole soul within him revolted at 
 once with a tempestuous Xo. Now that 
 the chance for carrying Mr. Solomons' 
 scheme into actual practice had finally 
 arrived — nay, even had thrust itself bodily 
 xx^on him — he felt at once the whole mean- 
 ness and baseness of the entire arrangement. 
 Xot so far as Mr. Solomons and his father 
 were concerned — of their wisdom and good- 
 ness he could hardly have permitted himself 
 even now to entertain a doubt — but so far 
 as his own execution of their plan was at 
 issue, he realized that at once in its true 
 colours. 
 
 It would be wickedly and grossly unjust 
 to Isabel. And it would be doing violence 
 at the same time to his own inner and better 
 nature. 
 
 But then the Claims upon him ? Those 
 terrible notes of hand ! He took out his 
 pocket-book, lighted one candle, and totted 
 them all ujd, sum by sum, at compound 
 interest, as they stood there confessed, from 
 the very first moment. School expenses,
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING i6i 
 
 tailor's bill, travelling, rooms and sundries ; 
 all renewable yearly at twenty per cent., and 
 all running on indefinitely for ever at a 
 rapidly-growing rate. Premiums on policies, 
 washing, books — good heavens ! how the 
 totals appalled and staggered him ! If he 
 worked his life long at any educated pro- 
 fession he would never be able to earn 
 enough to clear off that deadly load of debt 
 with which he started. He saw clearly 
 before him two awful alternatives : either 
 to hunt and capture his heiress, as originally 
 designed — in spite of all his seething 
 internal repugnance ; or else to play false 
 to his father and Mr. Solomons — to whom 
 he owed everything — by keeping his bene- 
 factor (as he had been taught to regard 
 him) waiting for years perhaps for his full 
 repayment. 
 
 Waiting for years indeed ! Why, at twenty 
 per cent., renewable annually, the sum could 
 never get paid at all. It would go on ac- 
 cumulatincr as lono^ as he lived, bond behind 
 bond, and remain when he died as a 
 heritage of debt to whoever came after 
 him. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 1 62 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Not that anybody would ever come after 
 him at all, if it came to that ; for, as things 
 then stood, he would never, never be able 
 to marry. The baronetcy might revert to 
 the remote cousin in Pembrokeshire. 
 
 And then, for one brief moment, Xea 
 Blair's sweet face as she sat on the hill- 
 side that day at Sant' Agnese flashed 
 across Paul's mental vision as he blew out 
 the candle once more in utter despair, and 
 gave him one further internal qualm of 
 conscience. Was it possible he was in- 
 fluenced in what he had just been thinking 
 by any wicked a7^riere pinisee as to Nea 
 — that beautiful, impossible, unattainable 
 Nea ? He, who was nobody, to dream 
 about her ! In his inmost soul, he trusted 
 not ; for he felt how unworthy a thing 
 it would be to betray his father, and Faith, 
 and Mr. Solomons, and his duty, all for 
 the sake of his own wicked personal likes 
 and fancies. Whatever came, he would at 
 least try to keep Nea out of his mind 
 severely, and decide the question upon its own 
 merits. 
 
 He would try to envisage it thus only to
 
 THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 163 
 
 himself. Dare he do this great wrong to 
 Isabel Boy ton ? 
 
 Or to any other woman circumstanced 
 like Isabel ? 
 
 He would try to let it hinge on that, not 
 on Nea. 
 
 For, after all, what was Nea to him or he 
 to Nea ? Six weeks before he had never 
 seen her ; and now^ — he realized with a 
 pang to himself that he wouldn't like to 
 think he should never again see Nea. 
 
 And all through the long sleepless night 
 that followed, one truth kept breaking in 
 upon him more clearly than ever : if he 
 would, he might marry Isabel Boy ton — 
 and pay off Mr. Solomons without Isabel's 
 ever missing those few paltry hundreds. 
 To Isabel's poppa they were but a drop in 
 the bucket : and yet to him, Paul Gascoyne, 
 they were a millstone round his neck, an in- 
 supportable burden put upon him almost 
 against his will before he had yet arrived 
 at years of discretion.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 Three days later Paul and his companion 
 turned their backs on Mentone en route 
 for England. Scallywag as he was, Paul 
 had so far succeeded in interesting the 
 little world of the Rives d'Or that Madame 
 Ceriolo, and Nea Blair, and Isabel Boyton, 
 and her momma, and even the great Armi- 
 taofe himself — the leader of the coterie — 
 came down to the station to see him off. 
 Armitage thought it was always well to 
 fall in with the general opinion of society 
 upon anybody or anything. But just before 
 they bade their last adieus at the barrier, a 
 tidy little Frenchwoman in a plain black dress 
 pushed her way to the front with a bouquet 
 in her hand of prodigious dimensions.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 165 
 
 The Ceriolo recognised her in a moment 
 again. It was that compromising Httle 
 lady's-maid at the lies Britanniques. 
 
 ' Comment c'est vous, Mademoiselle 
 Clarice !' Paul cried, taking her hand 
 with perfect empressement, though he 
 blushed a little before the faces of all 
 his fine acquaintances. ^ How kind of you 
 to come and see me off! I called last 
 night at your hotel, but they told me you 
 were engaged and couldn't see me.' 
 
 ' Justement ; je faisais la coiffure de 
 Madame,' Mademoiselle Clarice answered, 
 unabashed by the presence of the Ceriolo 
 and so much good society. * But, cher 
 Monsieur Paul, I couldn't let you go and 
 leave Mentone sans vous serrer la main — 
 moi qui vous ai connu quand vous etiez 
 tout petit, tout petit, tout petit — mais tout 
 petit comme 9a, monsieur. And I do 
 m\^self the pleasure of bringing you a 
 bouquet for cette chere maman. You 
 will make her my compliments, cette chere 
 maman. Tell her it has been so delighthil 
 to see you again. It has recalled those so 
 happy days at Hillborough.'
 
 1 66 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Paul took the big bouquet without any 
 display of mmivaise Jionte, arid thanked 
 the voluble little Mademoiselle Clarice for 
 it in French as fluent almost as her own. 
 Mademoiselle Clarice had tears in her eyes. 
 * And to hear you talk that beautiful 
 language,' she cried, ' cette belle langue 
 que je vous ai enseignee moi-meme — ah, 
 que c'est charmant !' She stooped forward 
 irresistibly, and kissed him on both cheeks. 
 Mademoiselle Clarice was forty, but plump 
 and well-preserved. Paul accepted the 
 kisses with a very good grace, as well as 
 the two hands with which she bid him 
 farewell. ' And now I must run back,' 
 she said ; * I must run back this minute. 
 Madame m'attend — elle s'empatiente tant, 
 Madame !' And with another good kiss 
 and two shakes of the hand she was gone ; 
 and Paul was left standing alone by the 
 barrier. 
 
 ' What a stranofe creature !' Madame 
 Ceriolo cried, putting up those long-handled 
 tortoiseshell eyeglasses of hers and following 
 the impressionable Frenchwoman with her 
 stony glance as she left the station. ' Who
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 167 
 
 is she, Mr. Gascoyne, and how on earth did 
 you ever come to know her V 
 
 ' She's an old friend of my mother's,' 
 Paul answered once more, blurting out the 
 whole simple truth ; ' and she taught me 
 French at Hillborough when I was a little 
 chap, for she was lady's-maid at a house 
 where my father was coachman.' And 
 then without waiting to observe the effect 
 of this painful Parthian shot, delivered 
 trembling, he raised his hat, and bidding 
 a comprehensive good-bye to all at once, 
 took refuge with Thistleton behind the 
 passengers' barrier. 
 
 ' Goodness gracious !' Madame Ceriolo 
 cried, looking round with an astonished air 
 of surprise to Armitage ; ' did you ever in 
 your life see anything so funny ? One 
 would have thought the woman woula 
 have had good feeling and good sense 
 enough not to inflict herself upon him in 
 the present company. She may have been 
 a friend of his mother's, of course, and all 
 that sort of thing ; but if she wanted to see 
 him she should have gone to his hotel and 
 seen him quietly. She ought to remember
 
 i68 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 that now he's heir to a baronetcy and a 
 member of a university, and admitted as 
 such into good society.' For since Mentone 
 had decided upon adopting Paul, and there- 
 fore backed him up for every possible virtue, 
 it had been Madame's cue to insist most 
 strenuously upon the genealogical fact that 
 wherever a person of noble race may happen 
 to be born, or whatever position he may 
 happen to fill, he retains his sixteen quarters 
 of nobility intact for all that. This was one 
 for Paul, and two for Madame Ceriolo. 
 
 ' Why, I thought it was so nice of her,' 
 Xea objected with her simple English 
 tender-heartedness, ' to come down and 
 see him off so simply before us all, and to 
 bring him those flowers, and, in the simplicity 
 of her heart, to fall on his neck and kiss him 
 openly. Her eyes were quite full of tears, 
 too. I'm sure, Madame Ceriolo, she's very 
 fond of him.' 
 
 ' Nea, my dear,' Madame Ceriolo re- 
 marked severely, with the precise smile 
 of the British matron, ' your views are 
 really quite revolutionary. There should 
 be natural lines between the various classes.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 169 
 
 People mustn't all get mixed up pro- 
 miscuously. Even if she liked him, she 
 shouldn't let her feelings get the better 
 of her. She should always remember to 
 keep her proper place, no matter what her 
 private sentiments may prompt her to.' 
 
 And, indeed, in Madame Ceriolo's family 
 they managed these things a great deal better. 
 
 For, as Xea and Madame Ceriolo were 
 coming to Mentone that very autumn, a 
 little episode had occurred in a coffee-room 
 at Marseilles which may be here related, 
 as flashing a ray of incidental light on the 
 character of Madame Ceriolo's aristocratic 
 antecedents. 
 
 They reached Marseilles late in the 
 evening, and drove at once to the Hotel 
 du Louvre — it was part of Madame's cue 
 that she knew the best and most luxurious 
 hotel at every town in Europe — where they 
 went down in their travelling dress to the 
 restaurant for supper. As they entered, 
 they found they had the room to themselves, 
 and an obsequious waiter, in an irreproach- 
 able white tie and with a spotless napkin 
 hanging gracefully on his arm, motioned
 
 I70 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 them over without a word to a table near 
 the fireplace. For the indivisible moment of 
 time while they took their seats an observant 
 s})ectator might just have noted a flash 
 of recognition in Madame's eyes, and an 
 answering flash that twinkled silently in 
 the obsequious waiter's. But neither spoke 
 a word of any sort to the other, save in 
 the way of business. Madame took the 
 cm^te that the waiter handed her, with 
 a stifled yawn, and ordered an omelette 
 and a bottle of Beaujolais with the same 
 careless air with which she would have 
 ordered it from any other young man in 
 a similar position. 
 
 At the end of the supper, however, she 
 sent Nea up to get her necessaries for the 
 night unpacked, and waited down herself to 
 ask a few questions, to make quite sure, she 
 said, about the trains to-morrow. 
 
 As soon as Nea had left the room, the 
 obsequious waiter approached a little nearer, 
 and, still with his unequivocally respectful 
 air and his spotless napkin hanging grace- 
 fully over his arm, stood evidently awaiting 
 Madame Ceriolo's orders.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 171 
 
 Madame eyed him a moment with a 
 perfect cahn through those aristocratic 
 glasses, and then observed quietly, ^ Tiens, 
 c'est toi,' without moving at all from 
 the position she occupied when Nea left 
 her. 
 
 ^ Yes, it's me, Polly,' the irreproachable 
 waiter answered, in his native English, 
 straight and stiff as ever. 
 
 ' I thought you were going to make the 
 season at Pau this winter,' Madame Ceriolo 
 remarked in an arid tone of voice, a little 
 sour about the upper notes, and crumbling 
 her bread with one hand uneasily. 
 
 * I was,' the irreproachable waiter replied, 
 without moving a muscle, ' but I ain't now. 
 The governor and me had a blow-up about 
 terms. So I gave him the slip, and en- 
 gaged on here — extra hand for the Riviera 
 season.' 
 
 ' You made the summer at Scheven- 
 ingen, I think ?' Madame Ceriolo remarked 
 languidly, as one discusses the affairs of an 
 indifferent acquaintance. 
 
 The irreproachable waiter bowed his stiff, 
 official bow.
 
 172 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 'At the Hotel des Anglais,' he answered, 
 in his unvarying hotel tone. 
 ' Good business ?' 
 
 * No ; beastly. All Dutch and Germans. 
 Them gentlemen button up their pockets 
 too tight. If it hadn't been for a family or 
 two of English and Americans dropping in 
 casual, the tips wouldn't so much as have 
 paid for my washing. Dickeys and cuiFs 
 come dear at Scheveningen.' 
 
 There was a slight pause. Then Madame 
 Ceriolo spoke again. 
 ' Tom.' 
 ' Yes, Polly.' 
 
 * Where's Karl ?' 
 
 'With a variety troupe at Berlin, when 
 I last heard from him.' 
 
 * Doing well V 
 
 ' Pretty well, I believe. Feathering his 
 nest. But banjos ain't anything like 
 what they'd used to be. The line's over- 
 stocked, that's the long and the short 
 of it.' 
 
 * How's mother V Madame Ceriolo asked 
 carelessly. 
 
 * Drunk,' the irreproachable waiter re-
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 173 
 
 sjDonded, rearranging his tie. ^ Drunk, as 
 usual.' 
 
 ^ Still at the Dials V 
 
 The waiter nodded. ' She can't go far 
 from dear old Drury,' he answered 
 vaguely. 
 
 ' Well, I love the Lane myself,' Madame 
 Ceriolo responded. ' It's a rare old place. 
 I never was hap)j)ier, Tom, in all my life, 
 than in the days when I was on, long ago, 
 in the pantomime.' 
 
 ' You're on the quiet now, I see,' the 
 waiter remarked, with a respectful inclina- 
 tion — in case anybody should happen to see 
 him through the glass-doors that opened on 
 to the corridor. 
 
 Madame Ceriolo bent her head. ' On 
 the strict quiet,' she responded coldly. 
 
 ' Governess ?' 
 
 ' Well, pretty much that sort of thing, 
 you know. Companion. Chaperon.' 
 
 ' To an English young lady, I gathered ?' 
 
 ' Yes. Clergyman's daughter.' 
 
 The waiter's face almost relaxed into a 
 broad smile. ' Well, you always were a 
 clever one, Polly !' he exclaimed, delighted.
 
 174 '^Hi^ SCALLYWAG 
 
 Madame Ceriolo drew herself uj) veiy 
 stiff, as one who prefers to discourage levity 
 in the lower classes. * I hope I know how 
 to behave myself in whatever society I may 
 happen to be placed,' she answered chillily. 
 
 ' You do,' the waiter replied. * You're a 
 rare one at that. I wish I could make as 
 much out of the French and German as 
 you and Karl do. Mine's all thrown away 
 — all w^aiters speak the lot. Say, though : 
 what are you now — I mean in the way of 
 name and nation ?' 
 
 ' Toujours Ceriolo,' Madame answered, 
 with a quiet smile. * After all, it's safer. 
 If anybody who knew you before comes up 
 and calls you by a different name when 
 you've taken an alias, how awfully awk- 
 ward ! And really, if it comes to that, 
 Ceriolo's as good a name for a person to 
 own as any I could invent. It's sug- 
 gestive of anything on earth but organ- 
 grinding.' 
 
 For, in truth, Madame's father, the 
 reputed Count, had really earned a pre- 
 carious livelihood by the production of 
 sweet music on that despised instrument.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 175 
 
 The irreproachable waiter smiled an im- 
 maculate smile. ' And are you Italian or 
 what ?' he asked, always respectful. 
 
 ' Tyrolese,' Madame answered carelessly : 
 * it's better so. Widow of a Count in the 
 Austrian service. Mother an English- 
 woman — which is true for once, you see — 
 brought up in Vienna in the English 
 Church by special agreement — to suit the 
 clergyman.' 
 
 ' And how much are you going to stand 
 me for my discreet silence ?' the waiter 
 asked, coming half a step nearer, and 
 assuming a less agreeable tone of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Madame pulled out ten francs from her 
 dainty purse, and laid the coin gingerly on 
 the edge of the table. 
 
 ^ Won't do,' the waiter observed, shaking 
 his head solemnly. ' Not enough by a long 
 way. Won't do at all. When an affec- 
 tionate brother meets his sister again, 
 whom he hasn't seen for more'n a twelve- 
 month — and keeps her secrets — he can't be 
 23 ut off with half a Napoleon. No, no, 
 Polly ; you must stand me a sovereign.'
 
 176 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' It's an imposition,' Madame Ceriolo 
 remarked, growing very red in the face, but 
 remembering even so to preserve her 
 blandest tone, and drawing the sum in 
 question unwilHngly from her pocket. 
 * Tom, I call it a perfect imposition.' 
 
