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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/Jieartsnovel01murr
 
 HEARTS 
 I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT EVERY LIBRARY, 
 
 Each in Three Volumes. 
 
 HEART AND SCIENCE. By Wilkie Collins. 
 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. By Walter Besant. 
 DUST. By Julian Hawthorne. 
 THE GOLDEN SHAFT. By Charles Gibbon. 
 OF HIGH DEGREE. By Charles Gibbon. 
 GIDEON FLEYCE. By Henry W. Lucy. 
 REGIMENTAL LEGENDS. By J. S. Winter. 
 WOMEN ARE STRANGE. By F. W. Robinson. 
 THE HANDS OF JUSTICE. By F. W. Robinson. 
 SELF-CONDEMNED. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. 
 
 PORT SALVATION ; or, The Evangelist. By 
 Alphonse Daudet. Translated by C. H. Meltzer. 2 vols, 
 post 8vo. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
 
 HEARTS 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 JOSEPHS COAT ' * A LIFE's ATONEMENT ' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1883 
 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 \ Y.I 
 
 ^ 
 
 o 
 
 (^ 
 
 TO 
 
 THE COUSINHOOD OF THE OASIS 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MANY HAPPY TIMES 
 AND MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 
 1
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 A FOX who had lost his tail set forth before his 
 fellows the advantages he had accidentally dis- 
 covered, and advised that the fox family should 
 go tailless. It is not recorded that he made 
 converts. 
 
 An American writer of fiction has offered 
 to his fellow craftsmen and the world his 
 opinion that * all the stories have been told/ 
 If this gentleman cannot invent a story, it is 
 probable enough that the mental attitude he 
 chooses to take is something of a comfort to 
 him. But his compeers are not Hkely to accept 
 the method he offers. 
 
 VOL. I. a
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 In one way the statement that ' all the 
 stories have been told ' is a feeble truism. In 
 another it is a silly falsehood. It is just as 
 obviously true on the one hand, and just as 
 obviously foolish on the other, at this hour, as 
 it was before the foundation-stone of English 
 literature was laid. 
 
 English fiction, even in this day of small 
 things, scarcely needs to be defended against 
 the complacent insolences of this writer, whose 
 literary example will only be followed by those 
 who are confronted with a Hobson's choice. 
 We are rather at a barren epoch now, and 
 readers are compelled to endure a good deal of 
 commonplace. Our one great living writer 
 is old and seems inclined to rest upon his 
 laurels, but there are new men coming who 
 tv^ll bring new powers, and will even, in the
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 teeth of our American friend, invent new 
 stories. There are some of us aheady at work 
 who are quite resolved that when we can no 
 longer create a story we will cease to write. 
 
 After that bright day which saw Thackeray 
 and Dickens and Eliot and Keade and Lytton 
 all shining together, we endure a natural night 
 of comparative dulness. Yet the reading 
 pubhc may forgive an English writer of fiction 
 (whose claims are small but who loves his craft 
 with all his heart) if he refuses to accept with- 
 out protest the critical conclusions which affirm 
 that the craft is dead. Those conclusions have 
 been discussed with absurd gravity by people 
 who ought to have known better than to accept 
 them seriously. If a new departure in fiction 
 is to be made at all, let it lead us to the 
 sovereign passions which are immortal in man,
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 and not to the frivolous speculations in science 
 and theology and human nature which are only 
 the mental fashion of an hour. Paint the age 
 by all means, and paint it truly, but do not 
 appraise yourself as an artist whilst you can 
 give us nothing but photographs. And if you 
 are to be a fictionist at all, make up your mind 
 at once that invention is a faculty essential to 
 the pursuit of this most diflGicult of the arts. 
 
 D. C. M.
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 A YOUNG man attired in the height of the 
 fashion of 1870 was no very strange figure in 
 the Strand on any evening of that year ; and 
 Tom Carroll, though splendidly bedizened, 
 excited no unusual admiration or regard. A 
 handsome young Briton, with a gay, honest 
 face and friendly eyes — at first sight a likeable 
 lad — he was pleasant enough to look at, as 
 he walked, head well up and eyes smiling, 
 prosperous and contented with the world, and 
 evidently disposed to be on kindly terras with 
 all men. It was in the dusk of a summer 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 HEARTS. 
 
 evening, and the spire of St. Clements' Danes 
 was backed by a celestial golden fleece, which 
 no Londoner regarded. Corners and by-places 
 were beginning to be filled with shadows ; and 
 the street gas-lamps and the lights in the shop- 
 windows had a sort of twihght brightness. At 
 such times you may walk about in a shabby 
 suit of clothes, if you will ; and Tom Carroll, 
 runnins: full ao'ainst Antonio Baretti, an old 
 acquaintance of his, beheld at first no change 
 in him. 
 
 This Antonio Baretti was an Italian and au 
 •artist, and only a little while ago he had begun 
 to be a person of some note. Even if he chose 
 to go shabby, that might be one of the affec- 
 tations of successful genius. But Baretti was 
 not yet so eminently successful that he could 
 afford to cut a man like Tom Carroll, whose 
 social position was indisputable, whose pockets 
 were full of money, and whose life was spent 
 in the pursuit of all the arts at once, and in
 
 HEARTS. 3 
 
 companionsliip ^vith wealtliy and titled people, 
 who relied upon his judgment in the matter 
 of plays, pictures, and music. For Tom was a 
 dilettante of the most agreeable and popular 
 type, and a i^evsona grata in all manner of high 
 places. It was more than a little odd, there- 
 fore, that Baretti should make an evident effort 
 to avoid him ; and it was all the more singular 
 because the two youngsters had been rather 
 enthusiastic than otherwise over eacli other's 
 achievements. They were good fellows, botli, 
 into the bargain. 
 
 ' Wliy, Baretti,' said Tom, stretching forth 
 a hand and laying hold of him by the lappet of 
 tlie coat, ' won't you speak to a fellow ? ' 
 
 'I — I beg your pardon,' said the little 
 
 Italian ; ' I was in a hurry and did not ' 
 
 His voice trailed away, and he left the sentence 
 unfinished. 
 
 ' You're not well,' said the young English- 
 man, reaching out a second hand and laying it 
 b2
 
 4 HEARTS. 
 
 on the other shoulder. The artist, with an 
 outward gesture of both hands, seemed at once 
 to deprecate inquhy and to indicate his own 
 condition. The velvet coat was threadbare and 
 crumpled. The little man's linen was un- 
 pleasantly yellow and much disarranged. His 
 face was pallid, and his chin and cheeks were 
 stubbly. 'You re not well, Baretti. AVhat's the 
 matter ? ' 
 
 ' I am not well of late,' said the shabby 
 artist ; ' but how are you ? And how are all the 
 little people — the opera, and the sonata, and the 
 gavotte? And how is the landscape.^ Well?* 
 
 ' Come and dine somewhere,' returned Tom. 
 The other repeated that outward gesture of the 
 hands. ' Come and dine. I want to have a 
 talk with you. Where have you been hiding 
 yourself? ' 
 
 'I have not been in hiding,' said Baretti, 
 with an undeceptive pretence of gaiety. Tom 
 Carroll, with a hand on each of the little
 
 HEARTS. 5 
 
 man's shoulders, looked him up and down. A 
 button was missing from the shabby velvet 
 jacket, and the loose threads from which it 
 had escaped hung down untidily. The patent 
 eather boots were cracked and broken. 
 
 ' Tell me the truth,' said Tom, rocking him 
 lightly to and fro. ' Come home with me to 
 my chambers, and tell me the truth about 
 yourself.' 
 
 Baretti blushed fiercely, and then turned 
 white. His lips began to tremble, and when 
 he stole a look at his companion there was a 
 gleam of tears in his black Italian eyes. 
 
 ' I will go with you,' he said huskily, * and 
 I will tell you everything.* 
 
 ' Very well,' said Tom, feigning a somewhat 
 rollicking tone. ' Come along.* 
 
 He took Baretti's arm and they walked 
 westward together, not saying much by the 
 way. The Italian was thankful for the 
 gathering darkness, being conscious that his
 
 6 HEARTS. 
 
 companion's splendour made his own dismal 
 aspect far more noticeable than before. The 
 young Enghshman was in his glory, for here 
 was genius out at elbows and altogether do'.vn 
 upon its luck, and he the happy deliverer 
 of it, and the man appointed by Fate to set 
 it on its feet again and establish its goings. 
 There was no better-hearted youngster in 
 London than Tom Carroll ; and if he exulted a 
 little at the chance of doing such a service, 
 he was none the less sorry for the other's mis- 
 fortunes, whatever they might turn out to be. 
 His heart warmed over Baretti as they walked 
 along together, and he felt more friendly to 
 him than he had ever done before. To be 
 five-and- twenty, and to have a good heart, and 
 a full purse, and a friend in need of you — is 
 there a better way to happiness ? 
 
 When the pair came to No. 20, Montague 
 Gardens, Tom Carroll admitted himself by a 
 latch-key, and led the way upstairs into a
 
 HEARTS. 7 
 
 comfortably furnished apartment, where shaded 
 lamps and handsome curtains gave things a 
 well-to-do and homelike look. 
 
 ' Sit down, Baretti,' said Tom, pushing the 
 other gently by the shoulders. Baretti' s lips 
 were trembling more and more, and his eyes 
 were so dim that he dared not raise them 
 to Tom's face. ' So bad as that, old chap ? ' 
 said the youngster gently. 
 
 Suddenly, to Carroll's terror and amaze- 
 ment, the little man wrenched himself free, 
 and throwing himself upon his knees beside an 
 . arm-chair, burst into hysteric tears and sobs. 
 The Englishman stood awkwardly in the middle 
 of the room, not knowing what to do or say in 
 such a case, and, therefore — being wise without 
 knowing it — doing and saying nothing. In 
 a while Baretti composed himself, and, still 
 kneehng there, began to wipe his eyes with a 
 woful handkerchief. The host recovered him- 
 self a little also, and bustled about noisily in
 
 8 HEARTS. 
 
 the next room, lighting candles on the mantel- 
 shelf and dressincp-table. 
 
 ' Here, I say, Baretti,' he called, when the 
 sobs had all ceased, ' you'll want a wash before 
 dinner. I'm going down to order dinner now, 
 and if you want anything, I've put out a lot of 
 things on the bed.' 
 
 Then he withdrew by another door, and 
 whistled ostentatiously on the landing to show 
 that he was outside. This young man was a 
 Briton, though an artist, and tears would 
 have seemed a shame to him in almost any 
 circumstances. When Baretti had first broken 
 out crying, Tom would have been glad for the 
 floor to open, and he suffered acutely from a 
 reflex shame. Half an hour had gone by 
 before he returned to the room, and then 
 Baretti was standing before the fireplace, not 
 altogether at his ease, but clean and clean- 
 shaven, and in white linen, and looking vastly 
 improved all over. In these altered circum-
 
 HEARTS. 9 
 
 stances hu Avas a Jiaudsome little man. His 
 eyes were full of feeling and intelligence, and 
 as beautifully soft and bright as a dog's ; his 
 coal-black hair tumbled picturesquely about 
 his head in handsome, disorderly profusion ; 
 his hands were white and shapely ; his figure 
 was well set, and his face well-featured and 
 attractive. 
 
 ' Dinner 's coming up in a minute, Baretti,* 
 said Tom, for the mere sake of saying some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' Carroll,' said the artist, stretching out both 
 hands to him. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' asked Tom, taking them in 
 his own. ' You're in trouble of some sort. 
 Tell me w^hat it is. If I can help you, I'll do 
 it. Now, what is it ? ' 
 
 A tap at the door announced the advent of 
 the maid, and the young Englishman dropped 
 his friend's hands in some embarrassment. 
 
 ' You shall tell me after dinner,' he said,
 
 lo HEARTS. 
 
 when the girl had retired ; ' she will be inter- 
 rupting us every minute until then. 
 
 The Italian assenting, the two sat down in 
 silence. Dinner was served, and the guest 
 attacked his soup like a man who meant 
 business ; but he pushed the fish away scarce 
 tasted, and recoiled from the tempting cutlet 
 which followed. 
 
 ' No appetite ? ' said Tom. 
 
 ' Too much,' returned Baretti, with a poor 
 attempt at a laugh. Tom nodded gravely, 
 with a sympathetic glance at his guest, and 
 on the girl's next appearance bade her clear 
 away. 
 
 ' Now, what is it ? ' asked the Englishman, 
 when they were secure against further inter- 
 ruption. The manner of the question was 
 engaging, and expressive of a hearty wish to 
 be of service. ' What is it ? Tell me as 
 much as } ou can, and let us see what we can 
 do. What is it ? '
 
 HEARTS. u 
 
 ' I am broken,' said Baretti, witli a tremu- 
 lous lip — ' absolutely and completely broken — 
 without a roof — without a shilling — a lost 
 man!' 
 
 ' Without a roof ? ' the other asked, in 
 amazed pity. 
 
 ' I have lain upon the benches in St. James's 
 Park these four nights,' the little Italian 
 answered. ' I have eaten nothing until now 
 for four days.' 
 
 Tom, with a great show of righteous wrath, 
 began to walk up and down the room, and to 
 upbraid his companion, using much strong 
 language, with a view to the disguise of his 
 own emotion, after the British fashion. 
 
 ' You thundering little idiot ! Hang it all, 
 Baretti ! Not to tell me ! You knew where I 
 lived all the time. I take it unkindly of you 
 — I take it infernally ill of you, Baretti ! ' 
 
 ' I was broken,' urged the little artist in 
 extenuation. ' I did not know what to do.'
 
 12 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Then, by George, sir/ cried Tom, ' you 
 ought to have known ! Here have I been 
 going about just as jolhly as ever, and I feel 
 like a criminal now I know about it. You 
 know very well, Baretti,' with a mightily 
 injured look, ' that. I have more money than I 
 know what to do with. You know very well 
 that you had only to ask me to have what- 
 ever you stood in need of. And, by gad! 
 instead of coming up like a friend, and giving 
 me the pleasure of helping you, you slink off 
 and starve in St. James's Park. I tell you what 
 it is, Baretti, I think it was unfriendly — 
 confoundedly unfriendly ! ' 
 
 'I beg your pardon,' said Baretti, in 
 quaint contrition. 
 
 ' Tell me all about it,' Tom returned, being 
 in a condition to trust himself by this time. 
 ' That is — tell me what you can ; and what I 
 can I'll do.' 
 
 ' I would have come to vou rather than to
 
 HEARTS. 13 
 
 anybod}',' said the little Italian, with out- 
 reaching hands and moist eyes ; ' but I was 
 broken at lieart, and I did not care — no ; not 
 for anything.' 
 
 * Tell me,' said Tom. 
 
 * Did you know the Count Carambola ? ' 
 asked Baretti, turning upon his host with 
 sudden passion. 
 
 ' That hook-nosed, green-skinned ruffian, 
 with the black moustache and the bald head ? ' 
 demanded Tom. ' I knew him as well as I 
 wanted to.' 
 
 ' We tliought him honourable and wealthy,* 
 cried Baretti, beginning his story with a fiery 
 gesture of disdain. 
 
 ' I d'dn't,' interjected Carroll, drily. 'What 
 about him? ' 
 
 'Iv.ill tell you what about him,' said the 
 artist, declaiming with such gesture as only an 
 Italian ises. ' The Count is a villain, a hound, 
 a cur — a personage sunk in the depths of
 
 14 HEARTS. 
 
 infamy ! He came to me three months ago, 
 when my picture was but newly hung at 
 Burlington House, and he asked that I would 
 lend him four hundred pounds. I laughed. 
 I told him that when I had four hundred 
 shillings I looked at myself as at a Eothschild. 
 He also laughed. It was but an affair of a 
 week, of a day, two days, three days ; but he 
 was unknown here to the English bankers. 
 Would I back a bill for him ? He knew so 
 well no other countryman in London. Would 
 I so far assist him ? Then when his funds 
 came would I sell him my beautiful picture at 
 the Academy ? Would I paint more beautiful 
 pictures for his Villa della Luna? Will you 
 credit me, I was so much a fool that I 
 believed him ? Gran Dio, Carroll ! I believed 
 him ! Whom the gods would destroy they first 
 make mad ; and I believed him. But when 
 we came to the money-lender, he did not care 
 for my name. He would have a bill of sale.
 
 HEARTS. 15 
 
 That was the name. Do you know it ? No. 
 A bill of sale upon the poor little things in 
 my studio, and a claim upon my picture at 
 Burlington House. I agreed to everything 
 gladly. The Count had the money, and in a 
 week I missed him. Then comes one friend 
 and another. " My dear Baretti," they say, " is 
 it true that you have helped the Count ? He 
 is gone ; he is flown ; he owes everybody 
 money ; he does always so ; he is an adventurer 
 professed." ' 
 
 ' I could have told you that much at the 
 first and only sight of his ugly face I ever had,' 
 said Tom. 
 
 ' Under a blow so crushing,' resumed 
 Baretti, ' what do I do ? I sit still in my 
 studio, deserted of my fancies. I try to paint. 
 I have forgotten that a black and a white make 
 gray. I am helpless. By-and-by — about a 
 month ago — the money-lender's people come, 
 and sell everything. My picture sells at the
 
 i6 HEARTS, 
 
 Academy, and they take the money for it. 
 There is over and above a little handful of 
 shillings, and that they give me. That goes, 
 and I am a lost man.' 
 
 He ended with quivering hps, moved anew 
 by the narration of his own wrongs and 
 sufferings, and dropped dejectedly into an 
 arm-chair that stood near. 
 
 ' And, of course,' said Tom, ' you've never 
 heard of the Count again ? ' 
 
 The little artist sat like a statue of despond- 
 ency, with his arms hanging helplessly at his 
 side ; but at this query he sprang to his feet, 
 and answered with wild gesticulation : — 
 
 ' The Count ? Ho is flown to his own 
 Phlegethon ! ' 
 
 'Best place for him,' said Tom, quietly. 
 ' Let him stop there.' 
 
 ' Willingly,' answered Baretti, with a bitter 
 laugh, and droj)ped back into the arm-chair. 
 
 ' Cheer up, old fellow,' said Carroll, patting
 
 HEARTS. 17 
 
 him on the shoulder. ' It's all over now. 
 There's a stunning north light to the room 
 overhead, and it will make a capital studio. I 
 know it isn't engaged, and I'll just run down- 
 stairs and take it now. The bedroom at the 
 back is thoroughly comfortable, and the place 
 will suit 3'ou to a hair. We'll lay in whatever 
 you want to-morrow ; and you'll soon find out 
 again that black and white are not the only 
 things to make a gray. You don't mind 
 staying alone for five minutes ? Cigars and 
 wine,' pushing a box and a decanter forward 
 on the table. ' Make yourself comfortable. 
 Back in five minutes.' 
 
 There was a glow in Tom's heart as he ran 
 downstairs to chaffer w^ith the landlady about 
 a set of rooms for Baretti. He approved of 
 himself, and felt that he was a good sort of 
 fellow. By-and-by he returned beaming. 
 
 ' I've taken the rooms, Baretti. Come and 
 have a look at them.' 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 i8 HEARTS, 
 
 The artist arose and followed him upstairs, 
 moving like a man in a dream. Tom chattered 
 gaily, pointing out the loftiness of the windows, 
 and showing how the light could be arranged 
 by moving the shutters, which had been cut 
 across, by order of some former occupant, 
 an artist. Next he marched Baretti into the 
 bedroom, and dwelt at length upon its ad- 
 vantages, talking rather at random, lest the 
 Italian should thank him. 
 
 ' And now,' he said, on regaining his own 
 rooms, ' you'll want money for your purchases 
 to-morrow. It will be better not to run into 
 debt to begin with. Suppose I give you a 
 cheque at once ? ' He sat down to write 
 it out, still chattering the while. A ring 
 was heard, and shortly afterwards a tap 
 sounded on the room - door. ' Come in,' 
 cried Tom, slipping his cheque-book into a 
 drawer. 
 
 ' Mr. Mark, sir,' said the maid, opening the
 
 HEARTS. 19 
 
 door, and she retiring, the personage announced 
 as Mr. Mark entered. He was not unhke the 
 regular occupant of the room at first sight, but 
 a second glance showed so many differences 
 that it began to be surprising that any like- 
 ness had appeared between them. The most 
 marked of these differences was in expression. 
 Tom's face was full of light and gaiety. He 
 looked frankly at all men, with a not unpleasing 
 confidence in their approval of him, and pretty 
 generally with a full approval in his own eyes. 
 He was but a youngster yet, and was un- 
 affectedly fond of people. He liked almost 
 everybody ; and that cheerful mood of mind 
 was written on his good-looking countenance 
 in letters of brightness. His visitor, though a 
 handsomer man than Tom, had his personal 
 beauties strongly discounted by an unpre- 
 possessing look of suspicion and dislike. It 
 was likely, you might have thought, that he 
 had but a poor opinion of men and women at 
 c 2
 
 20 HEARTS. 
 
 large — possibly a poor opinion of himself in 
 some directions. 
 
 * How are you ? ' cried Tom, heartily, 
 rising to meet him. 'I didn't know you were 
 in town. This is my friend Baretti, Mark. I 
 dare say you remember his picture at the 
 Academy this year. This is my cousin Mark, 
 Baretti— Mark Carroll.' 
 
 Cousin Mark's glance took in the broken 
 boots, the frayed shabbiness of the velvet coat 
 — every sign of jioverty the artist's dilapidated 
 dress displayed. He bowed stiffly, and Baretti 
 answered with a sense of discomfort and shame- 
 facedness. 
 
 ' I wouldn*t have come to-night,' said Mark, 
 ^ had I known you were engaged. Shall you 
 be in at twelve to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom. ' Anything particular ? ' 
 
 ' Eather particular,' answered Mark. 
 
 ' Baretti will excuse us,' said Tom, brightly. 
 * Come into the bedroom.'
 
 HEARTS, 21 
 
 The little artist bowed frigidly as the new- 
 comer passed him. Mark disregarded the 
 salute. 
 
 ' I'm in something of a hole, Tom/ he said, 
 closing the bedroom door behind him. ' I 
 want fifty pounds. Can you let me have it ? ' 
 
 ' When do you want it ? ' Tom inquired. 
 
 * To-morrow, at twelve.' 
 
 ' To-morrow ! ' Tom echoed, with a rather 
 
 dismal face. ' I'm a little ' He cleared in a 
 
 second. ' Come at three instead of twelve, and 
 I'll have it ready for you.' 
 
 ' All right,' said Cousin Mark, rather un- 
 graciously. ' I'll be here. I say, who's that 
 fellow ? ' He nodded backwards towards the 
 sitting-room. 
 
 * You've heard of Baretti,' said Tom. 
 * Kising artist. One of the most promising 
 young painters in London.' 
 
 ' One would guess as much to look at him,' 
 said Mark, with a smile. His smile was less
 
 22 < HEARTS, 
 
 agreeable than his habitual expression, and 
 when that is the case, it generally augurs ill of 
 a man. 
 
 ' Oh,' said Tom, deceptively, ' that sort of 
 man is often careless about appearances.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Mark, ' he's on my errand. 
 Came to borrow money, didn't he ? ' 
 
 ' I asked him here to dinner,' Tom answered. 
 ' He's a capital fellow — one of the best fellows 
 in the world.' 
 
 ' Everybody is " one of the best fellows in 
 the world " with you,' said Mark, smiling again. 
 ' I am one of the best fellows in the world 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Why, so you are,' Tom answered, laugh- 
 ing ; ' I am another. Come in and have a talk 
 with Baretti. You'll find him a charming 
 fellow, I assure you.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mark ; ' I won't stay to-night. 
 At three to-morrow. Good-night ! ' 
 
 The two young men came back into the
 
 HEARTS. 23 
 
 sitting-room, and shook hands. Baretti's head 
 had dropped forward as he sat in the big arm- 
 chair near the fire, and his regular breathing 
 betrayed the fact that he had fallen asleep. 
 Tom laid a hand upon his shoulder to awake 
 him, and the artist, sleepily opening his eyes, 
 stared at him for a second or two without 
 recognition, and, rising, took two or three steps 
 forward, before he was fairly awake. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he stammered ; ' I am 
 over-fatigued.' 
 
 Mark nodded with his own smile, and 
 gently pulled Tom from the room. 
 
 ' Has that rising artist,' he whispered 
 behind his hand, as they paused upon the 
 landing — ' has that rising artist ever obeyed the 
 poUceman's " Move on, there ? " He looked 
 rather like it.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' said Tom, in a disconcerted way. 
 ' Three o'clock to-morrow. Good-night, Mark ! ' 
 
 ' I am ashamed to have fallen asleep,' said
 
 24 HEARTS. 
 
 Baretti, when his host re-entered the room ; 
 ' but I am very tired.* 
 
 ' Of course you are,' said Tom, reopening 
 the drawer in which he had placed the cheque. 
 
 * That,' he went on, pushing the paper into 
 Baretti's hand, ' will set you going again, and 
 leave you a little margin.' 
 
 The broken artist looked from the cheque 
 to Tom, and from Tom to the cheque, like one 
 amazed; and before the Enghshman knew it 
 the Italian was at his feet, clasping both his 
 hands, and pouring out an incoherent torrent 
 of thanksgiving. 
 
 ' Nonsense, man ! ' cried Tom, half angrily. 
 
 * Get up, and don't make a fool of yourself. 
 You would have done as much for me if the 
 cases had been reversed.' 
 
 'No,' cried the painter, springing to his 
 feet and confronting his benefactor with out- 
 stretched hands and flashing eyes, ' I would not 
 have done so much for you. But now
 
 HEARTS. 25 
 
 Am I a fiend to say that I should hke to see 
 you iu misery, in want, in disgrace, in despair, 
 that I might die to comfort you ? ' 
 
 ' Bosh ! ' said the young Briton, witli an air 
 of shame. ' I'm not going to fall into disgrace 
 and misery to oblige anybody. If you do want 
 to oblige me, Baretti, you can do it easily.' 
 
 ' How ? ' cried the little man, with a iier}^ 
 gesture of interrogation, as if he would have 
 rent his friend to pieces. ' Tell me.' 
 
 ' Forget the Count, and set to work again.' 
 
 ' I shall find my chance,' said Baretti, with 
 an aspect of almost tragic gloom. 'You will 
 want me some day. I shall not die until I 
 have repaid you.' 
 
 ' Why, man alive,' said Carroll, with feigned 
 impatience, ' you've only to set to work to be 
 able to pay me in a month ! ' 
 
 * To pay you what ? ' demanded the little 
 man. ' The handful of money that you lend 
 me ? Yes. But the hope you gave me when
 
 26 HEARTS. 
 
 I despaired ? The faith I had lost in human 
 nature P The life I should have thrown away 
 to-night?' 
 
 ' You never meant that, Baretti ? ' Tom 
 demanded, gi-avely. The painter's eyes fell, 
 and his head drooped. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, stonily ; ' I meant it. And 
 but for you,' he cried, with new fire in his eyes 
 and his voice, ' I should have done it. Carroll, 
 I am yours — your friend, your brother, your 
 servant, your slave ! ' 
 
 ' All right, old man,' said Carroll, shaking 
 hands with him. ' Say no more about it.' 
 
 ' Good,' said Baretti. ' I will say no more. 
 But it is true, and I mean it.' 
 
 It was good acting if he did not mean it. 
 His eyes gleamed like black fire, and his lips 
 quivered. When the two had parted, Tom 
 reflected on the events of the night, and said 
 to himself, not without satisfaction : — 
 
 ' I ought to have made a friend.'
 
 HEARTS. 27 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 There is a school of philosophers according to 
 whose tenets it is easy to be philosophical. 
 The aspirant to wisdom learns that there is 
 little to be done but to set the basest construc- 
 tion on all human motives, and to believe and 
 prophesy the worst in regard to all human 
 actions. This royal road to philosophy has 
 been pursued by notable people, and the man 
 who travels by it is sure of certain obvious 
 advantages. The clock that stands still tells 
 the truth twice a-day, and the mental attitude 
 which never varies will find itself justified upon 
 occasion. It is an axiom with the acrid school 
 that if you do a man a service he will hate 
 you; and, Hke many other axioms of many
 
 28 HEARTS. 
 
 Other schools, it is true in some cases and false 
 in others. 
 
 A man who takes another out of the streets 
 of London and shelters him ; who takes him 
 out of despair and brings him home to hope 
 again ; who takes him from the dread of au 
 ignominious finish to life and gives him new 
 chances of fame and fortune, does what few 
 men have a chance to do, and may fairly be 
 said to have deserved gratitude. Tom had 
 done an undoubted good turn to Baretti, but 
 he had not looked for so volcanic a thanks- 
 giving as the little man offered in return. 
 Gratitude w^as not a sentiment but a passion 
 with this hot little Italian. His benefactor 
 filled his thoughts as a dearly-beloved mistress 
 might have done. He deified him as young 
 men in love deify their sweethearts. Tom 
 Carroll was the noblest, the most generous, the 
 handsomest, and the ablest man in the world 
 to Antonio Baretti. For weeks after the artist's
 
 HEARTS. 29 
 
 recovery from despair there were minutes when 
 he laid down his brushes because he could not 
 see his canvas for the moisture in his eyes, as 
 he thought of the magnificent tender goodness 
 of til is best of friends and patrons. 
 
 My Lord Bellamy — a neighbour of Thomas 
 Carroll the elder, in the country — had given 
 Baretti a commission (of course through Tom's 
 intercession), and Baretti was at work on a 
 canvas measuring six feet by four, painting 
 with prodigious ardour to the sound of Tom's 
 violin, which came soaring from the room 
 below. Thin cascades of scales, sonorous 
 cascades of scales, sometimes a tune whicli 
 made Baretti long to dance, and sometimes a 
 plaintive air which made the emotional little 
 fellow long to cry — these sounds arose almost 
 continually, for some six or seven hours a day. 
 
 ' Be witness for me,' the youngster would 
 sometimes say to Baretti, quoting Mrs. 
 Browning : —
 
 30 HEARTS. 
 
 * Be witness for me — with no amateur's 
 Irreverent haste and busy idleness 
 I wrought for art.' 
 
 And tlien, being newly inspired, he would go 
 back to his fiddling and saw sparks of light 
 and laughter, or long sweet sighs of musical 
 anguish, from the fiddle-strings. 
 
 You may believe that these were happy 
 days for the rehabilitated artist. Such hal- 
 cyon visions of fame as ardent young painters 
 have were with him often, and were always 
 sweetened by his gratitude, and his resolve to 
 show it and prove it to the w^orld at large. 
 He had promises within him of such a brother- 
 hood in art as the world had never seen. 
 Carroll could afford to work and wait for pure 
 art's sake, and would be hailed some day as a 
 great composer, and the king of fiddlers, and 
 Baretti himself was going to vault straightway 
 into fame by the painting of this one picture. 
 And when they were both great men, and the
 
 HEARTS. 31 
 
 painter was in tlie very ripeness and zenith of 
 his day, lie would go down to Tom's country 
 mansion and enrich its walls, as mortal walls 
 were never enriched before, with colour and 
 sweet form. And they would be friends for 
 ever, with no possibility of a Avrinkle on the 
 face of the young cherub of friendship who 
 smiled so dearly now. A good little fellow, 
 with a fine exaggerative heart and tempera- 
 ment, chokeful of gratitude, and love, and 
 hope, and an ambition nine-tenths unselfish ! 
 
 Master Tom, though not quite the paragon 
 bis southern 'protege believed him, was worthier 
 of this unstinted admiration than often happens, 
 and being himself of a generous, open nature, 
 and having done the Italian so brotherly a 
 turn, he was of course immensely fond of him 
 and interested in his successes. So these two 
 lads of five-and-twenty loved and admired each 
 other loyally — the Englishman with a shy senti- 
 ment and a purposely roughened outside to it,
 
 22 HEARTS. 
 
 and the Italian with a downright openness of 
 declaration which embarrassed while it pleased. 
 The artistic enthusiasm of the one spurred that 
 of the other, and they slaved away with ardour 
 at their respective pursuits. Tom saw much less 
 of the fashionable world in these days than he 
 had been used to see, and, with the constant 
 labour to which he gave himself, made real 
 progress in his difficult art. 
 
 Cousin Mark was a frequent visitor at Tom's 
 chambers, where he smoked Tom's havannahs 
 and drank Tom's claret, whilst he listened with 
 his own cynical grin to Baretti's encomiums on 
 Tom and Tom's encomiums on Baretti. The 
 painter was not merely rescued from seediness 
 of apparel, but being provided with the where- 
 withal by his moneyed friend, had blossomed 
 into outrageous sartorial c^aieties which somehow 
 seemed to suit him. Tom had lent him in all 
 a hundred and fifty pounds, and since Baretti 
 was to receive three hundred for his picture, he
 
 HEARTS. 33 
 
 bore the weight of his mouey debt with 
 patience. He wore a velvet sacque to paint in, 
 and was generally to be seen indoors in a 
 gorgeous smoking-cap, and slippers in the hues 
 of sunrise dyed. Certain valuable meerschaum 
 pipes, which had been confided to the care of 
 mine uncle (to whose door the artist had found 
 the mournful road a month before), were in his 
 own possession again, and one of these always 
 gave a fitting finish, to the picture he presented. 
 
 Cousin Mark was not burdened with more 
 money than he knew what to do with. His 
 uncle — Thomas Carroll the elder — was not 
 disposed to be over and above liberal, and 
 Mark's profession of barrister was so far 
 unremunerative to him. Cousin Tom, on the 
 contrary, had plenty of money, having inherited 
 a few loose thousands from his motlier, and 
 being in receipt of a comfortable additional 
 allowance from his father. Tom's position 
 from Mark's point of view was enviable. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 HEARTS. 
 
 There are two or three sorts of envy, only- 
 one of the kmds being criminaL But — not to 
 beat about the bush — Cousin Mark's envy of 
 Tom Carroll had a little of the criminal tinge 
 in it. Mark had carefully trained himself into 
 the belief that human goodness was a sham, 
 and that nothing was done by anybody without 
 an eye to the quid ^jro quo. Uncle Thomas 
 gave him an allowance. Good. He flattered 
 uncle Thomas, and believed himself expected 
 to do so. Cousin Tom was ridiculously gener- 
 ous. Well, money was cheap with cousin Tom, 
 and to that absard order of mind it was worth 
 money to be called a good fellow, and to sur- 
 round oneself with sycophants. Mark begged 
 from the father and borrowed from the son, 
 and was proj)erly sycophantic, with an under- 
 current of cynical humour in his service, and 
 an affectation of manly bluntness which more 
 than redeemed him in his own eyes. 
 
 Now, Mark had a mania for getting at the
 
 HEARTS. 35 
 
 bottom of things, and from the first hour when 
 he had seen his cousin and Baretti together 
 their connection had puzzled hmi a httle. 
 CalHng; one cveninsf he found Baretti alone and, 
 quite unnecessarily, began to pump him. 
 
 ' It's rather odd, Signor Baretti,' said Mark, 
 ' that you and I should never have met until a 
 fortnight ago, since Tom and you are such 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the Italian, with a bright and 
 tender smile. ' We are old acquaintances, but 
 the friendship is a new one. The friendship 
 began the night you first met me here.' 
 
 And, eager to exalt his idol, the painter 
 began to tell the story. He reiterated with 
 profuse Italian action the history of the Count's 
 wickedness, and he pourtrayed his own misery 
 and despair. He acted the part of Tom Carroll in 
 the Strand, the compassionate, the generous, the 
 good : he enacted his own part at that memor- 
 able interview also, sparing in his description 
 J) 2
 
 36 HEARTS. 
 
 no breach in his boots or tinge of yellow on 
 his frayed shirt-collar. He brought his hero 
 and himself into the very room in which he 
 told the moving story. He cast himself anew 
 upon his knees and buried his head in the arm- 
 chair in illustration of his own abandonment to 
 sorrow. He sprang to his feet and spoke out 
 of his chest in imitation of the admirable 
 rescuer's cheery manner. There were tears in 
 his lambent soft eyes as he lauded his preserver 
 and swore fidelity to him. 
 
 London is pretty thickly provided with 
 human contrasts, but it would not have been 
 easy to find two young fellows wider apart in 
 thought and feeling in all London's limits than 
 the man who told and the man who heard this 
 story. Mark listened with interest, and was 
 even not without admiration. He admitted 
 that — in the Itahan style of art — Baretti's was 
 a very fine performance. He thought that he 
 had never seen the cynic's definition of gratitude
 
 HEARTS. 37 
 
 SO well illustrated. To say that he doubted 
 the geuuineness of Baretti's protestations would 
 be to do Mark an injustice. He was certain 
 in his own mind that the little man was a liar 
 and a pretender — like other people. Only, he 
 hed and pretended better than the ruck, being 
 an artist and having command over what were 
 called the emotions. 
 
 To Baretti such an injustice as Mark did 
 him would have seemed impossible, even if he 
 could have been brought to understand the 
 mental condition which created it. Not to 
 have been grateful would have been prodigious, 
 and all his southern soul was given to his 
 preserver. 
 
 ' Where the carcass is,' said Mark to him- 
 self, 'there will the vultures be gathered 
 together. If tliere were plenty for both I 
 suppose no two would waste time in pecking at 
 each other. But this Italian vulture is a big- 
 beaked fellow — a fellow with an appetite. A
 
 38 HEARTS, 
 
 hundred and fifty is a good-sized first mouthful ; 
 and a mere flap of the wings won't scare that 
 harpy. I must dig him in the ribs and pretty 
 keenly. The British bird was only just in time, 
 a fortnight ago, to secure a morsel one-third 
 the size of the foreign bird's mouthful.' 
 
 Whilst he entertained these reflections Mark 
 was pleasantly conscious of his own cynical 
 humour and his own cynical candour. Carious 
 how, if you show any man his face in the glass, 
 he is not dis])leased with it. Execrable singers 
 chant for their own amusement, and like their 
 own voices. It is conceivable that the skunk 
 esteems his own odour highly, and would have 
 a poor opinion of eau-de-Cologne. And, quite 
 as a matter of course, cousin Mark thought his 
 own mental attitude admirable. If he had the 
 penetration to see through Baretti's humbug, he 
 had also the honesty to admit the truth about 
 himself. And it would not be true of him to 
 say that he began to hate tlie little painter.
 
 HEARTS. 39 
 
 Active sentiments of any kind did not come 
 to him easily, and life, though a warfare, was 
 to be gone through with no more passion than 
 w^as necessary. TJiere are men who would 
 skewer you if you could not otherwise be got 
 out of their way, and if it were safe to do it, 
 without mercy, and without rage — ^just at the 
 bidding of a cold hunger for yom^ share of 
 thino-s — and Mark Carroll was of them. 
 
 It is one of the vulsarest errors in the 
 world that men are unhappy in proportion to 
 the narrowness of their sympathies. The 
 garotter s conscience is the cat-o'-nine-tails. 
 
 When Mark came to look at it fairly and 
 squarely, he saw how difficult, if not impos- 
 sible, it w^ould be to separate the two friends. 
 He tested Tom and found him full of the 
 most ridiculous belief in the genuineness of 
 Baretti. Mark did not doubt that Tom laid 
 the flattering unction to his own soul in all 
 sincerity.
 
 40 HEARTS. 
 
 ' My cousin Tom,' said Mark to himself, 
 ' is fool enougli for anything.' 
 
 But in due time Baretti's picture was 
 finished and paid for, and, before its transfer 
 to my Lord Bellamy's country seat, was on 
 view at one of the Pall Mall galleries. It 
 made some noise in the world of art and 
 brought a commission or two. 
 
 On the day on which Baretti received his 
 cheque it happened that Mark and Tom sat 
 together in the latter's room. Enter the 
 painter in his dark purple velvet, his smoking 
 cap and slippers — a study in colour. 
 
 ' Good-day, Mr. Mark Carroll ! ' cried the 
 little man, with a beaming countenance. 
 ' Good-day, Mr. Tom Carroll ! ' He fluttered 
 the fortunate piece of paper in one hand and 
 executed a fantastic 'pas seul. ' That,' he said, 
 clapping the document on the table and 
 bringing down both palms upon it resonantly, 
 ' is the cheque of my Lord Bellamy for three
 
 HEARTS. 41 
 
 hundred sterling pounds. Aha ! It is addressed 
 to Antonio Baretti, Esquire, and Antonio 
 Baretti, Esquire, has written his famous name 
 of European celebrity upon the back of it. 
 Observe, Mr. Mark Carroll — until the famous 
 name was written upon its back that document 
 was without value. By inscribing the famous 
 name I create three hundred sterlino; Encrlish 
 pounds ! I venerate myself like a cashier of 
 the Bank of England. More. I pay my debts, 
 and I kiss the hands of the best of men, my 
 preserver.' 
 
 Before Tom had guessed what he was 
 about, the painter was actually on his knees 
 putting his w^ords into action. The young 
 Englishman blushed, and upset his chair in 
 his haste to be out of gratitude's way. Mark 
 looked on, smiling, with a smile that charac- 
 terised the pair. 
 
 ' Humbug and idiot ! ' said Mark's smile. 
 Though Tom had run out of Baretti's way he
 
 42 HEARTS. 
 
 looked at the little painter with gratified 
 affection, plainly to be read through all his 
 embarrassment. And in the fiery Italian's 
 dark eyes there Avas a visible moisture. 
 
 ' You be bio wed ! ' said Tom, making a 
 feeble shot at humom^, and trying lamely to 
 disguise his own pleasure. ' Who asked you 
 for the money ? ' 
 
 ' Not you,' said Baretti, with a happy and 
 affectionate laugh. ' I^ot you by a word or a 
 look. He lends,' he cried, turning to Mark, 
 ' with the magnificence of Maecenas, and he waits 
 for repayment like Patience upon a pedestal.' 
 
 ' He does,' cried Mark, his smile expanding. 
 ' If he can't see through this,' thought Mark, 
 ' the beggar's too blear-eyed to see through 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Eubbish ! ' said Tom. ' I'm very glad you 
 have the money, Baretti, very glad. Pay me 
 when you like.' 
 
 'I like to pay you now,' said Baretti.
 
 HEARTS. 43 
 
 • Not — believe me ! — not that it is a burden to 
 owe you money ' (Mark grinned outright at 
 this touch of artful simplicity), ' but because to 
 pay you is yet the greatest pleasure I have ever 
 known.' Tom looked at Mark, and Baretti 
 caught the glance. ' Your cousin,' he cried, 
 ' is no stranger to this business. He knows 
 what you lent me, and Avhy you lent it.' Tom 
 looked at him with reproach in his eyes. ' I 
 could not help telling him,' said the artist 
 beseechingly. 
 
 ' I ought to have told you, Tom, how affec- 
 tionately Mr. Baretti spoke of you,' said Mark, 
 with commendable gravity. The acting on 
 both sides was really diverting to Mark, who 
 believed in Tom's annoyance just as much as in 
 Baretti's gratitude. 
 
 ' Eubbish ! ' said Tom, again. 
 
 ' Sit down, Carroll,' cried Baretti, ' and write 
 me a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds.' 
 
 Tom, with a little air of liugering unwill-
 
 44 HEARTS, 
 
 ingness, obeyed, and Baretti, having acquitted 
 his debt, executed a second fantastic joas seuL 
 
 ' Will they take so small a sum as this at 
 the bank ? ' he demanded by-and-by. ' Then 
 let us go and put it in straightway. Come ! 
 I will make myself fit for out-of-doors in a 
 minute.' 
 
 He darted away, returning presently attired 
 in a velvet shooting-coat and a wideawake hat, 
 and drawing on, with loving care and preci- 
 sion, a pair of lavender-coloured kid gloves. 
 He wore white gaiters over his little patent- 
 leathered feet, and carried a natty little cane- 
 stick under his arm. 
 
 Mark, having no especial business on his 
 hands, accompanied Baretti and his cousin. 
 Before they had gone a hundred yards they 
 saw, in a quiet street opening off Montague 
 Gardens, two people walking placidly towards 
 them. The one was a stoutish, broad-shouldered 
 young man, with a swarthy fat face, beady
 
 HEARTS. 45 
 
 eyes, and a jetty moustache. On cheeks and 
 chin he was blue with close shaving, and it 
 was a hundred pounds to a penny, at first 
 sight, that he was an operatic tenor and an 
 Italian. Tlie other was a gloriously- capari- 
 soned young woman, a pronounced brunette, 
 with large, languishing black eyes, and ex- 
 tremely ripe, red lips, and a languishing gait, 
 which was yet elastic. Her figure was inclined, 
 but only inclined, to embonpoint^ and Mark, 
 who thought himself something of a connoisseur 
 in female beauty, pronounced her a fine 
 woman on the spot. Baretti beholding the 
 approaching pair, who walked arm-in-arm with 
 a tender leaning towards each other, broke 
 away from his companions and made a dash 
 at the swarthy fat man, whom he hailed in 
 voluble Italian and kissed vehemently on both 
 cheeks, standing on tiptoe to do it. Next, with 
 much ceremony, he saluted the lady, and the 
 swarthy man was heard to murmur —
 
 46 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Signora Malfi.' 
 
 ' This,' said Baretti, turning to Tom and 
 Mark, ' is my famous countryman — like my- 
 self, of Naples — Signor Malfi. II Maestro 
 Thomas Carroll,' addressing tlie Italian. 
 
 ' Eubbish ! ' said Tom, for the third time 
 that morning, but he bowed to the swarthy 
 Italian and the radiant vomio- woman, whilst 
 Baretti introduced cousin Mark. Cousin 
 Mark, finding the stranger's stock of English 
 extremely limited, addressed him in Italian 
 (of which tongue he was complete master), 
 thanking him, with many courteous flourishes, 
 for the delight which he (the swarthy, fat 
 man) had given Mark at Milan, and Naples, 
 and in London. Signor Malfi took all this 
 like a man who was used to it, but he was 
 nevertheless pleased to find an Enghshman 
 to whom it was no trouble to talk, and he set 
 out at once in the open street with a vivacious 
 history of the villanies of one Corditi, a
 
 HEARTS. 47 
 
 miserable ^vretcli who presumed to consider 
 himself a rival. All this was Itahan to Tom, 
 who was relieved when he saw Baretti shaking 
 hands with tlie tenor and preparing to leave 
 him. But there was still a little delay. The 
 wickednesses of the rival tenor had made some 
 explanations necessary to a provincial theatrical 
 manager then in town, and Signor Malfi begged 
 Baretti to accompany him and translate. 
 
 ' Signor Baretti,' said Mark, in the operatic 
 tenor's own tongue, ' is a busy man just now, 
 and I am an idle one. I am entirely at your 
 service.' 
 
 ' You of the family of Carroll,' said the 
 painter, ' are all alike. Generous and obliging 
 to a fault.' 
 
 Mark smiled in answer. The Signora 
 Malfi was a singularly fine woman, and Mark 
 had nothing to do. And, besides, the briefless 
 barrister was one of those men who always 
 find it worth while to know theatric and
 
 48 HEARTS, 
 
 operatic people. One got stalls in that way 
 at times, and to a man who is bound to be 
 seen in the world, and who has no great 
 resources of his ow^n, that sort of thing is 
 worth angling for. The singer was not un- 
 willing to accept Mark's good offices, and Mark 
 insisted on proffering them with almost over- 
 whelming politeness. So it befell that Baretti 
 and Tom went one way, whilst Mark and his 
 new acquaintances went another in pursuit 
 of the theatrical manager. The signora's face 
 and figure, and the signora's conversation, had 
 so many attractions for Mark that, when the 
 manager had been visited and the singer's 
 honour — on which he appeared to set some 
 value — had been cleared, he consented to dine 
 with his obliged friends, and accompanied 
 them to a restaurant in Prince's Street, where 
 garlic was the staple of half the dishes, and 
 the Chianti was excellent. 
 
 Here were other gentlemen with stoutish,
 
 HEARTS. 49 
 
 broad-shouldered figures, swarthy fat faces, 
 beady eyes and jetty moustaches, who were 
 also blue with close shaving on cheeks and 
 chin. With most of these Signor Malfi was 
 on easy terms, and they shouted from their 
 different parts of the room, and gesticulated 
 at each other with amiable ferocity across the 
 little oblong tables on which the meal was 
 served. The signora was the only person 
 of the gentler sex there present, and Mark 
 observed an absence of restraint in conversa- 
 tion which argued the lady of an indulgent 
 turn. 
 
 After dinner the company drank coffee, 
 clustered at one table, and smoked cigars, 
 called Virginian, priced at twopence and 
 measuring nine inches in length ; and finally 
 three or four of the swarthy fat men started 
 with Signor Malfi and the lady for their 
 apartments, Mark keeping them company 
 still. All the men pausing in the middle of 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 so HEARTS. 
 
 Wardour Street to sliout together, in the 
 absurd behef that they were discussing some- 
 thing, Mark pohtely offered his arm to the 
 signora, and at an easy pace walked on.
 
 HEARTS. 51 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Thomas Carroll the elder was a justice of trie 
 peace, and chairman of the guardians of the 
 poor. He owned half a village and some two 
 thousand acres of land in a Mid-England 
 county. 
 
 To be a landowner is not, of itself, to be 
 uncommon. A justice of the peace is not 
 necessarily higher than the angels. There 
 are chairmen of boards of guardians, even, 
 who will never set the Thames on fire. But 
 to be Thomas Carroll was, in the very nature 
 of things, to be a remarkable man. 
 
 When people differed from ]VIr. Carroll, as 
 they sometimes did, he displayed surprise and 
 pity. In politics he was a Tory, and it was a 
 
 E 2 
 
 
 ^'~^7iR9T<
 
 52 HEARTS, 
 
 habit of his to say that he could only conceive 
 of a Eadical as a fool or a knave. In either 
 case he knew how to tolerate. A large nature 
 is always lenient. 
 
 To have bought him at his own price and 
 sold him in open market would have broken 
 the Bank of England. In his affable way he 
 condescended to everybody, and was mightily 
 proud of having so little pride. As befitted 
 his sense of his own majesty he was tall and 
 portly. He was bald to the crown, and he 
 came out in photographs as a man with a lofty 
 forehead. His iron-gray hair was crisp and 
 ciu-led, his cheeks were rosy, his hands were 
 large, and very plump and white. In dress he 
 was a trifle old-fashioned, and he wore but one 
 jewel, a big rose-diamond, which gave oppor- 
 tunities for the display of his handsome fingers. 
 
 Trench House, his residence, dominated 
 Overhill and looked down upon it from a turfy, 
 well- timbered slope which faced southward — a
 
 HEARTS. 53 
 
 big, squat building in mellow red brick, not 
 very picturesque, but looking homelike and 
 dignified in the midst of its trees and lawns 
 and gardens. Within easy view of its front 
 windows there stood (and for that matter still 
 stands) a gray old farmhouse, which was 
 tenanted by a yeoman whose forbears had once 
 owned the land about it. These people had 
 fallen bit by bit from their prosperous estate, 
 and had parted bit by bit with their posses- 
 sions, and now for a generation or two they 
 had farmed the land more or less unsuccess- 
 fully. One Michael Moore, the first of the 
 family of whom any record had been kept, 
 had been an Ironside. His sword and his iron 
 head-pot were preserved in a high state of 
 polish and glitter above the mantle-shelf. One 
 George Moore had served two years in the 
 county jail as a physical-force Chartist, and his 
 memory was also cherished. The existent 
 Michael Moore was proud of these bright spots
 
 54 HEARTS. 
 
 in the family bead-roll, and was an uncompro- 
 mising Eadical. In the struggle for the repeal 
 of the Corn Laws the existent Michael had 
 made his name a stench in the nostrils of sup- 
 porters of the agricultural interest, and had 
 been looked upon as an Achan in the agricul- 
 tural camp. He had had painted across the 
 front of the farmhouse (so that his Tory land- 
 lord might read the legend whenever he looked 
 out of window), ' Peace, Eetrenchment, and 
 Eeform,' and the letters were dimly traceable 
 even now. Perhaps if Michael had devoted 
 himself to farming with the ardour he threw 
 into politics he might have prospered. 
 
 On a certain misty autumn afternoon Mr. 
 Carroll, mounted on a handsome hack, jogged 
 comfortably along the road which led from 
 Trench House to the farm, and sighted a little 
 crowd about the building. Eemembering sud- 
 denly the occasion of this gathering, he would 
 fain have turned back again, but he knew that
 
 • HEARTS. 55 
 
 he must have been observed ah^eady, and so 
 held on. The crowd was made up of the 
 people of the village, with here and there a 
 stranger, and standing in a waggon in front of 
 the house with a table before him was a man 
 in a white hat, who held forth noisily. 
 
 ' Any advance on twelve ten ? Twelve 
 ten ! A high-class heifer, sire and dam both 
 known! Eeally, gentlemen, really! Thirteen? 
 Thank you, Mr. Jones. Thirteen ! Any ad- 
 vance on thirteen ? ' 
 
 The last link between the Moores and their 
 old homestead was broken, and they were 
 
 promG^ awav. 
 
 As Mr. Carroll, with raised hat in answer 
 to many salutations from the farmyard, was 
 jogging by, there came from the yard-gate a 
 man with a florid complexion and white hair. 
 
 ' So you've come to see the last of us, eh, 
 Squire ? You'll be easier in your mind when 
 we're gone, no doubt.'
 
 S6 HEARTS, 
 
 ' I am afraid the village will not be sorry 
 to lose you, Moore,' returned the landlord. 
 ' But you will have the goodness to remember 
 that this is none of my doing.' He waved his 
 hand towards the yard, from which they were 
 hidden by the corner of the building. ' I can 
 but feel that I have been forbearing as a land- 
 lord, not merely in the matter of rent, but in 
 respect also to the farm, which has consider- 
 ably deteriorated in value of late years.' 
 
 ' Well, Squire,' returned the other, ' you've 
 little enough to grumble over. As to the rent, 
 you'll have it to the uttermost farthing ; and as 
 to the farm, it's been treated better than it 
 deserves. It's a sour, poor land, and always 
 was, and always will be. But I don't want to 
 have any bad blood between you and me.' 
 
 ' My good fellow ' began Mr. Carroll, 
 
 with a tolerant wave of his hand, and a smile 
 of tranquil amusement. 
 
 ' Whatever I've said again' you has been
 
 HEARTS, 57 
 
 said as a public duty, and not again' you as a 
 man/ pursued the farmer. 
 
 'You do me some injustice, Moore,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, with his tranquil smile. ' I don't 
 know what you have said ; I don't care at all 
 what you have said. I am sorry to destroy 
 any dream you may have cherished, but it is a 
 fact that you have never troubled me, except 
 by your mismanagement of the land.' 
 
 ' I know you're tough enough in the hide,' 
 said the farmer, ' but I thought I might have 
 pricked you once or twice. I don't think 
 you're a bad sort at bottom, though you'll find 
 out more than you know about the land when 
 you begin to farm it, as I'm told you're going 
 to. But I'm going away, and I want to do it 
 friend-like. I've got nothing again' you, Squire, 
 barring politics, and I'm not averse to shaking 
 hands, if so be that you are willing.' 
 
 'Very well, my good fellow,' said the 
 Squire, leaning downwards and proffering two
 
 58 HEARTS. 
 
 fingers of his right hand. The other two were 
 needed to hoJd the gold-headed riding whip. 
 
 ' I don't want two fingers, Squire,' said the 
 outgoing tenant. ' I want a hand, if I have 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Very well, my good fellow, very well,' said 
 Mr. Carroll again, smiling outright this time. 
 ' I wish you well, Moore, and if you desire to 
 give my good wishes effect, you will drop those 
 foolish political notions of yours and give your 
 time and your thoughts to business. A man in 
 your station has no business with politics.' 
 
 ' All riglit, Squire,' said the farmer. ' IVe 
 said already you're not a bad sort at bottom, 
 and I'm glad there's no ill-blood between us. 
 Good-bye ! ' 
 
 ' Shall I see you again ? ' asked Mr. Carroll, 
 with twinkling eyes and his clean-shaven lips 
 twitching. Mr. Carroll was fond of musing on 
 the subject of human egotism, and Moore's 
 display tickled him rarely.
 
 HEARTS. 59 
 
 ' No,' said the farmer. ' Woolley is lawyer 
 as well as auctioneer, and he's got a full list of 
 my debts. He'll pay 'em all ; the rent among 
 'em. So this is good-bye in earnest.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Moore, good-bye ! And take 
 my advice about the politics.' 
 
 With that the Squire rode away, still calmly 
 amused. Tt was noticeable that most men's 
 estimates of Mr. Carroll tickled him. Almost 
 everybody, with the exception of people of the 
 lowest class, spoke to him as they spoke to any- 
 body else ! He had frequent cause to smile at 
 human insolence, but to have been ruffled by it 
 would have been too absurd. He jogged along 
 in a splendid placid contentment until the rail- 
 way station was in sight. At some expense 
 to himself and some inconvenience to the vil- 
 lage, he had insisted that the railway line 
 should not approach his house too closely. 
 It was a branch line and a small aSair, which 
 so far paid no dividend, and Mr. Carroll had
 
 6o HEARTS, 
 
 become a large shareholder in it in order to save 
 his property from desecration. A train was 
 puffing along, lazily enough, the steam ascend- 
 ing on the heavy autumn air in straight columns 
 and lingering about the fields. At the station 
 door was the solitary fly the village boasted, 
 and standing near, apparently giving directions 
 to the driver about a heap of luggage, was 
 Thomas Carroll the younger, in company with 
 a small man who looked like a foreigner. Mr. 
 Carroll put up his gold-rimmed double-eye- 
 glasses to be sure of his son's identity, and rode 
 forward. 
 
 ' How do you do, Tom ? How do you 
 do ? I had not expected you until to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' I said the twenty-second,' answered Tom. 
 
 ' And this,' said Mr. Carroll, ' is the twenty- 
 first. I had ordered Baker to meet you here 
 with the carriage. The same unmethodical 
 Tom as ever.'
 
 HEARTS. 6 1 
 
 'I ^vonclered nobody was here,' said Tom 
 with a laugh. ' Father, this is Signor Baretti. 
 My father, Baretti.' 
 
 Mr. Carroll bowed in good-humoured con- 
 descension. 
 
 ' The — the artist? ' he asked, putting up the 
 gold-rimmed glasses. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom. ' You remember his pic- 
 ture at the Academy ? Saturn after his fall — 
 with a line from Keats, " Deep in the shady 
 sadness of a vale." ' 
 
 ' Deep in the shady sadness of her veil,' said 
 Mr. Carroll. ' Of course. I remember dis- 
 tinctly. You are welcome to Overhill, Mr. — 
 er ' 
 
 'Baretti,' said Tom. 
 
 ' You are welcome to Overhill, Mr. Baretti,' 
 said Tom's father, ' and welcome to Trench 
 House. I am superior,' he added, with a 
 charming smile and a reassuring wave of the 
 right hand, ' to the absurd prejudices which
 
 62 HEARTS, 
 
 j animate so many members of my own class 
 J with regard to yours.' 
 
 Baretti bowed with commendable gravity, 
 but there was a twinkle in his handsome Italian 
 eyes which seemed to bespeak an inward senti- 
 ment of mirth. 
 
 ' I thank you, sir,' he said, breaking silence 
 for the first time. 
 
 ' I am probably right in presuming,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, with cheerful affability, ' that Mr. 
 Baretti is not a native of this country ? Ah, 
 Signov Baretti ! Of course — of course ! An 
 Italian, Signor Baretti ? ' 
 
 ' I am an Italian, sir,' returned the painter. 
 
 ' I know nothing more absurd than national 
 
 prejudices,' said Mr. Carroll, genially. 'An 
 
 Itahan is as welcome at Trench House, Signor 
 
 Baretti, as an Englishman. A man of large 
 
 / nature is cosmopohtan.' 
 
 Baretti bowed again, not feeling called upon 
 to say anything. Tom hid his embarrassment
 
 HEARTS. 63 
 
 among the luggage, and Lis father, with an ex- 
 pression of the pleasure it would give him to 
 meet Tom's friend at dinner, rode on again. 
 
 ' Take these things up to the house,' said 
 Tom to the driver of the flj. ' We'll walk, 
 Baretti.' The painter cheerfully assenting, they 
 went on together. In a while Carroll tui-ned 
 upon his companion with a laugh half shy and 
 half sly. ' Well, Baretti. Isn't he pretty nearly 
 as good as I told you he would be ? ' 
 
 ' I do not like,' said Baretti gravely, '' that a 
 son should speak lightly of a father.' 
 
 'No, no,' cried the young Englishman, 
 with a blush. ' He's a splendid old fellow, is 
 my governor. I never knew a better man. 
 But he is a little pompous. That's his only 
 fault. He's a trifle pompous.' 
 
 ' He is a little pompous,' Baretti assented 
 with much gravity. 
 
 ' But you mustn't be offended by him,' said 
 Tom.
 
 64 HEARTS. 
 
 ' I shall not be offended by him,' returned 
 Baretti, with a look of almost canine affection 
 at his companion. 
 
 ' I wanted to walk,' said Tom, not without 
 somethincj of an air of haste to be rid of the 
 subject, ' so that I might show you some of 
 those ready-made pictures I spoke of. There I 
 That old farmhouse is one of them, though this 
 is an unfortunate day for looking at it, because 
 the mist shuts out the distance. This is the 
 real point of view, over the stile here. It's a 
 little muddy, but a landscape painter in search 
 of subjects won't mind that, I dare say.' 
 
 The landscape painter in search of subjects 
 seemed to hang back a little. It was not the 
 mud which made him linger, as Tom discovered 
 when he turned. A girl with a graceful figure 
 and attired like a lady came walking in the 
 direction of the stile, most unaffectedly crying 
 as she walked. 
 
 ' Dear me. Miss Moore,' cried Tom, vaulting
 
 HEARTS. , 6$ 
 
 into the field and approaching, hat in hand, 
 ' you are in distress.' 
 
 The girl, in answer to this obvious state- 
 ment, looked up and blushed and started, then 
 paled and looked down again. 
 
 ' I was saying good-bye to the old place, 
 Mr. Carroll,' she answered, simply. * I didn't 
 know that anyone was near.' 
 
 ' Are you going away ? ' asked Tom. ' We 
 shall all be sorry to lose you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' the girl answered, suppressing a fresh 
 burst of tears. ' Everything was sold to-day, 
 and we leave to-night.' 
 
 ' God bless my soul ! ' said Tom, fatuously. 
 
 ' The farm has not been paying for a long 
 time,' the girl went on, ' and father resolved to 
 sell everything and go to London.' 
 
 ' To London ? ' asked Tom in amazement. 
 ' What on earth is a farmer going to do in 
 London ? I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to 
 be impertinent, but all this is such news to me. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 . .HEARTS, 
 
 ' He means to start a dairy there,' the girl 
 explained. ' Won't you go in, Mr. Carroll ? 
 He will be glad to see you.' 
 
 She mounted the stile without Tom's 
 assistance, and pulhng down her veil led the 
 way to the house. Baretti had walked on a 
 little, and Tom in passing asked to be excused 
 for a minute. The farmer, with an uncon- 
 cerned, if not a very cheerful look, sat by the 
 fireside smoking. The room and the walls 
 w^ere bare, and the chamber wore a wretched 
 and dismantled aspect. 
 
 ' How d'ye do, Mister Thomas .^ ' said the 
 smoker, rising with a hearty greeting. ' Sit 
 down, sir — sit down. There's nothing but the 
 chimney-settle to sit on, for we re clearing out 
 to-day, but you won't mind that, I know.' 
 
 'But what does it all mean? ' asked Tom. 
 ' Isn't it very sudden ? ' 
 
 ' Sudden ! ' said the farmer, with a grim 
 laugh. ' It began in Az5 day.' He looked up-
 
 HEARTS. 67 
 
 ward to the spot on which the CromweUiau 
 soldier's sword and head-piece had been used 
 to hanor. ' He owned the land, and he was the 
 first that ever raised money on a foot of it. 
 And, saving your presence, we've been going 
 to the devil ever since, at greater or lesser 
 speed, and — here we are.' He waved, a 
 hand to indicate the bare walls and floor, and 
 laughed again. ' But at last, Mister Thomas, 
 I've shook that four-hundred-acre incubus off 
 the family shoulders, and I feel my own man 
 again. The missis takes on at going, and so 
 does Azubah, but I've done the right thing, and 
 though it's a bit of a wrench when all's said, 
 I'm glad I've done it.' 
 