 * All right, my angel,' the waiter replied 
 calmly, slipping the coin at once into his 
 pocket. ' I've done as much niore'n once 
 before for you, Polly, when you were hard 
 up ; and, after all, it ain't often we meet 
 now, is it, my chicken ?' 
 
 ' You're rude and coarse,' Madame 
 Ceriolo answered, rising to go. ' I wonder 
 you dare to address me in such vulgar 
 language.' 
 
 ' Well, considering you're a countess, it ii> 
 rather cheeky,' the waiter replied, smiling, 
 but still with the imperturbable attitude of 
 the well-bred servant. ' You see, Polly, we 
 ain't all like you. I wish we were ! We 
 ain't all learnt to speak the Queen's English 
 with ease and correctness from the elocution 
 master at Drury.' 
 
 At that moment, before he ^could reveal 
 any further items of domestic history, a
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES i77 
 
 head appeared at the door, and the waiter, 
 without altering a shade of his tone, con- 
 tinued respectfully in fluent French, ' Tres 
 bien, madame. The omnibus will be here 
 to take down your luggage to the 11.40.' 
 
 All which will suggest to the intelligent 
 reader's mind the fact that in Madame 
 Ceriolo's family the distinctions of rank 
 were duly observed, and that no member of 
 that noble and well-bred house ever allowed 
 his feelings of affection or of contempt, of 
 anger or of laughter, to get the better at 
 any time of his sober judgment. 
 
 But this had happened three months 
 before the moment when Paul Gascoyne 
 and Charlie Thistleton were seen out of 
 the station, away down at Mentone, by 
 Mademoiselle Clarice, the lady's maid. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 While Paul and his pupil were travelling 
 north to Paris by the train de luxe (at the 
 pupil's expense, of course — hien entendu)^ 
 away over in England Faith Gascoyne was 
 journeying homeward with a heavy heart 
 and a parliamentary ticket by the slow 
 train from Dorsetshire to Hillborough. 
 
 For Faith had managed to get away for 
 her holiday to her mother's friends in a 
 sheltered coastwise nook in the beloved West 
 Country, where the sun had shone for her 
 (by rare good luck) almost as brightly as on 
 the Piviera, and where the breakers had 
 AN'hitened almost as blue a sea as that which 
 shattered itself in shimmering spray upon 
 the bold and broken rocks of La Mortola.
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 179 
 
 A delightful holiday indeed for poor hard- 
 worked Faith, far from the alternate 
 drudgery of school or home, and safe from 
 the perpetual din and uproar of those 
 joyous but all too effusively happy Infants. 
 And now that short, peaceful interlude of 
 rest and change was fairly over, and to-day 
 Faith must return to her post at Hill- 
 borough in good time for the reopening of 
 school, the day after to-morrow. 
 
 At the second station after she left 
 Seaminster, Faith, who had hitherto enjoyed 
 all to herself the commodious little wooden 
 horsebox known as a third-class compart- 
 ment on the Great Occidental Railway, was 
 somewhat surprised to see the door of her 
 carriage thrown open with a flourish by a 
 footman in livery, and a middle-aged lady 
 (for to Faith thirty -seven was already 
 middle-age), far better dressed than the 
 average of parliamentary passengers, seat 
 herself with a quiet smile of polite recogni- 
 tion at the opposite window. 
 
 Faith's democratic back was set up at 
 once by the lady's presumption in venturing 
 to intrude her well-bred presence into a
 
 i8o THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 parliamentary compartment. People who 
 employ footmen in livery ought to herd 
 with their equals in a well-padded first, 
 instead of rudely thrusting themselves to 
 spy out the manners and customs of their 
 even Christians whose purses compel them 
 to travel third in commodious horseboxes. 
 Faith resented the intrusion as she resented 
 the calls of the district-visitors who dropped 
 in at all times and seasons to bestow good 
 advice gratis upon herself and her mother, 
 but would have been very much astonished 
 if the cab-owner's wife had reciprocated the 
 attention by sending in a card casually on 
 their own ' at home ' day. These de haul 
 en has civilities were not much to Faith's 
 taste : she had too much self-respect and 
 self-reverence herself to care either for 
 obtrudinof on others or beinof herself 
 obtruded upon. 
 
 But the lady settled herself down in her 
 seat, and spoke with such unassuming and 
 sprightly graciousness to Faith that even 
 that national schoolmistress's proud heart 
 was melted by degrees, and before the two 
 had reached Wilmington Junction they
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE i8i 
 
 were hard at work in conversation with one 
 another. 
 
 ' Dear me, where's my lunch-basket V the 
 lady said at last, looking round for the 
 racks which did not exist in the commodious 
 horsebox ; * is it over your side, my dear V 
 
 She said ^ my dear ' so simply and 
 naturally that Faith could hardly find it in 
 her heart to answer : 
 
 ^ I think your footman — or, at least, the 
 gentleman in tight silk stockings wiio saw 
 you off — put it under the seat there.' 
 
 The lady laughed a good-natured laugh. 
 
 ' Oh, he's not my footman,' she answered, 
 stooping down to look for it ; 'he belongs 
 to some friends where I have been spending 
 Christmas. It doesn't run to footmen with 
 me, I can assure you. If it did, I wouldn't 
 be travelling third this morning.' 
 
 ' No V Faith queried coldly. 
 
 ' No,' the lady answered with a gentle 
 but very decisive smile, ' nor you either, if 
 it comes to that. Nobody ever travels 
 third by preference, so don't pretend it. 
 There are people who tell you they do, but 
 then they're snobs, and also untruthful.
 
 1 82 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 They're afraid to say they do it for economy ; 
 I'm not. I travel third because it's cheap. 
 As Pooh-Bah says in the play, I do it but I 
 don't like it. Now, say the truth yourself: 
 wouldn't you, if you could, always travel 
 first or second ?' 
 
 * I never tried,' Faith answered evasively; 
 * I've never had money enough.' 
 
 ' Now, that's right !' the stranger ex- 
 claimed warmly, opening her lunch-basket 
 and taking out some cold grouse and a flask 
 of claret. ' That shows at once you have 
 blue blood. I'm a great admirer of blue 
 blood myself; I firmly believe in it.' 
 
 ' I don't precisely see what blue blood's 
 got to do with the matter,' Faith answered, 
 bewildered. ' I come from a little country 
 town in Surrey, and I'm a national school- 
 mistress.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' the lady echoed. * The very 
 moment I set eyes on you I felt sure you 
 had blue blood. I saw it in your wrists, 
 and I wasn't mistaken. You mayn't know 
 it, ])erhaps ; a great many people have got 
 blue blood and aren't aware of it. But it's 
 there, for all that, as blue as indigo ; and I,
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 183 
 
 who am a connoisseur in matters of blood, 
 can always spot it ;' and she proceeded to 
 take out from a dainty case a knife, fork, 
 spoon, and a couple of drinking-glasses. 
 
 ' But how did you spot it in me just 
 now V Faith asked with a smile, not wholly 
 unflattered. 
 
 ' Because you weren't ashamed to say 
 you'd never travelled anything but third, 
 and because you insisted then with unneces- 
 sary zeal on the smallness and humility of 
 your own surroundings. Only blue blood 
 ever does that. Everybody's descended 
 from a duke on one side and a cobbler on 
 the other. Snobs try always to bring for- 
 ward their duke and conceal their cobbler. 
 Blue blood's prouder and franker, too. It 
 insists upon its cobbler being duly recog- 
 nised.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm not ashamed of mine ; I'm 
 proud of him,' Faith answered, colouring 
 up ; ' but all the same, I don't like blue 
 blood. It's so hard and unfeeling. It 
 makes me mad sometimes. You w^ouldn't 
 believe how it keeps people waiting for their 
 money.'
 
 iS4 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' I'm sorry you don't like it,' the lady 
 said, with the same soft smile as before and 
 a bewitching look, ' for then you won't like 
 me. I'm blue, very blue, as blue as the 
 sky, and I don't pretend to deny it. Will 
 you take a little grouse and a glass of 
 claret ?' 
 
 ^ Thank you,' Faith answered coldly, 
 flushing up once more ; ' I have my own 
 lunch here in my own parcel.' 
 
 ' What have you got ?' the lady asked with 
 the inquiring air of a profound gourmet. 
 
 ' Hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches,' Faith 
 said, half choking. 
 
 ^ Well, Lady Seaminster didn't give me 
 any hard-boiled eggs,' the lady said, search- 
 ing in vain in her basket. ' May I have one 
 of yours ? Let's share our provisions.' 
 
 Faith could hardly say no, though she 
 saw at once through the polite ruse ; so she 
 passed an egg to the lady with an * Oh, of 
 course, I shall be delighted,' and proceeded 
 herself to eat a very dry sandwich. 
 
 ' Have some grouse,' the lady said, pass- 
 ing her over a piece on a little electro- 
 plated dish, ' and a glass of claret.'
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 185 
 
 ^ I've never tasted claret,' Faith answered 
 grimly ; ' I don't know if I'll like it.' 
 
 ' All the better reason for trying it now,' 
 the lady replied, still cheerfully kind, in spite 
 of rebuffs. ' And so you thought that 
 elegant gentleman in the silk stockings was 
 my servant, did you ? What a capital joke ! 
 But people at Oxford can't afford to keep 
 footmen in tights, you know. We're as poor 
 as church mice there — poor, but cultured.' 
 
 A flash of interest gleamed for a second 
 in Faith's eye afc the mention of Oxford. 
 
 ^ Oh, you live there, do you V she said. 
 ' I should love to see Oxford.' 
 
 ^ Yes, my husband's professor of Ac- 
 cad ian,' the lady remarked ; ' his name's 
 Douglas. But I dare say you don't know 
 what Accadian is. / didn't, I'm sure, till I 
 married Archie.' 
 
 A fuller flush came on Faith's cheek. 
 ' I've heard of it from my brother,' she said 
 simply. ' I think it was the language 
 spoken in Assyria before the Assyrians 
 went there, wasn't it ? Ah yes, Paul told 
 me so ! And I've heard him speak of your 
 husband, too, I fancy.'
 
 i86 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' Have you a brother at Oxford, then V 
 the lady asked with a start. 
 
 * Yes, at Christ Church.' 
 
 ' Why, that's Archie's college,' the lady 
 went on, smiling. * What's his name ? I 
 may know him.' 
 
 * I don't think so. His name's Gas- 
 coyne.' 
 
 Mrs. Douglas fairly jumped with her 
 triumph. ' There ! didn't I tell you so ?' 
 she cried, clapping her hands in her joy. 
 * You have blue blood. It's as clear as 
 mud. Archie's told me all about your 
 brother. He's poor but blue. I knew you 
 were blue. Your father's a baronet.' 
 
 Faith trembled all over at this sudden 
 recognition. 'Yes,' she answered with some 
 annoyance ; 'but he's as poor as he can be. 
 He's a cab-driv^er too. I told you I wasn't 
 ashamed of my cobbler.' 
 
 ' And / told you I was sure you had blue 
 blood,' Mrs. Douglas echoed, delighted. 
 ' Now, this is quite too lovely, trying to 
 pass yourself off for a rofnriere like that ; 
 but it's no use with me. I see throuofh 
 these flimsy disguises always. Have some
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 187 
 
 more claret ? it's not so bad, is it ? And 
 so you'd love to go to Oxford V 
 
 ' Yes,' Faith faltered ; ' Paul's told me so 
 much about it.' 
 
 ' Guard,' the lady cried as they stopped at 
 a station, ' do we change here ? Mind you 
 tell us when we get to Hillborough Junc- 
 tion.' 
 
 She had enjoined this upon him already 
 more than a dozen times since they started 
 on their journey, and the guard was begin- 
 ning to get a little tired of it. 
 
 ' All right, mum,' he said in a testy voice ; 
 * don't you be afeard. I'll see you all right. 
 Jest you sit where you are until I come and 
 tell you.' 
 
 ' Why, that's where / have to change,' 
 Faith observed as Mrs. Douglas withdrew 
 her head from the window. 
 
 ' Well, that's all right,' Mrs. Douglas 
 replied with a cheery nod. ' Now we can 
 have such a nice tete-a-tete together. You 
 must tell me all about your brother and 
 yourself Do you know, my husband thinks 
 your brother's awfully clever V 
 
 She had found the right way to Faith's
 
 1 88 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 heart at last. Thus adjured, Faith began 
 to gossip with real goodwill about Paul, 
 and her mother, and the business at Hill- 
 borough, and the life of a schoolmistress, 
 and the trials she endured at the hands (and 
 throats) of those unconscious Infants. She 
 talked away more and more familiarly as 
 the time went on till dusk set in, and the 
 lamp in the horsebox alone was left to light 
 them. Mrs. Douglas, in spite of her pre- 
 judice in favour of blue blood, was really 
 sympathetic ; and by dexterous side-ques- 
 tions she drew out of Faith the inmost 
 longings and troubles of her heart : how 
 the local Hillborough grandees owed long 
 bills which they wouldn't pay ; how^ Paul 
 was cramped at Christ Church for want of 
 money ; how her father was growing rheu- 
 matic and too old for his work ; how hard a 
 time they often had in the winter ; how 
 fond she was of Paul, and Paul of her ; how 
 he had taught her in his holidays all he 
 learnt himself ; how^ they two read Daudet 
 and Victor Hugo together, and how she 
 lono'ed with all her heart and soul to 
 be free from the indescribable bondage of
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 189 
 
 the Infants. Everything she told — Mrs. 
 Douglas was so excellent and friendly a 
 wielder of the pump — save that one hateful 
 secret about Mr. Solomons. There Faith 
 was always discreetly silent. She hated 
 that horrible compact so thoroughly in her 
 soul that she could never so much as bring 
 herself to speak of it, even in the family 
 circle. 
 
 They talked so long and talked so 
 earnestly that they quite forgot about Hill- 
 borough Junction. 
 
 At last, as the clock was sounding seven, 
 they arrived at a big and noisy station, 
 where porters were shouting, and trains 
 were puffing, and the electric light was fizz- 
 ing and spluttering. Mrs. Douglas put her 
 head out of the window once more, and 
 called out to the guard, ' Now, is this Hill- 
 borough Junction V 
 
 The guard, with a righteously astonished 
 air, cried back in reply, ' Hillborough 
 Junction ? Why, what are you thinking 
 of, mum ? We passed Hillborough Junc- 
 tion a clear two hours ago.' 
 
 Faith looked at Mrs. Douglas, and Mrs.
 
 190 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Douglas looked at Faith. They stared in 
 silence. Then the elder woman burst sud- 
 denly into a good-natured laugh. It was 
 no use bullying that righteously-astonished 
 guard. He was clearly expostulation-proof 
 by long experience. ' When can we get a 
 train back V she asked instead with practical 
 wisdom. 
 
 And the guard answered in the same 
 business-like tone, ' You can't get no train 
 back to-night at all ; last's gone. You'll 
 have to stop here till to-morrow^ morning.' 
 
 Mrs. Douglas laughed again ; to her it 
 was a mere adventure. The Lightbodys' 
 carriage which was sent down to meet her 
 would have to go back to the Rectory 
 empty — that w^as all. But tears rushed up 
 suddenly into poor Faith's eyes. To her it 
 was nothing less than a grave misfortune. 
 
 ' Oh, where can I go ?' she cried, clasping 
 her hands together nervously. * And 
 mother '11 be so dreadfully, dreadfully 
 frightened !' 
 
 Mrs. Douglas's face grew somewhat 
 graver. ' You must come with me to a 
 hotel,' she answered kindly.
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 191 
 
 Faith looked back at her with eyes of 
 genuine dismay. 
 
 ' I can't/ she murmured in a choking 
 voice. ^ I — I couldn't afford to go to any 
 hotel where you'd go to.' 
 
 Mrs. Douglas took in the wdiole difficulty 
 at a glance. * How much have you got 
 with you, dear V she asked gently. 
 
 ^ Four and sixpence,' Faith answered 
 with a terrible gulp. To her that was 
 indeed a formidable sum to have to spend 
 unexpectedly upon a night's lodging. 
 
 * If I were to lend you a few shil- 
 lings ' Mrs. Douglas began, but Faith 
 
 shook her head. 
 
 'That would be no use, thank you — thank 
 you ever so much,' she replied, gasping ; ' I 
 couldn't pay it back — I mean, I couldn't 
 afford to pay so much for — for a mistake of 
 my own in not getting out at the right 
 station.' 
 
 ' The mistake was mine,' Mrs. Douglas 
 said with prompt decision. ' It w^as I who 
 misled you. I ought to have asked.' She 
 hesitated for a moment. ' There's a good 
 hotel here, I know,' she began once more
 
 192 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 timidly, ' if you'd only be so nice as to come 
 there as my guest.' 
 
 But Faith shook her head still more 
 vigorously tlian before. 
 