 ' Then there has been no quarrel with my 
 father ? ' Tom asked. 
 
 ' Your father ! ' said the farmer, with a 
 
 much more cheerful laugh. 'I don't believe 
 
 the Old Enemy himself could quarrel with your 
 
 father, sir. He'd no more dream of quarrelling 
 
 p 2
 
 68 HEARTS. 
 
 with me than I should of harbouring a deadly 
 spite again a mouse. He's too lofty for it. I 
 put it to him this afternoon, scarce an hour 
 ago : " There's no ill-blood betwixt us, Squire?" 
 says I. Why, I saw him laughing at me, at 
 the bare idea of my having the cheek to think 
 I was big enough for him to think about.' 
 
 ' Come, come, Moore,' said Tom, in a tone 
 of remonstrance. 
 
 ' Oh, that's your duty, sir, and I'll say no 
 more ! ' returned the farmer. ' And I'm glad to 
 know you come in time to see the last of us. 
 The two houses, so they do say, fowt on dif- 
 ferent sides in Cromwell's time, but we've been 
 good friends and neighbours since, and I'm 
 pleased to part at peace. Well, sir, here's the 
 cart at the door, and we've got the train to 
 catch. It's a short welcome for the last time, 
 Mister Thomas, but it'll always be a good one 
 so long as there is a roof- tree over Michael 
 Moore's head. So, good-bye, sir, and God bless
 
 HEARTS. 69 
 
 you ! ' He sliook hands with Tom, wringing 
 his hand harder than he knew, and bustled to 
 the foot of the stairs. ' Here's Jack ready with 
 the cart, missis, and Mister Thomas is here to 
 say good-bye.' 
 
 The farmer's daughter stood in the middle 
 of the dismantled room, and Tom Carroll, look- 
 ing at her, felt grieved for her. He had played 
 with her when he was a child, and he had 
 known her all his life. 
 
 ' I am sorry you are going,' he said ; ' very 
 sorry.' He held out his hand, and she laid hers 
 in it languidly. He felt a little awkward and 
 clumsy at this, for he had meant a farewell 
 shake-hands, and the girl's fingers gave no sign 
 of a responsive grip. So he stood feeling fool- 
 ish enough for perhaps ten seconds, and that, 
 though not a long time in most circumstances, 
 is more than long enough to feel foolish in 
 with any degree of comfort. In spite of his 
 discomfiture, however — and he was always shy
 
 70 HEARTS. 
 
 with women — ^he could not help looking at his 
 old playmate, and it came into his mind with 
 something of a shock — what a pretty girl she 
 was ! ISTot in the conventional way, perhaps, 
 but what splendid soft brown eyes, what a 
 sensitive mouth, how graceful a figure, what a 
 pretty curve in the neck and shoulders, while 
 the sad head drooped and the brown eyes 
 looked up tearful and artless like a child's ! 
 Yet the girl was eighteen if she were a day, and 
 old enough to have known better than to look 
 at a young man in a fashion so embarrassing if 
 only she had thought about it. It was suf- 
 ficiently evident that she thought of nothing 
 just then except the sorrow of going and part- 
 ing, unless it were, perhaps, the altogether 
 unacknowledged and unconscious comfort of 
 having her hand in a friend's, and that friend a 
 man. 
 
 Whatever embarrassment the situation held 
 was on Tom's side only, for Tom was conscious,
 
 HEARTS. 71 
 
 and tlie girl was not. A step and a voice at 
 the door promised relief, but in effect made 
 matters serious. 
 
 ' Azubah,' cried a young lady, entering 
 suddenly, ' how dare you try to go away like 
 this without letting me know of it ? ' The new- 
 comer kissed the girl exuberantly, and made a 
 sweeping curtsey to Tom, who blushed fierily 
 and fidgeted with his hands and feet. It was 
 noticeable that until the entrance of this new 
 figure the farmer's daughter had worn a look 
 of pretty refinement and delicacy ; but in the 
 radiance of the new-comer, and by contrast 
 with her exquisite finery, the girl's pretti- 
 ness dwindled into plainness, her refinement 
 took an immediate rusticity, and her dress 
 looked poor. Nobody would have said that 
 the new-comer was over-dressed, but every- 
 thing she wore was rich and fashionable, and 
 she herself had the art of wearing clothes to 
 perfection, and she moved and looked like a
 
 72 HEARTS, 
 
 princess — like a princess in a tale, that is, and 
 not absolutely like the real thing, which is 
 sometimes (treasonable as it may sound to say 
 it) dowdy. 
 
 ' I wrote to you, Miss Lordhig,' said the 
 farmer's daughter, ' and sent the letter to the 
 post an hour ago.' 
 
 ' You are a wicked girl,' returned Miss 
 Lording, kissing her again vehemently. 'And 
 as for you, Mr. Moore,' turning to the farmer, 
 ' I think you most unkind to allow Azubah to 
 go away without saying good-bye to me.' 
 
 'Now come, Miss Lording,' said Moore, with 
 a jocose and waggish air, ' you ought to know 
 better than to say that. You know what sort 
 of a life you lead your father, a-riding rough- 
 shod over all his orders, and I know what sort 
 of hfe my girl leads me. When I'm as dead as 
 paternal authority is, I shall be ripe for 
 burying.' 
 
 'Here is another criminal,' Miss Lording
 
 HEARTS. Ti 
 
 said, turning severely towards Tom. ' You 
 might have told me, Mr. Carroll.' 
 
 ' Like yourself. Miss Lording,' said Tom, ' I 
 only learned the news this afternoon. I have 
 just arrived from town.' 
 
 ' Where are you going, Azubah ? ' asked 
 the young lady. 
 
 ' We're all going up to London, miss,' said 
 the farmer, ' and Azubah will doubtless write 
 to say, when we're settled, where we are. But 
 here's the missis, and the cart's waiting, and it's 
 good-bye all round.' 
 
 He shook hands with overdone bustle, and 
 flourished his hat at the door behind his depart- 
 ing wife and daughter, leaving his guests be- 
 hind him. Perhaps in spite of the gaiety of his 
 manner he was aware of something in his eyes 
 which might have told how the old farmer felt 
 on uprooting himself from the soil on which his 
 yeoman ancestors had grown and flourished. 
 The latest comer followed, holding up her skirts
 
 74 HEARTS. 
 
 from the dusty floor and the bedraggled yard ; 
 and Tom, hat in hand, went after. The farmer 
 bustled the women into the dog-cart, mounted 
 in turn, took the reins, and drove off. His wife 
 and daughter, who faced backward on the old 
 place they were leaving, began to cry, and to 
 wave pocket-handkerchiefs in token of farewell. 
 Miss Lording and Tom responded, and when 
 the cart had passed the corner of the lane the 
 lady turned to her carriage, which stood at the 
 farmyard gate, in charge of an old coachman of 
 extremely grave and responsible aspect. In 
 place of ascending, as Tom expected, she turned 
 back again. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' she said, ' to have interrupted 
 your leave-taking, Mr. Carroll, but,' slie added, 
 with a shrug of the shoulders and a dazzling 
 smile, ' the door was open, and it was not my 
 fault.' 
 
 'Don't mock me always,' Tom besought 
 her, miserably.
 
 HEARTS. 75 
 
 She laughed outright and clapped her 
 hands. 
 
 'You looked deliciously sentimental, Mr. 
 Carroll. Is that a friend of yours? Who is 
 he ? He looks odd and attractive, and as if he 
 were somebody.' 
 
 ' My friend Baretti, the artist,' said Tom. 
 
 ' Baretti ! ' she answered. ' Was it he who 
 painted Saturn ? " Deep in the shady sadness 
 of a vale." Oh, Tom, I am sorry I teased 
 you ! And you always do know such nice 
 people. Bring him here.' 
 
 Tom bowed delightedly, and ran after 
 Baretti. 
 
 ' I want to introduce you to Miss Lording, 
 Baretti,' he said when he came up with him. 
 ' She wants to know you. Your Academy pic- 
 ture impressed her greatly.' 
 
 They returned together, and the little artist 
 being presented, the queenly young lady said 
 many pleasant things to liim, and finally drove
 
 76 HEARTS. 
 
 away, leaving the two young men standing in 
 the lane with the mist closing about them, and 
 feehng very much as if a summer sun had sud- 
 denly vanished from the skies, carrying all his 
 warmth and brightness with him. 
 
 ' Carroll,' said the painter a minute later, in 
 his vehement Italian way, ' I have beheld my 
 ideal of all feminine grace and beauty. What 
 splendour ! what grace ! what charm ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom, in an oddly grudging way. 
 ' She's very pretty, isn't she ? ' 
 
 ' Gran Dio I ' cried the painter, casting his 
 arms wildly upwards. ' He professes to have a 
 soul, and he calls that vision of beauty — very 
 pretty ! '
 
 HEARTS, J7 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Mr. C.iRROLL the elder and Mr. Carroll the 
 younger sat together that evening after dinner. 
 Baretti had retired ostensibly to write letters, 
 but really with no other object than to leave 
 father and son alone to talk over any matters 
 they might have in mind after a separation of 
 a month or two. 
 
 ' And what are you doing with yourself 
 in London, Tom ? ' asked the father, sipping at 
 his wine. 
 
 'Fiddling,' said Tom, lightly, 'painting, 
 writing.' 
 
 ' Things have changed since my day,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, not without a tinge of sorrow in 
 his tones. ' The occupations of which you
 
 78 HEARTS. 
 
 speak are now the recognised relaxations of a 
 gentleman. I suppose the change is a part of 
 that progress of which we hear so much, and 
 though I am far from admiring it, I can see it 
 is far beyond individual control. You belong 
 to your new generation and I belong to my 
 old one, and we shall not convince each other.' 
 He sighed complacently, and drawing a gold 
 snuff-box from his pocket, tapped it, opened 
 it, closed it again, and put it back without 
 using it. This was a habit with him. It 
 probably comforted him with some old-world 
 notions of a time when gentlemen had distinc- 
 tive little customs of their own, which had not 
 descended to the lower classes. ' There are 
 some practices,' he resumed, ' which are likely 
 to be conserved even in these days of social 
 decadence. And — apropos,' he added with a 
 smile, 'when do you think of getting married?' 
 Somewhat to the elder man's surprise the 
 younger one blushed at this query.
 
 HEARTS. 79 
 
 ' I'm glad you've mentioned that subject, 
 father,' said Tom with a smihng embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said Mr. Carroll with stately 
 geniality. ' Who is the lady ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said Tom, blushing more deeply, 
 ' I have seen a good deal of her m town, and 
 we have known each other a long time, and — 
 it's Miss Lording. I haven't said a word about 
 it until now, but ' 
 
 ' You think you understand each other ? ' 
 asked the fiither. 
 
 ' No,' cried Tom. ' I don't think slie dis- 
 likes me — but * 
 
 ' Miss Lording,' said Mr. Carroll, producing 
 the gold snuff-box again and going once more 
 through his pretence of preparation. ' Miss 
 Lording is a young lady who would ornament 
 any sphere and do credit to any household. 
 She is handsome, well-bred, well-connected, 
 and well to do.' Tom's diffidence did not
 
 8o HEARTS. 
 
 extend itself to his father, and the elder man's 
 estimate of Miss Lording as his son's future 
 wife was in a second loftier than any opinion 
 of her he had previously held. When any- 
 thing or person became in any way an appan- 
 age to the splendours of Thomas Carroll the 
 elder, it was beautified at once by the halo 
 which to his own eyes always dwelt upon him. 
 ' I am growing a little tired,' he continued, ' of 
 my duties as justice of the peace, and when you 
 are married and settled down I shall be glad to 
 see you succeeding to your father's functions. 
 I have fulfilled that duty now for a quarter of 
 a century, not altogether without credit.' 
 
 ' I am glad to have your approval,' said 
 Tom, bashfully. It was difficult as yet to talk 
 even to his father on such a matter. 
 
 ' Your mention of that topic leads me,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, ' to a subject of some importance 
 which affects myself When I asked you to 
 bring down your artistic friend, I did so with
 
 HEARTS. 8i 
 
 a purpose. You spoke very highly of him, 
 and I am told that in regard to such matters 
 your judgment is to be trusted. When a 
 gentleman undertakes a public duty he does 
 not look for a reward, but it is possible that 
 either by length of service or by the exercise 
 of an unusual ability he may secure some 
 recognition. I have received a letter signed 
 on behalf of my colleagues on the Bench by 
 Lord Bellamy. In that letter I am informed 
 that at a recent meeting of the county justices 
 it was unanimously resolved — unanimously 
 resolved — to invite me to sit for my portrait 
 to any artist of my choice. It is proposed to 
 preserve the picture,' he added with composed 
 magnificence, 'in the Shire Hall itself. The 
 act, as you will observe, is spontaneous, and I 
 will not disguise the fact that it is of a nature 
 calculated to gratify me.' 
 
 ' Assuredly,' said Tom ; ' a very high com- 
 pliment indeed.' He was not quite as well 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 HEARTS, 
 
 pleased with the news as if it had come at 
 another moment. 
 
 ' Your friend Baretti is thoroughly com- 
 petent to the task ? ' inquired Mr. Carroll. 
 
 ' Competent ! ' cried Tom. And he began 
 to praise Baretti much beyond his merits, 
 which were great. His father being willing, 
 the enthusiast ran to his friend's room and 
 brought him downstairs. Baretti began at once 
 to regard Mr. Carroll with a critical and ob- 
 servant eye, and to move about him so as to 
 get various views of him, insomuch that the 
 subject began to think the artist disrespectful. 
 
 ' I have never found time to devote myself 
 to the study of the fine arts,' said Mr. Carroll, 
 by-and-by, ' although I am not one of those 
 who regard a knowledge of the minutiae of 
 those pursuits as being unworthy of a gentle- 
 man. But my interest, although it has found 
 but a casual expression, has been consistent, 
 and I have often thought that when one calls
 
 HEARTS. 83 
 
 to mind the gratification it affords to future 
 generations to look upon the lineaments of 
 one who has been esteemed in his day and 
 generation, one is tempted to invest the 
 portrait-painter with an almost factitious im- 
 portance, and to identify him with his theme.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom, with a laugh, ' one may 
 say more than that sometimes. Look at that 
 glorious collection of portraits of old nobodies 
 at the Musee Plan tin. I dare say somebody 
 knows their histories, but if Eubens hadn't 
 painted them nobody would have cared to 
 know whether they had lived or died.' He 
 had said all this in one eager burst, before he 
 had time to think that it was not quite 
 comphmentary to his father. 'You must do 
 your best to immortalise my father, Baretti,' 
 he added, uncomfortably. 
 
 This view of the case was new to Mr. 
 Carroll, but it was his habit to ignore things 
 which seemed to work against his own con- 
 G 2
 
 84 HEARTS, 
 
 ceptions of himself. He looked at Tom with 
 an allowing smile, but gave no further ex- 
 pression to his thoughts. People frequently- 
 had opinions of that sort, and it was scarcely 
 worth while to interrupt them. He put the 
 finger-tips of both hands together, and addressed 
 Baretti, as if unconscious of the interruption. 
 
 ' It is unfortunate that our hst of reliable 
 portraits of eminent men is so small. We 
 have, for instance, no reliable representation 
 of the greatest of Enghsh poets. And when 
 one reflects that it was within the power of 
 any inconsiderable number of inconsiderable 
 people to offer to him such a requisition as 
 that of which I am the honoured recipient, 
 one is the more regretful and the more sur- 
 prised.' Mr. Carroll warmed with tliis theme, 
 and continued : ' What would we give for a 
 portrait of King Solomon, a reliable likeness 
 of Alexander, of Bruce, or of Alfred the 
 Great ? ' Nobody offering to appraise the
 
 HEARTS. 8s 
 
 value of these lost blessings, he paused awhile, 
 and then, rising from his seat, unlocked a 
 drawer and took fr'om it Lord Bellamy's letter. 
 He put up his gold eye-glasses and read it 
 through, holding it at arm's-length ; then, fold- 
 ing it, he resumed his seat, and, tapping the 
 paper against the eye-glasses, and gazing 
 serenely at the fire, he said, ' I shall certainly 
 accede to the request of my fellow -justices.* 
 
 The talk drifted, and no further allusion 
 was made to Tom's matrimonial prospects. 
 The young fellow, who was not much of an 
 egotist, and never very disposed to be exigent 
 about his own afiairs, felt yet a little hurt at 
 the fashion in which his father had shelved the 
 theme. An only son's marriage might have 
 seemed, he thought, at least as interesting as 
 even the flattering request of the county 
 justices. Tom went to bed a little depressed 
 and disheartened, but the topic near his heart 
 found a renewal next morning.
 
 Z6 HEARTS. 
 
 Breakfast was just over. Mr. Carroll was 
 reading the ' Times.' Tom was standing at the 
 fire, and Baretti was in another room, setting 
 up an easel and generally preparing for the 
 beginning of the new commission, when a 
 knock sounded on the door of the breakfast- 
 room. Tom called, ' Come in,' and a servant 
 entered, bearing a card upon a salver. 
 
 'Show Mr. Lording this way, Johnson,* 
 said Mr. Carroll. ' Your arrival is auspicious, 
 Lording.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' said the new-comer. 
 He threw back a pair of broad shoulders and 
 showed a set of white teeth as he laughed. 
 'Polly saw Master Tom yesterday, and I've 
 just come round to see him. How's London, 
 Tom ? And how's the magnum opus^ the 
 Opera? And why is my arrival auspicious, 
 Carroll? Eh?' 
 
 There was nothing surprisingly comic in 
 this speech, but the speaker laughed so heartily
 
 HEARTS. 87 
 
 after it that lie might have uttered the happiest 
 of hons mots and been less pleased. 
 
 ' Sit down,' said Mr. Carroll, ' and I will tell 
 you.' 
 
 ' Gad ! ' said the visitor, sitting down, ' you 
 look as solemn as if Calcraft wouldn't act, and 
 they wanted me to play the part of sheriff 
 in good earnest ! What's the matter ? ' 
 
 ' It's scarcely so terrible as that,' said Tom, 
 who felt sure of the father, at least, whatever 
 the daughter's opinions might prove to be. 
 
 ' The fact is. Lording,' said Mr. Carroll, 
 addressing himself to his visitor with a ponder- 
 ous gravity, ' Tom and I were last night dis- 
 cussing a matter of the utmost moment to his 
 welfare. I had asked him — without any ex- 
 pectation of a definite answer — whether he 
 had as yet any ideas upon the marriage 
 question. To my surprise, he mentioned your 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' Eh ? ' said the old gentleman. ' Why,
 
 88 HEARTS, 
 
 she's a baby ! And you're no more than a 
 boy, Tom ! ' 
 
 ' I am five-and-twenty,' said Tom defen- 
 sively. 
 
 ' Then, by Jove ! ' said Lording, ' she's 
 more than nineteen, for you weren't six when 
 she was born. Gad, how time flies! eh, 
 Carroll?' 
 
 Mr. Carroll regarded his guest with an eye 
 which seemed to convey a tolerant rebuke to 
 flippancy. 
 
 ' I should have approached you with more 
 ceremony ' he began. 
 
 ' Ceremony be hanged ! ' cried Lording. 
 ' I never was more surprised in my life. But 
 if Tom wants the girl to marry him he must 
 ask her. And if she will, she must ; and if 
 she won't, it's of no use to ask me to do any- 
 thing. And I wish you luck, my lad, and I 
 hope, if the little girl says yes, that you'll be 
 happy.'
 
 HEARTS, 89 
 
 'The match would meet with your good- 
 will ? ' inquired Mr. Carroll. 
 
 ' Seriously,' said the guest, with a visage 
 suddenly grown solemn, ' I am pleased and 
 proud.' He laughed a second later. 'What 
 sort of luck you may have — ^Tom, my lad — 
 I can't even guess. But I dare say, you rascal, 
 you know all about that already. Eh ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir ! ' Tom began in tones of 
 protest. 
 
 'You don't?' cried Miss Lording's father. 
 ' Gad, sir, your old dad and I knew our way 
 about a little better than you youngsters seem 
 to do. Didn't we, Carroll .^ ' He threw back 
 his square grey head and his big shoulders, 
 and laughed prodigiously, and made a motion 
 to dig Mr. Carroll in the ribs. 
 
 ' I am happy,' said that gentleman, evading 
 Lording's fingers, and speaking with much 
 gravity of manner, ' that the proposal meets 
 with your approval.'
 
 9c HEARTS, 
 
 ' Well,' said the guest, beaming, ' it's a 
 matter for Polly to settle, I suppose, and if she 
 says yes, I don't see who's to prevent it.' 
 
 There was a knock at the door. ' Come in,' 
 cried Tom. 'My friend Baretti, Mr. Lording.' 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' cried the old gentleman, 
 with another great laugh. ' Ahsit omen I Ahsit 
 omen I Glad to meet you, Mr. Baretti. My 
 daughter spoke of having met you with my 
 friend Tom here, and I promised myself the 
 pleasure of making your acquaintance. I'm 
 a plain countryman, Mr. Baretti, of the old 
 school. I don't know much about art, but I 
 have the sense to reverence, even where I 
 haven't the brains to understand. My daughter 
 is a judge of that sort of thing, and speaks of 
 you in such terms, sir, that I am proud to meet 
 you.' 
 
 He kept the artist's hand in his during the 
 whole of this address, and when he had 
 finished he laughed with much heartiness,
 
 HEARTS. 91 
 
 thougli what (except his own high spirits) he 
 had to laugh at what was not obvious. 
 
 ' Mr. Baretti/ said the master of the house, 
 ' has been so good as to consent to paint my 
 portrait.' 
 
 ' I did not know/ said the ItaHan, ' that 
 you were engaged. I came to say that I was 
 ready.' 
 
 ' You don't mind my looking on ? ' asked 
 Lording, with boylike eagerness. ' I've never 
 seen anybody painting except my daughter. 
 I suppose, now,' he asked, ' you paint in oils, 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 ' In this case,' said the artist, ' yes.' 
 
 ' Is this the picture for the Shire Hall ? ' 
 asked Lording. 
 
 'The picture for the Shire Hall,' assented 
 Mr. Carroll, with tranquil majesty. ' The 
 present,' he added, ' is the only time at our 
 disposal. We will begin now, Mr. Baretti, if 
 you please.'
 
 92 HEARTS. 
 
 Mr. Carroll, being marslialled by his three 
 attendants to the room assigned, was set in a 
 proper light, and being bidden to turn his 
 head a little in such a way, and to lower his 
 chin a little in such a way, to fold his hands 
 in such a manner, and to settle his shoulders 
 in such another manner, was a spectacle the 
 like of which, for lordly condescension and 
 regal obedience, is not often to be seen. The 
 little Itahan prowled around him with stealthy 
 step and watchful eye, taking note of his 
 proportions and his lines, and looked so much 
 at the moment like some velvet beast of prey 
 about to spring that Mr. Carroll experienced 
 uncomfortable sensations. 
 
 ' Is not the canvas rather small ? ' inquired 
 the sitter. 
 
 'All the portraits in the Shire Hall are 
 kit-cats,' answered Tom. ' This is the same 
 size.' 
 
 ' Kit-cats ! ' said Mr. Carroll, as if he tasted
 
 HEARTS, 93 
 
 the word and disapproved of its flavour ; ' what 
 is meant by kit-cats ? ' 
 
 ' Sit still, if you please/ cried the painter. 
 * Now,' a moment later, ' you can move as 
 much as you hke.' 
 
 The sitter was silent, if only from sheer 
 amazement. A minute or two later he 
 laughed. 
 
 ' You gentlemen of the brush,' he said, 
 'have something of a loyal way with you 
 when at work.' 
 
 ' My sitters have told me that before,' said 
 Baretti. The rebuke passed over his head. 
 Mr. Carroll began to dislike the little man and 
 his ways. 
 
 Lording looked on with great interest whilst 
 Baretti painted, and Tom bore himself as well 
 as he could, though he felt a little sore at the 
 neglect of his affairs. In about two hours' 
 time Baretti, who painted with great rapidity, 
 had upon the canvas a foggy semblance of his
 
 94 HEARTS. 
 
 sitter s form and features, with a sort of mud 
 halo about the head. 
 
 ' That will do for to-day,' he said, throwing 
 down his brushes and stretching himself. * The 
 fire is out.' 
 
 Mr. Carroll rose solemnly and inspected 
 the w^ork. *Do you detect a likeness, Lording? ' 
 he asked doubtfully. 
 
 ' It's wonderful,' said Lording, ' really won- 
 derful ! ' He turned to Baretti with almost 
 an air of reverence : ' My girl paints very 
 pretty in water-colours,' he said, ' but I never 
 saw anyone paint in oils before. It's really 
 very remarkable — very remarkable ! ' 
 
 ' You set me at liberty for the rest of the 
 day, Mr. Baretti ? ' demanded Mr. Carroll stiffly. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the little painter, languidly ; 
 ' while the fire is alight I work. When it goes 
 out I have done. I could not do anything 
 more to-day even at a portrait.' 
 
 ' Why emen at a portrait ? ' asked Lording.
 
 HEARTS. 95 
 
 ' Oh,' said the Httle man, lighting a cigar, 
 ' a portrait is not often so — what is your word ? 
 — so demanding ? — no — that will not do — a 
 portrait does not often draw you on like a 
 picture of your own choosing. You can put 
 it away without sorrow, and you can work at 
 it without joy.' 
 
 This as relating to portraits in general 
 might be true enough, but jMr. Carroll began 
 to have the meanest opinion of the painter's 
 intellect. 
 
 ' Well,' cried Lording, with another of his 
 great laughs at the end of the statement, * I've 
 a ride before me, and something to do when 
 I get home. Eh, Tom ? Ha-ha-ha ! You 
 come over this afternoon, Tom, will you? 
 Eh ? Ha-ha-ha-ha ! Good-morning, Tom ! 
 Good-morning, Carroll ! Good-morning, Mr. 
 Baretti ! I'm very proud to have made your 
 acquaintance, sir. See you this afternoon, 
 Tom. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha ! '
 
 96 HEARTS, 
 
 He went out in a storm of merriment and 
 Mr. Carroll retired with liim, leaving Tom and 
 Baretti together. Tom, with a flutter at his 
 breast, went out of the room to avoid the 
 necessity for talking, and the painter sat still 
 for a time and smoked. But by-and-by he 
 displaced the canvas from which Mr. Carroll's 
 ghostly presentment stared at him, and set 
 upon the easel a small panel on which he 
 began to sketch with a bit of charcoal, touch- 
 ing here and there with such a wandering 
 hand than an onlooker might have been 
 puzzled to guess the meaning of the lines. 
 But in a few minutes these lines all began to 
 grow together, and in a few minutes more they 
 resulted in a beautiful feminine face. The 
 artist having regarded it attentively took up 
 a duster, rubbed out the drawing, and began 
 again. This time the beautiful feminine face 
 came out as Miss Mary Lording's undoubted 
 image, and the painter, resuming his seat,
 
 HEARTS. 97 
 
 smoked tranquilly as lie regarded it witli half- 
 sliiit, meditative eyes. 
 
 About five mimites later a step sounded in 
 the corridor, and a liand was laid upon the 
 handle of the door. The painter rose and 
 rubbed the beautiful feminine face from the 
 panel, almost with a feeling of detected guilt. 
 He would have been troubled to guess why he 
 had destroyed the drawing, and perhaps still 
 more troubled to say why he felt guilty, but 
 the face had been haunting him oddly ever 
 since he had seen it, and was present in his 
 mind ^vith a curiously irresistible demand to be 
 reproduced in visible form. 
 
 The intruder was the master of the house, 
 and he, after one questioning look about the 
 room, bowed in silence and retired. Baretti 
 listened to his footsteps as they travelled 
 towards Tom's chamber, which was in the 
 same corridor, and then began to sketch anew. 
 The same face came out upon the panel, and 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 HEARTS. 
 
 once more he dusted it away, and this time 
 with a look of resohition, as if he had done 
 with the theme ; he put away the panel and 
 set up the damp-gleaming ghostly presentation 
 of his host again. Then he walked restlessly 
 about the room, and next sat down at the table 
 and began to sketch the view from the win- 
 dow ; but his thoughts strayed off, and, before 
 he knew it, there was a pretty hat in outline on 
 the paper, and below the hat a charming face 
 with an escaping curl or two upon the forehead 
 — Mary Lording to the life again. He tore the 
 paper with an exclamation of impatience and 
 Jeft the room. 
 
 Now this might mean a good deal or it 
 might mean nothing — nothing, that is, but an 
 artistic fancy and an artistic preoccupation. 
 Ardent young artists are wont to be haunted 
 by shapes of beauty, and Baretti was likelier 
 to be impressed by form and colour than 
 another man. But artists are a good deal
 
 HEARTS. 99 
 
 hardened, too, in the matter of feminine 
 charms, which, in their case, strike the eye 
 with singular vividness, but leave the heart 
 untouched ; and if a painter fell in love with 
 all the owners of the beautiful faces that dwell 
 in his memory and ask to be painted, he would 
 have his hands full. Yet the little Italian 
 went about perturbed in spirit, and thought 
 more of Mary Lor ding's face than was good 
 for him. 
 
 Tom left him alone after luncheon, with no 
 explanation of his errand, and Baretti made 
 more sketches of random themes. The face 
 crept into them all, and at last he resigned 
 himself to the pleasure it gave him. His hand 
 became so familiar with it, and his memory 
 preserved it go clearly, that he drew it in all 
 the varying expressions he had seen upon it 
 until he began to long to give it colour, and 
 yielded to the longing. Before twilight fell he 
 had painted a delicate little picture in water- 
 
 H 2
 
 loo HEARTS. 
 
 colour, sliglit, but very true and fine, and after 
 staring at this until he could see it no longer, 
 he put it away in his portmanteau and burned 
 all the pencil sketches he had made.
 
 HEARTS, loi 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Papa Lording, riding home in the brisk air 
 and sunlight, turned over in his mind the 
 proposal young Carroll had made for his 
 daughter's hand. He v/as a bluff and hearty- 
 man of a type common amongst English 
 country gentlemen ; had a rare good heart, a 
 mamificent dicjestion, and as much mental 
 polish as the fibre of which he was made would 
 carry. He sucked marrow of mirth and 
 laughter out of things at which most people 
 do not even smile, and this was not because he 
 was a humorist, but because his nature was of 
 that downright sunlit sort which is probably 
 only to be found among Englishmen. He had 
 not tlie remotest idea as he rode that he was
 
 I02 HEARTS, 
 
 going to be involved in a love story at all out 
 of the common. Here was a handsome young 
 fellow, well connected and well-to-do, who had 
 taken a liking in the ordinary fashion to a 
 charming young woman of nineteen, also well 
 connected and well-to-do. The pair would 
 probably be married, and papa Lording would 
 very well have hked, in the manner of his own 
 earlier day, to have danced at the wedding. 
 
 The old gentleman confessed to himself, as 
 he had confessed to the suitor an hour or two 
 before, that he was without voice in the 
 matter. His daughter drove him, and if it 
 were only with a peacock's feather for whip, 
 and a thread of silk for rein, he was none the 
 less bound to go the way she wanted. 
 
 At the sound of hoof-beats in the avenue, 
 Miss Lording ran from the room in which she 
 sat into the hall, and there awaited her father. 
 Eival charms are rarely so equally balanced 
 that some girl or other has not the right to be
 
 HEARTS. 103 
 
 called the belle of her part of the country, or 
 the beauty of her county. Miss Lording had 
 that right, and was probably aware of it. She 
 was undeniably Enghsh in style (the loveliest 
 style, as I make bold to believe, in the world) ; 
 she had lovely eyes, a face of charming con- 
 tour and expression, a wealth of hair of fina 
 texture and glossy hue (her own), and a figure- 
 neither too ripe nor too fragile, too tall nor too 
 dumpy. Her vivacity of spirit lit up those 
 beautiful eyes with a constant variety of ex- 
 pression, and set that charming figure in 
 a constantly varied and delicately graduated 
 series of postures, so that she avoided all 
 seeming of monotony without running into 
 that opposing sin of jerkiness which is the 
 snare of many lively young ladies, who, 
 without it, might be charming. 
 