 * You're a dear, kind thing,' she cried, 
 grasping her new friend's hand and pressing 
 it warmly, ' and I'm ever so grateful. But 
 I couldn't — I couldn't — oh no, I couldn't ! 
 It may be pride, and it may be the blood of 
 the cobblers in me, I don't know which ; 
 but I never could do it — I really couldn't.' 
 
 Mrs. Douoflas had tact enous^h to see at 
 once she really meant it, and that nothing 
 on earth would shake her firm resolve ; so 
 she paused a moment to collect her 
 thoughts. Then she said once more, with 
 that perfect good-humour which seemed 
 never to desert her, ' Well, if that's so, my 
 dear, there's no other way out of it. The 
 mountain won't come to Mahomet, it 
 appears, so I suppose Mahomet must go to 
 the mountain. If yo^l won't come to my 
 hotel, my child, I'll just have to go and 
 stop at yours to take care of you.' 
 
 Faith drew back with a little cry ot 
 deprecation. ' Oh no,' she exclaimed ; ' I
 
 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 193 
 
 could never let you do that, I'm sure, Mrs. 
 Douoflas.' 
 
 But on that point Mrs. Douglas was 
 firm. The rock of the co7ivenances on 
 which she founded her plea could not have 
 been more immovable in its fixity than her- 
 self. ' There are no two ways about it, my 
 dear,' she said, after Faith had pleaded in 
 vain every plea she knew to be let go alone 
 to her own sort of lodging-house ; ^ the 
 thing's impossible. I'm a married woman, 
 and older than you, and I know all about 
 it. A girl of your age — and a baronet's 
 daughter, too — can't be permitted to go by 
 herself to an inn or public-house, especially 
 the sort of inn you seem to imply, without 
 a married woman to guarantee her and 
 chaperon her. As a Christian creature, I 
 couldn't dream of allowing it. Why, that 
 dear mother of yours would go out of her 
 senses if she only knew you'd been passing 
 the night alone in such a place without me 
 to take care of you.' A thought seemed to 
 strike her all at once. ' Stop here a second,' 
 she said ; * I'll soon come back to you.' 
 Faith stopped on the platform by her 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 one small portmanteau for five minutes or 
 more ; and then Mrs. Douglas returned 
 triumphant. * This is what I've said,' she 
 exclaimed, brandishing a piece of white 
 paper all radiant before her : ' I've sent oflf 
 a telegram : '' Mrs. Douglas, Pendlebury, to 
 Gascoyne, Plowden's Court, Hillborough, 
 Surrey. Your daughter has missed her 
 train, but is here and safe. Will return to- 
 rn (^tow. I am taking her to a respectable 
 inn for the night. I am a friend of the 
 Lightbodys, of Cheriton Rectory." ' 
 
 ' How did you know^ my address ?' Faith 
 gasped, astonished. 
 
 ' My dear,' Mrs. Douglas replied, ' I 
 happen to possess a pair of eyes. I read it 
 on the label, there, on your portmanteau.' 
 
 * How much did it cost ?' Faith cried, all 
 aghast. 
 
 ' I refuse to be questioned about my 
 private coi-respondence,' Mrs. Douglas an- 
 swered firmly. ' That's my affair. The 
 telegram's mine, and sent in my own name. 
 And now, dear, we've got to go out into the 
 town and hunt about for our four-and-six- 
 penny lodging.'
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 * So what did you do, then V Paul asked 
 two days later, as his sister and he sat hand- 
 in-hand, comparing notes over their winter's 
 adventures. 
 
 ' So then,' Faith went on, continuing her 
 tale with unusual animation, ' we ran about 
 to two or three little places, to see which 
 one would take us cheapest. And, Mrs. 
 Douglas, oh, she's a wonderful one at bar- 
 gaining — you and I would never dare to do 
 it. We wouldn't have the face to beat 
 people down so. " No," she said, '' that 
 won't suit Its — we want bed and breakfast 
 for half a crown," and, you'll hardly believe 
 it, at last she got it.' 
 
 It was the luncheon-hour on the first
 
 196 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 day of Faith's return to the slavery of the 
 Infants ; but Faith had not gone home for 
 her mid-day meal. She had got Paul to 
 bring it out to her in her father's tin u]) t(» 
 the Knoll, the heath-clad height that over- 
 hangs Hillborough, and from which the 
 town derives its name. A little wooden 
 summer-house, in form like a small Ionic 
 temple, consisting only of a circular roof 
 supported by heavy wooden columns, in the 
 quaint bad taste of the eighteenth century, 
 crowns the summit : and here, on that 
 bright, frosty January morning, in spite of 
 the cold, Faith preferred to eat her lunch 
 undisturbed under the clear blue sky, in 
 order to enjoy an uninterrupted interchange 
 of confidences with her newly-returned 
 brother. In the small houses of the 
 labouring classes and the lesser bourgeoisie a 
 tete-a-tete is impossible. People in that 
 rank of life always go outdoors to say 
 whatever they have most at heart to one 
 another — a fact which explains much in 
 their habits and manners whereat the 
 unreflecting in the classes above them are 
 apt to jeer beyond what is seemly. So,
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 197 
 
 brusque as was the change to Paul from 
 the lemon-groves of Mentone to the bare 
 boughs and leafless trunks of the beeches 
 and chestnuts on the Knoll at Hillborough, 
 he was glad to embrace that chance of out- 
 pouring his soul to his one intimate friend 
 and confidante, his sister, in the rococo 
 summer-house on the open hill-top, rather 
 than in the narrow little parlour at the 
 ancestral abode of the Gascoyne family. 
 
 ^ We couldn't have done it ourselves,' 
 Paul mused in reply. ^ But that's always 
 the way with people who feel sure of their 
 ground, Faith. They'll bargain and haggle 
 ten times as much over a shilling as we will. 
 You see, they're not afraid of losing caste 
 by it.' 
 
 'That's just it,' Faith went on. 'She 
 was as bold as brass about it. '" Half a 
 crown and not one penny more we pay," 
 she said, putting her little foot down 
 smartly — just like this ; " and we don't 
 want any supper ; because, you see, Faith, 
 you and I can sup in our own room, to save 
 expense, off the remains of the sandwiches 
 and the grouse and claret." '
 
 198 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 ' No ! She didn't say that out loud 
 before their very faces ?' Paul exclaimed, 
 aghast. 
 
 ' Yes, she did, before their very faces, my 
 dear ; and me there, just ready to drop at 
 her side with shame and annoyance. But, 
 Paul, she didn't seem to care a pin. She 
 was as high and mighty as if she'd ordered 
 a private room, with champagne and turtle. 
 She held up her head like a thorough lady, 
 and made me feel quite bold myself, merely 
 by dint of her good example.' 
 
 ' And you slept together ?' Paul asked. 
 
 'And we slept together,' Faith answered. 
 ' She said she didn't mind a bit sharing the 
 same room, though she would w^ith some 
 people, because I had blue blood — she was 
 always talking that nonsense about blue 
 blood, you know — and blue blood was akin 
 all the world over. And I said I'd always 
 understood, from the documents in the case, 
 that mankind was made of one flesh, every- 
 where alike, no matter what might be the 
 particular colour or ({uality of its circulatiny- 
 fluid ; and for my ])art I didn't care a brass 
 farthing whether her blood was blue, or
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 199 
 
 pink, or yellow, or merely red like us 
 common people's : for she was a dear, good 
 thing, anyhow, and I liked her ever so. 
 And then she took my face between her 
 hands, like this, and kissed me so hard, and 
 said, " Now we two are friends for good 
 and always, so we'll talk no more nonsense 
 about debatable questions." And, Paul, 
 she's really such a sweet, kind soul, I could 
 almost forgive her for being such a dreadful 
 aristocrat. Why, do you know, she says 
 she pays everybody weekly, and never kept 
 even a washerwoman waiting for her money, 
 not a fortnight in her life, nor wouldn't 
 either !' 
 
 'Well, you see. Faith,' Paul answered, 
 musing, ' I expect the fact is, very often, 
 they don't remember, and they've no idea 
 what trouble they're causing. Perhaps we 
 oughtn't to judge them too hardly.' 
 
 ' I judge them hardly,' Faith cried, 
 flushing up ; ' and so would you, if you'd 
 the bills to make up, and had to go round 
 to their very doors to ask them for the 
 money. But Mrs. Douglas, she's quite 
 another sort — she's quite different. You
 
 200 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 can't think how friendly we got together in 
 that one evening. Though, to be sure, we 
 lay awake the best part of the night, 
 chattering away like a couple of raag- 
 ])ies ; and before morning we were much 
 more intimate than I ever was with any 
 other woman before in all my life. I 
 
 think, perhaps ' And then Faith 
 
 hesitated. 
 
 * You think, perhaps, it was because she 
 was more like the sort of person you ought 
 naturally to mix with,' Paul suggested 
 gently, reading with his quick, sympathetic 
 instinct her unuttered thought. 
 
 Faith faltered still. ' Well, perhaps so,' 
 she said. * More my equal — at least, in 
 intelligence and feeling. Though I should 
 be sorry to think, Paul,' she added after a 
 pause, ' I had more in common with the 
 class that keeps people waiting for their 
 money than with dear, good, honest, hard- 
 working souls like father and mother.' 
 
 ^ I don't think the classes need be 
 mutually exclusive, as we say in logic,' Paul 
 mused slowl3\ ' You see, I mix a good 
 deal with both classes now ; and it seems to
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 20 [ 
 
 me there may be good and bad in both 
 about equally.' 
 
 * Perhaps so. But the harm the one 
 class does comes home to me, of course, a 
 great deal more than the harm done by the 
 other. They give me such a lot of bother 
 about the bills : you wouldn't believe it. 
 But Mrs. Douglas is a dear, I'm sure of 
 that. She gave me sitch a kiss when she 
 saw me off by the train next morning, and 
 she said to me, '' Now, remember. Faith 
 dear, I expect you to come in summer term, 
 and visit me at Oxford."' 
 
 ' At Oxford V Paul cried, with a start of 
 short-lived pleasure. 
 
 * Oh yes, she was always going on about 
 that the whole night through. She kept 
 at it all the time : " You must come to 
 Oxford." I'd happened to say to her earlier 
 in the day, while we were in the train 
 together, and before we got quite so 
 intimate with one another, that I'd always 
 had such a longing to see the University ; 
 and as soon as we'd begun to chum up a 
 bit, you know, she said at once : " Next 
 summer term you must come and visit me
 
 202 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 at Oxford." But it couldn't be managed, 
 of course,' Faith went on with a sigh. 
 *The thing's beyond us. Though I couldn't 
 make her understand how utterly impos- 
 sible it was.' 
 
 Paul's face fell. ' I suppose it is impos- 
 sible,' he nmrmured, disappointed. ' You 
 couldn't get the proper sort of clothes, I 
 expect, to go and stop at Mrs. Douglas's, 
 could you ?' 
 
 ' No,' Faith answered very decisively. 
 ' I couldn't indeed. It may be wicked 
 pride, but I'm woman enough to feel I 
 won't go unless I can be dressed as well as 
 all the others.' 
 
 ' It's a dreadful thing, Faith,' Paul said, 
 still holding her hand and looking away 
 vaguely over the bare English landscape — 
 so painful a contrast to the green of 
 Mentone ; ' it's a dreadful thing that I can't 
 do anything in that way to help you. 
 Now, any other brother, situated as I am, 
 would be able to assist his sister a bit, and 
 make lier a little present of a dress and hat 
 for such an occasion as that, for example. 
 But I — I can't. Whatever I have is all
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 203 
 
 Mr. Solomons'. I can't spend a single 
 penny unnecessarily on myself or you with- 
 out doing a wrong to him and father and 
 you and mother. There's that tenner, 
 now, I got from Thistleton for coaching 
 him : under any other circumstances, I'd be 
 able to look upon that as my own to spend 
 — I earned it myself — and to get you an 
 evening dress (you'd want a simple evening 
 dress, of course) to go to Oxford with. 
 Bat I can't allow myself such a Luxury as 
 that. If I did, I'd have to get another 
 tenner the more from Mr. Solomons, and 
 sign for it at once, and burden my con- 
 science, and father's, and yours, with another 
 extra ten pounds, and all the interest.' 
 
 ' I sometimes think,' Faith exclaimed 
 petulantly, 'we should all have been a great 
 deal happier in our lives if we'd never 
 heard of that dreadful Mr. Solomons !' 
 
 Paul took a more judicial view of the 
 situation, as became his sex. 
 
 ' I sometimes think so, too,' he answered 
 after a pause. ' But, then, you've got to 
 remember. Faith, that we both of us are 
 what we are now wholly and solely through
 
 204 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Mr. Solomons. We can't unthink so much 
 of our past as to make ourselves mentally 
 into what we might have been if Mr. Solo- 
 mons had never at all crossed our horizon. 
 We must recollect that if it hadn't been for 
 Mr. Solomons I should never have gone 
 either to the Grammar School or to 
 Oxford. And if I'd never gone, you'd never 
 have learnt all that ^^ou've learnt from me. 
 You'd never even have become a teacher — 
 now, would you ? In a sort of way, Faith, 
 you're now a lady, and I'm a gentleman. 
 I know w^e are not Avhat the big people at 
 Hillborousfh would call orentlefolk ; but in 
 the only sense of the word that's worth 
 anything we are ; and that we are all 
 depends upon Mr. Solomons. So being 
 what we are, we can't say now what we 
 would have wished things to be if w^e had 
 been quite otherwise.' 
 
 ^ That's a trifle metaphysical,' Faith nmr- 
 mured, smiling. ' I don't feel sure I follow 
 it. But perhaps, after all, on the w^hole, I 
 agree with you.' 
 
 ' Mr. Solomons is a factor you can't 
 eliminate from our joint Hves,' Paul went
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 205 
 
 on quietly ; ' and if we could eliminate him, 
 and all that he implies, we'd not be our- 
 selves. We'd be Tom and Mary White- 
 head, if you understand me.' 
 
 ' You might be Tom, but I'd not be 
 Mary,' Faith answered with a not unbe- 
 coming toss of her head, for the White- 
 heads in point of fact were her pet aversion. 
 * The difference there is something in the 
 fibre. I suppose Mrs. Douglas would say 
 it was blue blood ; but, anyhow, I believe 
 I'm not quite made of the same stuff as 
 she is.' 
 
 ' Why, there you're as bad as Mrs. 
 Douglas herself,' Paul retorted, laughing. 
 ' Who was so precious democratic just now, 
 I'd like to know, about all mankind and its 
 varieties of circulating fluid ?' 
 
 Faith laughed in return, but withdrew 
 her hand. We all of us object to the 
 prejudices of others, but our own little 
 prejudices are so much more sensible, so 
 much more firmly grounded on reasonable 
 distinctions ! We don't like to have them 
 too freely laughed at. 
 
 * And this Yankee girl you were telling
 
 2o6 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 US about last night,' Faith went on after a 
 pause. ' Was she very nice ? As nice as 
 she was rich ? And did you and she flirt 
 desperately together V 
 
 Paul's smiling face grew suddenly grave. 
 
 ' Well, Faith,' he said, ' to tell you the 
 truth — you may think it an awfully pre- 
 sumptuous thing for a fellow like me to 
 say, but I really believe it — if I were to 
 take j^ains about going the right way to 
 work, I might get that Yankee girl to say 
 Yes to me.' 
 
 ' Most probably,' Faith answered, quite 
 undiscomposed by this (to Paul) most start- 
 ling announcement. 
 
 ' You're laughing at me,' Paul cried, 
 drawing back a little sharply. ^ You think 
 me a conceited prig for imagining it,' 
 
 ' Not at all,' Faith replied, with supreme 
 sisterly confidence in her brother's attrac- 
 tions. ' On the contrary, I should think 
 nothing on earth could be more perfectly 
 natural. There's no reason, that I can see, 
 why you need be so absurdly modest about 
 your own position. You're tall, you're 
 strong, you're well built, you're good-looking,
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 207 
 
 and, though it's me that says it as oughtn't 
 to sa}^ it, you're every inch a gentleman. 
 You've been well educated ; you're an Oxford 
 man, accustomed to mix with the best blood 
 in England ; you're cleverer than anybody 
 else I ever met ; and, last of all, you're the 
 heir to a baronetcy. Heaven knows I'm 
 the least likely person in the world to over- 
 estimate the worth or importance of that — 
 but, after all, it alwavs counts for somethino-. 
 If all those combined attractions aren't 
 enough to bring down the American girl 
 on her knees, where, for goodness' sake, does 
 she expect to find her complete Adonis ?' 
 
 ^ I wish I felt half as confident about 
 myself as you do about me,' Paul murmured, 
 half ashamed. 
 
 ^ If you did, you wouldn't be half as nice 
 as you are now, my dear. It's your diffi- 
 dence that puts the comhle on your perfec- 
 tions, as dear old Clarice would say. I'm so 
 glad you saw her. She'd be so proud and 
 delighted.' 
 