 Her father, having dismounted, surrendered 
 his horse 'and ran up the stone steps which led 
 to the hall. His genial British face and genial
 
 I04 HEARTS. 
 
 British heart were ahke aglow, and alike a 
 little tenderer than common. There was not 
 much romance in the good old gentleman's 
 nature, but the love stories of the young some- 
 times awaken memories in the minds of the 
 middle-aged, and he had been thinking on his 
 ride, with unwonted warmth and gentleness, of 
 the days of his own youth, when he himself 
 went a-courting. So the kiss which commonly 
 celebrated his return from an absence of what- 
 ever brevity was multiplied into three, one for 
 the dimple on each ripe cheek, and one for the 
 charming lips between them. 
 
 ' Polly,' said the old gentleman, with twin- 
 kling eyes, ' I have brought a httle present 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said the young lady, 'what is it? ' 
 Her father, with one arm round her waist, led 
 her to the room she had quitted a moment 
 before, and there turning round faced her 
 squarely. ' What is the matter, papa ? ' she
 
 HEARTS. 105 
 
 asked. ' Why do you look at me so 
 oddly?' 
 
 ' Well,' said papa, ' the present I have to 
 offer you (and it isn't mine) is an article Avhich 
 is supposed by good judges to be worth a great 
 deal. I have seen such a thing described in 
 print as a perfect mine of jev^els. I've been 
 told that it's a sort of talisman to make a good 
 girl happy all her life long, provided that she 
 doesn't lose it. I've actually known one or 
 two cases in which it has really done as much. 
 But, all the same, I'm not quite certain whether 
 you'll care to have it.' 
 
 ' You mustn't be a ridiculous old gentle- 
 man,' said his daughter. ' What is it, dear ? ' 
 
 Perhaps in a general way she guessed the 
 nature of the proffered gift, for she blushed 
 slightly. 
 
 ' It's a young man's heart, my darhng,' said 
 the old fellow, ' warranted sound and whole, 
 and rising live-and-twenty.'
 
 io6 HEARTS. 
 
 Miss Lording began to take a close and 
 serious interest in the pattern of papa's watch- 
 cliain. 
 
 ' Has the young man a tongue as well as 
 a heart, papa ? ' she asked. ' And should I 
 know his face if I saw it ? ' 
 
 ' You'll see it this afternoon,' said the old 
 gentleman, ' and then you can judge for yourself/ 
 
 ' Am I to say " Yes" or " No" at once ? ' she 
 asked, looking up at him saucily. ' Or may I 
 wait until I see the heart's owner ? ' 
 
 ' You had better wait,' he said, patting her 
 cheeks affectionately. His voice was husky at 
 that moment, for he saw quite suddenly a 
 house that looked most mournful and empty, 
 and himself going about it, sohtary. The girl 
 answered to his thoughts. 
 
 ' Send the young man's heart back again, 
 papa. It is no honest gift, but a bait.' 
 
 ' Don't you ask to know whose it is ? ' he 
 demanded.
 
 HEARTS. 107 
 
 ' Young men don't give their hearts away 
 for nothing,' said Miss Lording, still busy with 
 her father's watch-chain. ' The young man 
 has designs, and I have penetration enough to 
 guess them. Send the wicked present back 
 again, papa. I am happy without it.' 
 
 ' Don't you ask to know whose it is ? ' he 
 asked again. 
 
 ' JSTo,' she said, in a tone of mighty in- 
 difference, and wound the watch-chain about 
 one of her w^hite fingers with an air of 
 elaborate interest. 
 
 ' Very well, my dear,' said the old boy 
 with a sigh. 'If it isn't to-day it will be 
 to-morrow. The poor lad will be here this 
 afternoon to take his present back again — a 
 little cracked, I'm afraid.' 
 
 ' Who is it, papa ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I thought you didn't want to know, you 
 rogue ! ' cried her father with a laugh. 
 
 'But I have a right to know, sir, if I
 
 io8 HEARTS. 
 
 choose,' she answered, with a pretty mock 
 defiance. 
 
 ' It's young Carroll,' said her father. ' I 
 shall have to give you away to somebody some 
 day, and I could part with you to him as 
 willingly as to anybody.' The girl was blush- 
 ing, and even trembling a little, by this time. 
 ' But if it's settled, and you won't have any- 
 thing to say to him ' Some slight change 
 
 in her posture, something in the droop of the 
 head, perhaps, or something in the nervous 
 action of the fingers toying with the watch- 
 chain, stopped him. ' Is it '' Yes " or " No," my 
 dear ? ' he asked, putting an arm about her neck. 
 
 ' I don't know, papa,' murmured the young 
 lady. 
 
 ' Well, well,' said the old gentleman, ' think 
 it over, my dear, and decide for your own 
 happiness.' He kissed her and left her a little 
 sadly, feeling somewhat like a criminal whose 
 repeal has been granted and snatched away
 
 HEARTS. 109 
 
 again. ' These youngsters,' lie said to liiniself, 
 witli half a sigh and half a laugh, ' come gaily 
 enougli to steal an old man's treasure. But 
 Tom's a good lad — a o-ood lad.' 
 
 Girls are known to be quick at sounding 
 the affections of young people of the opposite 
 sex when the affections concern themselves, and 
 it is likely that Miss Lording was not very 
 sui'prised at hearing Tom Carroll's name at the 
 end of her father's little parable. There w^as 
 nothing to dislike in the young man. He was 
 tall and straight, and handsome and well-bred. 
 He was reputed for a good-hearted fellow, and 
 he was popular with all sorts and conditions of 
 men. It would not be difficult to like him 
 very much. 
 
 Now, this is not the language of ardent 
 passion, but (Juhet and all manner of poetic 
 precedents to the contrary notwithstanding) 
 ardent passion is not altogether a pretty thing 
 in a young woman to begin with. There are
 
 no HEARTS. 
 
 plenty of exceptions, of course, but the ordinary 
 marriageable love of the ordinary marriageable 
 young Englishwoman begins with liking and 
 goes on in tranquil growth, finding deep root 
 without the influence of storm, and learning to 
 flourish, fair and calm and broad, in a tolerably 
 equable temperature. 
 
 Whether his daughter were as yet in love 
 with Tom Carroll or not, whether she simply 
 liked him, or had already passed over the 
 boundary line between liking and loving, was 
 a problem too delicate for a man of papa 
 Jjording's blunt discernment to solve. But he 
 felt pretty sure that the girl would say ' Yes ' 
 to Tom's question, and he was lonely in 
 anticipation. The time seemed to drag with 
 him until the lover came. Tom Carroll's heart 
 beat higher than usual as he rode along the 
 trim avenue, and surrendered his horse at the 
 door. The old boy received him with more 
 than common cordiality.
 
 HEARTS. Ill 
 
 ' I know nothing abont it, Tom,' he said, 
 ' but you have my best wishes. I don't 
 authorise you to tell her so. mind, for she 
 must make her own choice quite freely.' 
 
 'I understand you perfectly, sir,' said the 
 youngster, a httle proudly. ' I don't think I 
 should care to marry any woman, however 
 dearly — however highly I might esteem her, 
 unless she took me of her own free will.' 
 
 ' Quite right, Tom,' said the other ; ' a very 
 proper spirit. But don't you think you'd 
 rather — have it over ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes, sii',' said Tom, with a dry little 
 laugh, ' I should like to know.' 
 
 ' Come this way,' said Lording, and Tom 
 followed into a small, cheerfully -furnished 
 sitting-room, in which Mary sat alone, making 
 busy pretence of doing something with a 
 needle. ' Tom has ridden over, my dear,' 
 said her father, with a most transparent 
 pretence of having nothing on his miud.
 
 112 HEARTS. 
 
 'Eidden over to have a look at us. I'll just 
 
 leav 
 
 and- 
 
 leave him here for a minute whilst I go 
 
 He had nc excuse ready, and therefore 
 slid away without one, leaving the young 
 people together. 
 
 ' Have you deserted your friend, Signor 
 Baretti, Mr. Carroll ? ' asked the young lady. 
 
 'Yes,' said Tom, hurriedly plunging m 
 medias res. 'I have come over with a very 
 special object. I do not know whether your 
 father has spoken of it.' 
 
 ' A special object ? ' said the young lady, 
 surveying her labours with a head set sideways, 
 and an air of exasperating want of interest in 
 his communication. 
 
 ' I can't hope to tell you how n'luch in 
 earnest I am,' said Tom, ' or how much depends 
 to me upon this interview\' He paused and 
 looked at her. She was surveying her needle- 
 work again with eyes of elaborate innocence,
 
 HEARTS, 113 
 
 and he felt discouraged. ' I am here/ he went 
 on desperately, ' to ask you to be my wife.' 
 
 Miss Lording bent over the elegant trifle 
 upon lier lap and gave it a yet closer scrutiny. 
 Tom waited, and she said nothing. The silence 
 began to grow extremely awkward. Some 
 young men in an enterprise of this kind are 
 easily abashed, and Tom Carroll was one of 
 them. The longer the silence continued the 
 harder it was to break it, and he felt cold and 
 miserable. 
 
 ' Have you no answer for me ? ' he said at 
 last. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said the young lady de- 
 murely, ' until — I am asked.' 
 
 Tom Carroll marched across the little room, 
 planted a chair by her side, and sat down in it 
 with an air of resolve. 
 
 ' Will you ? ' he asked in a whisper — ^ will 
 you be my wife ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you think, Mr. Carroll,' she answered, 
 
 VCL. I. I
 
 114 HEARTS, 
 
 picking up the bit of needlework to examine 
 it more closely, ' don't you think that this is a 
 little — precipitate ? ' 
 
 ' Why,' cried Tom, ' we have known each 
 other all our lives ! * 
 
 'I have not had any experience in such 
 matters,' said the young lady, 'but I have 
 always imderstood that there were preliminaries 
 to a question of that sort.' 
 
 'Oh,' said the youngster, 'don't jest with 
 me. Miss Lording ! Don't laugh at me ! It is 
 death to me if it is sport to you.' He took the 
 needlework trifle from her and possessed him- 
 self of her hands. ' Tell me,' he murmured. 
 
 ' What ? ' demanded the disingenuous young 
 woman, with averted countenance. 
 
 ' Tell me you love me.' 
 
 ' For shame, Mr. Carroll, to ask a poor girl 
 to s;:y such things!' 
 
 ' Will you be my wife ? ' said Tom, growing 
 bold' r every moment.
 
 HEARTS, 115 
 
 ' I don't know,' she answered. 
 
 ' You don't know how I love you,' said the 
 courtier, with a hand in each of his. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' that is true. I have never 
 been told.' 
 
 'Shall I tell you.?' said he. 
 
 ' Thank you,' she answered, with infinite 
 dry demureness, ' I should like to hear it very 
 much.' 
 
 ' I can't,' said Tom. ' There are no words 
 for it. I love you with all my heart and soul 
 — but that seems to say nothing. I think,' 
 he went on, blushing and stammering, ' that 
 you are the most beautiful woman in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' That is very nice of you,' said Miss 
 Lording, tranquilly. She was so exasperating 
 that, though he never knew how it came about, 
 Tom took her in his arms and kissed her over 
 and over again. Perhaps that was the true 
 way with her, and in any case (even if it were 
 I 2
 
 ii6 HEARTS, 
 
 not that masterly method of wooing that won 
 her) it was then that she was won. 
 
 ' For shame, Mr. Carroll ! ' she cried, with 
 face and neck and ears all rosy with blushes ; 
 'it is well to have a giant's strength, but 
 tyrannous to use it like a giant. Let me go.' 
 
 ' Not until you promise,' cried the lover. 
 ' Will you be my wife ? ' 
 
 'If you insist upon it,' said the young 
 lady. ' But a promise under compulsion is no 
 promise.' 
 
 Tom released her, and dropped upon one 
 knee before her like a wooer of old days. 
 
 ' Will you promise now ? ' She bent over 
 him with mirth and tenderness. 
 
 ' Do you wish it very much ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' With all my soul,' he answered, taking her 
 hands again. ' Will you promise ? ' 
 
 ' You will be good ? ' she demanded. 
 
 ' As gold,' said the young man. 
 
 ' Then release me.' He dropped her hands,
 
 HEARTS. . 117 
 
 still kneeling before lier, and she took a step 
 backward. ' I promise,' she said, and, whisking 
 the door open, she skimmed from the room 
 like a swallow, leaving her lover with hands 
 that grasped at air. But the young fellow 
 rose with a glad heart and went in search of 
 his divinity's father. 
 
 ' What news, Tom ? ' the old fellow asked. 
 
 ' She accepts me, sir,' said Tom, blushing, 
 ' but she has run away.' 
 
 ' No compunction in your heart, Tom ? ' 
 said the father, shaking hands with him. 'No 
 remorse for robbing an old fellow of his only 
 treasure, and leaving him lonely ? Eh ? ' 
 
 ' You set a bad example, sir, some thirty 
 years ago,' said Tom. Lording exploded in 
 one of his great ringing laughs, but there were 
 tears in his eyes all the same which were not 
 altogether born of laughter. 
 
 ' She's a good girl, Tom,' he said, ' though 
 I say it. A good girl. And if she's as good
 
 ii8 HEARTS. 
 
 a wife as she is a daughter, you'll have a 
 treasure. But one word, my lad. You 
 mustn't run away with her yet awhile. I 
 must have time to get used to it, and to think 
 it over. Now, Tom, you've done your busi- 
 ness — ride away, and tell your father. Yes ; 
 I turn you out of doors, hke a wicked father 
 in a novel. Go away, lad, and tell the old 
 fellow to get ready to lose his son, whilst the 
 other old fellow gets ready to lose his daughter. 
 You'll see her to-morrow. She wants to see 
 your friend painting, and I promise to bring 
 her over. Good-afternoon, lad, and God bless 
 you ! ' 
 
 Tom went unwillingly, but he went. 
 Pleasant thoughts were his companions as 
 he rode homewards. Arrived, he told his 
 father of the prosperity of his suit, and 
 submitted to a lengthy dissertation on the 
 responsibilities of married life. After dinner 
 he sat with Baretti in the room set apart as a
 
 HEARTS, 119 
 
 temporary studio, and listened pleased to the 
 little man's animated chatter. There was a 
 fire at one end of the room, and the Italian 
 stood rubbing his hands over it, cigar in mouth, 
 and basking in the cheerful glow. 
 
 ' This is better than St. James's Park, 
 Carroll,' he said at last. Tom's outer ear 
 caught this statement, but his mind was deaf 
 to its meaning. He was thinking of Mary, 
 and he answered mechanically — 
 
 ' Yes. I suppose it is more comfortable.' 
 
 ' Ah, my friend,' said Baretti, who was 
 liable to be run away with whenever he 
 mounted this theme, ' it was not that I was 
 hungry, and had no food. It was not that I 
 was cold, and had no fire. But it is terrible 
 to despair, and I despaired when I met you. 
 There is nothing I have in the world, there is 
 nothing I ever shall have which I do not owe, 
 and shall not owe to you.' 
 
 ' Look here, Baretti,' said Tom ; ' once for
 
 120 HEARTS. 
 
 all, I won't have it. It was a bargain between 
 us that that time should be forgotten.' 
 
 ' It shall be forgotten,' cried Baretti, fierily, 
 ' when I grow to be a hound and a scoundrel. 
 It shall be forgotten when I lie and rot in my 
 dishonourable grave. But not an hour before. 
 And I have no way to repay you. You want 
 for nothing. There is nothing I can do for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Stupidest of men !' said Tom ; 'you have 
 repaid what I lent you, and there is an end 
 of it.' 
 
 ' What did you lend me ? ' cried the artist, 
 flinging his cigar into the fire. ' A handful of 
 dirty money which you did not want, and 
 which was nothing to you because you did not 
 want it? And what beside? Nothing but 
 hope when I despaired ; nothing but my belief 
 in men, which I had lost ; nothing but my 
 power to work, which had left me ! If I am 
 happy, and can hope again, I owe it to you.
 
 HEARTS. 121 
 
 If I reach to fame and prosperity, as I shall, 
 the fiime and prosperity are yours by right, not 
 mine. And you want for nothing, and I can 
 pay you nothing.' 
 
 He declaimed every word of this harangue 
 with vivid passion and superabundant gesture. 
 There were tears in his dark eyes when he 
 closed, and he fawned upon Tom almost as an 
 affectionate dog might have done. 
 
 ' What shall I do for you ? How shall I 
 pay you ? If you shall come to me one day 
 and say : '' For my service surrender every- 
 thing — Fame, Ambition, Hope, whatever is 
 dearest to your heart," do you think I would 
 not do it? You made me, and you own 
 me.' 
 
 ' All this is madness,' answered Tom. 
 ' You don't know how it hurts me to hear you 
 talk like that. I^Tow, my dear good fellow, 
 don't say any more.' 
 
 ' I know,' said Baretti, with a curious dark-
 
 122 HEARTS. 
 
 ness clouding his face as he spoke, ' but you 
 may hve to prove me.' 
 
 'Now. there you are on a wrong tack 
 again,' said Tom. ' I don't doubt you. I only 
 say that you exaggerate to the highest degree 
 of absurdity a very simple service. If your 
 own idiotic, Quixotic pride had not been in 
 your way, a thousand men would have done as 
 much for you.' 
 
 ' Aha ! ' cried the little painter, with out- 
 stretched hands, 'but where were the nine 
 hundred and ninety-nine? It was you who 
 did it, and you cannot escape from it ; and I 
 will be grateful, if you were to kill me for it. 
 I have never,' he added, with a ludicrously 
 sudden return to the tones of commonplace, 
 ' I have never admired that stohdity of charac- 
 ter on which you English pride yourselves. 
 Ariosto's fable is true. God found one day a 
 lump of gold, and he wrapt it in lead and cast 
 it upon the earth, and that was the English
 
 HEARTS. 123 
 
 people. And you have been ashamed of the 
 gold, and proud to show the wretched lead 
 ever since.' He was in a great heat of scorn 
 by this time, and flung the moral of his fable 
 at Tom's head as if it had been a challenge to 
 mortal combat. But in another second he had 
 veered to his old manner. ' Why cannot I do 
 anything for you P ' 
 
 ' Well, look here, old man,' said Tom, with 
 something like an inspiration, ' since I am such 
 a burthen to your soul, you shall do something 
 for me. Something I shall value so highly 
 that even you, seeing how I prize it, shall 
 admit that we are quits.' 
 
 ' I do not think that,' said Baretti ; ' but 
 tell me what it is.' There was such a look 
 upon him as Curtius, his countryman, might 
 have worn when he leapt into the gulf. 
 
 * It's nothing mad-brained or heroical,' said 
 Tom, with an embarrassed laugh. ' I want 
 you to paint a portrait — that's all.'
 
 124 HEARTS, 
 
 ' Yours ? ' demanded Baretti eagerly. 
 
 ' No, not mine,' said Tom. 
 
 'Whose?' 
 
 The young fellow returned no direct 
 answer to this question. He asked in turn: 
 'You don't know why I went out this after- 
 noon ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Baretti, with a wondering look 
 at him. 
 
 ' I went out,' said Tom, making a pretence 
 of lighting his cigar, ' for the express purpose 
 of making — a proposal of marriage.' 
 
 ' And you made it ? ' cried the painter, 
 taking him by both arms. 
 
 ' I made it,' said Tom. 
 
 ' And the lady said " Yes," ' cried the little 
 Italian. ' And it is her portrait that I am to 
 paint. Thank you! Thank you! That is 
 kind indeed ! ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Tom, thawing somewhat at his 
 companion's fire. 'I want a portrait of the
 
 HEARTS. 125 
 
 only woman I ever cared for, painted by the 
 hand of the dearest friend I have in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Baretti, vehemently. ' Do you 
 mean that ? Do you mean. that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom, ' I mean it.' And in all 
 real honesty he had long since begun to love 
 the little man to whom he had done such a 
 service. 
 
 ' It shall be,' said the painter, with a beam- 
 ing face, ' the dearest pleasure of my life, and 
 I will paint as I have never painted before. I 
 will paint like Murillo, like Eaphael, like 
 Titian — I will paint like the master of them 
 all.' He went striding up and down the room, 
 and then, suddenly pausing, seized Carroll by 
 both hands. ' I am forgetting. My dear Car- 
 roll, with all my heart and soul I congratulate 
 you. I wish you happiness and long life. 
 Do I know the lady ? ' 
 
 ' You have seen her,' said Tom, laughincr
 
 126 HEARTS, 
 
 and blushing and shaking hands. ' You saw 
 her yesterday, and I introduced you to her.' 
 
 Some new emotion knocked at the painter's 
 heart, a sensation never felt before, swift and 
 keen and painful. Carroll, in his pleasant 
 embarrassment, was not looking at him, and the 
 change in his face passed unnoticed. Baretti 
 dragged his hands away from Tom's grasp and 
 walked the length of the room. 
 
 ' What men you are, you English ! ' he said, 
 in a tone so curious that it struck the other 
 strangely. ' You said she was a pretty girl.' 
 He laughed, and Tom thought the laugh an odd 
 one. ' A young man is in love. He is not a 
 common young man, but an artist, and he has 
 written music that makes me beheve he has a 
 soul. And one day, meeting the goddess of his 
 dreams, he can turn to a friend who loves him, 
 and say she is a pretty girl. You are beyond 
 me. I give you up. I have no understanding 
 for you.' Then he flashed back into his own
 
 HEARTS. 127 
 
 fiery and enthusiastic tones. ' But I will paint 
 her portrait — the beautiful English girl, in the 
 freshness and the grace of her young woman- 
 hood, Avith the face of a kind angel and the 
 figure of a queen. Ah ! I will paint a 
 picture.' 
 
 ' I thought it would please you,' said Tom, 
 simply. 
 
 ' I congratulated you when I did not know,' 
 said Baretti. ' Give me your hands again. 
 Both hands. So. I know now, and I con- 
 gratulate you again with all my heart and 
 soul.' 
 
 Tom, laughing and blushing again, shook 
 hands once more, and the theme dropped. 
 The friends parted early, and the painter in his 
 own room took out the work of the afternoon 
 from his portmanteau, and after looking at it 
 fixedly for a long time, set the edge of the 
 paper to the light of his candle, and burned it 
 slowly into ashes.
 
 128 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Carroll/ lie said softly, in his own tongue, 
 ' there is no slave in the world who belongs to 
 a master as I belong to you. You made me, 
 and you own me. I am all yours, now, and 
 till I die.'
 
 HEARTS. 129 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 Mr. Carroll the elder was not a man to put any 
 light he might have under a bushel, and finding 
 out by-and-by that it was a creditable sort of 
 thing (or was so esteemed by those who sur- 
 rounded him) to have an artist of Baretti's 
 capacity on his premises, he took to showing 
 him a good deal. Mr. Carroll's world heard as 
 much as enough of Mr. Carroll's portrait, and 
 the painter sometimes worked with a little court 
 of county admirers round him. He became 
 extremely popular with the county ladies, and 
 might have had his head turned if he had 
 chosen to believe one- twentieth part of the 
 flattering things they told him. 
 
 There are some spiritual maladies which 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I30 HEARTS, 
 
 can only be cured by being absolutely un- 
 meddled with and left out of thought. Grief 
 and hate and unauthorised love all belong to 
 this species, and a man or woman who tries 
 continually to discover how far the malady is 
 abated or increased is out of the way to a cure. 
 To examine the passion is to feed its egotistical 
 wish to be examined and thought about, and so 
 to nurse its growth. Every passion is in itself 
 supremely selfish and exigent, and there are 
 few that cannot be starved into subjection by 
 the mere coldness of neglect. Poor Baretti 
 awoke to the conclusion that he was near to 
 envying and hating his friend, and with all the 
 desire in the world to escape from that terrible 
 precipice of wickedness, he. could not resist the 
 temptation to hover about it, to ask himself 
 how near he was — how much nearer he might 
 go without falling over ; how much longer 
 he could stay at the edge before the heart- 
 vertigo he dreaded should prompt him to
 
 HEARTS. 131 
 
 throw himself headlong. To drop simile and 
 get back to plain dealing, he examined 
 himself continually to see whether or not he 
 were in love with his friend's sweetheart, 
 and found (as a natural consequence) answers 
 within himself which became more and more 
 dangerous to his peace. 
 
 Human nature is so hopelessly complex and 
 contradictory that it is even possible that, but 
 for Tom Carroll's attachment to Mary, and the 
 painter's passionate desire to be faithful to his 
 friend, Baretti might never have seriously fallen 
 in love with her. He began to dread himself 
 and to fear an admiration which, but for his 
 fear of it, might have ended as a score of others 
 had done before it. He did not begin to hate 
 his friend, for so much wickedness could not 
 find room in a heart so filled by simplicity and 
 loyalty, but he did begin passionately to love 
 his friend's affianced lover. The thing was 
 always in his mind, and he began to be very
 
 132 HEARTS, 
 
 unhappy, and to be so afraid of loving that by 
 mere force of contemplation he loved. He was 
 wounded to begin with, and under constantly 
 inquisitorial fingers the scratch festered and 
 grew mortal. At last, there is the truth of the 
 whole matter, and conveyed in a simile, after 
 all. 
 
 Baretti's portrait of his host was pronounced 
 a fine work, alike by people who knew and peo- 
 ple who did not know what they were talking 
 about, and Mary Lording, who had seen the 
 little man at work, and was more enthusiastic 
 about his powers than anybody — being guided 
 in that direction by her sweetheart's opinion, 
 and going far beyond her leader, after woman's 
 recognised fashion — was charmed at the idea 
 of having her portrait painted by so gifted a 
 personage. The painter himself, in the con- 
 templation of the task before him, began to 
 wade in dangerous waters, and in a little while 
 got washed off his feet altogether and was
 
 HEARTS. 133 
 
 abandoned to the tide, on which he sometimes 
 drifted deliciously, but oftener deliriously, and 
 oftener still in poignant misery of spirit. 
 
 On a lovely autumn day, bright and dry, 
 and keen with the breath of approaching 
 winter, the accepted lover and his friend set out 
 together on foot in the direction of Lording's 
 house. Baretti's painting tools had been sent 
 on beforehand, but there had been some little 
 uncertainty about the day on which the first 
 sitting should be given, and it was not quite a 
 sure thing that the lady would be ready to 
 receive them. Arrived at the house, they 
 learned that she was somewhere in the grounds, 
 and Tom, being not merely an accepted lover 
 but an habitue of the place since boy- 
 hood, went out in search of her, taking his 
 friend with him. The grounds of Lording's 
 mansion were varied and extensive, and what 
 with laurel walks, rhododendron walks, and 
 walks sunken from the surrounding level to
 
 134 HEARTS. 
 
 secure shelter in winter and shade in summer, 
 there was ample opportunity for a game at 
 hide-and-seek. In the eagerness of the chase 
 Tom took the lead, and he was twenty yards in 
 front of Baretti and at the end of a fine avenue 
 of beeches, when he turned, and smilingly 
 beckoned the painter on. The latter quickened 
 his pace, and was just in time to see the smile 
 of recognition and welcome which lit up 
 Mary's face at the sight of her lover. 
 
 On the left side of the avenue, approached 
 by a meandering path between two great trees, 
 lay a secluded little dell. This dell, being 
 sheltered by the high foliage of the near trees, 
 had kept for the most part a look of almost 
 summer greenness, and the fiery hand of au- 
 tumn had only kindled here and there a leaf. 
 The moss which paved the place was a mere 
 carpet of live emerald, and interlacing boughs 
 above the lady's head made a sort of natural 
 archway. This was the only hour of the day
 
 HEARTS. 135 
 
 at this season at which the sun-rays could 
 pierce the higher leafage, and the whole place 
 was beautifully dappled with light and shadow. 
 At the end of the vista revealed by the opening 
 boughs lay a patch of richly- cultured garden, 
 bright with colour ; and nearer at hand, just 
 where the arched foliage ended and the garden 
 began, was a little fountain, whose one lithe and 
 quivering jet sparkled in the sunlight, much as 
 a gay melody sparkles on happy ears. 
 
 But the most charming feature of this 
 charming spot was, of course, the girl who 
 stood in it, smiling and radiant, like the day. 
 Female loveliness is no doubt lovely in a cotton 
 print, but when delicate fabrics of exquisite 
 colour have gone through the hands of an 
 artist who knows his business, in days when 
 fashion gives him a chance to be graceful, they 
 can give beauty an extra charm. The dress 
 she wore was simple enough to look at, but it; 
 became her almost subtly. She had been
 
 136 HEARTS. 
 
 gathering flowers and ferns, and carried them 
 in a basket in her gauntleted hands. 
 
 There is no disputing in matters of taste, 
 and there are no doubt thousands of men who, 
 allowing the girl to have been beautiful, would 
 have gone by without recognising their ideal. 
 It was enough for Tom that she was his, and 
 it was more than enough for Baretti that she 
 was his also. 
 
 ' Can you give us a sitting ? ' asked Tom 
 gaily. ' Baretti is here and ready.' 
 
 *I am here without doubt,' said Baretti, 
 ' but I am not ready.* 
 
 ' No ? ' asked Tom, turning upon him ; ' why 
 not?' 
 
 ' I want this,' said Baretti sombrely, ' to be 
 a picture as well as a portrait. And I cannot 
 begin at once as if I were painting a house. 
 Can I paint here to-day. Miss Lording ? ' he 
 asked, ' or shall I carry my things back to 
 Trench House?'
 
 HEARTS, 137 
 
 'There is a room in complete readiness/ 
 said Mary, with a half-puzzled look from Tom 
 to the painter, ' but I thought you said that 
 you did not want to begin to-day.' 
 
 ' I do not want you to sit to-day,' said the 
 painter brusquely. ' I want to sketch. I have 
 an idea. Can I go ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said the girl. Tom possessed 
 himself of the basket, and they walked to the 
 house together. Baretti did not speak until 
 he found himself in the room set apart for 
 him. 
 
 ' I want to be alone, if you please,' he said 
 then, and began to push his easel about the 
 room, and to raise and lower the blinds. ' I 
 do not wish to be disturbed until I have done 
 what is in my mind. It is now eleven o'clock, 
 and I can work till half-past four. I shall have 
 done by then.' He was very gloomy and 
 quiet about all this, and Mary smiled at his 
 exaggerated earnestness. Tom stayed a minute
 
 138 HEARTS. 
 
 or two to chaff his friend, but, meeting with 
 no response, he left the room and took away 
 Mary with him. 
 
 Being alone, the painter shut and locked 
 the door, and taking a small mounted canvas, 
 set it on the easel, and began to work. For 
 half an hour his face of gloom grew darker 
 and darker, and then his changeful nature set 
 him on a new tack, and he began to work 
 smilingly. Then in a while he was gloomy 
 once more, but he worked all the time like a 
 man possessed by an idea. It was not long 
 before the idea began to declare itself. By 
 swift and sure degrees there grew upon the 
 canvas the figure of a girl who stood in a little 
 green-floored dell, embraced by surrounding 
 boughs and bearing in her gloved hands a 
 basket of tangled ferns and flowers. The 
 distant garden began to smile in the sun, and 
 the green flooring of the dell to dapple with 
 light and shadow.
 
 HEARTS. 139 
 
 There was a knock at the door and Tom 
 Carroll's voice was heard outside. 
 
 ' May I come in ? ' 
 
 ' No/ said the painter, without turning his 
 head or pausing at his work. 
 
 ' The bell has sounded for luncheon.' 
 
 ' I am not hungry,' said Baretti ; ' I shall 
 not come to luncheon. Leave me alone.' 
 
 Tom retired, and the painter worked away. 
 The face was merely indicated, and might have 
 belonged to anybody or nobody, but the rest 
 of the sketch had already something of a look 
 of finish. Baretti lit a cigar and rested for a 
 time, rising now and then to add a touch of 
 colour here and there. When his cigar was 
 smoked through, he cast the stump into the 
 grate and went on again. Not a bristle touched 
 the canvas without definite intent, and he 
 worked with prodigious rapidity and certainty, 
 but with no hurry. The tints grew true, the 
 eyes and lips began to smile, there came into
 
 I40 HEARTS, 
 
 the face beneath the magic kisses of the brush 
 the glance of recognition and welcome he had 
 seen four hours ago ; the very figure looked as 
 though it were about to move and to step from 
 the canvas. 
 