 ' And yet it was awkward,' Paul said 
 reflectively. 
 
 ' I don't doubt it was awkward,' his sister
 
 2o8 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 replied. ' It's always awkward to mix up 
 your classes.' 
 
 ' I'm not so much ashamed,' Paul went on 
 with a sigh, ' as uncomfortable and doubtful. 
 It isn't snobbishness, I think, that makes me 
 feel so ; but, you see, you don't know how 
 other people will treat them. And you 
 hate having to be alwa^^s obtruding on 
 people whose whole ideas and sympathies 
 and feelings are restricted to one class 
 the fact that you yourself are just equally 
 bound up with another. It seems like 
 assuming a constant attitude of needless 
 antagonism.' 
 
 ' Is she pretty?' Faith put in abruptly, 
 not heeding his explanation. 
 
 ' Who ? Clarice ? As pretty as ever 
 and not one day older.' 
 
 ' I didn't mean her,' Faith interposed with 
 a smile. ' I meant the other one — the 
 American.' 
 
 ' Oh, her! Yes, in her way, no doubt. 
 Mignonne, slender, pallid, and golden-haired. 
 She looks as if a breath would blow her 
 away. Yet she's full of spirit, and cheek, 
 and audacity, for all that. She said to me
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 209 
 
 herself one day, " I'm a little one, but, oh 
 my !" and I'm sure she meant it. The 
 man that marries her will have somebody 
 to tackle.' 
 
 ' And do you like her, Paul ?' 
 
 Paul looked up in surprise — not at the 
 words, but at the impressive, half-regretful 
 way in which they were spoken. 
 
 ' No,' he said. * Faith, if you ask me 
 point-blank, she's a nice little girl — pretty, 
 and all that sort of thing ; but I don't care 
 for her.' 
 
 ' And will you take pains about going 
 the right way to make her say Yes to 
 you ?' 
 
 * Faith, how can you ! I could never 
 marry her. Pich as she is, and with all 
 Mr. Solomons' bills at my back, I could 
 never marry her.' 
 
 There was a minute's pause. Then Faith 
 said again, looking up in his face : 
 
 ' So the revolt has come. It's come at 
 last. I've been waiting for it, and expecting 
 it. For months and months I've been wait- 
 ing and watching. You've found yourself 
 face to face with the facts at last, and your 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2IO THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 conscience is too strong for you. I knew it 
 would be.' 
 
 ' The revolt has come,' Paul answered 
 with an effort. ^ I found it out last week 
 at Mentone, alone, and in my own mind it's 
 all settled now. It's a terrible thing to have 
 to say, Faith, and I've hardly worked out all 
 it entails yet ; but, come what may, I cant 
 marry an heiress.' 
 
 Faith said nothing, but she rose from her 
 seat, and putting her two hands to his warm, 
 red cheeks, kissed him soundly with sisterly 
 fervour. 
 
 * I know what it means, Paul,' she said, 
 stooping over him tenderly. ^ I know what 
 a struggle it must have cost you to make 
 up your mind — you on whom it's been en- 
 joined as a sort of sacred duty for so many 
 years past by father and Mr. Solomons. But 
 I knew, when once you came to stand face 
 to face with it, you'd see through the sham 
 and dispel the illusion. You could never, 
 never so sell yourself into slavery, and a 
 helpless woman into gross degradation.' 
 
 ' It will kill father whenever I have to tell 
 him,' Paul murmured in return. ' It will
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 211 
 
 be the death-knell of all his hopes and 
 ideals.' 
 
 ' But you needn't tell him, at present at 
 least,' Faith answered wisely. ' Put off the 
 worst till you find it's inevitable. After all, 
 it's only a guess that the American would 
 take you. Most men don't marry at tw^enty- 
 one. And you won't be twenty-one till 
 to-morrow. You've years before you yet 
 to make up your mind in. You can earn 
 money meanwhile and repay it slowly. The 
 disillusionment may come by slow degrees. 
 There's no need to spring it upon him at one 
 swoop, as you sprang it upon me unex- 
 pectedly this minute.' 
 
 ' I can never earn it ; I can never repay 
 it,' Paul answered despondently. ' It's far 
 too heavv a weiofht for a man to bemn life 
 upon. I shall sink under the burden, but I 
 shall never get rid of it.' 
 
 * Wait and see,' Faith answered. ' For 
 the present, there's no need for saying any- 
 thing. To-morrow Mr. Solomons will want 
 you to sign your name afresh. But don't 
 be foolish enough to tell him this. Why, 
 goodness gracious, there's the bell ! I must
 
 212 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 hurry down at once. And how cold it is 
 up here on the hill- top !' 
 
 Halfway down the slope she turned and 
 spoke once more. 
 
 ' And the other girl/ she said, ' Nea 
 Blair ? The Enghsh one V 
 
 ' She's very, very nice,' Paul answered 
 with warmth. ' She's a really good girl. I 
 like her immensely.' 
 
 * Who is she V Faith asked in a tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 ^ Her father's a clergyman, somewhere 
 down in Cornwall.' 
 
 ^ I should hate her,' Faith cried. ' I 
 know I should hate her. I never can bear 
 grand girls like that. If this is one of that 
 sort, I know I should hate her. The 
 American I could stand — their ways are 
 not our ways ; and we have the better of 
 them in some things ; but an Englishwoman 
 like that, I know I could never, never endure 
 her.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry,' Paul answered. And he 
 looked at her tenderly.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR TO THE 
 TITLE. 
 
 Next morning was Paul's twenty-first birth- 
 da}^ For that important occasion he had 
 hurried home to England three days before 
 his term at Oxford began ; for Mr. Solo- 
 mons was anxious to bind him down firmly 
 at the earliest possible moment to repay 
 all the sums borrowed on his account by 
 his father during his infancy, from the very 
 beginning. To be sure, they had all been 
 expended on necessaries, and if the sturdy 
 infant himself would not pay, it would 
 always be possible to fall back upon his 
 father. But, then, what use was that as a 
 security? Mr. Solomons asked himself. No, 
 no : he wanted Paul's own hand and seal to
 
 214 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 all the documents hereinafter recapitulated, 
 on the date of his coming of age, as a 
 guarantee for future repayment. 
 
 The occasion, indeed, was celebrated in the 
 Gascoyne household with all due solemnity. 
 The baronet himself wore his Sunday best, 
 with the carefully-brushed tall hat in which 
 he always drove summer visitors to church 
 in the Hillborough season ; and at ten of the 
 clock precisely he and Paul repaired, with a 
 churchgoing air, as is the habit of their class 
 (viewed not as a baronet, but as petite hour- 
 (jeoisie) whenever a legal function has to be 
 performed, to the dingy, stingy, gloomy- 
 looking house where Mr. Solomons abode in 
 the High Street of Hillborough. 
 
 Mr. Solomons, too, for his part, had risen 
 in every way to the dignity of the occasion. 
 He had to do business with a real live baronet 
 and his eldest son ; and he had prepared to 
 receive his distinguished guests and clients 
 with becoming hospitality. A decanter of 
 brown sherry and a plate of plain cake stood 
 upon the table by the dusty window of the 
 estate agent's office ; a bouquet of laurustinus 
 and early-forced wallflowers adorned the one
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 215 
 
 vase on the wooden chimney piece, and a fancy 
 waistcoat of the most ornate design decorated 
 Mr. Solomons' own portly person. Mr. 
 Lionel, too, had come down from town to 
 act as witness and general adviser, and to 
 watch the case, so to speak, on his own 
 behalf, as next-of-kin and heir-at-law to the 
 person most interested in the whole pro- 
 ceeding. Mr. Lionel's hair was about as 
 curly and as oleaginous as usual, but the 
 flower in his buttonhole was even nobler in 
 proportions than was his wont on week-days, 
 and the perfume that exhaled from his silk 
 pocket-handkerchief was more redolent than 
 ever of that fervid musk which is dear to the 
 Oriental nervous organization. 
 
 * Come in. Sir Emery,' Mr. Solomons ob- 
 served, rubbing his hands with great unction, 
 as the cab-driver paused for a second respect- 
 fully at his creditor's door. Mr. Solomons 
 called his distinguished client plain Gascoyne 
 on ordinary occasions when they met on terms 
 of employer and cabman, but whenever these 
 solemn functions of high finance had to be 
 performed he allowed himself the inexpen- 
 sive luxury of rolling that superfluous title
 
 2i6 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 for a special treat on his appreciative ])alate 
 as a connoisseur rolls a good glass of bur- 
 gundy. 
 
 Paul grew hot in the face at the un- 
 welcome sound — for to Paul that hateful 
 baronetcy had grown into a perfect hete noire 
 — but Sir Emery advanced by shuffling steps 
 with a diffident air into the middle of the 
 room, finding obvious difficulties as to the 
 carriage of his hands, and then observed, in 
 a very sheepish tone, as he bowed awkwardly: 
 
 * Good-day, Mr. Solomons, sir. Fine 
 morn in', Mr. Lionel.' 
 
 * It is a fine morning,' Mr. Lionel con- 
 descended to observe in reply, with a distant 
 nod ; ' but devilish cold, ain't it ?' Then, 
 extending his sleek white hand to Paul with 
 a more gracious salute, ' How de do. Gas- 
 coy ne ? Had a jolly time over yonder at 
 Mentone V 
 
 For Mr. Lionel never forgot that Paul 
 Gascoyne had been to Oxford and was heir 
 to a baronetcy, and that, therefore, social 
 capital might, as likely as not, hereafter be 
 made out of him. 
 
 ' Thank you,' Paul answered, with a slight
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 217 
 
 inclination of his head and a marked tone 
 of distaste ; ' I enjoyed myself very much 
 on the Riviera. It's a beautiful place, and 
 the people were so very kind to me.' 
 
 For Paul on his side had always a curious 
 double feeling towards Lionel Solomons. 
 On the one hand, he never forgot that 
 Lionel was his uncle's nephew, and that once 
 upon a time, when he played as a child in 
 his father's yard, he used to regard Lionel 
 as a very grand young gentleman indeed. 
 And, on the other hand, he couldn't conceal 
 from himself the patent fact, especially since 
 he had mixed in the society of gentlemen on 
 equal terms at Oxford, that Lionel Solomons 
 was a peculiarly offensive kind of snob — the 
 snob about town who thinks he knows a 
 thing or two as to the world at large, and 
 talks with glib familiarity about everyone 
 everywhere whose name is bandied about in 
 the shrill mouths of London gossip. 
 
 Mr. Solomons motioned Sir Emery gra- 
 ciously into a chair. ^ Sit down, Paul,' he 
 said, turning to his younger client. ' A 
 glass of wine this cold morning. Sir Emery ?' 
 
 * I thank you kindly, sir,' the baronet
 
 2i8 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 responded, taking it up as he spoke. ' 'Ere's 
 your very good 'ealth, Mr. Solomons, an' my 
 respex to Mr. Lionel.' 
 
 Mr. Solomons poured out a glass for Paul, 
 and then two more, in solemn silence, for 
 himself and his nephew. The drinking of 
 wine has a sort of serious ceremonial import- 
 ance with certain persons of Mr. Solomons' 
 character. After that he plunged for a 
 while into general conversation on the 
 atmospheric conditions and the meteoro- 
 logical probabilities for the immediate future 
 — a subject which led round naturally by 
 graceful steps to the political state of this 
 kingdom, and the chances of a defeat for 
 the existing Ministry over the Bill for 
 the County Government of Dublin. Mr. 
 Solomons considered it becoming on these 
 state occasions not to start too abruptly on 
 the question of business : a certain subdued 
 delicacy of consideration for his clients' feel- 
 ings made him begin the interview on the 
 broader and so to speak neutral basis of a 
 meeting between gentlemen. 
 
 At last, however, when the sherry and 
 the Ministry were both comfortably disposed
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 219 
 
 of, and Sir Emery had signified his satis- 
 faction and acquiescence in either process, 
 Mr. Solomons dexterously and gracefully 
 introduced the real subject before the house 
 with a small set speech. ' I think, Sir 
 Emery,' he said, putting his square bullet- 
 head a little on one side, * you intimated 
 just now that you wished to confer with me 
 on a matter of business ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' the cab-driver answered, grow- 
 ing suddenly hot, and speaking with a 
 visible effort of eloquence. ' My son Paul, 
 as you know, sir, have come of age to-day, 
 and it's our desire, Mr. Solomons, if-so-be- 
 as it's ekally convenient to you, to go 
 together over them there little advances 
 you've been kind enough to make from time 
 to time for Paul's eddication, if I may so 
 term it, an' to set 'em all right and straight, 
 in the manner o' speakin', by givin' Paul's 
 own acknowledgment for 'em, in black an 
 white, now he's no longer a nnnor but his 
 own master.' 
 
 It was a great triumph for the British 
 baronet to stumble through so long a 
 sentence unhurt, without a single halt, or a
 
 220 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 lapse of consciousness, and he felt justly 
 proud when he got fairly to the end of it. 
 Frequently as he had rehearsed it to him- 
 self in bed the night before, he never 
 thought that when the moment for firing it 
 off in actual practice really arrived he would 
 have got pat through it all w^ith such 
 distinguished success. 
 
 Mr. Solomons smiled a smile of grateful 
 recognition, and bowed, with one hand 
 spread carelessly over his ample and expan- 
 sive waistcoat. ' If I've been of any service 
 to you and your son, Sir Emery,' he answered 
 Avith humility, not untempered by conscious 
 rectitude and the sense of a generous action 
 well performed (at twenty per cent, interest, 
 and incidentals) ' I'm more than repaid, I'm 
 sure, for all my time and trouble.' 
 
 ' And now,' Mr. Lionel remarked, with a 
 curl of his full Oriental Hps, under the 
 budding moustache, ' let's get to business.' 
 
 To business Mr. Solomons thereupon at 
 once addressed himself with congenial speed. 
 He brought out from their pigeon-hole in 
 the safe (with a decorous show of having to 
 hunt for them first amonof his multifarious
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 221 
 
 papers, though he had put them handy 
 before his dient entered) the bundle of 
 acknowledgments tied up in pink tape, and 
 duly signed, sealed, and delivered by Paul 
 and his father. ' These,' he said, unfolding 
 them with studious care, and recapitulating 
 them one by one, ' are the documents in the 
 case. If you please, Mr. Paul ' — he had 
 never called him Mr. Paul before — but he 
 was a free man now, and this was business, 
 * we'll go over them together, and check 
 their correctness.' 
 
 ' I have the figures all down here in my 
 pocket-book,' Paul answered hastily, for he 
 was anxious to shorten this unpleasant inter- 
 view as much as possible ; ^ will you just glance 
 at their numbers, and see if they're accurate ?' 
 
 But Mr. Solomons was not to be so put 
 off. For his part, indeed, he was quite 
 otherwise minded. This ceremony was to 
 him a vastly agreeable one, and he was 
 anxious rather to prolong it, and to increase 
 his sense of its deep importance by every 
 conceivable legal detail in his power. 
 
 ' Excuse me,' he said blandly, taking uj) 
 the paper, and laying it open with ostentatious
 
 222 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 scrupulousness. 'This is law, and we must be 
 strictly lawyer -like. Will you kindly look 
 over the contents of this document, and see 
 whether it tallies with your recollection?' 
 
 Paul took it up and resigned himself with 
 a sigh to the unpleasant ordeal. * Quite 
 right,' he answered, handing it back formally. 
 
 ' Will you be so good as to initial it on 
 the back, then, with date assigned ?' Mr. 
 Solomons asked. 
 
 Paul did as he was bid, in wondering 
 silence. 
 
 Mr. Solomons took up the next in order, 
 and then the third, and after that the fourth, 
 and so on through all that hateful series of 
 bills and renewals. Every item Paul acknow- 
 ledged in solemn form, and each was duly 
 handed over for inspection as he did so to 
 Mr. Lionel, who also initialled them in his 
 quality of witness. 
 
 At last the whole lot was fairly disposed 
 of, and the dreadful total alone now stared 
 
 Paul in the face with his blank insolvency. 
 
 %/ 
 
 Then Mr. Soloriions took from his desk yet 
 another paper — this time a solemn document 
 in due legal form, which he proceeded to
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 223 
 
 read aloud in a serious tone and with deep 
 impressiveness. Of * this indenture ' and its 
 contents Paul could only remember after- 
 wards that it contained many allusions to 
 Sir Emery Gascoyne, of Plowden's Court, 
 Hillborough, in the County of Surrey, 
 baronet, and Paul Gascoyne, of Christ 
 Church, in the University of Oxford, gentle- 
 man, of the first part, as well as to Judah 
 Prince Solomons, of High Street, Hill- 
 borough aforesaid, auctioneer and estate 
 agent, of the second part ; and that it pur- 
 ported to witness, with many unnecessary 
 circumlocutions and subterfuges of the usual 
 legal sort, to the simple fact that the two 
 persons of the first part agreed and con- 
 sented, jointly and severally, to pay the 
 person of the second part a certain gross 
 lump-sum, which, so far as human proba- 
 bility went, they had no sort of prospect or 
 reasonable chance of ever paying. How- 
 ever, it was perfectly useless to say so to 
 Mr. Solomons at that exact moment ; for 
 the pleasure which he derived from the 
 perusal of the bond was too intense to 
 permit the intervention of any other feeling.
 
 224 ^^£ SCALLYWAG 
 
 So when the document had been duly read 
 and digested, Paul took up the pen and did 
 as he was bid, signing opposite a small red 
 wafer on the face of the instrument, and 
 then remarking, as he handed it back to Mr. 
 Solomons, with his finger on the wafer, in 
 accordance with instructions : ' I deliver this 
 as my act and deed' — a sentence which 
 seemed to afford the person of the second 
 part the profoundest and most obviously 
 heartfelt enjoyment. 
 
 And well it might indeed, for no loophole 
 of escape was left to Paul and his father 
 anywhere. They had bound themselves 
 down, body and soul, to be Mr. Solomons' 
 slaves and journeyman hands till they had 
 paid him in full for every stiver of the 
 amount to the uttermost farthing. 
 
 When all the other signing and witness- 
 ing had been done, and Paul had covenanted 
 by solemn attestations never to plead infancy, 
 error, or non-indebtedness, Mr. Solomons 
 sighed a sigh of mingled regret and relief as 
 he observed once more : 
 
 ' And now, Paul, you owe the seven-and- 
 six for the stamj), you'll notice.'
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 225 
 
 Paul pulled out his purse and paid the 
 sum demanded without a passing murmur. 
 He had been so long accustomed to these 
 constant petty exactions that he took them 
 now almost for granted, and hardly even 
 reflected upon the curious fact that the sum 
 in which he was now indebted amounted to 
 more than double the original lump he had 
 actually received, without counting these 
 perpetual minor drawbacks. 
 
 Mr. Solomons folded up the document 
 carefully, and replaced it in its pigeon-hole 
 in the iron safe. 
 
 ' That hnishes the past,' he said ; ' there 
 we've got our security, Leo. And for the 
 future, Mr. Paul, is there any temporary 
 assistance you need just now to return to 
 Oxford with V 
 
 A terrible light burst across Paul's soui. 
 How on earth was he to live till he took 
 his degree ? Now that he had fully made 
 up his mind that he couldn't and wouldn't 
 marry an heiress, how could he go on ac- 
 cepting money from Mr. Solomons, which 
 was really advanced on the remote security 
 of that supposed contingency ? Clearly, to 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 do SO would be dishonest and unjust. And 
 yet, if he didn't accept it, how could he ever 
 take his degree at all ? And if he didn't 
 take his degree, how could he possibly hope 
 to earn anything anywhere, either to kee[) 
 himself alive or to repay Mr. Solomons ? 
 
 Strange to say, this terrible dilemma had 
 never before occurred to his youthful intelli- 
 gence. He had to meet it and solve it off- 
 hand now, without a single minute for con- 
 sideration. 
 
 It would not have been surprising, with 
 the training he had had, if Paul, accustomed 
 to live upon Mr. Solomons' loans, as most 
 young men live upon their fathers' resources, 
 had salved his conscience by this clear plea 
 of necessity, and had decided that to take 
 his degree, anyhow, was of the first import- 
 ance, both for himself and Mr. Solomons. 
 
 But he didn't. In an instant he had 
 thought all these things over, and being 
 now a man and a free agent, had decided in 
 a flash what course of action his freedom 
 imposed upon him. 
 
 With trembling lips he answered firndy : 
 ^ No, thank you, Mr. Solomons ; I've enough
 
 THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 227 
 
 in hand for my needs for the present.' And 
 then he relapsed into troubled silence. 
 
 What followed he hardly noticed much. 
 There was more political talk, and more 
 sherry all round, with plum-cake accompani- 
 ment and serious faces. And then they rose 
 to leave, Paul thinking to himself that now 
 the crisis had come at last, and he could 
 never return to his beloved Oxford. Those 
 three years of his life would all be thrown 
 away. He must miss his degree — and break 
 his father's heart with the disappointment. 
 
 But Sir Emery observed, as he reached 
 the open air, rubbing his hands together in 
 the profundity of his admiration : ' 'E's a rare 
 clever chap, to be sure, Mr. Solomons. Barr 
 and Wilkie ain't nothin' by the side of him. 
 Why, 'e read them documents out aloud so 
 as no lawyer couldn't 'a drawed 'em up better.' 
 
 And Mr. Lionel, within, was observing to 
 his uncle : ^ Well, you are a simple one, and 
 no mistake, to let that fellow Gascoyne see 
 where you keep his acknowledgments ! For 
 my part, I wouldn't trust any man alive to 
 know where I keep any papers of im- 
 portance.'
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY. 
 
 When Paul got home, he put his dilemma, 
 at lunch-time, before Faith, who went out 
 with him once more on the Knoll to 
 discuss it. 
 
 ^ And what do you mean to do now- V 
 Faith asked, as soon as he'd finished out- 
 pouring his difficulties into her sympathetic 
 ear. ^ Anyhow, you must go back to 
 Oxford.' 
 
 * I can't,' Paul answered shortly; ' I've no 
 money to go with.' 
 
 * You've Thistleton's tenner,' Faith re- 
 plied with simple straightforwardness, un- 
 conscious of the impropriety of such lan- 
 guage on the lips of the female instructor 
 of youth ; for she had seen so little of
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 229 
 
 anybody but Paul, that Paul's phrases came 
 naturally to the tip of her tongue whenever 
 she discussed the things that pertain to men, 
 and more especially to Oxford. ' That'll 
 pay your way up and settle you in, at any 
 rate.' 
 
 ' But my battels !' Paul objected. 'I won't 
 have anything to meet my battels with.' 
 
 Faith was too well up in University lan- 
 guage not to be well aware by this time 
 that ' battels ' are the college charges for 
 food, lodging, sundries, and tuition ; so she 
 made no bones about that technical phrase, 
 but answered boldly : 
 
 ' Well, the battels must take care of 
 themselves ; they won't be due till the be- 
 ginning of next term, and meanwhile you 
 can live on tick — as all the big people do at 
 Hillborough — can't you ?' 
 
 ' Faith !' Paul cried, looking down into 
 her face aghast. ' Et tu, Brute ! You who 
 always pitch into them so for not paying 
 their little bills promptly !' 
 
 'Oh, I don't really mean that f Faith 
 answered, colouring up, and somewhat 
 shocked herself at her own levity in
 
 230 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 this fall from grace ; for, to Faith, the 
 worst of all human sins was living on 
 credit. ' I only meant — can't you try to 
 get some more private pupils in the course 
 of term-time, and stand your chance at the 
 end of being able to pay your battels V 
 
 Paul reflected profoundly. ^ It's a 
 ])recious poor chance !' he responded with 
 perfect frankness. ^ There aren't many 
 fellows who care to read nowadays with 
 an undergraduate. And, besides, it spoils 
 a man's own prospects for his examinations 
 so much, if he has to go teaching and reading 
 at once — driving two teams abreast, as 
 learner and tutor.' 
 
 ' It does,' Faith answered. * That's 
 obvious, of course. But, then, you've 
 got to do something, you know, to keep 
 the ball rolling.' 
 
 It's a great thing for a man to have an 
 unpractical woman to spur him on. It 
 makes him boldly attempt the impossible, 
 So in the end, after much discussing of pros 
 and cons between them, it was finally de- 
 cided that Paul nmst go up to Oxford, as 
 usual, and do his best to hang on some-
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 231 
 
 how for the present. If the worst came 
 to the worst, as Faith put it succinctly, he 
 must make a clean breast of it all to Mr. 
 Solomons. But if not, he might manage 
 by hook or by crook to earn enough money 
 to pull through two terms ; for in two 
 terms more he would take his degree, and 
 then he might really begin to work for 
 money. 
 
 It was a desperate attempt — how despe- 
 rate those only know who have themselves 
 been through it. But Paul resolved to 
 try, and the resolve itself had in it a 
 o^entle touch of the heroic. 
 
 Next day, in fact, he bade farewell to 
 Faith and his mother, and returned with 
 his ten-pound note to Oxford. Ten pounds 
 is a slender provision for a term's expenses, 
 but it would enable him at least to look 
 about him for the moment, and see what 
 chances arose of taking pupils. 
 
 And, indeed, that very night fortune 
 favoured him, as it sometimes favours those 
 forlorn hopes of workaday heroes. To his 
 great surprise, Thistleton came round, after 
 all, to his rooms, to ask if Paul would take
 
 232 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 him on for the term as a private pupil. 
 ' It's to read, this time,' he explained, with 
 his usual frankness, 'not to satisfy the 
 governor. I really must get through my 
 Mods at last, and if I don't look sharp, I 
 shall be ploughed again, and that'd set the 
 governor's back up, so that he'd cut my 
 allowance, for he won't stand my failing 
 again, the governor won't, that's certain.' 
 With great joy, therefore, Paul consented 
 to take him on for the term, and so double 
 that modest tenner. 
 
 Thistleton stopped talking long and late 
 in his friend's rooms, and about twelve 
 o'clock one of those confidential fits came 
 over Paul, which are apt to come over young 
 men, and others, when they sit up late into 
 the small hours of the night over the smoul- 
 dering embers of a dying fire. He had im- 
 pressed upon Thistleton more than once 
 already the absolute need for his making a 
 little money, and his consequent desire to 
 obtain pupils ; and Thistleton in return had 
 laughingly chaffed him about those mys- 
 terious claims to which Paul was always 
 so vaguely alluding. Then Paul had waxed
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 233 
 
 more confidential and friendly still, and had 
 imparted to Thistleton's sympathetic ear 
 the fact that, if he didn't succeed in earn- 
 ing his own living for the next two terms, 
 he would be obliged to leave Oxford with- 
 out takinof his deofree at all, and so cut off 
 all hope of making a livelihood in future 
 and satisfying the mysterious claims in 
 question. ' How so V Thistleton asked ; and 
 Paul answered him in guarded phrase that 
 his means of subsistence had since his return 
 from Mentone been suddenly and quite un- 
 expectedly cut from under him. 
 
 ' What ! The respected bart.'s not dead, 
 is he V the blonde young man asked, open- 
 ing his big blue eyes as wide as he could 
 open them. 
 
 Paul replied, with a somewhat forced smile, 
 that the respected bart. still continued to walk 
 this solid earth, and that his disappearance, 
 indeed, from the mortal scene would have 
 produced very little eifect one way or the 
 other upon his son's fortunes. 
 
 Then Thistleton grew more curious and 
 inquisitive still, and Paul more confidential ; 
 till the end of it all was that Paul gradually
 
 234 ^^^iitL SCALLYWAG 
 
 unfolded to his friend the whole of Mr. 
 Solomons' scheme for his education and 
 future life, with the financial details of 
 yesterday's indenture, and the supposed 
 way in which he was himself to discharge 
 thereafter those serious obligations. When 
 Thistleton heard the entire story he would 
 have laughed outright had it not been for 
 the obvious seriousness of Paul's dilemma. 
 To borrow money on the strength of a 
 prospective heiress unknown was really too 
 ridiculous. But as soon as he began fully 
 to grasp the whole absurd incident, its graver 
 as well as its most comic aspects, his indig- 
 nation got the better of his amusement at 
 the episode. He declared roundly, in very 
 plain terms, that Mr. Solomons, having taken 
 Paul's life into his own hands while Paul 
 was yet too young to know good from evil, 
 and having brought Paul up like a gentle- 
 man, at Oxford, was clearly bound to see the 
 thino' throuo^h to the bitter end — at least, 
 till Paul had taken his degree, and was, 
 therefore, in a position to earn his own live- 
 lihood. 
 
 ^ If I were you, Gascoyne,' the blonde
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 235 
 
 young man asserted vigorously (with an 
 unnecessary expletive, here suppressed), ' I 
 wouldn't have the very slightest compunction 
 in the world in taking his money for the 
 next two terms, and then tellinof him riofht 
 out he might whistle for his cash till you 
 were able and ready to pay him back again. 
 It's his own fault entirely if he's made a 
 bad investment on a grotesque security. At 
 least, that's how we'd look at the matter in 
 Yorkshire.' 
 
 *I think,' Paul answered, with that gravity 
 beyond his years that fate had forced upon 
 him, ' if it were somebody else's case I was 
 judging instead of my own, I should judge 
 as you do, either in Yorkshire or elsewhere. 
 I should say a fellow wasn't bound by acts 
 imposed upon him, as it were, by his father 
 or others, before he arrived at years of dis- 
 cretion. But then, when I was asked to 
 sign those papers yesterday, if I was going 
 to protest at all, that was the moment when 
 I ought to have protested. I ought to have 
 })lainly said, " I'll sign for the money, if 
 you'll go on finding me in ready cash till I 
 take my degree ; but, mind, I don't engage
 
 236 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 to do anything in the world to catch an 
 heiress." Only I hadn't the courage to say 
 so then and there. You see, it's been made a 
 sort of religious duty for me, through all my 
 life, to marry for money; and if I'd blurted 
 out my refusal point-blank like that, I'm 
 afraid my father would have been grieved 
 and annoyed at it.' 
 
 ' I expect my governor's grieved and an- 
 noyed at a great many things I do,' Thistle- 
 ton retorted with the unruffled philosophical 
 calm of one-and-twenty — where others are 
 concerned. ' It don't pay to be too tender 
 to the feelings of fathers, you see ; it gives 
 them too high and mighty an idea of their 
 own importance. Fathers in any case are 
 apt to magnify their office overmuch, and it 
 would never do for sons as well to pamper 
 them. But, after all, I don't know why you 
 need have spoken at all, nor why you 
 shouldn't go on accepting this old buffer's 
 assistance and support, with a quiet con- 
 science, till you take your degree. When 
 one looks it in the face, you don't know that 
 you won't marry an heiress. Accidents will 
 hap})en, you see, even in the best regulated
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 237 
 
 families. It's just as easy, if it comes to 
 that, to fall in love with a girl with five 
 thousand a year as with a girl who hasn't 
 a penny to bless herself with. If the five 
 thousand pounder's pretty and nice, like that 
 Yankee at Mentone with the mamma in tow, 
 I should say, on the whole, it's a great deal 
 easier.' 
 
 * Not for me,' Paul answered, with the 
 prompt fervour born of recent internal 
 debate on this very question. ' I can 
 understand that another fellow, who hadn't 
 been brought up to look out for money, 
 might fall in love with a girl with money 
 quite as easily as with a girl w^ithout any. 
 He has no prejudice one way or the other. 
 But in my case it's different. The very 
 fact that the money's been so much insisted 
 upon for me, and that part of it would go 
 to pay Mr. Solomons ' — Paul never even 
 thought of calling his creditor anything less 
 respectful than ' Mr. Solomons ' even to his 
 nearest acquaintance — ' would suffice to pre- 
 vent me from falling in love with money. 
 You see, falling in lo; e's such a delicately 
 balanced operation ! If I married money
 
 238 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 at al], it'd be simply and solely because I 
 married for money, not because I fell in 
 love with it ; and I could never tsike any 
 woman's money to pay the debt incurred 
 beforehand for my own education. I should 
 feel as if I'd sold myself to her, and was her 
 absolute property.' 
 
 Thistleton stirred the fire meditatively 
 with his friend's poker. ' It is awkward,' 
 he admitted unwillino^lv — 'devilish awkward, 
 I allow. I say, Gascoyne, how much about 
 does it cost you to live for a term here V 
 
 ' Oh, an awful lot of money,' Paul 
 answered, much downcast, staring hard at 
 the embers. ' Xot much short of fifty 
 pounds on an average.' 
 
 Thistleton looked across at him with a 
 broad smile of surprise. ' Fifty pounds !' 
 he echoed. * You don't mean to say, my 
 dear fellow, you manage to bring it down 
 to fifty pounds, do you V 
 
 ' Well, for summer term especially I do, 
 when there are no fires to keep up,' Paul 
 answered soberly. ' But spring term comes 
 rather heavy sometimes, I must say, because 
 of the cold and extra clothinsf.'
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 239 
 
 Thistleton looked for some time at the 
 fire, staring harder than ever with blank 
 astonishment. ^ Gascoyne,' he said at last 
 in a very low tone, ' I'm clean ashamed of 
 myself 
 
 * Why, my dear boy V 
 
 ^ Because I spend at least five times as 
 much as that on an average.' 
 
 * Ah, but then you've got five times as 
 much to spend, you know. That makes all 
 the difference.' 
 