 The artist looked at his watch, laid down 
 his tools, and lit another cigar, pacing up and 
 down the room as he smoked. Next, he sat 
 and stared at his work from under gloomy 
 brows, until he detected a fault somewhere and 
 rose to amend it, and finding something else 
 too lightly indicated, put in a masterly stroke 
 or two of finish, and by these means became 
 spurred into labour once again. The light was 
 already growing dangerous to paint by when 
 he finally laid down his palette and brushes 
 and rang the bell. 
 
 'Tell your mistress and Mr. Carroll that 
 I am ready,' he said to the servant who an- 
 swered this summons. The man retired obe- 
 diently, and a minute or two later Mary and
 
 HEARTS. 141 
 
 her lover and papa Lording were heard laugh- 
 ing merrily together upon the stairs. Baretti 
 stood back from his picture and stared at it 
 solemnly, with his hands in the pockets of his 
 velvet jacket and his head drooping slightly 
 forward, and in that attitude they found him. 
 
 ' Man of ^vhims,' said Tom, ' what is it ? 
 Mary ! Mr. Lording ! Come here ! Baretti, 
 you are a worker of miracles I ' 
 
 The three stood before the work in amaze- 
 ment and admiration. Its effects were neces- 
 sarily broad, but there was no hint of coarseness 
 in its handhng, and the colours were like 
 nature's own. A rival painter might have 
 discounted admiration a little, but there was 
 no rival painter there, and the trio broke into 
 unmeasured praises. The painter, with his 
 head still drooping forward and his hands in 
 his jacket-pockets, accepted then- enthusiasm 
 with an air of almost melodramatic crloom. 
 He was genuinely unhappy now — more self-
 
 142 HEARTS. 
 
 distrustful than ever, with more reason. He 
 dedined Lording's invitation to dinner, and, in 
 spite of pressure, went away alone to lock him- 
 self in his bedroom at Trench House, and brood 
 over his own astonishing wickedness and the 
 charms of his dearest friend's affianced wife. 
 
 ' Baretti,' said Tom, as he sat at table with 
 Mary and her father, 'is a man of genius, 
 and, as everybody knows, men of genius have 
 moods. I suppose he had worked everything 
 out of himself in that splendid inspiration, and 
 felt fit for nothiug afterwards. Small wonder 
 if he did.' 
 
 His companions took that view of the case 
 also, and not even the girl, as yet, began to 
 suspect the truth. But, meantime, the little 
 man was exceedingly bitter with himself, and 
 yet, for his soul, he could not resist the ever- 
 returning vision of the girl's face and figure. 
 Though he turned it out of mental doors a 
 thousand times, it came back again, beautiful,
 
 HEARTS. 143 
 
 smiling, unconscious. And he had vowed 
 eternal faith and friendship to the man who 
 had saved him, and who had an unassailable 
 claim on all this loveliness. He tried to 
 soothe himself by the casuistry natural to Ms 
 position. He could love without wishing to 
 possess, but his heart cried out in indignation 
 against that folly. It went through him like a 
 knife when he thought of her in Tom's arms, 
 and fancied Tom's kisses on her lips. At least, 
 he could love and be quiet ; but again, at that 
 thought, the future seemed to rise before him 
 like a blank wall. And the more he chafed 
 and argued, the more his fiery longing grew, 
 till his southern blood, hot enough by nature, 
 reached almost to boiling point, and he saw 
 how dangerous he was growing. You may 
 guess from what you know already that reso- 
 lution was not his strong point. No resolute 
 man would have gone-under as he did on such 
 poor compulsion, and if there was anythino-
 
 144 HEARTS. 
 
 to save him now it must be something outside 
 himself. 
 
 'After all,' he said, ' to die of thirst in the 
 desert whilst you watch your friend's only glass 
 of water is a hard thing no doubt, but it is not 
 stealing the w^ater.' 
 
 He sought whatever safeguard he could 
 think of. Amongst them was the difference 
 between Miss Lording's position and his own. 
 Love her as much as he chose, even if she had 
 been free, she would not have looked at him. 
 Then, in face of that reflection, he began to 
 dream of fame and fortune, and he saw himself 
 as a new Titian, the acknowledged king of art 
 in his own day, living in a house like a palace, 
 and surrounded by social courtiers. But of all 
 possible safeguards he felt that there was none 
 like his friendship, and, though his inward 
 panegyrics on Tom Carroll were more forced 
 and less natural than they had used to be, he 
 had recourse to them and magnified Tom's
 
 HEARTS. 145 
 
 service, and minified his own chances without 
 that splendid friend and helper, until he began 
 to experience a dawning sense of security. 
 How could he be faithless to such a friend, 
 even in fancy — even in a dream ? 
 
 It was pretty late at night when Tom 
 knocked at Baretti's door. The painter ad- 
 mitted him, and shook hands in silence. Tom 
 was quite radiant and full of high spirits, and 
 he must needs rally the small man of genius 
 about his moods. 
 
 ' What a droll fellow you are, Baretti ! 
 To-day, deeper sunk tlian plummet ever 
 sounded ; to-morrow soaring sky-high, and 
 breaking your sublime head against the stars. 
 But that's the penalty you pay for being a man 
 of genius, and an Italian. Come into my den, 
 my lion, and have a quiet smoke and a talk.' 
 
 'Very well,' said Baretti, witli a more 
 lowering face than ever; and having re- 
 plenished his fire, and blown out the ^candles 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 HEARTS. 
 
 upon the mantelshelf, he followed. Tom's 
 room was bright with firelight and lamplight, 
 and its gay owner, talking voluble nothings, 
 bustled about it, drawing curtains and pushing 
 chairs near the fire. Talking still, he explored 
 on his hands and knees the lower shelves of a 
 locker, and arose with an aspect almost tragic. 
 
 ' Not a spot of liquor in the ship ! ' he said. 
 ' Wait a bit, whilst I go and look up Johnson. 
 The governor's in bed, and I don't want to 
 ring.' 
 
 Baretti nodded, and setting his arms on the 
 mantelpiece, between the lamps that burned 
 softly at either end, stared drearily at his own 
 features in the mirror, without consciously 
 seeing them. Tom Carroll was away so long 
 that the httle man forgot him. 
 
 ' So,' he said to himself, ' this is the end of 
 my pretences of gratitude.' It looked inex- 
 pressibly dark and ugly to him as he faced it 
 in his own mind. 'No, no, no. They shall
 
 HEARTS, 147 
 
 not end in this way.' As lie moved with his 
 Italian swiftness of gesture in answer to the 
 movement of his soul, the motion was reflected 
 in the mirror and drew his eye to the duplicate 
 of his own figure there. He looked at it 
 darkly for a minute, and shook a menacing 
 finger at it. ' You ! ' he said fierily and dis- 
 dainfully. ' You ! ' The reflection shook back 
 at him a finger as threatening and as disdainful 
 as his own. ' I tell you,' he said, ' that you 
 shall not moan about this, that you shall not 
 admit to your own heart that it lives, that you 
 shall carry it away and bury it, deep, deep, 
 deep — do you hear ? ' The mockery of his 
 features in the glass faced him and seemed to 
 answer him. ' I shall have trouble wiih you,' 
 he went on, apostrophising the reflection. 
 'You will mock me and storm back at me 
 when I storm. You cannot be happy? You? 
 Then it remains, my poor foolish friend, to be 
 unhappy, and still to be a man. And you 
 L 2
 
 148 HEARTS. 
 
 shall be as unhappy as you choose, but you 
 shall not have one memory of a thought to 
 curse you for having proved unfaithful.' 
 
 Tom's foot kicked gently at the door, and 
 Baretti, answering to the summons, admitted 
 his friend, who bore a bottle in either hand 
 and one under each arm. 
 
 ' Practising for the stage ? ' asked Tom, 
 laughingly. 
 
 'No,' said Baretti, turning lightly round. 
 ' But I never shall be rid of my Italian accent/ 
 
 ' There is not much that is un-Enghsh in 
 your accent,' answered Tom, setting down his 
 bottles; 'but your action is altogether ahen. 
 You dart about like a parched pea in a pan. 
 We English stand solid and lum^^ish while we 
 speak. Now " speak a piece" as the Yankees 
 say, and I will drill you. Something English.' 
 
 ' Danish will do,' said the painter, with no 
 responsive smile, and he declaimed with his 
 arms hanging at his sides, and his whole figure
 
 HEARTS, 149 
 
 stiffly set. ' Give me the man that is not 
 passion's slave, and I will hold him in my 
 heart of hearts — ' 
 
 But here on a sudden he cast his arms 
 wildly in the air and made a rush at the im- 
 passive Tom, crying — ' as I do thee ! ' 
 
 ' Something too much of this/ said Tom, 
 completing the line, and shaking Baretti's hands 
 away from his with a gesture that had nothing 
 unfriendly in it. ' This is less English than 
 ever. We must train you by duller methods. 
 Let us try the prosiest of prose to begin with. 
 Eepeat me one of Euclid's axioms.' 
 
 ' A straight line,' said Baretti, marking the 
 straight line in the air with a rapid forefinger, 
 ' is the shortest road between two points.' And 
 out stretched both forefingers at the end of the 
 imaginary line, to illustrate the position of the 
 points. 
 
 ' You are hopeless,' said Tom, laughing. 
 'A man who gesticulates over Euclid will
 
 ISO HEARTS, 
 
 gesticulate over anytliing — over everything. I 
 wonder,' lie added with sudden seriousness, 
 ' whether you southern people feel as keenly as 
 you seem to feel. It seems to an Englishman 
 — ^you don't mind my saying this, Baretti, do 
 you? — that the Italian manner indicates — 
 indicates — what's the word ? Not insincerity ? ' 
 
 ' No,' cried the painter, almost fiercely, ' not 
 that.' 
 
 'No,' said Tom, holding out a hand to 
 beseech quiet, ' not that, but a certain brevity 
 of duration in sincerity. A flash and over. An 
 intense appreciation of anything and everything 
 whilst it lasts. Your passions, fancies, likings, 
 rages, are all like lightning. You live by light- 
 ning, with the flash always coming and going.' 
 
 Baretti shook his head. 
 
 'There is steady fire enough in an 
 Italian's heart,' he answered, with a sombre 
 nod, ' to warm your hands at. I will give you 
 another reason for the flashes you speak of. If
 
 HEARTS. 151 
 
 you liave a dull, steady, slow-burniug fire, and 
 you throw any trifle into it, any bit of stick or 
 straw, you liave a little flame which rises and 
 dies. But you do not say that the fire is out, 
 though it looks dull by contrast, when your 
 wretched little bit of stick is finished. Human 
 nature is human nature all the world over, only 
 you show your emotions like an oyster, and I 
 like a — like a ' 
 
 ' Grasshopper,' suggested Tom. 
 
 'That Avill do,' said Baretti, with perfect 
 gravity. ' He is a sunny little creature who 
 loves warm weather, and he moves briskly and 
 he sings, though his tunes are all very hke 
 one another.' 
 
 ' And yours are not,' answered Tom, ' for 
 you are Variety's Epitome.' 
 
 ' There is no deep-rooted distrust of Italy 
 in all this, is there, Carroll ? ' asked the painter, 
 with a pretence of badinage. ' What am I ? A 
 butterfly little fellow, eh ? Fluttering, hovering
 
 152 HEARTS. 
 
 here, there, no staying, no resting, no stamina 
 inside to make me want to rest and stay.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Tom ; ' I don't read you so 
 badly.' 
 
 ' You do not think that I coukl not make 
 my mind up to do a painful thing, which would 
 take a long time, and be painful all the while ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Tom, hghtly enough ; ' why 
 should!?' 
 
 ' I do not want an answer of that sort,' said 
 the artist, with a fiery sweep of his right arm. 
 ' Do you believe of me that, for the sake of 
 principle, or for the sake of a friend — for you, 
 for instance — I would do something hard to do .^ 
 That it is in me to do it ? In a word, that I am 
 a man of principle, and not an insect of 
 impulse ? ' 
 
 ' Granted,' cried Tom, in some surprise at 
 his companion's heat. ' Granted every word.' 
 
 ' You mean that ? ' 
 
 ' I mean that.'
 
 HEARTS. 153 
 
 ' From your soul ? ' demanded the Italian, 
 vehemently. 
 
 * I beheve it honestly,' answered the Briton, 
 with genial stolidity. 
 
 ' It will be better for me, and for you,' 
 answered Baretti, ' that you do believe it.' 
 
 ' I'm very glad to hear it,' said Tom, lightly. 
 ' Whisky or Burgundy, old man ? ' Baretti 
 cast at him a glance of rage and threw up his 
 hands. 
 
 ' Oh, you English ! you English ! ' Tom 
 lausfhed. Baretti was so much in earnest about 
 trifles that Tom took nine-tenths of his talk 
 with a cent, per cent, dilution. In his inmost 
 heart he thought an Englishman the only solid 
 and responsible creature in the world. 
 
 ' Carroll,' said Baretti, ' I am uncomfort- 
 able. I am in want of something, and I think 
 it is music. Play something to me.' 
 
 ' All right,' said Tom. ' The governor's 
 bedroom is on the other side of the house,
 
 154 HEARTS, 
 
 luckily, and I shan't disturb him.' Tom took 
 up his violin and began to play. 
 
 ' Stop,' cried Baretti, two or three minutes 
 later ; ' I am out of tune. Your loveliest 
 melodies caterwaul to me. I do not care for 
 Mozart any more than if I were a Carib. Put 
 it away, or play to yourself, if you w^ill, and I 
 will say good-night. Good-night, Carroll, 
 good-night.' Tom tried to dissuade him from 
 going, but he stood with both hands out- 
 stretched for a farewell, and a strange smile on 
 his face. The player laid down his instrument 
 and took both the outstretched hands in his, 
 shook them, and dropped them gaily. The 
 artist went without another word, and having 
 locked the door of his own room and stirred 
 the smouldering fire, he relit his candles, and, 
 with his elbows spread abroad upon the mantel- 
 piece, fell to staring at his own reflection. He 
 had stood for a long time, when he murmured 
 to himself: —
 
 HEARTS. I5S 
 
 'Not one base word of Carthage on thy 
 soul ! ' Then he suddenly blew out the candles, 
 so that but for the glow of the fire the room 
 was dark. ' Good-night,' he said softly, ' good- 
 night, Carroll. Best man and dearest friend, 
 good-night. It is not the dog you fed who 
 will bite you. It is not the heart you gave its 
 only hope to that will envy you.' 
 
 He sank into a chair beside the fire, and 
 watched the glow until it faded and died. 
 Grey ashes were sprinkled, slowly, slowly, on 
 the heads of faces in the fire, and glowing 
 features crumbled one by one until all had gone 
 the w^ay to dusty death, and he was staring 
 blindly at the darkness.
 
 156 HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Next morning, when Mr. Carroll and Tom and 
 Baretti were at breakfast together, Master Tom, 
 who had a considerable little pile of letters 
 before him, opened one of them, and, suddenly 
 rising from his seat, began to caper about the 
 room and to sing and snap his fingers. 
 
 ' Thomas,' said Mr. Carroll, with a voice of 
 displeasure, ' pray compose yourself.' 
 
 ' Eead that,' said Tom, throwing the letter 
 on the table and stooping to right his fallen 
 chair. ' Isn't that magnificent ? ' 
 
 Mr. Carroll, with his gold-rimmed double 
 eye-glasses on the bridge of his nose and his 
 head thrown back a little, read the letter which 
 had so delis^hted his son.
 
 HEARTS. 157 
 
 ' This pleases you ? ' he asked, when he had 
 gone througli it. He held the glasses in one 
 hand, and the note in the other, and tapped 
 them together lightly as he spoke. ' This 
 pleases you ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Tom, whose face was 
 already much less radiant ; ' it is the greatest 
 honour I could have hoped for.' 
 
 'M-m,' said Mr. Carroll, putting up the 
 glasses once more, 'I should scarcely have 
 construed it so. You will answer the — ah — 
 the gentleman who writes this in the affirma- 
 tive?' 
 
 ' Why, my dear father,' said Tom, in a 
 little dismay, ' I never was so proud in my life. 
 It's a letter from Hoffmann, Baretti,' he went 
 on, turning to his friend. ' They're going to 
 play my " Dream of Venice " at Hoffmann's 
 Wednesday Concerts, and Hoffmann wants to 
 know if I will conduct in person.' 
 
 ' It is a splendid opportunity,' said Baretti.
 
 158 HEARTS. 
 
 'It is a high honour. I congratulate you, 
 Carroll, with my whole heart.' 
 
 Mr. Carroll drew out his snuff-box, tapped 
 it twice or thrice, and put it back again. 
 
 ' Very well, Tom,' he said, handing back 
 the note again ; ' I trust that I can rely upon 
 you to do nothing v/hich will endanger my 
 respect. You belong to your world and I to 
 mine, and I suppose we shall not convince each 
 other.' 
 
 ' There are to be two rehearsals,' said Tom, 
 who was so checked in the full flow of his 
 spirits by his father's manner that he was fain 
 to hide his embarrassment by a pretended 
 reperusal of the letter, ' and Hoffmann wants 
 me to be present at them. The first is in a 
 week's time. Shall you begin the portrait 
 to-day, Baretti ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Baretti, ' to-day. You will 
 come with me ? ' Tom assented, and the two 
 finished breakfast in silence. Mr. Carroll
 
 HEARTS. 159 
 
 betook himself to the hbrary, carrying his 
 letters with him, and before the two young 
 fellows left the house they heard him ride 
 away to attend some meeting of the justices in 
 the neighbouring town. 
 
 ' I'll tell you what it is, Baretti,' said Tom, 
 ' my father's a sort of survival. He is a man 
 of the old school, and he is slow to imbibe the 
 modern feeling about art. You know how 
 new that feeling is in England ? ' He was 
 obviously afraid lest Baretti should feel in his 
 own person the lash of Mr. Carroll's scorn of 
 the artistic classes. The little man nodded 
 back at him, with a singular smile, wonderfully 
 affectionate and gentle. 
 
 ' Yes,' he rephed, quietly, ' it is hard to 
 surrender the opinions of a lifetime.' He 
 spoke with so little of his common vivacity 
 that Tom noticed it, even in the midst of the 
 preoccupation of his own annoyance. They 
 were in the lane together on the way to Beech
 
 i6o HEARTS. 
 
 Tree Hall, and the artist was walking with his 
 eyes upon the ground. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Baretti ? ' asked Tom, 
 with a hand on his friend's shoulder. ' You 
 are changed.' 
 
 ' I will tell you the plain truth,' said the 
 artist, pausing in his walk. 'You must not 
 laugh at me,' he went on, looking upwards, 
 with a blush, ' but I am home-sick. It is three 
 years since I last saw my native Naples, and 
 then I stayed but for a week. There is nobody 
 left,' he continued, sadly, ' but the place is 
 there, and I must see it again and live in my 
 own air for a time.' 
 
 ' That's natural enough,' said Tom. ' When 
 do you want to go ? ' 
 
 ' I shall finish this portrait,' answered 
 Baretti, ' and then I shall go away at once.' 
 
 ' You won't stay long .^ ' Tom asked. 
 
 ' I cannot tell,' rephed Baretti, ' but I will 
 promise one thing. If you will let me know
 
 HEARTS. i6i 
 
 wlien you are going to be married, I will come 
 back in time.' 
 
 ' A bargain,' said Tom gaily. 
 
 ' A bargain,' echoed the painter. ' Very 
 well.' A fortnight in the poisoned sunshine of 
 her presence and then blank darkness. In all 
 ages young men and young women have found 
 love's dream look thus real and thus lifehke. 
 
 Tom told his good news to his sweetheart 
 and her father, and found ready sympathy and 
 congratulation. 
 
 * But Tom, my lad,' said Lording, drawing 
 him on one side, ' what's going to become of 
 the portrait ? You won't take Baretti with 
 you ? When you are gone he'll be lonely. 
 Let him come over here. I'll ask two or three 
 people to come down and stay whilst he's here. 
 Eh?' 
 
 This promised to be something of a relief 
 to Tom, who, now that he came to think of it, 
 saw clearly enough that Baretti would hardly 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 HEARTS. 
 
 be comfortable if left to tlie sole society of 
 Carroll senior. So the Fates arranged between 
 them that Antonio Baretti should be proved. 
 He had no excuse for declining, and his 
 perturbation on being asked was taken to 
 express no more than a little shyness. He was 
 so afraid of the real cause of his unwillingness 
 being guessed that he made next to no 
 resistance, and before work w^as begun that 
 morning the thing was settled. On the day 
 before Tom's departure for London, Baretti 
 was to take up his abode at Lording's house, 
 and stay there until the portrait was finished. 
 Then everybody was to go up together to 
 witness Tom's triumph at the concert — for, of 
 course, nobody thought success doubtful — and 
 Baretti, after the concert, was to start for his 
 native Naples. 
 
 Miss Lording had an easy time of it, and 
 Baretti scarcely called upon her. He was not 
 morose, as he had been on the previous day.
 
 HEARTS. 163 
 
 but his manner was subdued and softened. 
 Mary felt herself surrounded by a novel and 
 pleasing atmosphere. The smell of Baretti's 
 paints was an ingredient in it, but that was 
 inevitable and easily endured, and it was surely 
 nice to have awakened an artist's artistic 
 enthusiasm, as she knew she had awakened 
 those of the Italian, and to have her affianced 
 lover there to pet or tease as she would — ^by 
 signs so slight as not to be detectable by two 
 of the quartet present. Lording was proud of 
 his daughter and proud of Tom, and proud of 
 Baretti, and w^as generally in high feather. 
 For Baretti this morning there was a sort of 
 luxury in resignation. He had complete faith 
 in his renunciation of the night before. There 
 was no more need for resolution, and he had 
 simply to be passive and to let time drift him 
 along as rapidly as might be until he could go 
 away and begin to forget. 
 
 There was a piano in the room, and Tom 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 HEARTS. 
 
 sat down to it now and again and played a 
 snatch of music. Lording watched the work 
 of painting with a childlike interest, and Mary- 
 moved about gaily in the long and frequent 
 intervals of liberty the artist accorded her. 
 Once or twice she came so near to Baretti in 
 her innocent ignorance, and stood watching the 
 work so close behind him, that although no 
 portion of her dress so much as touched him, 
 her nearness was like an embrace, under which 
 every sense of his frame and every faculty of 
 his mind seemed to swoon. When she posed 
 for him, sometimes gravely and sometimes 
 overbrimming with gaiety, and he met the 
 stedfast unconscious look of her lovely eyes, or 
 saw the laughter of a young and innocent 
 nature there, and the gladness of a beautiful 
 harmless vanity, he felt as if he were sinking 
 into some lovely perfumed dream to die. And 
 all the while he went on working with a 
 singular consciousness of power over his
 
 HEARTS. 165 
 
 materials and his theme. Niagara was three 
 weeks off, and the passage along the Eapids 
 was endurable. The position was not a new 
 one. 
 
 The most admirable and becoming arrange- 
 ments are made by consent of society at large 
 for the prevention of unaccompanied meetings 
 between young men and young women, not- 
 withstanding which young men and young 
 women continue to meet without the society 
 of their elders, to plan marriages of which 
 those elders would righteously disapprove, and 
 generally to conduct themselves as their elders 
 did before them, and would again if they were 
 young again. But since her mother's death 
 none of those arrangements had been in force 
 in the case of Mary Lording, and she had 
 known and enjoyed a freedom to which most 
 girls of her age and station are strangers. It 
 followed in her case — though naturally enough 
 it might not follow in all cases — that she
 
 i66 HEARTS. 
 
 looked on young men witli a sort of sense 
 of brotherhood and camaraderie, that she was 
 not in the least afraid of them or abashed 
 before them. It was true enough that they 
 made love sometimes, and that (except in one 
 special case) had always been disagreeable. 
 Now of course nobody would dare to make 
 love to her, and freedom was made freer than 
 ever by that reflection. She would have 
 associated herself quite fearlessly with any 
 nice young fellow of reasonable position and 
 antecedents, who happened to come to her 
 knowledge by any of the recognised roads, 
 and in Baretti's case she was prepossessed in 
 half a dozen different ways. He was her 
 lover's dearest friend — he was a young man 
 (in Tom's belief, and therefore in hers also) of 
 the most transcendent genius — he was hand- 
 some and charming and a foreigner- — and — he 
 had given very signal proof of enthusiasm about 
 her portrait. Now, if you and I believed that
 
 HEARTS. 167 
 
 a o'reat artist was enthusiastic in his desire to 
 commemorate our charming faces and figures, 
 we should naturally have a good opinion of 
 that artist's discernment, and should feel 
 friendly towards him. 
 
 A profound melancholy laid its hand upon 
 the artist when he w^as not at work, and this 
 helped to make him interesting. He took 
 interest in nothing that did not concern his art, 
 except by fits, Avhen he broke into vivid 
 momentary enthusiasm and flashed back again 
 into gloom. He avoided all society when he was 
 able, and though he strove to do it naturally and 
 as if it were always the result of accident, the 
 girl saw that he specially avoided her. This 
 piqued her, and set her with a woman's love of 
 conquest, to vanquish his shyness and his desire 
 for loneliness. So there came to be added to 
 the little man's torments a dreadful sweet fear 
 which brought temptation in its train. He was 
 not a vain man, over and above the common,
 
 i68 HEARTS. 
 
 but it came into his heart one day to ask if the 
 girl were drifting towards him as he had 
 drifted towards her. If that were so he felt 
 himself doomed, and there was an awful 
 throb of joy at the fear. 
 
 If his melancholy had been at all of the 
 stagey sort, Mary would have been one of the 
 first young women in the world to laugh at him. 
 But it was so real, so obviously unafiected, and 
 so little obtrusive, that it not only piqued her 
 into a desire to overcome the shyness which 
 sprang from it, but extorted some pity from 
 her as well. 
 
 Had Tom Carroll guessed what he was 
 leaving behind him he might have declined 
 Herr Hoffmann's flattering offer. To leave the 
 only woman who had ever breathed a word of 
 love to him (for they had got so far by this 
 time at odd moments), and the dearest friend 
 in the world in her society, could scarcely
 
 HEARTS. 169 
 
 seem unsafe to so generous and candid 
 a nature. And, indeed, it does sometimes 
 happen that a man's best friends do not betray 
 him, and that a sweetheart is true. He went 
 off with a hght heart, and nine-tenths of his 
 ambition seemed already reahsed in fancy. 
 To hve ' a mere country gentleman's life, with 
 no interest outside that narrow sphere, had 
 seemed ignoble to him from his boyhood, and 
 this one chance seemed to open up to him the 
 whole world of art ambition, and with the 
 forerunning enthusiasm which belongs to ardent 
 young men of talent he felt like a Gounod or a 
 Yerdi already. 
 
 The great Herr Hoffmann received him 
 politely, for a wonder, and the rehearsals 
 passed away without memorable incident. 
 Cousin Mark called at 20 Montague Gardens, 
 and made himself agreeable in his own way. 
 
 ' I have found a new profession,' said Mark.
 
 I70 HEARTS. 
 
 ' It pays just as well as the old one. Nothing 
 a-year, and pay your own expenses.' 
 
 ' Profitable,' said Tom lounging in his own 
 arm-chair at the fireside. 
 
 ' Isn't it ? ' said Mark, with his own cheerful 
 and amiable smile. ' I am teaching the 
 charming Signora to talk English.' ' 
 
 ' What charming Signora ? ' Tom de- 
 manded. The memory of Signor Malfi and 
 his mate had long since left him. Mark re- 
 called him to the circumstance of their chance 
 encounter. 
 
 ' I find it useful to know them,' said Mark, 
 with his customary candour. 'A poor devil 
 like me has to fish for profitable acquaintances. 
 You were born with a golden spoon in your 
 mouth, and I don't suppose you ever knew 
 what it was to want a fiver in your life. By 
 God ! Tom, I believe that of all the hard -up 
 men in London, I am king and captain.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Tom, with a rather fatuous
 
 HEARTS. 171 
 
 good-nature, ' you know where to come to.' 
 Mark laughed. 
 
 ' I shan't leave you till I've drained you 
 dry,' he said. ' I shall never pay you even if 
 I am able, for I am by nature an ungrateful 
 dog, and gratitude has always seemed to me, 
 to tell you the honest truth, the most absurd 
 and misguided of all human sentiments. But 
 if you will oblige me with a tenner ' 
 
 Tom laughed responsive, and obliged him 
 on the spot. 
 
 ' If ever anybody asks you for a testimonial 
 to character,' said Tom, ' don't offer it yourself. 
 Send him to me.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' returned Mark, still 
 smiling, ' that sort of thing pays. If you pro- 
 claim yourself virtuous nobody believes you. 
 Everybody knows that all men are liars and 
 nobody believes anybody. Now I tell the 
 truth about myself, and nobody beheves me' 
 
 ' Xow, you know, Mark,' said Tom, who was
 
 172 HEARTS. 
 
 amused by all this, ' that's not a pretty 
 sentiment.' 
 
 ' Don't come to me for pretty sentiments,' 
 Mark answered. ' I am the only man I ever 
 knew who wasn't either a liar or a fool. Kow, 
 you don't like to own it, but you know that 
 ninety-nine parts in a hundred of all the talk 
 about virtue and honour and public spirit is 
 pure and unadulterated humbug. When you 
 want to hear the truth about a man, go to his 
 enemies. They'll tell you how degraded his 
 motives are. If you want the truth about 
 Gladstone read the high Tory journals. If you 
 want the truth about Disraeli read the low 
 Eadical papers.' 
 
 ' Somebody says,' Tom responded, ' that the 
 only way to understand a man is to love him.' 
 
 'What a rule for a British jury with a 
 knotty case of murder ! No, no. The true 
 rule of life is to think every man guilty until 
 he proves himself innocent. Then you can
 
 HEARTS. 173 
 
 admire his skilfiilness of fence and distrust him 
 all the more.' 
 
 At this Tom fairly broke mto laughter, and 
 Mark, with his hand stretched out towards his 
 wdne-glass and his cigar half-way from his lips, 
 laughed back at him quite gaily. 
 
 ' I've got what I want,' said Mark, emptying 
 his glass and rising, ' and now I'll go. I have 
 to give the charming Signora her English 
 lesson this afternoon. Do you feel inclined for 
 a walk ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Tom, and in a minute or two, 
 well coated, the cousins were in the crisp, 
 wintry open air. 
 
 Tom thought little enough of Mark's rho- 
 domontade. It was Mark's habit to profess 
 cynicism, and the easy-going youngster, his 
 cousin, with his kindly thoughts about all 
 people, and his amiable heart, w^ould have 
 found it difficult to believe that any man really 
 cared to regulate his life by such a creed. But
 
 174 HEARTS. 
 
 siicli conscience as Mark had was sootlied by 
 the candour of his own discourse, though he 
 admitted that even whilst he spoke the truth he 
 expected nobody to beheve him. 
 
 It was not a very honest exposition of his 
 own character after all, but if, with the plain 
 truth staring them in the face, people refused 
 to believe in it, was that Mark's fault ? 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Mark, as they walked, 
 ' whether I am or not a particularly brilliant 
 teacher, but if I am not I have an especially 
 brilliant pupil. You remember when we met 
 that woman? She didn't know a score of 
 English words, upon my honour, and now she 
 can understand a lot that's said to her, and she 
 chatters away in a surprising manner. Come 
 in with me and hear her. She's amusing.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' said Tom. 
 
 ' You will, though,' answered Mark, ' and 
 I'll tell you why. Malfi has got all the tenor 
 music of Hoffmann's new opera. He's a slow,
 
 HEARTS. 175 
 
 poor sort of creature, and it takes him a month 
 to learn a tune. The charming Signora plays 
 with one finger — for he doesn't know a note, 
 and she's not much better — and they hammer 
 it out in that way between them. He has 
 learned half a dozen of the airs now, and sings 
 them decently. He'll be grateful if a swell 
 pianist like yourself will give him a turn, and 
 I'm sure you'll like the music' 
 
 ' I'll go for that,' said Tom, ' though I 
 wouldn't for the broken English.' 
 
 ' The charming Signora,' pursued Mark, 
 ' has learned English enough already, under my 
 tuition, to venture on taking English music 
 pupils.' 
 