 Thistleton paused and ruminated once 
 more. How very unevenly things are 
 arranged in this world ! He was evidently 
 thinking how he could word a difficult pro- 
 position for their partial readjustment. 
 Then he spoke again. ' I could easily cut 
 my own expenses down fifty quid this term,' 
 he said, ' if you'd only let me lend it to you. 
 I'm sure I wouldn't feel the loss in any way. 
 The governor's behaved like a brick this 
 winter.' 
 
 Paul shook his head. * Impossible,' he 
 answered with a despondent air. ' It's 
 awfully good of you, Thistleton — awfully 
 kind of you to think of it ; but as things
 
 240 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 stand, of course I couldn't dream of accept- 
 ing it.' 
 
 ' It wouldn't make the slightest difference 
 in the world to me,' Thistleton went on 
 persuasively. ' I assure you, Gascoyne, my 
 governor 'd never feel or miss fifty pounds 
 one way or the other.' 
 
 ' Thank you ever so much,' Paul answered, 
 with genuine gratitude. ' I know you mean 
 every word you say, but I could never by 
 any possibility take it, Thistleton.' 
 
 * Why not, my dear boy ?' the blonde 
 young man said, laying his hand on his 
 friend's shoulder. 
 
 ^ Because, in the first place, it's your 
 father's money, not yours, you propose to 
 lend ; and I couldn't accept it : but also in 
 the second place, which is far more im- 
 portant, I haven't the very slightest chance 
 of ever repaying you.' 
 
 * Repaying me !' Thistleton echoed with a 
 crestfallen air. ' Oh, dash it all, Gascoyne, 
 I never thought of your really re])aying me, 
 of course, you know. I meant it as an 
 offer of pure accommodation.' 
 
 Paul laughed in spite of himself ' That
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 241 
 
 sort of loan/ he said, taking his friend's 
 hand in his and wringing it warmly, * is 
 usually called by another name. Seriously, 
 Thistleton, I couldn't think of taking it from 
 you. You see, I've no right to pay any- 
 body else till I've repaid the last farthing 
 I owe to Mr. Solomons : and to borrow 
 money on the chance of repaying it at such 
 a remote date — say somewhere about the 
 Greek Kalends — would be downright rob- 
 bery.' 
 
 A bright idea seized suddenly upon 
 Thistleton. ' By Jove !' he cried, ' I'll tell 
 you how we'll manage it. It's as easy as 
 pap. You can't lose either way. You 
 know that prize essay you were mugging 
 away at all the time we were at Mentone — 
 '' The Influence of the Renaissance on 
 Modern Thought," wasn't it ? — ah, yes, I 
 thought so. Well, how much would you 
 get, now, if you happened to win it V 
 
 ' Fifty pounds,' Paul answered. ' But 
 then, that's so very improbable.' 
 
 ^ Awfully improbable,' his friend echoed 
 warmly, with profound conviction. ' That's 
 just what I say. You haven't a chance. 
 
 VOL. I. IG
 
 242 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 You ought to back yourself to lose, don't 
 you see : that's the way to work it. I'll 
 tell you what I'll do. I'll bet you ten to 
 one in fivers you win. And you put a fiver 
 on the chance you don't. Then — " don't 
 you catch on ?" as the Yankee girl used to 
 say — you stand to come out pretty even 
 either way. Suppose you get the prize, 
 you earn fifty pounds, out of which you owe 
 me a fiver — that leaves forty -five to the 
 good, doesn't it ? But suppose you lose, I 
 owe you fifty. So, you see, you clear 
 pretty nearly the same lot whichever turns 
 up. I call that good hedging.' And the 
 blonde young man leant back in his chair 
 with a chuckle at his own ingenuity. 
 
 Paul smiled again. The blonde young 
 man seemed so hugely delighted at the 
 cleverness of his own device that he was 
 really loath to be compelled to disillusion 
 him. ' Your adroitness in trying to find a 
 way to make me a present of fifty pounds 
 under a transparent disguise really touches 
 me,' he said with a faint tremor in his 
 voice ; ' but don't think about it any more, 
 you dear, good fellow. It's quite im-
 
 COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 243 
 
 possible. I must try to make it up myself 
 with pupils and economy, and back my 
 chances for the prize essay. If at the end 
 of the term I'm still to the bad, I'll put 
 the matter fairlv before Mr. Solomons. 
 Whether I stop up one term longer and 
 take my degree or not must then depend 
 upon what he thinks best for his own 
 interest. After all, my whole future's 
 mortgaged to him already, and it's more his 
 affair than mine in the end what becomes 
 of me.' 
 
 ' Why, I call it downright slavery !' 
 Thistleton exclaimed warmly. * I think it 
 ought to be prohibited by Act of Parlia- 
 ment. It's a great deal worse than the 
 chimney boys and the indentured labourers. 
 I only wish I'd got that beastly old Jew 
 with his head in chancery here under my 
 arm this very minute. By George, sir, 
 wouldn't I just punch it as flat as a pan- 
 cake in rather less than no time !' 
 
 * I think,' Paul answered with a smile, 
 ' punching his head flat would do me very 
 little permanent good. Indeed, in his own 
 way he really means me well. He's bound
 
 244 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 US down by all the terrors of the law to his 
 percentages and his policies ; but I believe 
 he considers himself my benefactor for all 
 that/ 
 
 ' Benefactor be bio wed I' Thistleton re- 
 sponded, rising with North Country vehe- 
 mence. ' If only I could see the old black- 
 guard in college to-night, it'd give me the 
 sincerest pleasure in life to kick him a 
 dozen times round Tom Quad till he roared 
 for mercy.'
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE. 
 
 In spite of Paul's fears, however, that 
 dreaded spring term went oflp most happily. 
 To be sure, he had to work for his bread like 
 a London cab-horse (as Sir Emery loved pro- 
 fessionally to phrase it), but Paul had never 
 been afraid of hard work, and as long as he 
 could make both ends meet somehow, and 
 avoid running into further debt with Mr. 
 Solomons, he was amply satisfied. And 
 that spring term he got as many pupils as 
 he could possibly find time for. The reason 
 for this sudden run upon his tutorial powers 
 was, of course, the usual one which accounts 
 for all successes and failures in life — a 
 woman's wire-pulling. It is a mistake to 
 think this world is mainly run by men.
 
 246 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 Genius, talent, industry, capacity, nay even 
 the invaluable quality of unscrupulousness 
 itself, are as dust in the balance as a means 
 to success compared with the silent, unob- 
 trusive, backstairs influence of the feminine 
 intelligence. A woman's wit is worth the 
 whole lot of them. 
 
 And this valuable ally in the struggle for 
 life Paul managed to secure almost without 
 knowing it. 
 
 For two days after his return to The 
 House (as Christ Church men insist upon 
 calling their college) Paul received a little 
 note from Faith's new friend, Mrs. Douglas, 
 inviting him to drink afternoon tea at her 
 house in the Parks — the fashionable tutorial 
 suburb of modern married Oxford. 
 
 The Parks, in fact, which are the natural 
 outcome of the married Fellow system, have 
 completely revolutionized the Oxford we all 
 knew and loved in our own callow under- 
 graduate period. In those monastic ages 
 the Fellow who married lost his Fellowship ; 
 the presence of women in the University 
 was unknown ; and even the stray intrusion 
 of a sister or cousin into those stern gray
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 247 
 
 quads was severely frowned upon by ascetic 
 authority. But nowadays, under the new 
 petticoat regime, all that is changed : the 
 Senior Tutor lives in a comfortable creeper- 
 clad villa in the Parks ; his wife gives 
 lunches and afternoon teas ; and his grown- 
 up daughters play tennis with the men, and 
 belong to the University just as much as the 
 average undergraduate — or even in virtue 
 of their fixity of tenure a little more so. 
 Mrs. Senior Tutor (with marriageable girls) 
 is quite as anxious to catch the eligible 
 undergraduate for her own dance in Com- 
 memoration week as any Belgravian mamma 
 in all London ; and the Rev. the Bursar 
 himself smiles benignly while scholars and 
 exhibitioners waste the shining hours in 
 flirtation and punts on the banks of Cher- 
 well. Things were not so ordered Consule 
 PlancOy when Leigh ton was Vice- Chancellor. 
 But as everybody seems satisfied with the 
 existing system — especially the Senior 
 Tutor's daughters — there can be little 
 doubt that all is for the best in the best 
 of all possible Universities, and that flirting, 
 so far from distracting the heads of students,
 
 248 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 as the older school devoutly believed, is in 
 reality a powerful spur on the mind of the 
 youth to the acquisition of classical and 
 mathematical knowledge. 
 
 To this new microcosm of the Parks and 
 their inhabitants, Mrs. Douglas played the 
 part of centre of gravity. Round her as 
 jjrimary the lesser orbs of that little system 
 revolved in their various subordinate places. 
 Not that Mrs. Douglas herself was either 
 rich or pretentious. The Accadian pro- 
 fessor's stipend consisted of the modest 
 interest on a sum in Reduced Two-and- 
 three-quarters per Cent. Consols, which he 
 supplemented only by private means of the 
 smallest, and by a very moderate income 
 from his wife's family. But Mrs. Douglas 
 had the invaluable quality of being able to 
 * hold her salon ' ; and being besides an 
 earl's niece, she had rapidly grown into the 
 principal wire-puller and recognised leader 
 of Oxford tutorial society. With that 
 greater world where the heads of houses 
 move serene in placid orbits, indeed, she 
 interfered but little ; but the Parks acknow- 
 ledged her sway without a murmur, as the
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 249 
 
 representative of authority in its most 
 beniofn avatar. For Mrs. Douo-las had tact, 
 sense, and kindliness ; she was truly sympa- 
 thetic to a very high degree, and she would 
 put herself out to serve a friend in a way 
 that was sure to attract the friend's warmest 
 gratitude. Moreover, she was a woman, 
 and therefore skilled in the feminine art 
 of mounting the back-stairs with address 
 and good-humour. This combination of 
 qualities made her justly loved and admired 
 in Oxford by all save those unfortunate 
 people whom her kindly machinations often 
 succeeded in keeping out of j)osts for which 
 they possessed every qualification on earth 
 except the one needful one of Mrs. Douglas's 
 friendship. But drawbacks like this are, of 
 course, incidental to every possible system 
 of ^ influence ' in government. 
 
 Now, things had made this powerful and 
 good-natured lady particularly anxious to 
 know and serve Paul Gascoyne. In the 
 first place, she had been deeply interested 
 in his sister Faith, whose curious character 
 had engaged her sympathy at once, and 
 with whom their one night at the country
 
 250 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 hotel together had made her suddenly quite 
 intimate. In the second place, on her 
 return to Oxford, she had found a letter 
 awaiting her from Nea Blair, her little 
 Cornish friend, which contained some casual 
 mention of a certain charming Christ 
 Church man, a Mr. Gascoyne, who had 
 created quite a puzzle for Mentone society 
 by his singular mixture of pride and 
 humility. Well, if Mrs. Douglas had a 
 fault, it was that of taking too profound 
 an interest in the fancies and fortunes of 
 young people generally. Her husband, 
 indeed, was wont to aver that, after 
 Bryant and May, she was the greatest 
 matchmaker in all England. Something 
 in Nea Blair's letter — some mere undertone 
 of feeling, that only a clever woman would 
 ever have guessed at — suggested to Mrs. 
 Douglas's quick instincts the idea that Nea 
 Blair was more than commonly interested 
 in Paul Gascoyne's personality and pros- 
 pects. That alone would have been enough 
 to make Mrs. Douglas anxious to meet and 
 know Paul, the accident of her chance 
 acquaintance with Faith in the commodious
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 251 
 
 horse-box made her doubly anxious to be of 
 use and service to him. 
 
 So when Paul duly presented himself at 
 the eligible creeper-clad villa in the Parks, 
 to drink tea with the wife of the Accadian 
 professor, Mrs. Douglas drew out of him 
 by dexterous side-pressure the salient fact 
 that he was anxious to find private pupils, 
 or otherwise to increase his scanty income. 
 And having once arrived at a knowledge of 
 that fact, Mrs. Douglas made it her business 
 in life for the next ten days to scour all 
 Oxford in search of men who wanted to 
 read for Mods with a private tutor, going- 
 out into the very highways and by-ways of 
 the University, so to speak, and compelling 
 them to come in with truly Biblical fortitude. 
 But when once Mrs. Douglas took a thing 
 in hand, it was well beknown to the Chan- 
 cellor, masters, and scholars of the Uni- 
 versity of Oxford that, sooner or later, she 
 meant to get it done, and that the Chan- 
 cellor, masters, and scholars aforesaid might, 
 therefore, just as well give in at once, 
 without unnecessary trouble, bother, or 
 expense, and let her have her way as soon
 
 252 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 as she asked for it. ' Going in for Mods in 
 June ?' Mrs. Dou^flas would remark, with 
 a sigh of pity, to the unhappy under- 
 graduate of Hmited brains, fixing her mild 
 brown eyes upon him with an air of the 
 profoundest sympath}' and friendly assist- 
 ance. ' Then you'll want to read up your 
 books this term with a private coach or 
 somebody, of cowse ' ; and when the un- 
 happy undergraduate of limited brains, 
 falling readily into the trap thus baited for 
 his destruction, admitted abstractly, in a 
 general way, that a little tutorial assistance 
 of a friendly sort would, perhaps, be not 
 wholly unsuited to his intellectual needs, 
 Mrs. Douglas, fixing her mild brown eye 
 still more firmly than ever upon his 
 trembling face, would nail him to his 
 admission at once by responding cheerfully, 
 ' Then I know the very man that'll suit 
 your book just down to the ground. Mr. 
 Gascoyne of Christ Church has a great 
 many pupils reading with him this term, 
 but I dare say I could induce him to make 
 room for you somehow. My husband 
 thinks very highly of Mr. Gascoyne. He's
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 253 
 
 a capital coach. If you want to get through 
 with flying colours, he's just the right man 
 to pull you out of the moderator's clutches. 
 That's his card in my basket there ; don't 
 forget the name : " Gascoyne of Christ 
 Church, first pair right, number six, Peck- 
 water." Yes, one of the great Gascoyne 
 jDeople down in Pembrokeshire — that's the 
 very family. I'm glad you know them. 
 His father's the present baronet, I believe, 
 and his sister's coming up to see me next 
 Commemoration. If you like, you can take 
 his card to remember the name by — and 
 when Mr. Gascoyne comes again on Sunday, 
 I'll make a point of asking him whether 
 you've been to call upon him about reading 
 for Mods or not, and I'll tell him (as you're 
 a most particular friend of mine) to be sure 
 to pay you every possible attention.' 
 
 When a clever and good-looking woman 
 of thirty-five, who happens to be also a 
 professor's wife, flings herself upon an 
 unhappy undergraduate of limited brains 
 in that dashing fashion, with a smile that 
 might soften the heart of a stone, what on 
 earth can the unhappy undergraduate do in
 
 254 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 self-defence but call at once upon Gascoyne 
 of Christ Church, and gratefully receive his 
 valuable instructions ? Whence it resulted 
 that, at the end of a fortnight, Gascoyne of 
 Christ Church had as many pupils as he 
 could easily manage (at ten pounds a head), 
 and saw his way clearly to that term's 
 expenses, about which he had so despaired 
 a few days before with Faith at Hill- 
 borough. A woman of Mrs. Douglas's 
 tyj)e is the most useful ally a man can find 
 in life. Make friends with her, young man, 
 wherever met ; and be sure she will be 
 worth to you a great deal more than many 
 hundred men at the head of your pro- 
 fession. 
 
 One further feat of Mrs. Douglas's the 
 candid historian blushes to repeat, yet, in 
 the interest of truth, it must needs be 
 recorded. 
 
 For when, a fortnight later, Mrs. Douglas 
 gave her first dinner-party of the term, she 
 took occasion, in the drawing-room, about 
 ten of the clock, to draw aside the Senior 
 Proctor confidentially for a moment, and 
 murmur in his ear : ' I think, ,Mr. Wayles,
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 255 
 
 you're one of the examiners for the Marl- 
 borough Historical Essay, aren't you ?' 
 
 The Senior Proctor, a grim, close-shaven 
 man, with firm-set lips and a very clerical 
 mouth and collar, signified his assent by a 
 slight bow of acquiescence, and a murmured 
 reply of ' I believe my office entails upon 
 me that among other honours.' 
 
 Mrs. Douglas assumed her most be- 
 witching smile. ^ Now, dear Mr. Wayles,' 
 she said, bending over towards him coquet- 
 tishly, ' you mustn't really be angry with 
 me. I'm only a woman, you know, and we 
 women have always our little plots and 
 conspiracies on hand, haven't we ? I'm 
 very much interested in a particular essay 
 which bears for motto the words, " Non jam 
 prima peto Mnestheus neque vincere certo, 
 Quanquam O !" There, you see, though I 
 was dragged up before Girton and Newnham 
 were invented, you didn't know^ before I 
 could spout out a Latin hexameter as pat 
 as that, did you ? Well, I want you most 
 particularly to read over that identical 
 essay with special attention, very S2)ecial 
 attention, and if you find it in every respect
 
 256 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 immensely better than all the rest put 
 together, to recommend it to the kind 
 attention of your colleagues.' 
 
 The Senior Proctor — that grim, close- 
 shaven man — allowed just the faintest 
 ghost of a smile of amused pity to pucker 
 the corners of his very clerical mouth as he 
 answered with official succinctness, ' Every 
 essay alike, my dear Mrs. Douglas, will 
 receive at my hands, and I believe I may 
 venture to say at those of my brothei-- 
 examiners also, the most impartial con- 
 sideration ; and nothing that can be said to 
 us by any outside person — even yourself — 
 can have the very slightest influence upon 
 us in making our award to the most deserv- 
 ing competitor.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' Mrs. Douglas answered, 
 with that most bewitching smile once more 
 well to the front. ^ I know and understand 
 all that perfectly. I haven't lived so long 
 in the University as dear Archie's wife 
 without having learnt how absolutely use- 
 less it is to try to pull any wires or go up 
 any backstairs in University business. I 
 only meant to say if you find that essay
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 257 
 
 quite undeniably the very best, I hope you 
 won't let the fact of my recommendation 
 tell strongly against it.' 
 
 The Senior Proctor had an uncomfortable 
 sense that when Mrs. Douglas laid so pro- 
 found a stress upon the words ' absolutely 
 useless ' that irreverent little woman was 
 actually trying to chaff him or to laugh in 
 her sleeve ; and as the Senior Proctor re- 
 presents before the world the dignity and 
 majesty of the University in its corporate 
 capacity, so wicked an attempt on her part 
 to poke fun at his office would, no doubt, 
 have merited condign punishment. But he 
 only bowed once more a sphinxlike bow, 
 and answered severely, * All the essays alike 
 shall have my best attention/ 
 
 Xow, we all of us know, of course — we 
 who are men and women of the world — 
 that the Senior Proctor spoke the exact 
 truth, and that in matters so important as 
 University prizes no shadow of partiality 
 can ever be suspected among English 
 gentlemen. (If it were, we might all be 
 tempted to think that English gentlemen 
 were not, after all, so very superior in kind 
 
 VOL. I. 1 7
 
 258 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 as we know them to be to the members of 
 every other European nationality.) Never- 
 theless, it must be noted as a singular and 
 unaccountable historical fact that when the 
 Senior Proctor — that lone, bachelor man — 
 went home that night along the cold, gray 
 streets to his solitary rooms in Fellows 
 Quad, Merton, and saw a big bundle of 
 Marlborough prize essays lying on his table 
 unopened for his deep consideration, his 
 mouth relaxed for a moment into a dis- 
 tinctly human smile as he thought of the 
 delicate pressure of her hand with which 
 Mrs. Douglas — charming woman, to be 
 sure, Mrs. Douglas ! — had bid him good- 
 night, with a last whispered adieu of ' Now, 
 don't forget, Mr. Wayles : '' Non jam primo 
 peto Mnestheus neque vincere certo. 
 How delicious Virgil sounded, to be sure, 
 on those ripe red lips ! Had she learnt 
 that verse by heart, he wondered, on pur- 
 pose to bamboozle him ? So thinking, and 
 gloating over that dainty pressure, the 
 Senior Proctor flung himself into his easy- 
 chair, before his goodly fire, kicked off his 
 boots and endued himself in his warm.
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 259 
 
 woollen-lined slippers, fortified his intellect 
 with a brandy-and-soda from the syphon at 
 his side, lighted one of Bacon's best cigars, 
 and proceeded, with his feet on the fender 
 comfortably, to address his soul in indulgent 
 mood to the task of literary and historical 
 criticism. 
 
 But, strange to say, he did not take up 
 the very first essay that came to hand, as a 
 conscientious Senior Proctor might fairly be 
 expected to do. On the contrary, he turned 
 them all over one by one with deliberative 
 finger till he came to a roll of neat white 
 foolscap, legibly inscribed in a bold, black 
 hand — I blush to narrate it — with that very 
 Virgilian motto which treacherous Mrs. 
 Douglas had been at such pains to get by 
 rote, without one false quantity, and to fire 
 ofi", unappalled, against his grim clerical 
 mouth and collar. He read the essay 
 through first w^ith close attention ; then 
 he wrote down on a small sheet of paper at 
 his side the mystic letters ' v. g.,' supposed 
 to stand for ' very good ' in our own vernacu- 
 lar. By the time he had read it through, 
 the hour was advanced, and a second brandy-
 
 26o THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 and-soda and a second cigar were needed to 
 stimulate the critical faculty. As time 
 went on, it must be frankly admitted, those 
 essays got shorter and shorter shrift, while 
 the soda got deeper and deeper doses of 
 brandy, until by the time the clock marked 
 three, the Senior Proctor rose up with 
 dignity, drained the remainder of his last 
 tall tumbler, and, sticking all the papers in 
 his desk for read, strolled off to his bedroom 
 unmistakably sleepy. 
 
 Now, it must not be concluded from this 
 veracious account that Paul Gascoyne's 
 essay was not in all 2^1'obability, on its own 
 merits, the very best of the entire lot sub- 
 mitted for judgment, nor that Mrs. Douglas 
 had exerted on its behalf anything which 
 could be described by the most severe 
 moralist as undue influence. In fact, have 
 we not already recorded the Senior Proctor's 
 emphatic and deliberate assertion to the con- 
 trary? And was not that assertion again 
 renewed ? For when a fortnight later Mrs. 
 Douglas ventured to thank the dignitary in 
 question (as she irreverently phrased it), 
 * for backinof her man for the Marlborouofh
 
 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 261 
 
 Prize,' the Senior Proctor, opening his eyes 
 wide in his very grimmest fashion, repHed 
 with an innocent air of surprise : 
 
 ' Oh, so the successful candidate was the 
 person you spoke about, Mrs. Douglas, was 
 he ? Well, I'm sure we had none of us the 
 very faintest idea of it.' 
 
 But, nevertheless, it is a historical fact 
 not to be blinked, that when the Senior 
 Proctor passed on the papers to his brother 
 examiners for consideration, Paul Gascoyne's 
 essay went on top, marked in plain words, 
 ^ Oj)time meritus est. — P. H. W.' and it is 
 equally certain that the other examiners, 
 glancing hastily over them with an uncritical 
 eye, one and all endorsed Mr. Wayles' opinion. 
 From which facts it may be gathered 
 that, though Paul Gascoyne's Marlborough 
 Essay was really and truly one of the most 
 brilliant ever submitted to the Board of 
 Examiners, and though favouritism of any 
 kind is unknown at Oxford, it is none the 
 less a very useful thing to have a Mrs. 
 Douglas of your own on hand, to say a good 
 word for you whenever convenient. 
 
 But Paul had no idea of all these hidden
 
 262 THE SCALLYWAG 
 
 springs of action in the Senior Proctor and 
 his esteemed colleagues when a week or so 
 before the end of term he read, all trembling, 
 a notice posted on the door of the schools : 
 
 ' The Board of Examiners for the Marl- 
 borough Historical Essay, Chichele Foun- 
 dation, have awarded the Prize of Fifty 
 Guineas to Paul Gascoyne, Commoner of 
 Christ Church/ 
 
 His heart beat high as he read those 
 words, and his knees reeled under him. So 
 next term, at least, was safe from Mr. Solo- 
 mons ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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 26 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED 6Y 
 
 LISTS OF BOO KS CLASSIFIE D IN SERIES. 
 
 *»• For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetical arrangement, pp. 1-25. 
 
 THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. 
 A Journey Round My Room. By Xavier 
 
 DE MaISTRE. 
 
 ¥ulps and Quiddities. By W. D. Adams. 
 he Agony Column of "The Times." 
 Melancholy Anatomised: Abridgment of 
 
 "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
 The Speeches of Charles Dickens. 
 Poetical Ingenuities. By W. T. Dobson. 
 The Cupboard Papers. By Fin-Bec. 
 W. 6. Gilbert's Plays. First Series. 
 W. S. Gilbert's Plays. Second Series. 
 Bongs of Irish Wit and Humour. 
 Animals and Masters. By Sir A, Helps. 
 Social Pressure. By Sir A. Helps, 
 Curiosities of Criticism. H. J.Jennings. 
 Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast-Table. 
 Pencil and Palette. By R. Kempt. 
 Little Essays: trom Lamb's Letters. 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 3si. Od. per Volume. 
 Forensic Anecdotes. By Jacob Larwood. 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. Jacob Larwood. 
 Jeuxd'Esprit. Edited by Henry S. Leigh. 
 Witch Stories. By E. Lynn Linton. 
 Ourselves. By E. Lynn Linton. 
 Pastimes & Players. By R. Macgregor. 
 New Paul and Virginia. W.H.Mallock. 
 New Republic. By W. H. Mallock. 
 Puck on Pegasus. By H. C. Pennell. 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. By H. C. Pennell. 
 Muses of Mayfair. Ed. H. C. Pennell. 
 Thoreau : His Life & Aims. By H. A. Page. 
 Puniana. By Hon. Hugh Rowley. 
 More Puniana. By Hon. Hugh Rowley. 
 The Philosophy of Handwriting. 
 By Stream and Sea. By Wm. Senior. 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's Note-Book. 
 By Dr. Andrew Wilson. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LIBRARY. 
 Bayard Taylor's Diversions of the Echo 
 
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 Pope's Poetical Works. 
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 Jesse's Scenes of Country Life. 
 Leigh Hunt's Tale for a Chimney 
 
 Corner. 
 Mallory's Mort d'Arthur: Selections. 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims & Reflections. 
 
 THE WANDERER'S LIBRARY 
 
 Wanderings in Patagonia. By Julius 
 
 Beerbohm. Illustrated. 
 Camp Notes. By Frederick Boyle. 
 Savage Life. By Frederick Boyle. 
 Merrie England in the Olden Ti/-«ae. By 
 
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 Circus Life. By Thomas Frost. 
 Lives of the Conjurers. Thomas Frost. 
 The Old Showmen and the Old London 
 
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 Low-Life Deeps. By James Greenwood. 
 
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 Wilds of London. James Greenwood. 
 Tunis. Chev. Hesse-Wartegg. 22 Illusts. 
 Life and Adventures of a Cheap Jack. 
 World Behind the f^cenes. P.Fitzgerald. 
 Tavern Anecdctes d,nd Sayings. 
 The Genial Showman. By E.P. Hingston 
 Story of London Parks. Jacob Larwood. 
 London Characters. By Henry Mayhew. 
 Seven Generations of Executioners. 
 Summer Cruising in the South Seas. 
 
 By C. Warren Stoddard. Illustrated. 
 
 POPULAR SHILLING BOOKS. 
 
 Hanry Fludyer at Cambridge. 
 Jeff Briggs's Love Story. Bret Harte. 
 Twins of Table Mountain. Bret Harte. 
 Snow-bound at Eagle's. By Bret Harte. 
 A Day's Tour. By Percy Fitzgerald. 
 Esther's Glove. By R.E. Francillon. 
 Sentenced 1 By Somerville Gibney. 
 The Professor's Wife. By L.Graham. 
 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 
 
 Julian Hawthorne. 
 Hfagara Spray. By J. Hollingshead. 
 A Romance of the Queen's Hounds. By 
 
 Charles James. 
 Garden that Paid Rent. Tom Jerrold. 
 Cut by the Mess. By Arthur Keyser. 
 Teresa Itasca. By A. MacAlpine. 
 Our Sensation Novel. I. H. McCarthy. 
 Doom! By Justin H. ^IcCARTHY. 
 Dolly. By Justin H. McCarthy. 
 
 Lily Lass. Justin H. McCarthy. 
 Was She Good or Bad? By W. Minto. 
 Notes from the "News." By Jas. Payn. 
 Beyond the Gates. By E. S. Phelps. 
 Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. PhelpW. 
 Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. Phelps. 
 Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. Phelps. 
 Trooping with Crows. By C. L. Pirkis. 
 Bible Characters. By Charles Reads. 
 Rogues. By R. H. Sherard. 
 The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. Sims. 
 How the Poor Live. By G. R. Sims. 
 Case of George Candlemas. G. R. Sims. 
 Sandycroft Mystery. T. W. Speight. 
 Hoodwinked. By T. W. Speight. 
 Father Damien. By R. L. Stevenson. 
 A Double Bond. By Linda Villari. 
 My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard. By 
 Herbert Ward. 
 
 HANDY NOVELS. Fcap. Svo, cloth boards, Is. 6d. each. 
 The Old Maid's Sweetheart. A.St.Aubyn I Taken from the Enemy. H. Newbolt. 
 Modest Little Sara. Alan St. Aubyn. | A Lost Soul. By W. L. Alden. 
 ieven Sleepers of Ephesus. M. E. Coleridqb. | Dr. Palltser's Patient. G. Allen
 
 CHATTO 8c WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 MY LIBRARY. 
 
 Choice Works, printed on laid paper, bound half-Roxburghe, 28. 6d. each. 
 
 " ■ "" Christie Johnstone. By Charles Rbadb. 
 
 With a Photogravure Frontispiece. 
 Peg Wofflngton. By Charles Reade. 
 The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb. 
 
 Pour Frenchwomen. By Austin Dobson. 
 Citation and Examination of William 
 
 Shalcspeare. By W. S. Landor, 
 The Journal of Maurice de Guerin. 
 
 THE POCKET LIBRARY. PostSvo 
 
 The Essays of Ella. By Charles Lamb. 
 Robinson Crusoe. Edited by John Major. 
 
 With 37 Illusts. by George Cruikshank. 
 Whims and Oddities. By Thomas Hood. 
 
 With 85 Illustrations. 
 The Barber's Chair, and The Hedgehog 
 
 Letters. By Douglas Jerrold. 
 Gastronomy. By Brillat-Savarin. 
 The Epicurean, &c. By Thomas Moore. 
 Leigh Hunt's Essays. Ed. E. Ollier. 
 
 printed on laid paper and hf.-bd., 2s. each. 
 White's Natural History of Selborne. 
 Gulliver's Travels, and The Tale of a 
 
 Tub. By Dean Swift. 
 The Rivals, School for Scandal, and other 
 
 Plays by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
 Anecdotes of the Clergy. J. Larwood. 
 Thomson's Seasons. Illustrated. 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 
 
 and The Professor at the Breakfast- 
 
 Table. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 LiBRART Editions of Novels, many Illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 38. 6d. each. 
 
 By f. ni, Ar.L.Eiv. 
 
 Green as Grass. 
 
 By GRANT Al.I.EN. 
 
 Philistia. 
 Babylon. 
 Strange Stories. 
 Beckoning Hand. 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Tents of Shem. 
 For Maimie's Sake. 
 The Devil's Die. 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 Ivan Greet's Masterpiece. 
 
 By EOWIfV I.. ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 By AL,AN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 
 By Rer. S. BARINO OOUJLI>. 
 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 By ^V. BESANT & J. RI€E. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelema. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 My Little Girl. 
 Case of Mr.Lucraft. 
 ThisSonofYulcan. 
 Golden Butterfly. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy, 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By AVAr.TER BE S ANT. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 The Captains' Room. | Herr Paulus. 
 
 All in a Garden Fair 
 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. j The Holy Rose. 
 
 Uncle Jack. Armorel of Lyon- 
 
 Childrenof Gibeon. esse. 
 
 Bell of St. Paul's. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 
 St. Katherine's by 
 the Tower. 
 
 By ROBERT BUdlANAN. 
 
 The Shadow of the Sword. | Matt. 
 
 A Child of Nature. 
 The Martyrdom of 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 Heir of Linne. 
 Madeline. 
 The New Abelard. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 Masterof the Mine. 
 
 By HAI.!^ CAINE. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 
 k Bon of Hagar. 1 The Deemiteft 
 
 J^lORT. & FRANCES COIiljINS. 
 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 Village Comedy. | You Play Me False. 
 By ^VII.,KIE C'Ot,i:,livs. 
 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 Law and the Lady. 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebei'sDaughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 "I Say No." 
 Little Novels. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 The Legacy of Cain 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Armadale, 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. | Basil. 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or BIrs? 
 New Magdalen. 
 
 By MUTTON COOK. 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By MATT t^RIHI. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By B. JTI. CROKER. 
 Diana Barrington. I PrettyMiss Neville. 
 Proper Pride. A Bird of Passage. 
 
 By W1I.LIA]?! CYPI^ES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By AJLPHONSE BA UDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation 
 
 By EKAS:flUS DA%VSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAITIES BE MII.I.E. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LiEITH BERVENT. 
 Cur Lady of Tears, i Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By Diri£ DONOVAN. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 
 By ITIrs. ANNIE EBWARBES. 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 By O. r»IANVll,I.E FENN. 
 The New Mistress. 
 