 ' And she plays with one finger ? ' said Tom. 
 
 ' Oh, that's my playful way of putting it. 
 She's a bad enough pianiste, but not quite so bad 
 as that. I wrote an advertisement for her a 
 week ago, for pupils, and sent it to the Times! 
 
 When they reached the house in which
 
 176 HEARTS. 
 
 Signor Malfi had apartments the piano was in full 
 swing, and a powerful soprano voice was scream- 
 ing a bravura. The powerfid soprano left off in 
 the middle, and the accompaniment reverting 
 to the beginning, another voice took up the 
 air. 
 
 ' 1^0, no, no, no, no ! ' the Signora's voice w^as 
 heard crying. ' Like zis,' and the powerful 
 voice began to scream again. 
 
 ' Here's a pupil,' said Mark, ' the first fruits 
 of the advertisement, no doubt.' The pupil 
 began to sing again, and Tom held up a finger 
 to ask for silence. There was a look of per- 
 plexity on his face. ' What's the matter ? ' 
 asked his cousin. 
 
 ' That's odd,' said Tom. ' I'll bet anything 
 I know that voice.' They were within the house, 
 and waiting for the operatic tenor in the next 
 room to that in which the lesson was being 
 given. ' I'm sure of the voice,' said Tom, 
 ' I can't be mistaken.'
 
 HEARTS. 177 
 
 ' Whose is it ? ' Mark demanded, but at 
 tliat instant the Signer entered. 
 
 ' We are indebted to you, Signor Carroll,' 
 said he to Mark. ' The advertisement has al- 
 ready secured a pupil, an English miss. It 
 was a good thought, and it will occupy Caterina 
 in my absence. I have engagements in Paris 
 and Vienna, but she has not, and will remain 
 here. There is a voice ! ' The screaming 
 soprano was turned on again. ' For volume 
 and compass it is unrivalled in Europe. Yet 
 the managers will not engage her.' 
 
 The singer was disposed to be voluble on 
 this matter, and he talked until Tom (know- 
 ing nothing of the language in which the 
 conversation was conducted) strolled to the 
 window, and, staring out on the street, fell 
 into a day-dream. He was startled from it 
 by the sudden slamming of the street-door, 
 and a second later he saw a famihar figure 
 — the figure of a girl whose skirts were 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 HEARTS. 
 
 blowing picturesquely in the wind, and who 
 bore a roll of music in her hand. 
 
 ' Look here, Mark,' he cried. ' Isn't that 
 little Azubah Moore ? You know ! The little 
 girl at the farm at home ? We used to play 
 ^vith her when we were lads together.' 
 
 ' By Jove, it is ! ' cried Mark, as the girl 
 turned for a moment to face the wind and 
 rearrange her dress. 
 
 'That is Caterina's pupil,' said the Itahan, 
 making an easy shot at the purport of their 
 talk. ' She will never sing. She has not the 
 volume or the compass.' 
 
 ' What does he say ? ' asked Tom, and 
 Mark translated. ' That's a matter of opinion,' 
 said Tom, nodding his head sagely, ' and all 
 the same, I'd sooner hear her than that rail- 
 way whistle in the next room. What on 
 earth made a singer marry a woman with a 
 voice like that?' 
 
 ' Marry ? ' cried Mark, smilingly. ' He's no
 
 HEARTS. 179 
 
 more married than I am. Buono giorno, 
 Sigiiora Malfi,' said Mark, as the lady entered, 
 and he advanced to meet her with outstretched 
 hands.
 
 :8o HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 The time of Baretti's stay was coming to an 
 end, and the portrait was all but finished. 
 Tom was back in the country and was over 
 every day to look at the growing beauties of 
 the picture, not being unmindful in the mean- 
 time of the charms of the picture's original. 
 If there might have been found in all broad 
 England a happy man, that man was Tom 
 Carroll. As he rode or walked between his 
 fathers house and Lording's on those bright 
 mornings and bracing nights, his heart welled 
 over with joy, and he carolled in the lonely 
 lanes like a throstle. A good heart, a good 
 digestion, lots of money, ambitions opening, 
 a sweetheart beautiful and kind, and the
 
 HEARTS. i8i 
 
 dearest friend man ever had in the world 
 — what more misjht he desire ? 
 
 And all the while love and friendship 
 were fighting in Baretti's heart, and making 
 wild work of it there. The little man was 
 sensitive of honour, and all his intensest 
 desires and the secret hopes he tried to ig- 
 nore were dishonom'able. 
 
 Mary knew of his approaching departure 
 from England, and sometimes spoke of it, 
 not knowing the pain she gave him. Baretti 
 was at work on the last Monday morning 
 of his stay, and he was touching and re- 
 touching the ripened beauties of his picture 
 with a lingering hand and a heart disposed 
 to linger. From the canvas, the work of 
 his own hands smiled upon him with how 
 perfect a beauty ! What is old Fairfax's 
 verse ? 
 
 Her hand, her foot, her vesture's hem. 
 Muse, touch not for polluting them 
 All that is hers is clear, pure, holy.
 
 1 82 HEARTS. 
 
 His brusli kissed her shoe upon the canvas 
 as his hps would have felt it too bold to 
 do in fact. The best worship he could offer 
 her seemed to soil her, for not only his love 
 but his friendship made her sacred. A double 
 passion made her doubly inaccessible, even 
 to his thoughts, and yet his thoughts were 
 rebels to his will and would assail her. And 
 she sat there the while, chatting and smiliag, 
 stooping to the friendliest intimacy, and hold- 
 ing him miles and miles away. 
 
 ' Mr. Carroll tells me,' she said, ' that you 
 have no friends left in Naples.' 
 
 ' None,' he answered. 
 
 ' And yet you suffer from home-sickness ? 
 Do you love the place so much ? ' He shook 
 his head and answered without looking at her. 
 
 ' I have a double reason for going. But 
 the reason I have given is light beside the 
 reason I have not given.' She did not answer 
 to this enigma, but looked at him with in-
 
 HEARTS. 183 
 
 quiriDg interest. ' A duty calls me there. 
 I can say nothing of it, except that it is 
 a duty, and a hard one. But in this Avorld 
 one does not always what is pleasant. Fate 
 brings you nasty mixtures and does not 
 care for your wry faces.' 
 
 ' ]^o,' she said assentingly. His sadness 
 and his resignation touched her, and her tone 
 was caught from his. 
 
 ' There is a friend of mine,' he went on, 
 mixing a delicate tint upon his palette, and 
 keeping his glance resolutely fixed upon it, 
 ' who did me a great service. I made a 
 promise to him in return. He does not 
 know of it yet, but I know that it is a 
 thing of life and death to him that I should 
 keep my promise now. I lose notliing by 
 it, but there are circumstances which make 
 it hard to keep.' 
 
 He had thought when he began that he 
 could trust himself to say so much and no
 
 1 84 HEARTS. 
 
 more, but a sudden terror fell upon him 
 lest he should betray his secret. He stopped 
 abruptly, and began to paint almost blind- 
 fold. There was silence for a minute or two, 
 and then he discovered that his work was 
 going wrong, and busied himself in restoring 
 it. 
 
 ' I must not pry into your secrets, Mr. 
 Baretti,' she said, after this pause, ' but it 
 is easy to see that you do not like the task 
 you are taking upon yourself. Are you quite 
 sure that duty calls you to it ? ' 
 
 ' My way is plain,' he answered. In an 
 Englishman his manner might have looked 
 a little over-dramatic here, but it was so 
 evidently real in him that it passed for pure 
 nature, as it was. ' I am bound by every 
 tie of honour and friendship.' He began to 
 feel a glow of strength and hope even as he 
 spoke. ' And if I were what a man should 
 be, I should not even feel a regret at doing
 
 HEARTS. 185 
 
 it. When I am in my right mind I shall 
 be glad that I have done it. It will be very 
 disagreeable to do, and I am like a child 
 who is offered medicine. That is all.' 
 
 ' Your friend does not know yet that he 
 needs your services ? ' she asked. If Mary 
 Lording had only known it, she herself was 
 going on a dangerous road. Her accepted 
 lover, whom she had known all her life, and 
 for whom she had a most sincere and tender 
 friendship, had never interested her as Baretti 
 did. But she had no time just now to stop 
 and analyse. 
 
 ' He will not know,' said the painter, turning 
 his face upon her. She read a look of exalta- 
 tion there which it was impossible for any man 
 to have feigned. The flashing eyes and hand- 
 some face were transfigured by that emotion 
 of friendship and the strength of soul by which 
 he repelled temptation. ' He would only know 
 that he had needed me and that I had broken
 
 i86 HEARTS, 
 
 faitli if I did not keep my word. And he is a 
 friend so true, with a heart so honest and kind, 
 that when I think that I have been afraid to be 
 a little uncomfortable when I do my duty, I 
 am ashamed — ashamed.' 
 
 She had never seen him in such a mood 
 before. Whatever the duty he had set himself 
 might be, it was plain enough that it entailed 
 more than a little discomfort, and his single- 
 heartedness roused her to a momentary flush 
 of enthusiasm. 
 
 'We shall all be sorry to lose you, Mr. 
 Baretti,' she said, ' but not one of your friends 
 will ask you to linger when you have such an 
 errand.' And she held out her hand like a 
 queen. Baretti dropped his brush, accepted 
 the proffered hand, and bowed above it. She 
 shook liands frankly like a man, and returned 
 to her seat. Baretti picked up the fallen brush, 
 and went on working, but she saw suddenly 
 that he was as pale as death, and somehow,
 
 HEARTS. 187 
 
 whether by instinct or by chance, she read his 
 fable througli and through, not as if by a guess, 
 but as if by the light of absolute certainty. 
 
 She was conscious enough of her beauty, 
 and Avas little to be blamed upon that score, 
 for, apart from the innocent vanity which leads 
 young people to think well of their own 
 attractions, she had had hers so dinned into her 
 ears by lovers who languished and lovers who 
 stormed and lovers who wrote verses, and 
 needy fortune-hunters who wanted money 
 and had no objection to taking a pretty wife 
 with a fortune, that she had more than the 
 ordinary excuses for a knowledge of her 
 charms. But she was a girl with a healthy 
 mind, and a heart that had room in it for much 
 more than the joy of being admired. Her first 
 conscious mental act was to repel the fancy, 
 but the fancy proved, sudden as it was, a fixed 
 belief, and w^ould not be repelled. Then a 
 pang of pity and sorrow touched her heart,
 
 1 88 HEARTS, 
 
 and then — was slie sorry ? For whom ? For 
 Tom — for Baretti — for herself? For a moment 
 she felt as a swimmer feels when he floats un- 
 suspectingly into a sudden, powerful eddy, and 
 finds himself rolled helplessly over and over. 
 
 She had never doubted her affection for 
 Tom Carroll, the steady growth of years of 
 intimacy and pleasant intercourse. It was not 
 the iove she had read of in plays and books, 
 and she had set down plays and books in her 
 own mind as exaggerative if not false. That she 
 could love a man whom she had not known 
 for more than two months was palpably pre 
 posterous and unnatural. That she could be 
 false to her dear old friend and newly-affianced 
 lover even in a thoui^ht was a thinc^ too absurd 
 to need to be refuted. Each of these mental 
 postulates stood unshakable, and yet — she sat 
 in sudden terror of herself. If the man loved 
 
 her ? She dared not face the result of that 
 
 inquiry.
 
 HEARTS. 189 
 
 Baretti, witli only self-possession enongh 
 left to know that he must still disguise himself, 
 turned away from the picture, and began to 
 scrape the colour from his palette. Mary 
 arose, and, trying to speak naturally, asked : — 
 
 'You can do without me for the present, 
 Mr. Baretti ? ' Her voice sounded strangely 
 unsympathetic and cold, alike on her own ears 
 and on his. 
 
 ' Thank you — yes,' he answered hoarsely ; 
 and not daring to commit herself to more words 
 she withdrew. ' I have betrayed myself,' said 
 Baretti, miserably. And then such a new 
 foolish battle began within him as you may 
 picture to yourself by the aid either of imagina- 
 tion or experience. First, he rejoiced to think 
 that at least she knew he worshipped her, and 
 then he was ashamed of his rejoicing. Then, 
 at least, his sufferings were known, and then 
 new shame rushed at him for that base hope. 
 But at last, and after no very prolonged spell at
 
 igo HEARTS. 
 
 this old and unprofitable exercise, he resolved : 
 'I will finish the picture and go, and in the 
 meantime I will keep out of her way.' So he 
 hardened his heart, and in spite of his pitiable 
 state, he set to work again. Storms of noble 
 shame and ignoble joy swept through him, and 
 there were moments when he could neither 
 think of his work nor see it, but he held on 
 resolutely in the main. There was so little to 
 do that but for his love for the theme and his 
 loyalty to his friend he could well have borne 
 to leave it undone, and two or three hours of 
 resolute labour saw him to the close. The 
 luncheon-bell rang, and he disregarded it. 
 Lording came up in person to look after him. 
 ' Too busy to come downstairs, Baretti ? ' 
 ' I shall have finished in half an hour,' he 
 answered ; ' I cannot leave it now.' Lording, 
 who had quite a superstitious reverence for his 
 guest's genius and its various urgencies, went 
 out on tiptoe, and excused Baretti to his guests
 
 HEARTS. 191 
 
 He liad to excuse his daughter also, for she 
 sent word that she was troubled by a headache, 
 and kept her room till dinner-time, though 
 Tom came over in the afternoon with only an 
 hour to spare, and rode away disappointed. 
 He drove over again in the evening, and found 
 her languid and unlike herself, but he was 
 better pleased that evening, in spite of the 
 lover-like fears that assailed him, than he had 
 ever been before in her society ; for she seemed 
 to cling to him, and was so sweet and kind, 
 and withal seemed for once so dependent on 
 him that he went home in a state of blissful 
 worship and security. It was natural, but 
 more than a little pitiful. The poor girl wanted 
 to make up to him for a second's infidelity, not 
 daring to guess that the whole course of her 
 life had changed, and the poor lad went away 
 flattered and enraptured until he scarce felt 
 mortal, and had no faintest notion that he had 
 seen the last flicker of love's little flame. In
 
 192 HEARTS. 
 
 two hearts friendship and honour struggled 
 against a passion that has vanquished both a 
 miUion times. But though love had conquered 
 one, the other had not yet capitulated, and 
 even in Baretti's case honour and friendship 
 were pilot and steersman, though passion com- 
 manded the craft. And between them they 
 played their captain false right staunchly, and 
 the little man went his way sore but resolute. 
 
 Baretti's unfortunate parable had been set 
 forth on a Monday ; the concert at which Tom's 
 work was to be played was one of a Wed- 
 nesday's series ; and on Tuesday from the two 
 houses of Carroll and Lording there was an 
 exodus. Thomas Carroll the elder, much as he 
 objected to Tom's appearance, was not insen- 
 sible to the flattering notice taken of the event 
 by the local county people, and notably by my 
 Lord Bellamy, who was an enthusiastic musical 
 amateur, and he had consented to go up to 
 London and listen to the performance. Lording
 
 HEARTS. 193 
 
 and Mary ^vere also going, though the girl 
 now began to feel exceedingly guilty and un- 
 happy. 
 
 ' My dear/ said the old fellow, addressing his 
 daughter an hour or two before the time fixed 
 for departure, ' I want you to do me a favour/ 
 
 She asked him somewhat uninterestedly 
 what it might be, and he, with a face of mystery, 
 drew from his waistcoat pocket a tiny morocco 
 case no bigger than a pill-box. This being 
 opened revealed a ring with a splendid diamond 
 set in it. 
 
 ' This is for Signor Baretti,' said Lording, 
 with a sly laugh. ' He painted that picture for 
 Tom, you know, and of course we can't let a 
 thing like that go unrecognised. Heaven only 
 knows what it's worth ! I'm sure I don't. A 
 thousand pounds, perhaps. Now, I want you 
 to give him this ring from me, and to ask him 
 to wear it as a memento of his visit and his 
 kindness.' 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Papa/ said the girl, with a look of wounded 
 indignation, ' how can you ask me to do such a 
 thing ? No, dear ; no.' 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! ' cried the old gentleman, 
 ' where's the impropriety? Never mind. There, 
 there. Never mind. I'll give it him myself. 
 Will you come with me ? ' 
 
 She assented lingeringly, and Lording, too 
 dull of perception to notice her manner, led the 
 way to the room Baretti had used as a studio. 
 The artist was putting up his brushes, and after 
 the manner of lovers, was making inward pro- 
 testations above the senseless things that had 
 been associated with his passion. He would 
 keep them till he died, and they should never 
 touch canvas any more, having once been glori- 
 fied by such a theme. But, indeed, as some of 
 us remember well enough, the slightest things 
 i^row sacred to a lover. 
 
 ' Signor Baretti,' said Lording, in his bluff, 
 hearty way, ' I've something here which I want
 
 HEARTS. 195 
 
 you to be good enough to accept as a little 
 memorial of your visit here. I hope youll 
 wear this for my sake, and that you'll think of 
 us sometimes when you look at it. It's not 
 much of a gift compared with the beautiful work 
 you're leaving behind you, but it's just a httle 
 souvenir of my daughter and myself, and we 
 shall both be very pleased if you'll accept it.' 
 
 The painter looked and felt embarrassed. 
 Compared with his host he was a very poor 
 man indeed, and the gift looked like a 
 payment. 
 
 ' Pray take it, Mr. Baretti,' said Mary. 
 
 ' I am very sensible of your kindness,' said 
 Baretti. ' I will never part with it.' He was 
 so obviously affected, though Lording had no 
 guess as to the real reason of his discomposure, 
 that the old gentleman himself found it neces- 
 sary to blow his nose, being, as he was, ex- 
 ceedingly susceptible to all sorts of friendly 
 emotion. 
 
 2
 
 196: HEARTS. 
 
 * Nice-hearted little fellow he is, to be sure,* 
 he said to his daughter a minute or two later, 
 ' Takes to people like a dog, doesn't he ? ' 
 
 It was scarcely the commendation Mary 
 would have chosen had she been in a mood to 
 commend him, but she said nothing, and went 
 away to superintend her maid's preparations for 
 the journey. 
 
 When the journey came it was a dull one. 
 Mr. Carroll had a pompous disapproval of its 
 object, and smiled superior above the age 
 which permitted a gentleman to play such 
 tricks with his position. Baretti and Mary 
 were silent, and Tom was crushed by his father. 
 The talk devolving chiefly on Lording, that ex- 
 cellent old fellow kept things going for awhile, 
 and at last went to sleep over his Times. The 
 painter left them at the London terminus, and 
 Avent to his chambers, taking his belongings 
 with him, hoping to breathe freely once again 
 and knowing his hope futile. The quartet went
 
 HEARTS. 197 
 
 to au hotel, and awaited the event which had 
 brought them all to town. 
 
 In spite of the energetic applause of Lording 
 and Baretti the ' Dream of Venice ' achieved 
 but a qualified success, and fell a little flat 
 upon the audience. On the morning after the 
 performance Mr. Carroll scanned the critiques 
 in tlie daily papers, and was confirmed in his 
 opinion that the pursuit of artistic honours was 
 unworthy of a gentleman. Nobody had ever 
 dared to make quite so free with the name of 
 Carroll as these anonymous and irresponsible 
 reviewers. None of them were warm and some 
 were frigid. ' If this young composer,' said the 
 Censor, ' desires to prosper in his profession, 
 and to secure the pubhc ear, he must,' &:c., &c. 
 
 ' Thomas,' said Mr. Carroll, witli a pitying 
 smile, ' read this, and tell me if a pursuit in 
 which your position is so liable to be misunder- 
 stood is a pursuit to be adopted by my son ? ' 
 
 Now Tom, although he was as good-natured
 
 198 HEARTS. 
 
 a young fellow and as submissive to paternal 
 authority as need be, was a little sore 
 that morning about several things. To begin 
 with, faint applause is as bad as downright 
 damnation to an ardent seeker of the arts, and 
 Tom had seen himself in fancy on the way to 
 Fame's pinnacle when the great Hoffmann 
 condescended to produce his work. The dis- 
 appointment was hard to bear. He had tasted 
 the last of his sweetheart's sweetness, for the 
 girl was beginning to be sore distraught in her 
 own mind, and seemed almost apathetic about 
 the whole matter, deeply as it concerned him. 
 Baretti had his own troubles to think about, and 
 sincere as his friendship was, and genuine his 
 belief in Tom's genius, his praise had sounded 
 forced and unreal. And so in his soreness 
 Tom answered his father disrespectfully for 
 the first time in this history or out of it. 
 
 'Position!' cried Tom. 'Good heavens, 
 sir, what is my position ? ' Mr. Carroll sighed
 
 HEARTS, 199 
 
 and smiled, with pitying eyebrows raised 
 
 again. 
 
 ' It has been the object of my hfe,' said Mr. 
 Carroll, neither in sorrow nor in anger, but 
 with a resigned allowance for his son's aberra- 
 tions, 'it has been the object of my life to 
 instil into you a proper understanding of that 
 position. The age is tending downwards, Tom, 
 and I am not so wanting in perspicuity that 1 
 cannot see it, or that I cannot allow for the 
 effect it has upon your conduct. But I am not 
 eager to see my son foremost in the race for 
 degradation.' 
 
 ' Degradation ! ' cried Tom hotly. 
 
 'Degradation was the word I used,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, with unusual severity of manner. 
 ' I will thank you not to echo my observations 
 in a tone which I can only characterise as 
 dishonouring to yourself and me.' 
 
 ' Will you kindly tell me what I have done, 
 sir?' asked Tom. There was a little of the
 
 2CO HEARTS. 
 
 old man's obstinacy and vanity in him, tliougli 
 his better qualities obscured them. 
 
 ' My dear Tom,' said his father, waving his 
 large white hands expressively. ' My dear Tom.' 
 He went with great deliberation through his 
 usual snuflf-box pantomime, and even got so 
 far as to raise the lid. He closed it with a 
 snap and restored it to his waistcoat -pocket. 
 ' Think the thing over, Tom,' he said, with the 
 nod of a man who is prepared to give another 
 a chance. ' I am not without faith in yoiu' 
 natural good-sense, and it is possible that last 
 night's fiasco may have taught you something.' 
 
 ' Fiasco ! ' said Tom. 
 
 'I repeat the word,' said his father. 
 ' When a gentleman stoops to such a proceed- 
 ing as yours of yesterday, nothing can atone 
 for it but the outstripping of all competitors.' 
 
 ' Forgive me, sir,' returned Tom, ' if I close 
 a discussion conducted in such terms.' He 
 left the room in a great heat, and that was the
 
 HEARTS. 20I 
 
 beginning of a quarrel between father and son 
 which left a certain estrangement, even when 
 the outer breach was healed. 
 
 The youngster was flinging out of the hotel 
 when he met Baretti. 
 
 'I have come to say good-bye to your 
 father and to Mr. Lording,' said the artist. 
 Tom turned back with him and led the way 
 to Lording's private sitting-room. Mary was 
 sitting with her father, and bade Baretti a 
 collected good-bye, and her manner, remember- 
 ing how close they had been together for the 
 last month and more, was more cool than 
 courteous. The ordeal was a severe one for 
 Baretti, but he had schooled himself to go with 
 it, and he gave no sign which anybody but the 
 girl could read. Mr. Carroll that evening 
 returned to Trench House, and Lording and 
 Mary also left London. Nobody felt in very 
 high spirits, and even Lording was dashed by 
 Tom's succes d'estime.
 
 202 HEARTS, 
 
 It was evening when the disappointed 
 musician returned to his own chambers in 
 Montague Gardens. He sat moodily by the 
 fire for an hour, and heard Baretti packing 
 overhead. By-and-by, remembering how sad 
 and woebegone the httle man seemed at leaving 
 England, in spite of his home-sickness, Tom's 
 good heart began to warm again. He would 
 go and cheer his friend a little. His slippered 
 feet made no noise upon the stair, and Baretti's 
 door was ajar. He pushed it wide, and enter- 
 ing, stood amazed and solicitous. The painter, 
 in his velvet sacque and his gay slippers, was 
 kneehng at a great arm-chair with his head 
 buried in the cushion, and his whole frame was 
 shaking with sobs, though he gave scarcely a 
 sound. Tom backed out, gently drew the 
 door to its old position, and went silently down- 
 stairs. 
 
 'He has some trouble of which I know 
 nothing,' said Tom to himself. And as the
 
 HEARTS, 203 
 
 thought crossed him, the painter rose from his 
 knees in the room above. He had been kneel- 
 ing over Mary Lording's picture, the first sketch 
 for the portrait, and the beautiful face 
 glimmered imcertainly through the tears which 
 had fallen from his eyes upon it. There are 
 more ways of being strong than one, and 
 Baretti's was the weak way. The weak, 
 unwise, little fellow kissed the picture and 
 locked it away in one of his portmanteaus. 
 He was never cut out for a hero, and it was 
 hard to run away from the delight of her 
 presence. But if he were not true to Tom 
 Carroll, friendship was a farce, and there was 
 no such thing as honour in the world.
 
 204 HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' Tom,' said Mark, comfortably lolling in 
 Tom's most comfortable arm-chair, and smoking 
 one of Tom's cigars, 'why don't you learn 
 Italian ? It has always been a wonder to me 
 that you never went in for it.' 
 
 ' I ought to know it,' said Tom. ' Every- 
 body who goes for music ought to know 
 Italian.' 
 
 ' Then why not learn it? ' asked Mark. 
 
 'Oh, I don't krow,' said Tom, with a 
 diso-usted look. ' Such a lot of trouble.' , 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Mark, ' a mere distraction. 
 I'll tell you how to do it pleasantly. Come 
 and sit at the Signora's lessons. You'll help 
 her English and she your Italian.'
 
 HEARTS, 205 
 
 ' Well, I don't altogether care,' Tom 
 answered, after a little pause, ' I don't alto- 
 gether care about mixing with people of that 
 sort. Unmarried ladies who reside with 
 married men who live apart from their wives 
 are not much in ray line.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' said Mark. ' My dear Tom, the 
 maxims you cherish would have served admira- 
 bly for your grandmother to work on samplers. 
 There never w^ere any wicked ages and there 
 never were any moral ages in spite of all the 
 hes historians tell. There have been ages w^hen 
 what is called Vice — which would do very well 
 for Virtue if it changed its name — has been 
 hidden, ages in which it has been published, 
 and ages in which it has been condoned. This 
 is an age in which it is condoned. Pardon me, 
 my dear Tom,' continued Mark, with his own 
 characteristic smile, ' if I seem to assume a 
 clerical tone with you. You are very young for 
 your years, Tom. Your heart is fresh and in- 

 
 2o6 HEARTS, 
 
 genuous, and your memory is faithM to the 
 , traditions of the past. You remember your 
 copy-book morals. And what the deuce, my 
 dear fellow,' cried Mark, rising to his feet, and 
 taking his cousin by the shoulders, ' what the 
 deuce have we to play at age for ! Crabbed 
 age and youth cannot live together. Shake off 
 dull care and come with me. A young eye 
 beneath a grey eyebrow is a prettier thing than 
 a grey head on- young shoulders. And, all 
 nonsense apart, old fellow, you'll do me a good 
 turn. I am the sort of man who, all nonsense 
 apart, generally wants somebody to do him a 
 good turn.' 
 
 ' How ? ' said Tom. You had only to put 
 it to this foolish young fellow that you needed 
 a good turn and he was at your service 
 instanter. 
 
 ' Well,' returned Mark, ' I'm not vainer 
 than my neighbours. It's no tribute to good 
 looks, for ugly men have as good fortune as
 
 HEARTS, 207 
 
 handsome men, and sometimes better. It's no 
 tribute to my wit, for the dear creatures abso- 
 lutely prefer to fall in love with fools. It says 
 nothing for my moral character. I'm not 
 proud about it. It's a confounded nuisance in 
 point of fact, and I'm simply unable to help it. 
 The Signora, Tom, has taken it into her Italian 
 head to fall in love with her English master, 
 and I'm a little bit afraid of her. I thought 
 you might like to learn Italian, and I thought 
 that while you did so I might secure a little 
 immunity from danger. You see, I can't give 
 up the lessons very well until I have fulfilled 
 my promise. It doesn't matter. If I get an 
 Italian dagger between my ribs, you'll see me 
 decently buried, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' I don't mind coming,' said Tom, ' though 
 the idea of having you to chaperon is a httle 
 droll, isn't it ? When are you going next ? ' 
 
 ' This afternoon,' returned Mark, ' if you 
 can come. But not otherwise, for a thousand
 
 2o8 HEARTS. 
 
 pounds. She lias wonderful eyes, Tom, 
 and when she plants her elbow on the 
 table and drops her chin into the palm of 
 her hand and languishes at me for half a 
 minute at a time in the middle of the verb 
 " To Love," it's a little dangerous. Confess 
 it?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Tom. The Signora's 
 bold black eyes had no charm for Tom. There 
 was only one woman in the world for him. 
 
 ' You would know,' said Mark, laughing, 
 ' if you tried it.' 
 
 *I'm not so sure of that, either,' Tom 
 responded. ' I don't think I'm very sus- 
 ceptible to that sort of thing.' 
 
 ' I am,' said Mark, laughing again. ' But 
 you'll come, won't you ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I'll come,' said Tom. ' But where's 
 the Signor all this time? Why doesn't he 
 look after the lady ? ' 
 
 ' Well, he's a curious fellow,' answered
 
 HEARTS. 209 
 
 Mark. ' He's not jealous on the surface. He 
 goes about and takes his own hberty a good 
 deal and leaves her to take hers. But if he 
 had a thought that things were going wrong, 
 he's the sort of man to be on the spot with 
 bowl and dagger in a minute. I'm glad you've 
 promised to come, though there are only ten 
 lessons more on the programme. By that 
 time you'll have warmed to the work, and I'll 
 go on with you at any times you like to men- 
 tion until you've finished. It's a pretty 
 tongue. 
 
 " I like tlie language — that soft bastard Latin, 
 That melts like kisses from a female mouth." ' 
 
 And Mark began to spout Italian verses. Tom 
 listened, tranquilly amused. 
 
 ' You pretend to be a cynic, Mark,' he 
 said ; ' and yet you're crammed with innocent 
 enthusiasms.' 
 
 ' Am I not ? ' cried Mark, with his own 
 smile. ' What a complex creature the human 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2IO HEARTS. 
 
 animal is, isn't he, Tom ? Come, we'll lunch 
 somewhere together and then drop down 
 stream to the Signora's.' 
 
 Tom was not altogether at his ease, but 
 after all, the thing was a trifle, and Mark was 
 very right in the main. Nobody seemed to 
 think so much of one's associates now as they 
 had used to do. The idea of having Mark to 
 take care of tickled him a good deal, and he 
 was pretty sure that some companionship 
 seemed necessary or Mark would not have 
 asked for it. 
 
 ' If I were a humbug,' said Mark, after 
 luncheon, ' I should draw out my purse and 
 make a lingering pretence of paying the bill. 
 I should then discover that I had left my last 
 five-pound note at home. JSTot being a humbug 
 I confess my poverty. IIow devilish nice it 
 must be to have money always ! Were you 
 ever in want of a sovereign, Tom ? ' 
 
 ' Many a time when I was at school,' said 
 Tom ; ' but not since.'
 
 HEARTS. 211 
 
 ' Lucky dog ! ' cried Mark. * Pay up, old 
 man, and we'll make a start. I won't smoke 
 restaurant cigars whilst you have one of those 
 Principales in your case. Thanks.' 
 
 The two cousins strolled calmly in the 
 bright winter afternoon to the residence of 
 Signor Malfi, and there went through the 
 Italian-English lesson. The whole affair was 
 severely business-like until the end, and the 
 Signora made no eyes at Mark. But when 
 they were preparing to go the lady suddenly 
 addressed Mark in her own tongue. 
 
 ' Your companion,' she said, suavely, ' will 
 not understand one word of what I am saying ? * 
 
 ' Xot a word,' responded Mark. ' You 
 may be quite sure of that, if you speak rapidly.' 
 
 ' Then why did you bring him here ? ' she 
 demanded. ' The poor, slow, stupid innocent ! ' 
 
 'Will you allow me to explain another 
 time ? ' asked Mark. ' I have very good 
 reasons.' 
 
 p 2
 
 212 HEARTS. 
 
 ' You will be there to-night ? ' said the 
 Signora. 
 