 By PERCY FITZOERAIjD. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCIIiL.ON. 
 Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen. 
 One by One. | King or Knave 
 
 Pref.by Sir BART LE FRERB. 
 Pandurang Hari.
 
 28 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— continued. 
 
 By £1>\VAB1> OAKRKTT. 
 Tbe Capel Girls. 
 
 By CIlARIiES OIBBOIV. 
 
 Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 
 
 Loving a Dream. | Of High Degree. 
 The Flower of the Forest. 
 
 By K. GL. AN* 11. I.E. 
 The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker. 
 
 By VEViL. ORIFFIXU. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 ByTllOJIAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET IIARTC 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs. 
 Colonel Starbottle's Client. 
 Busy. I Sally Dow?, 
 
 By JUIilAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. I Dust. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. Fortune's Fool. 
 
 Sebastian Strome. | Beatrix Randolph. 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By 8ir A. UJSr.P8. 
 Ivan do Biron. 
 
 By 1SAA4J U£IVI>£RSOiV. 
 Agatha Page. 
 
 By ills-. A1.FREB HUNT. 
 The Leaden Casket. | Self-Condemned. 
 That other Person. 
 
 By R. ASH£ KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 By E. l^VIVIV l^liVTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. I lone. 
 Under which Lord? Paston Carew. 
 "My Love!" I Sowing the Wind. 
 
 The Atonement of Leam Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 
 By HENRY W. lilX'V. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JL.sTiN McCarthy. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 
 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 Miss Misanthrope. I Camiola. 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By AfiNES ITIACI>ONEI.l>. 
 Qaaker Cousins. 
 
 By BERTRAI?! ITHTFORO. 
 The Gun-Runner. 
 
 By B. CHRISTIE ITIVRRAY. 
 Life's Atonement. I Yal Strange. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. | A Model Father. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. I Gynio Fortune. 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 By iTICRRAY & UERITIAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 
 By IMJ.T1B NISB£T. 
 "Ball Up!" 
 
 By GEORG£8 OHNET. 
 K Weird Gift. 
 
 By illis. OlilPHANT. 
 Whiteladles. 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) NovELS—conttnucd, 
 By OUIBA. 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 
 Shoes. 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. I Rufflno. 
 Pipistrello. 
 AYillage Commune 
 Bimbi. I Wanda. 
 Frescoes.; Othmar. 
 In Maremma. 
 Syrlin.' Guilderoy. 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 Tricotrin. I Puck. 
 FoUe Farlne. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pa,scarel. | Signa. 
 Princess Maprax- 
 
 ine. 
 
 By I?IARGAR£T A. PAUL.. 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JTA.IIES PAYN. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 Walter's Word. Talk of the Town 
 By Proxy. Holiday Tasks. 
 
 High Spirits. The Burnt Million. 
 
 Under One Root The Word and the 
 From Exile. Will. 
 
 Glow-worm Tales. Sunny Stories. 
 
 By £. C. PRICE. 
 Valentina. j The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 By RfCllABM PRYCE. 
 Miss Ma,xweirs Affections. 
 
 By CHARU.E.S REABE. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 The Autobiography of a ThleL 
 Put Yourself in his Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 Hard Cash. Wandering Heir. 
 
 Peg Woflington. A Woman-Hater. 
 GhristieJohnstone. A Simpleton. 
 Griffith Gaunt. Readiana. 
 
 Foul Play. The Jilt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 By ITIrs. J. H. RIDBEI.I.. 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 Weird Stories. 
 
 By F. \V. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By \V. CliARM. RUSSEL.!^. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNBER8. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 Bound to the Wheel. 
 The Lion in. tbe Path. 
 By KATHARINE SAUNBER9. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Gideon's Rock, I Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills, Sebastian.
 
 CHATTO 8c WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 29 
 
 Tbb Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— continued. 
 
 By liUKE SHARP. 
 In a Steamer Chair. 
 From Whose Bourne. 
 
 By HA1VI.EY SITIART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By K. A. ST£RrV]>AL.£. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By BERTHA THO:?lA9. 
 Proud Maisie. 1 The Yiolin-player. 
 
 By FRANCES E. TROt-liOPE. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 &nne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels — continued. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROL.I.OPE. 
 Frau Frohmann. I K&pt in ttie Dark. 
 Marion Fay. | Land-Leaguers. 
 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 
 By C. C\ FRASER-TYTIiEB. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTI.ER. 
 The Bride's Pass. | Lady Bell. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 The Blackhall Ghosts. 
 
 By MAR It TWAIN. 
 The American Claimant. 
 The £1,000,000 Bank-note. 
 
 By J. S. AVINTER. 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated 
 By ARTEHIUS WARD. 
 JLrtemus Ward Complete. 
 
 By EI>JIONB ABOUT. 
 
 The Fellah. 
 
 By HAITIIL.TON AIBE. 
 
 Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 By MARY Ar^BERT. 
 
 Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 
 
 By Mrs. A1,EXANBER. 
 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow? | Valerie' Fate. 
 
 Br GRANT AI^l^EN. 
 Strange Stories. I The Devil's Die. 
 Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 
 
 Babylon. I In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 
 Great Taboo. 1 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 
 By E. LESTER ARNOi^O. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 By AI.AN ST.AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. | The Junior Dean. 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOi;i.I>. 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 By FRANK BARRETT. 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 Folly Morrison. Honest Davie. 
 Lieut. Barnabas. A Prodigal's Progress. 
 Found Guilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 For Love and Honour. 
 John Ford ; and His Helpmate. 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 By W. BESANT & J. RICE. 
 This Son of Vulcan. By Celia's Arbour. 
 My Little Girl. Monks of Thelema. 
 
 CaseofMr.Lucraft. The Seamy Side. 
 Golden Butterfly. Ten Years' Tenant, 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 »Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 BySHEI.sr.EY BEAL'CHAMP. 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE. 
 In the Midst of Life. 
 
 By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Camp Rotes. ! Savage Life, 
 
 Chronicles of No-man's Land. 
 
 POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 boards, Us. each. 
 
 By ^VALTER BESANT. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack. 
 
 Children of Gibeon. | Herr Paulus. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 The Captains' Room. 
 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. J The Holy Rose. 
 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
 
 St. Katherine's by the Tower. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 Californian Stories. | Gabriel Conroy. 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. I Flip. 
 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. | Maruja, 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 By HAROLD BRYOGES. 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 The Martyrdom ol 
 
 Madeline. 
 Annan Water. 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. 
 The Heir of Liune. 
 
 The Shadow of the 
 
 Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 
 By HALL. CAINE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of the '^Black Prince." 
 By Mis. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. I Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 Fight with Fortune. | Village Comedy. 
 Sweet and Twenty. | You Play me False^ 
 Blacksmith and Scholar, I Fraiicea.
 
 30 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Two-Shilling Uovei^s— continued. 
 By WIIiKlE COIil^IIVS 
 
 Hy Miscellanies. 
 Woman in Wliite. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 «' I Say No." 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. I BasiL 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 Miss or Mrs? 
 New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 Law and the Lady. 
 The Two Destinies 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 
 A Rogue's Life. '^"'"^.t'^^'wr'mi 
 
 Bt 31. J. COI.QIJIIOUN. 
 Every inch a Soldier. ^^„ 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. I Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By C. KOBi:UT CKADB04-K. 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 
 By MATT Cftlitl. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By B. M. CBOKER. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. I Bird of Passage. 
 
 %TaI,pTi01VSE BAITDET. 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 By EKASITIUS B AAV SON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. ^ , „ 
 By JAMES BE 1YIII.1L.E. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By .1. I.EITE1 BEKWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 Sketches by Boz. i Oliver Twist. 
 Pickwick Papers. Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 By »■€!£ BOIVO-IJAIV. 
 The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Lastl 
 Tracked and Taken. | Wanted 1 
 Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
 The Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 From Information Received. 
 Tracked to Doom. | Link by Link. 
 By Mrs. AIVIVIE EBWARBE8. 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 
 
 By M. BETIIAM-EBWARBS. 
 Felicia. I Kitty. 
 
 By EBWABB EGGIiESTON. 
 
 ^°B^ O. IfIAlVVII.l.E FEIVN. 
 
 The New Mistress. 
 By I'EU€V FITZGEKAI/l). 
 
 Bella Donna. 1 Polly. 
 
 Never Forgotten. I Fatal Zero. 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventv-fiye Brooke Street. 
 The Lady of Brantome. 
 By PERCY FITZGEBAI^D 
 and others. 
 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 A1.BANY »B FOIVBI.ANQUK. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 By R. K. FBAIVC1I.I.OIV. 
 Olvmpia. I Queen Cophetua. 
 
 One by One. King or Knave 7 
 
 A Beal QaeeBi I Romances of Law. 
 
 Two-Shilling Novels— continued. 
 By HAROI.D FREBERICK. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. 
 The Lawton Girl. 
 Pref. by Sir BARTL.E FRERE. 
 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 
 By HAIIV FRISWELIi. 
 
 One of Two. ,„„ 
 
 By EBWARB GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By CHARIiES OIBBOTV. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Flower of Forest. 
 Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 Fancy Free, 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What will the 
 
 World Say? 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Queen of Meadow. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By AVItit-IAM GI1.BERT. 
 Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 By EBIVEST GCAIVVf L.IiE. 
 The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker. 
 By HENRV OKEVIIjIjE. 
 A Noble Woman. I Nikanor. 
 
 By JOHN HABBERTON. 
 Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
 By ANDREW HAi.L.IBAV. 
 Every-Day Papers. 
 
 By I^ady BUFFUS HARBIT. 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
 By THOMAS HARBY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 By J. BERWICK HARWOOB. 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. Dust. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph. 
 Miss Cadogna. Love— or a Name. 
 
 David Polndexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HEL.P8. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By HENRY HERMAN. 
 A Leading Lady. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEIi HOEY. 
 The Lover's Creed. 
 
 By Mrs. OEORGE HOOPER. 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 By TIG HE HOPKINS. 
 'Tftixt Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 In Durance VUe. I A Mental Struggle. 
 Marvel. I A Modern Circe. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFREB F.UNT. 
 Thornlcroft's Model. I Self Condemned. 
 That Other Person. I Leaden Casket. 
 
 By JEAN INGEI.OW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By HARRIETT JAY 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 Bv MARK KERSIIAir. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions.
 
 CHAtTO Sc WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 31 
 
 Two-Shilling Hovels— continued. 
 By R. ASHE KINO. 
 A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slave. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 Bell Barry. 
 
 By JOHN I^EYS. 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 By E. liYNN 1.INTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. I Paston Carew. 
 World Well Lost. " My Love I " 
 Under which Lord? | lone. 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 
 By HENRY ^V. EUC'Y. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By Jl STIN ITIcCARTHV. 
 A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 Miss Misanthrope. | Camiola. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By HUOH ilIACCOEE. 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 
 By A ONES II1ACBONEL.E. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 I£ATHAR1NE S. ITIACQUOIB. 
 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
 By AV. H. lYlAEEOCK. 
 The New Republic. 
 
 By FL,ORENCE IflARRYAT. 
 Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air. 
 A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
 Written In Fire. 
 
 By J. MASTERMAN. 
 Half-a-dozen Daughters. 
 By BRANBER ITIATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 B> liliONARO DERRICK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN IVIflBDEE.^lASS. 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Doriilion. 
 
 By Mrs. ITf OLE « WORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. ITIUBBOCK. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 The Dead Man's Secret. 
 From the Bosom of the Deep. 
 Br D. CHRISTIE ITIURRAV. 
 A Model Father. Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. Way of the World. 
 
 Val Strange. Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Humf.n Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 Ky :tILRR4% and HER.TIAN. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 
 By HENRY IVIURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. 
 
 R> HU.IIE NI8BET. 
 "Bail Up!" 
 Or. Bernard St. Vincent. 
 
 By AEICE 0'HANI.ON. 
 Tbe Unforeseen. | Chance? or Fate? 
 
 Two-Shilling Novels — continued. 
 
 By OEOROES OHNET. 
 Doctor Rameau. I A Last Love. 
 A Weird Gift. | 
 
 By lllrs. OEIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path. 
 
 The Greatest Heiress in England. 
 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REIEIiY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 By OdlBA. 
 
 Held In Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 Tricotrln. 
 Puck. 
 
 Folie Farlne. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. 
 Signa. 
 Princess Naprax- 
 
 ine. 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Com« 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 
 Shoes. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. 
 Pipistrello. 
 A Village 
 
 mune. 
 Bimbi. 
 Wanda. 
 Frescoes. 
 In Maremraa* 
 Othmar. 
 Guilderoy. 
 Ruffino. 
 Syrlin. 
 Ouida's Wisdom, 
 
 Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 xlIAROARET AGNES I'AUE. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Bentinck's Tutor. £200 Reward. 
 
 Murphy's Master. Marine Residence. 
 
 A County Family. Mirk Abbey. 
 
 At Her Mercy. By Proxy. 
 
 Cecil's Tryst. Under One Roof. 
 
 ClyfTards of Clyffe. High Spirits. 
 
 Foster Brothers. Carlyon's Year. 
 
 Found Dead. From Exile. 
 
 Best of Husbands. For Cash Only. 
 
 Waiter's Word. Kit. 
 
 Halves. The Canon's Ward 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. Talk of the Town. 
 
 Humorous Stories. Holiday Tasks. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 
 The Fami/y Scapegrace* 
 
 What He v>ost Her. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Like Father^ Like Son. 
 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted* 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 Some Private Views, 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 The Burnt Million. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 
 A Prince of the Blood. 
 
 Sunny Stories. 
 
 By C. E. PIRR29. 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 By EBOAR A. POE. 
 The Mystery of Marie Rogei. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBEEI. PRAED. 
 The Romance of a Station. 
 The Soul of Countess Adrian. 
 By E. C. PRIl E. 
 Valentlna. I The Foreigner*. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. | Gerald.
 
 32 
 
 DOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHAtTd Sc WINDUS. 
 
 Two-Shilling Novkls— continued. 
 
 By lClC'fIAKl> I'HWE. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By t'KARr.E^i BEABE. 
 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 
 The Double Marriage. 
 
 Love Me Uttle, Love Me Long, 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 The Course of True Love. 
 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 
 k Terrible Temptation. „ , „ ^ 
 
 The Wandering Heir. I Hard Cash. 
 
 Bingleheart and Doubleface. 
 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 
 Peg Wofflngton. A Simpleton. 
 
 Grlflftth Gaunt. Readiana. 
 
 Foul Play. A Woman-Hater. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. The Jilt.^^ ^ 
 
 By IMrs. J. II. RIBBEI.Ii. 
 Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tales. 
 By F. AV. BOBIJVSOIV. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. _^_^,„ , „ 
 
 By JAIWES BUNCIMAIV. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. ,,^^^, _ 
 
 By W. CI. ARK BUSSEI.I.. 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star." 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 OEOR<^E AUOUSTL'S 9AIiA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By JOIIIV SAUIVBERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 ByKATlIABIIVE SAUNBERS. 
 Joan Merry weather. I Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills. | Sebastian. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 By OKOIfOE R. SI^LS. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 The Ring •' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Marry Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 Zeph: A Circus Story. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCIII.EV. 
 A Hatch in the Dark. 
 
 By lIAWi.KY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By T. \%\ ll»I>EI<;iIIT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. I By Devious Ways. 
 Hoodwinked, &c. | Back to Life. 
 Tho Loudwater Tragedy. 
 
 Two-Shilling Novels— continued. 
 
 By R. A. STERNBAL.E. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. liOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
 BY BERTHA THOITIAS. 
 Cressida. | Proud Maisie. 
 
 The Violin-player. 
 By WAI.TEB THORNBUKY. 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 T. AB01.PHUS TROLIiOPE. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By F. EI.EANOR TROI^IiOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLiI.OPE. 
 Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
 Marion Fay. | John Caldigate. 
 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 The American Senator. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 The Land-Leaguers. 
 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 By J. T. TROAVBRIDGE. 
 Farnell's Folly. 
 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &e. 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. 
 Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 
 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur. 
 
 By C. C. ERASE B-TYTIL.ER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTI.ER. 
 The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige. 
 Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared. 
 Saint Mungo'sCity. I Huguenot Family, 
 Lady Bell. | Blackball Ghosts. 
 
 What She Came Through. 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 Citoyenne Jaqueline. 
 By IMrs. F. II. AVII.LIAITISON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. ». WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 
 
 By H. F. ^VOOB. 
 The Passenger from Scotland YardU 
 The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
 By I^ady WOOB. 
 Sablna. 
 
 CELiIA PARKER W^OOIiliEY. 
 Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology. 
 
 By EDITIUNB YATES. 
 The Forlorn Hope. | Land at Last. 
 Castaway. 
 
 OGDEN, SUALC AND CO. LIMITED, FRINTERS. GREAT SAFFRON HILL, B.C.