 ' Without fail,' Mark answered. ' You have 
 been angry all the afternoon without cause. 
 But I like you best when you are angry. 
 Anger becomes you. There is nothing that 
 does not become you, and you make darkness 
 fair.' 
 
 ' You are a mocker,' cried the lady, gaily. 
 ' Go now, but do not bring the stupid inno- 
 cent any more. Good-bye.' She turned to 
 Tom and addressed him in her liquid, pretty, 
 broken English. ' It is pleasure to see you 
 here, sir. 1 hope you will come often with 
 Mistare Carroll.' 
 
 Tom shook hands and protested he was 
 very happy, with little more sincerity than 
 the Signora herself displayed. 
 
 ' What had she to say to you in Italian ? ' 
 he asked, when they were clear of the house. 
 
 ' Well, to tell the truth,' said Mark, turn-
 
 HEARTS. 213 
 
 ing a smiling face upon him, ' she asked me 
 not to bring you again, presumably because 
 you interfered with her love-making. But you 
 won't desert an old chum on that account, 
 will you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Tom, disgustedly, ' cut the lessons 
 altogether. Bother the woman, with her 
 painted eyes and her painted eyebrows and 
 her confounded patchouli ! ' 
 
 'My dear Tom,' returned Mark, taking his 
 cousin's arm and speaking in a serious tone, 
 ' you know me well. You know that I make 
 no pretence to be a moral fellow, and that 
 I'm not given to atone for sins I am inclined 
 to by damning those I have no mind to. Very 
 well. I have made a faithful promise here, 
 and in return for that promise — which was 
 made before I saw any danger in it — have 
 received certain favours. Small things, all of 
 them — boxes at the theatres and that sort 
 of thing — but something to a poor man like
 
 214 HEARTS. 
 
 me. I have accepted these and I have made 
 a promise. Now, I'm not a particular fellow, 
 but I must keep a promise. Leave me a rag 
 of virtue, Tom ! ' 
 
 'You are welcome to all you have,' Tom 
 answered, lightly, ' but get the thing over as 
 soon as you can, and then drop it. I wish 
 you'd find some other victim than myself.' 
 
 ' See me through it, Tom,' said Mark, 
 almost appealingly ; ' your virtue in this in- 
 stance is its ow^n reward. She is really a very 
 cultivated woman, though I cannot guess how 
 she and Malfi came together, and she has 
 a beautiful accent. And it's thoroughly worth 
 your while to learn.' 
 
 Tom assented, much against his will. His 
 objections to the charming Signora were un- 
 forced and genuine. The lad was in love, 
 and Love taught him to nurse a lofty ideal 
 of all feminine worth. He thought of Mary 
 Lording's innocent though imperious beauty,
 
 HEARTS, 215 
 
 and lie unconsciously set beside her this flaring, 
 painted Southern woman — a tea-rose beside an 
 overblown holly-hock. And Tom was one 
 of those young men — rarer nowadays than 
 they should be — who find in purity a woman's 
 crowning charm, and see in Virtue a something 
 so sweet and majestic that it brings them almost 
 to their knees. 
 
 With him, to think of Mary was pretty 
 generally to think of his own unworthiness of 
 so much grace and goodness, and now that 
 his failure had humbled him without overmuch 
 dispiriting him, to think of his unworthiness 
 was immediately to resolve on being worthy. 
 There seemed at such times only one way of 
 deserving her. She sat side by side with his 
 art, and if he could but once climb so high as 
 to clasp the knees of his Goddess of Music, 
 he were high enough to touch the hem of his 
 sweetheart's vestal garment also. In such a 
 mood he went home and locked himself in for
 
 2i6 HEARTS, 
 
 study. Midnight found him slaving away at 
 a chorus of revellers for the opening of the 
 second act of his opera, and he was on fire 
 with his theme and could hear the voices peal- 
 ing, and the trumpets snarling, and the noise 
 of fiddle and flute and hautboy and the rest, 
 all dashing onward in one sparkling cataract 
 of sound. 
 
 Cousin Mark that evening grilled a chop 
 in his own chambers, opened a small bottle 
 of claret, and took his frugal dinner alone. 
 Then he made a cup of coffee, lit a cigar, and 
 surrendered himself awhile to pleasant medi- 
 tation. The cigar being finished, he cleared 
 away, placing the soiled table utensils in readi- 
 ness for the morning laundress, and having 
 banked up the fire, assumed his hat and coat. 
 He was standing in the hah with his finger on 
 the key of the gashght there, when a faint 
 tap sounded at the outer door. He stepped 
 forward on tiptoe and made a reconnoissance
 
 HEARTS. 217 
 
 through an ahnost imperceptible sht cunningly 
 cut through the door at the deepest sinking of 
 the panel. There were duns in the world, 
 as Mark (being not merely a poor man but 
 averse to parting with money when he had it) 
 knew to the cost of comfort. This was a late 
 hour for a common business dun, but there 
 were plenty of people whom he would rather 
 avoid meeting than meet. 
 
 The stairs and the landing were but dimly 
 lighted, and he could not make out much of 
 his visitor until, after tapping a second time, 
 the figure retired a little to look up at the gaslit 
 fanlight above his door. Then he knew it ; and 
 opening the door, stood hat in hand before the 
 Signora. 
 
 'Caterinal* he said, raising his eyebrows 
 with a singular smile. 'This is indiscreet, is 
 it not?' 
 
 ' It matters little,' she answered, ' whether 
 I am discreet or not. Let me in, Marco.'
 
 2i8 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Certainly/ he said, ' if you wish it. But 
 remember I have never asked this of you/ 
 
 ' I know it,' she answered, as she passed 
 him. ' I am cold. You have a fire, have you 
 not ? ' 
 
 ' There is a fire in the sitting-room,' he 
 said, closing the outer door and waving her 
 along the hall. She entered the room and he 
 followed. 
 
 ' Marco,' she said, reproachfully, ' I had 
 expected a little warmer welcome.' 
 
 ' My love,' he answered, ' I am so surprised 
 to see you here ! What shall I do to show 
 how glad I am to see you ? Pray sit down 
 whilst I stir the fire. We shall have a fine 
 blaze presently. Now, let me take off your 
 cloak.' 
 
 ' No,' she said, coldly, ' I can help myself.' 
 She escaped from his too solicitous attention, 
 and removing her hat, stood to arrange her 
 hair before the mantelpiece mirror. Then
 
 HEARTS. 219 
 
 with a single motion she shppecl from her 
 cloak and threw it over a chair. 
 
 There are more ideals than one in the 
 world, and in spite of Tom Carroll's cordial 
 distaste for her, the Signora was imdonbtedly 
 a fine woman in her way. A subdued light 
 was favourable to her, and the o^aslio;ht was 
 low. The fire began to flicker a little, and 
 to light up her cheek, and her ripe lips and 
 bright eyes, and to lay sudden flashes of gold- 
 colour on the lights of the coal-black hair. 
 Mark was something of a connoisseur in female 
 charms, as has been said already, and he 
 thought the Signora had never looked to so 
 much advantage since he had known her. He 
 was too much of an artist in his own way 
 to desire to spoil the colouring of the picture. 
 
 'Do you find this half-light pleasant?' he 
 asked. ' Pray sit down. I think nothing 
 more charming than firelight.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, ' I have heard of that
 
 220 HEARTS. 
 
 as one of your English tastes. But, Marco, 
 do not let us talk of trivialities. I am in need 
 of sympathy. I am unhappy, Marco, unhappy, 
 most unhappy.' 
 
 ' Tell me your sorrows,' said Mark, in 
 his softest voice. He really spoke Italian 
 amazingly well for an Englishman, and his 
 voice was round and musical. She was still 
 unseated, and he approached her. 
 
 ' Can I trust you ? ' she asked. ' Say 
 nothing. I have had experience enough of 
 vows, and I know what they mean. Let me 
 look at you. Let me see your face whilst I 
 speak to you.' 
 
 She moved suddenly, and turned the gas 
 to its full heiiJ^ht. 
 
 'A moment, my dearest,' said Mark, turn- 
 ing the lights down a little. ' I am a poor 
 man, and cannot afford to crack even a gas- 
 globe wantonly. Now I am ready for inspec- 
 tion. Do you think I look honest ? '
 
 HEARTS. 221 
 
 His voice had something of reproach in it 
 and his 'face was serious, though he bubbled 
 with mirth beneath his mask of earnestness. 
 'If you knew how much better you look in 
 a more subdued light, my dear,' he said to 
 himself, ' you might spare your face an ordeal. 
 You don't need to rouge, but Tom was right, 
 and the eyes and eyebrows are a little assisted 
 by art.' He wore a tender and appealing look 
 whilst he thought thus, and stood with his hands 
 reaching a little forward, as if to say, 'Look 
 your fill. There is nothing but honesty here.' 
 
 ' Marco,' she said, ' you look honest : and 
 you have sworn over and over again that you 
 love me.' 
 
 ' Love you ! ' he answered ; ' I Avorship the 
 ground you tread upon ! ' 
 
 ' Odd,' said the real Mark Carroll, lauo-hinor 
 under his mask. ' They don't believe it, and 
 yet they like to be told so. Human nature 
 loves to be humbuc^ored.'
 
 222 HEARTS, 
 
 ' I think,' she said, ' I tliink I can believe 
 you.' 
 
 ' Beheve me ? ' cried Mark, ' I am simple 
 honesty itself! ' 
 
 ' An Israelite indeed,' added the inward 
 Mark, ' in whom there is no guile.' 
 
 ' Tito's jealousy and harshness grow beyond 
 control and beyond endurance. But I have 
 no friends and no money, and I am in a 
 foreign land, and you know what lies before 
 me if I leave him. Can I trust you to be 
 kind and good to me always? No, Marco, 
 no ! I shall be plain and middle-aged very 
 soon, and then I shall have no charm for you.' 
 
 Mark turned abruptly to hide the smile 
 which would crease his lips and sparkle in 
 his eyes in spite of all his efforts. He carried 
 off the effect of that abrupt avoidance of her 
 glance by pacing with an angry-looking jerk in 
 his step once up and down the room. 
 
 ' There is no faith in a woman's heart,'
 
 HEARTS. 223 
 
 he said, when again he stood before her. 
 ' None.' 
 
 ' Marco,' said the Signora, plaintively, ' I 
 would willingly have faith in something. 
 I would wilhngly believe that love is not 
 altogether a vision, a dream, a mockery.' 
 
 Xow the amazing part of the business 
 was that this Italian young person (who had 
 seen a good deal of the very worst side of the 
 world, and had learned to be wise, and had 
 been taught over and over again the folly of 
 staking gold against counters) was absolutely 
 in earnest. It was all good fun to Mark, of 
 course. If a pretty woman chose to throw 
 herself at Mark's head he was not the man 
 to say her nay. The dear creatures had 
 strange ways, and above, all things in the 
 world they loved to be humbugged. Well ; 
 he had no objection to giving them their own 
 way so long as it cost nothing but a little 
 play-acting.
 
 224 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Caterina,' he said, ' if I were a wealthy 
 man — if I could offer you a home befitting 
 your own divine charms — would you scrutinise 
 my motives in this way ? But because I am 
 poor you doubt me.' 
 
 ' Will you let me share your poverty, 
 Marco ? ' she asked, passionately. ' I could 
 be good with you. I could be at peace 
 again. I would be true to you. I would work 
 for you. I do not want fine clothes. I do 
 not want fine rooms. I can do without all 
 those things. I only want a little love, Marco, 
 a little kindness, a httle peace. And since I 
 have known what love is, Tito is hateful to me.' 
 
 She swept her gloved hand across her eyes, 
 ai:d Mark stole an arm about her waist. Up 
 to now the Signora had furnished very good 
 sport to Mark, but here the game had turned 
 to bay, and, he himself seemed likely to be 
 hunted. 
 
 ' Mia carissima,' said Mark, tenderly, ' you
 
 HEARTS. 225 
 
 know I love you. A passion like mine is not 
 to be doubted. No woman ever lived who 
 would not recognise a tenderness so devoted. 
 You know it. Your own heart tells you that I 
 love you. But you propose a thing impossible 
 — at least for the present. Let us meet when 
 we may. Let us extract what moments of 
 sweetness from the bitter hours we can.' 
 
 ' You love me,' she cried, ' and yet you bid 
 me go back to Tito! No, no, Marco. That 
 is not the love I want. I want peace, Marco — 
 peace and rest — the peace and rest you 
 promised me. Not that.' 
 
 ' We must wait for that,' said Mark, sooth- 
 ingly. ' I am so poor, Caterina, that I can 
 scarcely provide for myself, and if I accepted 
 the generous offer of your foolish heart we 
 should both starve together.' 
 
 ' If I go back to Tito,' she flashed at him, 
 suddenly, 'I stay with him for ever. I hate 
 him, and my life is all a lie with him, but I 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 HEARTS, 
 
 will not live a double lie. Oh, I hate all 
 the world — myself — and you, because I love 
 you so/ 
 
 ' Let her have her head,' said Mark, with 
 inward quiet, though he feigned to be per- 
 turbed and pretended to soothe her. 'She'll 
 race herself out of breath in a little while. 
 We've had thunder and lightning enough,' he 
 went on, with a change of simile, ' here comes 
 the rain. In half an hour we shall have 
 clear skies again.' 
 
 If it had been possible to sit down in 
 shelter, and to smoke whilst the tempest raged, 
 Mark felt that the situation would have been 
 passable. But it was a decided nuisance to 
 have to make love to a crying woman whose 
 eyes were actually growing smeary whilst she 
 wept. 
 
 ' She doesn't guess what a face she's 
 making,' said Mark. ' But I shall at least 
 have the advantage of seeing her au naturel
 
 HEARTS, 227 
 
 when the paiut is all gone. It can't last long 
 at this rate.' And all the while he was sooth- 
 ing her and patting her hand, and making 
 the most chivalrous love in the world. 
 
 ' No, Marco,' she said at length, ' you do 
 not love me. You do not care to be alone 
 with me.' 
 
 ' Caterina ! ' said Mark, upbraidingly. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' you do not, or why should 
 you have brought that stupid innocent this 
 afternoon. If it had not been for him I 
 should not have been angry, and then I 
 should not have quarrelled with Tito, and then 
 I should not have come here to scold and cry. 
 Why did you bring him ? ' 
 
 ' Caterina,' said Mark, * listen to me and 
 
 be reasonable. Tito is growing jealous., and 
 
 I brought my cousin as a blind. I am not 
 
 very much of a coward, but if Signer Malfi 
 
 is to be hanged at all I prefer that he should 
 
 be hanged for killing somebody else.' 
 
 q2
 
 238 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Do you think Tito guesses that you love 
 me ? ' she asked. 
 
 'I know it,' he answered, scarcely able 
 to suppress a smile. The swarthy Signor's 
 jealousy was a httle more urgent than Mark's 
 affection. Mark knew that, and he had a 
 keen sense of humour. 
 
 'Marco,' cried the Signora, 'he is dan- 
 gerous.' 
 
 As the words left her lips there came a 
 loud knocking at the door, and she sj)rang to 
 her feet with a suppressed scream. 
 
 ' Be quiet,' said Mark, calmly. He kicked 
 off his shoes and crept out to reconnoitre, and 
 when he came back he was a trifle pale. 
 ' Tito ! ' he said in a whisper, and the Signora 
 looked about her like one in deadly terror. 
 ' You are safe enough,' said Mark, seizing her 
 by the shoulders and shaking her pretty sharply 
 to bring her to herself. ' Come this way. 
 Step lightly. Take off your shoes. Now take
 
 HEARTS. 229 
 
 them in your hand. This way.' He himself 
 seized her hat and cloak, and stepping like a 
 ghost, led the way into the hall. The main 
 door opened upon a double set of chambers, 
 one of wliich was empty and unlet. Mark, 
 who hked to know things, had found that one 
 of his keys fitted the lock, and being as cool 
 as a cucumber in this somewhat awkward 
 strait (directly the first shock was over), he 
 called this fact to mind and utilised it. There 
 was another loud knocking at the outer door 
 as Mark stooped to apply his key. He took 
 advantage of the noise to move quickly, and 
 thrustinor the Si^-nora into the cold darkness of 
 the next hall, he closed the door, whipped back 
 into his own room on tiptoe, pulled on his 
 slippers, threw off his overcoat, hastily dis- 
 ordered his hair before the mirror, and walked 
 out to meet his visitor. 
 
 He opened the door, and casting both 
 arms in the air, yawned portentously.
 
 230 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Is that you, Malfi ? ' lie asked in a sleepy 
 voice. ' Ugh ! How cold it is. Come in. I 
 am glad to see you. One gets diabolically dull 
 of an evening sitting all alone, and I must 
 have fallen asleep. I heard a knocking and 
 dreamed that I was at the siege of Sevastopol.'
 
 HEARTS, 231 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The swarthy fat man looked hard at Mark 
 and hstened to his speech without reply. 
 His breathing was thick and heavy, though 
 Mark had given him ample time to recover 
 from any bodily distress the mounting of the 
 stairs may have caused him. The barrister 
 cast his arms abroad afresh and yawned as 
 if he would fall in pieces, and the singer 
 still stared hard at him without a word. 
 
 ' Come in,' said Mark, with admirable 
 calmness. ' Don't stand there in the cold.' 
 
 Signor Malfi without a word walked in 
 and Mark closed the door behind him. 
 
 ' Is there anything the matter ? ' asked 
 Mark, appearing suddenly to notice the sin-
 
 232 HEARTS. 
 
 gular pallor which lay on the singer's dark 
 skin, and the remarkable expression of his 
 eyes. Malfi looked round the room delibe- 
 rately and his stertorous breathing sounded 
 noisily distinct in the silence of the place. 
 ' Why man,' cried Mark, ' you look as if you 
 had seen a ghost.' 
 
 Signor Malfi surveyed him darkly for a 
 moment, and still without a word took up a 
 candlestick which stood upon the mantel-shelf, 
 and set it upon the table. Mark saw that his 
 hand shook slightly as he drew a case of vestas 
 from his pocket, and striking one of the 
 matches, held its flame to the wick of the 
 candle. As a matter of course Mark knew 
 what was going to happen, but he was not 
 such a fool as not to be downright amazed by 
 the Itahan's proceedings. 
 
 ' My dear Malfi,' said Mark, in w^ell-acted 
 wonder and commiseration, 'what is the 
 matter ? What can I do for you ? '
 
 HEARTS. 233 
 
 Sio^iior Main threw the vesta into the fire, 
 took up the candlestick, and walked into the 
 hall, Mark following. The singer having 
 examined the fastenings of the door, shot the 
 two bolts, which had almost rusted into the 
 sockets with long disuse. 
 
 ' Are you mad ? ' said Mark, seizing him by 
 the shoulder. ' Speak. Tell me what is the 
 matter, and what you want ? ' 
 
 ' I shall find what I want,' said Signer 
 Malfi, opening his lips for the first time, and 
 nodding at the barrister with a wicked look. 
 
 The Signora heard the shriek of the rusty 
 bolts, lieard Mark's questions and Malfi's 
 answer, and scarcely dared to breathe as she 
 listened, crouching behind the door. 
 
 ' Come, now,' said Mark, with the air of a 
 man who is beginning to find it hard to keep 
 his temper. ' What do you want? If my 
 opinion is worth anything you want a strait- 
 waistcoat.'
 
 234 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Come with me,' said Malfi, looking at him 
 with half-closed eyes. ' I will show you what 
 I want.' 
 
 He walked back along the hall, and 
 stooping at the sitting-room door found a 
 key in the lock. He closed the door and 
 turned the key, and then, light in hand, 
 made for the little kitchen where the laundress 
 left her work undone as a matter of daily 
 routine. 
 
 ' You madman ! ' cried Mark. ' Stand 
 still.' He swung the Italian round and looked 
 at him with searching inquiry. ' Tell me what 
 you want,' he said, slowly and deliberately, as 
 if to carry understanding to a mind not easily 
 apprehensive of ideas. ' Tell me what you 
 want, or I shall have to call for the police and 
 see you taken care of. You must know that 
 you are not acting like a man who is in 
 possession of his faculties. Now,' gently and 
 coaxingly, ' what do you want ? '
 
 HEARTS. 235 
 
 ' Bah ! ' said Malfi, with a sudden flash of 
 light in his sickly, half-closed eyes. ' Do not 
 play Avith me. Let me go. Oh, yes, yes, yes, 
 yes, yes ! Your eyes are made to look honest 
 enough, but I can see the lie behind them. 
 Let me go.' 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' asked Mark. ' What 
 do you mean by walking into my apartments 
 in this way ? Tell me. I will endure no more 
 of this folly/ 
 
 'My good friend,' returned Signor Malfi, 
 with a very singular smile, ' you will endure me 
 until I have made my search and have found 
 what I want. When that is done I will go, 
 but not before.' 
 
 Mark cast his hands abroad in a sort of 
 resigned desperation. 
 
 ' Very well,' he said. ' You must have 
 your way, I suppose. What do you want to 
 look for ? Where do you expect to find it ? 
 Go on and have done with it. Mad ! ' said
 
 236 HEARTS. 
 
 Mark in an inward-sounding voice. Mad ! 
 quite mad ! ' 
 
 ' You are a very good actor,' said Signor 
 Malfi, nodding at him. Something of the look 
 of certainty the Itahan's face had hitherto 
 worn faded from it as Mark returned his gaze. 
 With nearly all men the assumption of a 
 facial expression begets an answering inward 
 emotion. The genuine pretender is more 
 easily affected in this way than another, and 
 Mark had now so long been looking amaze- 
 ment at his visitor that he almost bes^an to 
 feel it. He only waved his hands in answer as 
 if to say tliat this obvious madman must be 
 borne with and humoured for a moment. 
 
 Malfi pushed by him with a look of 
 Renewed decision, and Mark followed, in- 
 terrupting him no more, but standing re- 
 signedly by. The Italian's search was 
 complete enough, but it led to nothing. He 
 prowled over the whole place, candlesti'.;k in
 
 HEARTS. 237 
 
 hand, and the owner of tlie chambers, having 
 lit a cigarette by this time, followed him with 
 an aspect of resigned boredom, as of one who 
 had given up wonder. 
 
 ' Now will you tell me what you wanted ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' Where have you hidden her ? ' demanded 
 Malfi, with an ugly coolness. 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mark, ' there is a lady in the 
 case ! My good sir, I am not so honoured or 
 so blest as to have a lady in these poor rooms 
 of mine just now. Pray complete your search 
 if you are still unconvinced. Take your time, 
 and do not allow me to stand at all in your 
 way.' 
 
 So saying he sat down in the arm-chair, 
 threw himself comfortably back into it and 
 crossed his legs. 
 
 ' Where have you hidden her ? ' asked 
 Malfi again, with the same threatening quietude 
 of manner.
 
 238 HEARTS, 
 
 , ' My good friend,' said Mark. ' My rooms 
 are perfectly open to you, and you may look 
 through them until you are satisfied. As a 
 mere affair of detail, I should like to know of 
 whom you are in search. Do I know the 
 ladyP' 
 
 ' This once,' said Malfi, ' you have baffled 
 me. But you have not changed my mind, and 
 what I knew before I came here I know still. 
 I shall go now ' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' said Mark, sweetly. 
 
 ' But before I go I will tell you that I am 
 not a man to be played with. If I killed you 
 here in England they would hang me, and I 
 do not want to be hanged. You will do me a 
 favour, therefore, if you will keep out of my 
 way.' 
 
 ' You do yourself less than justice,' 
 answered Mark, with his sinister smile. Easily 
 as he seemed to take it all, he watched the 
 Italian as a cat a mouse, and stretching
 
 HEARTS, 239 
 
 out a lazy hand to a little drawer in his 
 writing desk, he drew out a toy revolver. 
 ' Signor Malfi,' he said playing with the pistol 
 as he spoke, * I should be a fool if I pretended 
 not to understand you clearly. I should not 
 be a man of honour if I treated you simply 
 with the contempt your conduct deserves, and 
 left you to the misery of your own mad fancies. 
 It is likely enough that you will not believe 
 me, but I declare — not for your sake but for 
 hers — that I am innocent of any design against 
 your domestic peace — that I esteem your wife 
 too highly to approach her with any other 
 sentiments than those of respect and friend- 
 ship.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Malfi. ' It is not difficult to lie.' 
 He moved towards the door, speaking loudly. 
 ' And if she is within reach of my voice, as I 
 believe she is, she will know, as you know, 
 that I am a dangerous man to cross. 
 
 ' You are an amusing vagabond,' said Mark
 
 240 HEARTS. 
 
 lightly, as he rose to follow hhn. ' Goocl-night. 
 If I am troubled by you in future I shall apply 
 to the police — not for protection — but for 
 delivery from a nuisance. On the other hand, 
 Signor, you may rely upon me to trouble your 
 domestic bliss no further. May I ask you 
 to draw back the bolts ? Thank you. Good- 
 night. Allow me to turn up the gas a little. 
 You may find the stairs dark, and I would not 
 willingly disappoint your friend the hangman. 
 Good-night.' 
 
 To all this Signor Malfi answered not 
 one word, and Mark, closing the door behind 
 him, set his eye to the narrow crevice at 
 the top of the lower panel and watched his 
 burly figure as he went downstairs. Then, 
 after a little pause, he drew out his keys, 
 and stealthily and silently unlocked the door 
 of the next set of rooms. The Signor, Mark 
 reflected, might still be listening. He was 
 out of sight and hearing after the first turn
 
 HEARTS. 241 
 
 ill tlie stone staircase, and Mark was dis- 
 posed to be wary after what had liappened. 
 
 Caterina shpped towards him out of the 
 darkness like a ghost. She was palhd with 
 cold as well as fear, and when she opened 
 her lips to speak, Mark laid a finger on his 
 own and motioned her in silence to the 
 sittino^-room. 
 
 ' He is gone ? ' she asked in a terror- 
 stricken whisper as she crouched above the 
 fire. 
 
 ' He is gone,' Mark answered, slipping 
 back the toy revolver into its drawer and 
 seating himself calmly. 
 
 ' Marco,' she said, ' he is dangerous. 
 What shall I do ? How dare I return to 
 him ? He knows that I am here.' 
 
 ' He thinks so,' said Mark tranquilly, 
 lighting a new cigarette at the fire of the 
 old one. 
 
 ' Marco,' said the Signora, turning on her 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 Z42 HEARTS. 
 
 knees before him, ' you are very cold to 
 me.' Mark shrugged his shoulders and 
 smoked. ' Give me a kind word, Marco, 
 after all this danger for your sake.' 
 
 ' My dear child,' said Mark quietly, ' love- 
 making is a very pretty pastime, without 
 doubt. But in this case I scarcely care for 
 it. I was never of a romantic turn of mind, 
 and as I grow older I grow more matter 
 of fact. I care more for peace and a quiet 
 mind than I used to do.' 
 
 The Signora, still kneeling before him, 
 glanced at his face keenly with a miserably 
 liungry look growing upon her own. This 
 ■cynical and heartless young man had some- 
 how reached to what heart she had. After 
 all, it does come to most people at one time 
 or another to pin a heart to somebody, to 
 :set soul and faith and purpose all on some 
 one creature. And sooner or later, except 
 to the very happiest (and the truest) the
 
 HEARTS. 243 
 
 goldeu dream grows grey, and faith is seen 
 misplaced — your* kohinoors and emeralds 
 of Candahar are profitless pebbles and 
 beads of glass, and you break your 
 heart or turn stupid according to your 
 nature. Take the world round and it is 
 probable enough that love is a vice of the 
 blood, and a permission of the will much 
 oftener than the romancist cares to fancy. 
 And yet love reigns, and is king of all 
 the passions still, and will be till the whole 
 world's summers have deceased. 
 
 It was never profitable to tell some sort 
 of stories, which are now happily, by growth 
 of civilisation, taste, and heart, grown quite 
 unprintable in England. It would serve 
 no purpose worth serving to tell the story 
 of the Signora Caterina Malfi here. It had 
 been in the main an evil story, though, as 
 it affected her until now, not by any means 
 a sad one, and all through most unwomanly
 
 244 HEARTS. 
 
 womanly. Probably, until she met Mark 
 Carroll she had never known that she had 
 a heart at all, and he was but a poor god 
 before whom to throw it when she found 
 it. But you must allow sincerity of worship 
 in the blindest idolater. Have there been no 
 raptures of uplifted spirits before the ugly and 
 foolish gods of India, and Egypt, and Great 
 Britain ? 
 
 A pure life is much for a man. For a 
 woman it is almost everything. It would be 
 but a poor service to Caterina and her like 
 if her historian should paint her as having 
 a love as worthy to bestow as another wo- 
 man might offer. And yet it was all she 
 had, and the first she had known of good- 
 ness and purity. Everything is comparative, 
 and in this case the purity of womanly passion 
 was all the more amazing by contrast with 
 previous old experiences. 
 
 ' Is love-making no more than a pastime.
 
 HEARTS. 245 
 
 Marco ?' she asked. She had been terribly 
 frightened, but a great fear will fly before 
 a greater. Nothing the swarthy Signor could 
 do could hurt her like a doubt of Mark. 
 Mark shrugged his shoulders and went on 
 smoking. ' Is love no more than a pastime, 
 Marco,' she asked again, ' with you and 
 me ? ' 
 
 ' My child,' said he, placidly dispelling 
 a little cloud of smoke by a wave of his 
 hand, ' the play is played out. We will 
 close the box and put up the puppets. You 
 don't know Thackeray, do you ? ' he asked 
 in Enghsh, with an attempt at a smile. 
 
 ' The play is played out ? ' .she asked. 
 ' Marco, you do not mean you do not love 
 me? That we ' 
 
 ' Love,' said Mark, ' is a charming word, 
 and in its way a charming thing. But it 
 has a tender and delicate life, and often 
 dies early. In plain Italian, my good Caterina,
 
 246 HEARTS, 
 
 I am not going to run the chance of finding 
 an Italian dagger in my ribs to oblige any 
 lady, however charming she may be.' 
 
 ' Well,' she said, with wonderful quiet, 
 ' tell me everything. Say all you have to 
 say.' 
 
 ' There's a sensible girl,' said Mark. ' We 
 go our ways, my dear, that's all: you yours, 
 I mine. As for love, I have loved a time 
 or two before this, and shall love again. And 
 so I fancy have you, and so will you again.' 
 
 He expected tears and protestations, in 
 accordance with the history of old days. He 
 had seen that sort of thing before, and dis- 
 liked it excessively because it bored him. 
 But Caterina only rose to her feet and con- 
 fronted him silently. 
 
 ' You have some little toilette to make,' said 
 Mark, pointing to the boots and hat and mantle, 
 which all lay together in a disorderly heap upon 
 the carpet. ' Whilst you make it I will see if
 
 HEARTS, 247 
 
 the coast is clear. I am not altogether certain 
 but that our mutual friend is waiting round the 
 corner with a carving-knife in readiness for 
 both of us.' 
 
 She said not a word, and he pulled on his 
 shoes and overcoat, took his hat and gloves 
 from the table, and with a word to say that he 
 would return in a moment, left her. She 
 heard the door close, and listened to his step 
 until it grew inaudible, but slie never moved 
 until he came back again. 
 
 ' He has resigned the chase, Caterina,' said 
 he as he re-entered. ' I am afraid he will be 
 unamiable when you meet, but you have had 
 Experience of him long ago, and you will know 
 how to manage him. Not ready yet .^ Do not 
 allow me to disturb you. I am in no haste.' 
 
 ' You mean all this .^ ' she asked slowly and 
 quietly. ' You can cast me off like this .^ You 
 could swear for a month or two that you love 
 me, and could take all I had left to give, and
 
 248 HEARTS. 
 
 then tlirow me away because you are afraid to 
 hold me ? ' 
 
 'I thought I had explained it all quite 
 clearly,' said Mark. 
 
 ' You could look so like truth,' she said, 
 ' and yet be such a liar.' 
 
 ' My good Caterina,' he answered, ' you and 
 I, who know the world, are wise enough by this 
 time, and experienced enough to understand 
 each other.' 
 
 ' You swore,' she said, ' that you loved me.' 
 
 ' And you that you loved me,' said Mark. 
 ' And we agreed to believe each other.' 
 
 ' And you never loved me ? ' 
 
 ' My dear,' he cried, ' you are a very charm- 
 ing and accomplished woman. Even without 
 beauty your understanding would make you 
 irresistible. Even without wit your beauty would 
 conquer anything with a heart inside it. I recog- 
 nised your intellect and I did homage to your 
 beauty. I do both still. But I am something of
 
 HEARTS. 249 
 
 a philosopher, Caterina, and I am apt to weigh 
 the vahie of a thing to me before I pay a price 
 for it.' 
 
 ' And love is not worth the price ? You 
 are afraid of Tito ? ' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of anybody,' he answered 
 
 with the same calm and flippant tone. ' But I 
 
 am not a fool. At least,' he added with a langh, 
 
 ' ' I am not fool enough to pay so much for ' 
 
 ' So little ? ' she asked, filling up the pause. 
 
 ' Precisely,' he responded. ' Although for 
 gallantry's sake I searched for a prettier 
 phrase.' 
 
 ' You mean,' she said, ' that I am and have 
 been no more to you than any other woman 
 you may find .^ That I have been a month's 
 toy to you, and nothing more ? ' 
 
 ' My child,' said Mark a little fretfully, 
 ' I don't want to say a lot of things that are 
 unconventional, and — true ; unless you force 
 me. AVe have played out our play very
 
 2SO HEARTS, 
 
 pleasantly, and I am heartily sorry that the 
 curtain falls so soon. But I — you know — I 
 am a battered old man of the world, as young 
 as I look, and you have had experiences. Let 
 us do justice to ourselves and to each other. 
 Let us recognise the hand of the inevitable, 
 and part in peace.' 
 
 ' Marco,' she said, ' it will be bitter to have 
 to hate you ? ' 
 
 ' Then why try to do it ? ' he asked. ' I 
 don't hate you because I have to part from 
 you, and you have as good a reason for leaving 
 me as I have for leaving you.' 
 
 ' And I have loved you ! ' she said, with 
 such a bitterness and intensity in her quiet 
 tones that he began to be half afraid of her, 
 and to think her made of some other metal 
 than he had fancied. ' You ! I have lived all 
 these years in the world without loving any- 
 body, and I must needs love you at the end 
 of it all. Ah, well, Marco ! I am going now,
 
 HEARTS. 251 
 
 and you may think that you have done with 
 me. You thought Tito dangerous, you poor 
 coward, because a woman said so. You will 
 find me more dangerous than Tito.' 
 
 Mark laughed softly and took another 
 cigarette. Passion does not always show itself 
 in romantic ways, and the Signora sat calmly 
 down and drew on her discarded boots, 
 arranged her hair before the glass, tied on 
 her hat, and adjusted her mantle and her 
 gloves, all in the most business-like qulBliide. 
 
 ' I thought I had found a man at last,' 
 she said then, facing round upon hira, ' and 
 I gave him all the heart I had to give. I 
 would have loved you like a dog. I would 
 have let you beat me and starve me for a word 
 of love a year.' 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mark, ' you prepare the 
 way for your antithesis most eloquently. You 
 are going to say that you hate me now, as well 
 as you ever loved me, are you not ? '
 
 252 HEARTS. 
 
 ' I am going to say,' she cried, ' that I will 
 repay you.' 
 
 'For what?' askei Mark. 'You have 
 really cost me very little.' 
 
 ' I will repay you,' she said again. ' I will 
 repay you. And now let me go, if you please. 
 I cannot kill you here, but I will bide my time.' 
 
 ' I am reprieved for awhile, then,' Mark 
 answered, feading the way to the door. ' Good- 
 bye, Caterina. I am really very sorry to have 
 to say it, but when you come to think, you will 
 see how much wiser it is for both. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' You ! ' she cried, flashing suddenly upon 
 him with a vivid and terrible passion in her 
 face and voice. ' You ! To have thrown a 
 heart away on you ! ' 
 
 ' An error, Caterina ! ' Mark answered, ' a 
 fatal error.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, with sudden quiet, ' a fatal 
 error. Let me pass. Good-night.' 
 
 He stood awhile to watch her as she went
 
 HEARTS, 253 
 
 slo^vly down tlic stairs. She was undeniably a 
 line woman, and lie was sorry enough to lose her. 
 
 ' Like most of those southern women,' he 
 said ; ' she has a bit of the tiger in her. I 
 wonder, Mark, if your unworthy person excited 
 any real passion in her — there is such a thing 
 unless all men and books do lie, and most of 
 them do — or whether she wanted a little bit of 
 play-acting at the finish. I hope at least,' he 
 concluded with a laugh, ' that she won't carry 
 melodrama into action. I shall be out of the 
 frying-pan into the fire indeed if I have a 
 pair of daggers waiting for me instead of one.' 
 
 This prospect so tickled him that whilst he 
 washed his hands and face and dressed for the 
 streets, he chuckled half a dozen times about 
 it. The Signora with a resolute step marched 
 westward in the meantime, and the Siiinor, 
 standing in the shadow of Temple Bar, saw her 
 emerge from the Temple archway, and followed 
 in her footsteps.
 
 254 HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It is not easy to believe that there were m any- 
 better men in the world than Mr. Anthony 
 Bethesda. It is certain that there were few 
 indeed whose outer man bore so plain a sign 
 of inward virtue. He had a large and well- 
 formed body, plump but not corpulent ; a 
 large and well-formed head, and large and well- 
 formed features. He was not in holy orders, 
 but he looked as though no other hne of life 
 were appropriate to him, and he wore black 
 clothes of the usual low- church- clerical or 
 dissenting-ministerial cut. His white tie was 
 large and spotless. His fat hands caressed one 
 another, and his face was an index to his heart. 
 It was rarely to be seen without a smile upon
 
 HEARTS, 255 
 
 it — a smile humble and benevolent — a smile 
 whicli said distinctly ' God forgive me,' and in 
 the self-same curve of lip and eyehd, 'The 
 Lord bless you^ my Christian brother.' 
 
 This good man worshipped at a large, 
 square-built chapel in the south of London, 
 and was by all accounted a shining light and a 
 model of the Christian virtues. 
 
 Taking his walks abroad one London 
 autumn mornins;, Mr. Bethesda saw in the near 
 neighbourhood of his favourite chapel a big 
 van discharging furniture at the door of a little 
 house. A florid, grey-haired man of country 
 aspect was superintending the unloading, and 
 a middle-aged woman of decent middle-class 
 exterior was assisting a very pretty girl in the 
 porterage of light articles from the big van to 
 the little house. Mr. Bethesda paused a 
 moment to look on with an aspect of benevolent 
 interest. No man need search his mind for 
 apologies on the ground that he finds it pleasant
 
 2 56 HEARTS. 
 
 to look at youth and beauty, and Mr. Bethesda 
 was a widower and old enough to be the girl's 
 father. At that hour of the day this outlying 
 London street was very quiet. From half-past 
 seven to half-past eight in the morning it was 
 always lively enough, excej)t on Sundays, and 
 brisk enough again from six to seven in the 
 evening, for at those times the tide of clerks 
 and shopmen ebbed and flowed. At other 
 hours the policeman, the baker, the coster- 
 monger, the postman, and the muflin-man came 
 alone to break the stillness of a desert solitude. 
 Apart from those who were personally 
 concerned ivith the big van, Mr. Bethesda was 
 the only creature in the street, and he was 
 therefore noticeable. The pretty girl, with her 
 hair escaping somewhat from its confining net, 
 a flush of clear colour on her face, and a 
 pleased excitement in her eyes, was emerging 
 from the doorway, when she caught the good 
 man's smile. Her face clouded curiously, and
 
 HEARTS. 257 
 
 turning abruptly, she withdrew into the house. 
 ^Ir. Bethesda lingered for a moment longer. 
 He had more than a fatherly eye for a nice- 
 looking girl, had Mr. Bethesda, and perhaps 
 the young woman might return. Whilst he 
 stood there the two men in charge of the van 
 lugged to the mouth of it, with infmite trouble, 
 a great old-fashioned wardrobe of black oak, 
 and attempted to lower it to the ground. The 
 weight was too much for them, and they called 
 for help. The grey, florid man emerged from 
 the house and lent a pair of hands. 
 
 ' It is a Christian duty to help a neighbour,' 
 said Mr. Bethesda, advancing. 
 
 ' So I have heard,' replied the florid man 
 drily, with an odd, distrustful side way look at 
 him. 
 
 ' Allow me,' said the good man, either not 
 observing or disregarding the other's manner. 
 
 Nobody objected to his assistance, and he 
 lifted as strongly as the rest. The pretty girl 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 HEARTS. 
 
 was visible at the end of tlie passage, and it 
 was evident that she took a keen interest in 
 this proceeding. It is curious to notice how 
 httle will interest people who have not seen 
 much of the world. 
 
 The ponderous old oak wardrobe was a fair 
 weight even for four men to carry, and Mr. 
 Bethesda was red in the face as he tottered at 
 his own corner. Suddenly there was a trip, 
 a stagger, and a cry. The grey-haired, florid 
 man was down upon his back on the stone 
 pavement ; the man who had shared the load at 
 that end was on his knees, and the weight had 
 fallen with a sickening crash upon the prostrate 
 iio^ure. 
 
 'Father!' shrieked the girl, running 
 forward. The man made no response. They 
 moved the weight from his body and bore him 
 indoors, but not before that part of the street 
 was crowded with people who had suddenly 
 sprung from nowhere. Mr. Bethesda entered
 
 HEARTS. 259 
 
 with the two men of the van, but he seemed 
 as helpless as the rest, and could do nothing 
 but gape and stare with fatuous ' Dear me's I ' 
 Somebody ran for a doctor, and brought him 
 elbowing his way through the crowd. A 
 policeman, sprung from nowhere like the rest, 
 stationed himself at the door and kept off 
 intruders. 
 
 ' Ladies,' said the doctor to the distracted 
 girl and no less distracted mother, ' I must ask 
 you to retire for the moment. You can be of 
 use, perhaps,' turning to Mr. Bethesda. ' Officer 
 close that door, and drive those fools away. 
 Now.' 
 
 The women waited in the hall outside the 
 closed door, wrinorino; their hands or holdinsc 
 to each other, and the minutes crawled like 
 hours. When at last the doctor confronted 
 them he was grave and had little to say. The 
 injured man was still unconscious. It w^ould 
 be best to take him to the hospital. He would 
 8 2
 
 2 6o HEARTS. 
 
 receive completer attention there than else- 
 where. 
 
 Both the wife and dauf]^hter foue^ht agrainst 
 this and would hear nothing of it. What could 
 be done was done, and Mrs. Moore and her 
 daughter Azubah sat down to watch the 
 mainstay of the house, to see if haply he could 
 ever be so patched again as to prop their 
 humble roof- tree any more. 
 
 This was Michael Moore's London home- 
 coming, and to be brief about a mournful 
 business, the outcome of it was that the 
 hale farmer was crippled for life, and Mr. 
 Anthony Bethesda became the household 
 guide, philosopher, and friend. 
 
 The farmer mended slowly, and his wife 
 and daughter had deceptive hopes of him, but 
 he never got further towards health and 
 strength than to sit in a Bath-chair to be 
 wheeled about the streets on sunny afternoons. 
 Now sickness, more than any other form of
 
 HEARTS. 261 
 
 domestic extravagance, makes inroads upon the 
 purse, and the four or five hundred pounds the 
 farmer had saved out of the wreck of his 
 afiairs began to melt with terrible rapidity. 
 When the Bath-chair w^as bought and the 
 doctors were paid the two women sat down 
 above the scanty accounts and looked at each 
 other with foreboding faces. 
 
 ' 'Zubah,' said the mother, beginning to cry 
 and to embrace her daughter, 'what can we 
 do ? What can we do ? ' The girl offered no 
 answer. ' We can just manage to live for a 
 year, perhaps, and there's your father can 
 never do a hand's turn again, and what can we 
 do at the end of it ? I'm afraid as you'll have 
 to go out to service, my dear, though I never 
 looked forrads to any of ours coming down so 
 low as that. Miss Lording 'ud give you a 
 place to be her maid, 'Zubah, and that 'ud be 
 something off our shoulders.' Still the girl 
 made no response. ' I'm* afraid, 'Zubah, as
 
 262 HEARTS, 
 
 your pride '11 never let you do that till you're 
 forced to it.' 
 
 ' My pride will not stand in my way, 
 mother,' said Azubah, quietly, ' but I cannot 
 help you and father by going into service. 
 What are you to do when the year is over ? ' 
 
 'Perhaps Squire Carroll 'ud help us,' said 
 the poor woman, 
 
 ' Mother,' said the girl, ' haven't you heard 
 father say over and over again that he 
 wouldn't accept a favour at Mr. Carroll's 
 hands ? We must help ourselves.' 
 
 ' And now,' said Mrs. Moore, ' my own 
 child's a-turning contrairy.' 
 
 ' No, no, dear,' answered her daughter, 
 in a tone half-soothing and half-authoritative. 
 ' We must be honourable, and we must 
 support om'selves. I shall find something to 
 do in less than a year which will keep us all.' 
 
 ' Lord o' mercy ! ' cried the mother, ' what 
 can you do to keep us all ? '
 
 HEARTS, 263 
 
 • I have done something akeucly, mother,' 
 said Azubah. ' Not much, but something — a 
 beginning. There is a paid choir at St. John's 
 Church, and I saw an advertisement for a 
 soprano — a treble, you know — and I answered 
 it yesterday morning, and the curate heard me 
 sing. He has the management of the choir, 
 and he engaged me. It's not much, but 
 twelve pounds a year is better than nothing 
 at all, and it may lead to other things. There 
 will be church concerts, and if I sing at them 
 I am to have a guinea each time. I didn't tell 
 you before,, dear, becaiise I wanted to surprise 
 you.' 
 
 'My dear,' said the mother, 'you'll never 
 ha' the courage to sing afore a churchful of 
 folks.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' answered Azubah, tranquilly. 
 ' It was very unpleasant to have to sing to 
 a stranger yesterday. But the more people 
 there are to sing to, the easier it is. And,
 
 264 HEARTS, 
 
 mother, anotlier reason why I didn't tell you 
 was that I wanted the first quarter's money to 
 pay for singing lessons.' 
 
 ' My dear, my dear ! ' cried the mother, 
 'we can't afford no such toying with Provi- 
 dence. We want to keep every penny we can 
 get; 
 
 ' Mother,' said the girl, ' you remember 
 young Mr. Carroll ? ' 
 
 ' Surely.' 
 
 'You know how much he knew about 
 music, and he always told me that if I liked 
 to practise I should make a singer. I must 
 try.' 
 
 ' Your uncle Joshua had a lovely counter- 
 tenor in his day,' said Mrs. Moore, who was a 
 readily hopeful and easily desponding woman, ' 
 ' an' your grandmother used to sing tribble in 
 the old church at Overhill so as you could hear 
 her all over the buildin'. The voice is a gift, 
 and it runs in families. That's a thing as has
 
 HEARTS. 265 
 
 been ^yell understood always. A voice is a 
 gift as runs in families.' 
 
 ' Mother,' said tlie girl, anxiously, ' I feel so 
 sure of being able to do something in that way 
 for father and yourself, and there is so little 
 time to be lost. I could go on improving all 
 the time if you could let me have a little 
 money to pay for lessons now instead of 
 waiting a quarter of a year. I can pay you 
 back again. There will be concerts at the 
 church schools, and if I sing well they may 
 lead to people asking me to sing at others. I 
 will work hard, dear : I will indeed.' 
 
 The mother shook her head, but the denial 
 was feeble, and her easily hopeful soul began 
 to conjure up visions of her daughter as a 
 great lady — almost like Jenny Lind, who was 
 the one singer of note she had ever heard of. 
 
 ' Here is an advertisement,' said the girl, 
 passing a rapid finger over the columns of a 
 newspaper ; ' the advertisement of an Italian
 
 266 HEARTS. 
 
 lady, Signora — Signora — oh, here it is, Signora 
 Malfi. Itahans are always the best teachers, 
 and Signora Malfi's terms are only ^^o, shillings 
 for a lesson of an hour.' 
 
 ' Lord o' mercy I ' cried the good woman a 
 second time, ' five shillings for an hour's squal- 
 ling ! Does she think folks are made o' 
 money ? ' 
 
 But the daughter was the stronger, and 
 the stronger won, as usual. Mr. Anthony 
 Bethesda, who brought his Christian smile 
 into the house with him before the settlement 
 was half an hour old, was consulted on the 
 question. 
 
 ' I had not known it was so bad as this, 
 dear friends,' said Mr. Bethesda ; ' I would 
 that I had known it earlier. There is a friend 
 who keeps an office for registration in the City, 
 and I would willingly have apphed to him. 
 There are temptations in the hfe upon which 
 our sister proposes to embark.'
 
 HEARTS. 267 
 
 It was a pity, but Aziibah could not be 
 brought to endure Mr. Bethesda, and whilst 
 he was talking she left the room. The girl 
 was eager and enthusiastic, disposed to do 
 everything she set about at once, and mightily 
 scornful of the advice of people she did not 
 like. Her heart was her judgment, and that, 
 perhaps, was something of a pity also. Where 
 she loved, she trusted the loved one's opinion 
 — there had never been anybody quite so wise 
 as her father — where she disliked, the wisdom 
 of Solomon would have looked unwise. If Mr. 
 Bethesda thought ill of her scheme the fact was 
 almost a recommendation to it. It was at least 
 an incentive to go on with it. 
 
 Azubah marched straight out of the house 
 with the Signora Malfi's address in her purse, 
 and very little else there. By dint of patient 
 inquiry and one or two omnibus changes, she 
 reached the* Signora's residence, saw the lady, 
 made terms, and actually took lesson Number
 
 268 HEARTS. 
 
 One at once. The Sigiiora took the five 
 shilUngs, and allowed her to carry away the 
 bravura to study between lessons. It was then 
 that Tom and Mark had seen her. 
 
 Whether the Italian young woman taught 
 the English girl much that was of service to 
 her is an open question, but the pupil worked 
 devotedly, and made great progress. She was 
 surprised at first to find that Mr. Bethesda 
 had business at the West-end of London, but 
 by-and-by she became used to seeing him, and 
 even to accepting his casual escort home. 
 There was not a doubt that Mr. Bethesda was a 
 very good man, but it happens often in this 
 topsy-turvy world that the naughty people are 
 lovable, whilst the good are not, and somehow 
 the girl and Mr. Bethesda made little progress 
 towards friendship. Now, the Signora, who 
 was not good, got on much better with Azubah, 
 and began to take quite a motherly sort of 
 interest in her, when, without warning of any
 
 HEARTS. 269 
 
 sort, the musical student, calling at Signor 
 Malfi's lodgings witli intent to take the cus- 
 tomary lesson, learned that the Signora had 
 disappeared — had left England said the land- 
 lady. 
 
 Azubah being one of those young women 
 who do things enthusiastically or not at all, 
 had been full of day-dreams on her journey. 
 But for those day-dreams it is pretty certain 
 that she would never have struggled at all, for 
 it was her truest nature to lie still to dream. 
 They drew her on, however — pictures of full 
 houses listening and murmurs of full-handed 
 plaudits, years away as yet, and pictures of 
 mother and father happily provided for and 
 beyond the reach of care. The refusal at Signor 
 Malfi's door quite froze the genial current of 
 her soul, and the step which had been elastic in 
 ascending went down the steps slow and leaden, 
 and took her dispiritedly to the corner of the 
 street.
 
 270 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Miss Moore,' said a voice there, and Azubah 
 looking up, saw the Signora. ' They told you I 
 was gone away ? ' she asked. 
 
 * Yes,' said the girl in amazement. 
 
 ' I have quarrelled,' said the Signora, ' with 
 my husband. It will all be soon over, and I 
 am not angry any more. He is angry yet. He 
 is, like Italians, hot and jealous. I knew you 
 would come, and I did not want you to be dis- 
 appointed, and I had not your address. There- 
 fore I came, and I am glad I saw you.^ 
 
 Azubah was instantaneously certain that the 
 Signora had been shamefully wronged. She 
 was very glad to meet the swarthy lady, and 
 shook hands with her warmly. What wretches 
 men were, to be sure ! 
 
 ' I dare not let Tito see me now,' said 
 the Signora. ' I am living half a mile away. 
 If you will come to me I will give you your 
 lessons.' 
 
 She would go certainly and help to defy
 
 HEARTS. 271 
 
 Tito and all his works. Five shillings a week 
 was not much, but it was something, and she 
 at least could be loyal to a woman in distress. 
 The Signora was voluble in broken English on 
 the way, and the girl's heart warmed at the 
 recital of her wrongs. 
 
 ' I will go upon the stage,' said Caterina 
 in a while, ' and there I can keep myself. A 
 lady can keep always herself upon the stage.' 
 
 They were in the new rooms by this time, 
 in a house in the neighbourhood of Pimlico. 
 The furniture, which had been extremely 
 pretentious and gaudy, was dirty and dilapi- 
 dated now. A white velvet hearthrug with 
 broidered roses on it was turned up at the 
 corners, and its flowers were frayed, and its 
 whiteness was lost in innumerable stains of 
 footsteps, ink, and wine. The mantel-shelf was 
 clothed in ruby velvet, but the pile was mangy, 
 and rubbed threadbare at the edges of the 
 shelf as if by lounging shoulders. A man of
 
 272 HEARTS, 
 
 the world would have known and read the 
 signs of the place at a glance — but what was a 
 girl of eighteen, country bred, to guess about 
 them ? 
 
 ' But you cannot play in English,' said 
 Azubah, in answer to Caterina's last speech. 
 
 ' I shall sing,' said Caterina. She flung the 
 piano open and began a vocal storm, shrieking 
 through trills and melodies with amazing 
 volume and shrillness. Azubah had never been 
 at all inclined up to now to lay bare her hopes 
 and desires to anybody, but there was that in 
 the Signora's apparent helplessness and her 
 loneliness, and most of all in her ambitions, 
 which prompted the girl for the first time in 
 her life to make a confidante. So when the 
 shrieking melodies and trills were done with, 
 she spoke and told her own story, 
 
 'You will sing well,' cried the Signora, 
 ' when you have had more lessons. It is not 
 harder for two than it is for one. We will
 
 HEARTS. 273 
 
 learn duettos and sing them at the concerts 
 together. You are white, and pale, and 
 sorrowful, you little English flower,' she said, 
 kissing Azubah, emphatically, ' and now it is 
 plain the reason why. And you are good, and 
 that is why I like you.' 
 
 A week earher tlie girl would have resented 
 Caterina's caresses almost as much as those of a 
 man, but now the Signora was in trouble and 
 Azubah's heart warmed to her. Besides, this 
 promise seemed to open up a way to her 
 ambitions. The whole afternoon was spent in 
 practice, and when the five shillings came to be 
 paid, the Italian woman took them lingeringly 
 as though she would fain refuse them. 
 
 When Azubah paid her next visit a little 
 fat man with a bald head, ruddy lips, and beady 
 eyes sat in the Signora's sitting-room listening 
 to her as she sang. 
 
 'This is my lady friend,' said the Signora, 
 bouncing from the })iano when her song was 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 HEARTS, 
 
 done, and embracing Azubah vehemently. 
 ' This, my child, is Mistare Moss ; he is of the 
 — how do you say, Mistare Moss ? ' 
 
 ' The Megatherium,' said Mr. Moss, turning 
 the m's into b's. 
 
 'It is very good place to sing at,' said 
 Caterina, ' is it not, Mistare Moss ? ' 
 
 ' It is one of the best in London,' said Mr. 
 Moss, nosily. ' It's not so long established as 
 some of 'em, but what we want there is genuine 
 talent. We're open to give genuine talent a 
 start in almost any direction.' 
 
 ' Let my lady friend sing,' said the Signora, 
 'then we will sing a duetto together.' She 
 turned to Azubah, ' Let Mr. Moss hear you.' 
 
 Azubah took off her gloves and sat down at 
 the piano with a beathig heart. What did 
 she know.^ The Megatherium Concert Hall 
 was quite outside her experiences, and the 
 gentleman said it was one of the best places to 
 m\^y at in London. Throue^h him mioht lie
 
 HEARTS. 275 
 
 the avenue to fortune. Her fingers touched 
 the keys firmly and hghtly. The piano had 
 seen its best days certainly, but it was fairly in 
 tune, and its voice gave her new confidence. 
 She began to sing 'As pants the hart for 
 cooling streams when heated in the chase.' 
 The Signora listened doubtfully and glanced at 
 Mr. Moss. 
 
 ' Very dice, biss,' said Mr. Moss. ' Very 
 dice iddeed, but not the Begatheriub style. 
 We don't go id for rehgious busic there. Trjr 
 agaid. Subthig lighter if you please — subthig 
 operatic' 
 
 Azubah's more familiar music was mostly 
 antiquated, and after the Signora she was 
 afraid to try the something operatic. Her 
 own mellow and liquid-sounding tones fell on 
 the ear with double sweetness after the shrill 
 notes of Caterina 's voice, but she did not guess 
 that, and was afraid of being overmatched. So 
 she chose Barnett's old-fashioned * Else, gentle 
 
 T 2
 
 276 HEARTS. 
 
 Moon/ and sang it so well that Mr. Moss 
 applauded softly. 
 
 'Yes, biss,' he said, 'that will do. Try 
 agaid. A ballad is the sort of thing to suit 
 you, I fadcy. Try a ballad.' She tried a 
 ballad. ' Not quite the stage style,' said Mr. 
 Moss. 'A little broader and then you'll do. 
 A leetle broader. Well, ladies, I shall have no 
 objection to give you an opportunity. You can 
 have a week begiddig on Bonday dext, two 
 turns a-piece. Thed, if you suit us, we can talk 
 about terras afterwards. The opening,' he con- 
 tinued, ' is valuable, of course, but we don't ask 
 for anything in the way of premiub. We 
 give you a chadce od your berits.' 
 
 Whether Mr. Moss were a gentleman or 
 not Azubah could not tell. He was not in the 
 least like Squire Carroll, or his son Tom, or the 
 Vicar, or the Curate at Overhill, or Mr. 
 Lording, the father of her old patroness and 
 friend. He wore a prodigious deal of jewellery
 
 HEARTS. 277 
 
 and lie was not particularly clean about the 
 hands ; but little as the girl knew, she had 
 heard that artists were often untidy. Mr. Moss 
 no doubt mixed much with artists even if he 
 himself were not of the brotherhood, and 
 perhaps he had caught their manners and 
 customs. And how fortunate she herself was 
 to have found such a chance so soon ! If she 
 succeeded — oh, if she only could succeed ! 
 Father and mother need never want for any- 
 thing?. Her fortune was made and theirs 
 along with it. The Signora was confident of 
 taking the world by storm now that she had at 
 last secured an opportunity for making her 
 voice heard. Opera managers all over Europe 
 had been blind to the treasure they had 
 thrown away. Whatever faults Tito had, he 
 could sing and he knew what singing should be. 
 Tito had always been indignant at the blindness 
 of the managers. 
 
 Arrangements Avere completed with busi-
 
 2/8 HEARTS. 
 
 ness-like brevity, and Azubali found herself 
 pledged to sing nightly for a week before an 
 audience of whom she knew nothing. The 
 Signora had earned the right to kiss her and 
 to be friendly with her, having secured her 
 this unexampled piece of good fortune. But the 
 girl's head was turning and her heart was beat- 
 ing with it all as she went home that evening. 
 
 * You oughtn't to be going out at night 
 alone, my dear,' said her mother anxiously, 
 when she heard the news. ' And yet your 
 father isn't in a case to be left for an hour.' 
 
 'Signora Malfi is going as well,' said 
 Azubah. ' I shall be quite safe with her.' 
 
 ' Signora Malfi,' sounded grandly on the 
 unsophisticated country woman's ears, and Mrs. 
 Moore knew already that Signor Malfi was 
 or had been a singer at Her Majesty's Opera, 
 and naturally set him down as being somehow 
 on the Eoyal staff*, and more or less intimately 
 associated with the Queen herself. So that
 
 HEARTS. 279 
 
 the association of her daughter with these 
 high personages was altogetlier a thing to be 
 thankful for. Not that she thought much of 
 foreigners as a rule, but Her Majesty's 
 foreigners Avere necessarily superior to the 
 crowd. 
 
 The girl had little difficulty with her 
 mother, who was more proud than anxious, 
 but she had many tremors in her own behalf. 
 The wished-for, dreaded night came at last, 
 and slie hastened to the Signora's rooms, there 
 to dress by appointment. Caterina, with bare 
 arms and shoulders glittering with powder, 
 stood aghast at the plainness of her protege's 
 attire ; but it was too late to change it, even 
 if Azubah had had the wardrobe of a princess — 
 which she had not. 
 
 The Signora, with all her finery carefully 
 shawled, led the way and called a four-wheeler, 
 and the two were driven to the Megatherium 
 stage-door. Mr. Moss's duties happening to
 
 28o HEARTS. 
 
 have called him there at that moment, he 
 received them. 
 
 ' Good eveding, ladies. Glad to see you. 
 You can have a dressing-roob betweed you to- 
 borrow. I'll see to it. Come this way.' 
 
 It was all unaccustomed and strange to 
 Azubah, who began to feel curiously nervous 
 and elevated by turns. The dust, the dirt, the 
 bare unplastered walls, the slips of scenery, 
 lines of rope, coils of gas tubing, the olla 
 podrida of stage, odds and ends made an un- 
 pleasant impression upon her. She had never 
 so much as read a description of the view behind 
 the scenes, and had expected something like a 
 vestry at church or a school committee-room to 
 wait in. There was the sound of a big band 
 from the front, and in the frowsy green-room a 
 man and a woman in grotesque attire and 
 painted faces awaited their call. In a minute 
 the tones of the band softened down and a 
 raucous voice began to sing. The voice and
 
 HEARTS. 281 
 
 the tune were things to shudder at, but the 
 words were indistinguisliable. After frequent 
 repetition of the air the voice ceased, a great 
 noise of applause was heard, and a young man 
 put in his head at the doorway and nodded 
 famiharly at the grotesquely-dressed couple. 
 This young man was in evening dress, and his 
 lower man looked passable, but he wore a 
 iiery-red wig and his face was painted in 
 exaggerated semblance of a drunkard's. 
 
 ' See you at Bobbos's, shan't I ? ' he asked. 
 ' I've sent the orfice to Bill and Judy. Ta-tar.' 
 
 Altogether, except for the near neighbour- 
 hood of the band, it was extremely unlike an 
 evening concert, and Azubah was puzzled and 
 dispirited. 
 
 ' The Deutchers ! ' cried a small boy, 
 thrusting his ragged head under the young 
 man's arm. The grotesquely-dressed people 
 passed out and the band began again. The 
 Deutchers appeared to score a great success, for
 
 282 HEARTS. 
 
 they returned twice to the stage, amid resound- 
 ing plaudits. Again Azubah heard the voices, 
 and was inchned to think but httle of the vocal 
 powers of the singers at the Megatherium. 
 Was it at all the place Mr. Moss had rej)resented 
 it as being ? 
 
 ' Snorer Cateriner ! ' cried the ragged- 
 headed boy when the Deutchers had completed 
 their third ditty. The Signora arose and 
 slipped her shawl from her gleaming shoulders. 
 As she passed through the doorway another 
 figure or two appeared — one lady in tights and 
 a remarkably short dress, and another in appro- 
 priate concert costume. Azubah listened for 
 her friend's voice and heard it shriller and 
 higher and louder than ever, ringing through 
 the place to the accompaniment of a piano. 
 There was a noise of applause at the close of 
 her song, and she swept radiant to the door 
 of the green-room, nodded, and swept back 
 again. She sang a second time, and the
 
 HEARTS. 283 
 
 applause was louder than before. Then, after 
 a long interval, during which the band played 
 the same air over and over again monotonously, 
 to the sole accompaniment so far as Azubah's 
 ears could tell her of an irregular thumping 
 upon the platform, the ragged-headed boy 
 made another appearance. 
 
 ' Mam'selle Mora,' said the boy. 
 
 ' Go,' said Caterina, pushing her gently. 
 ' That is you. Here is your first song. Why 
 do you shake so ? Go. I will go with you.' 
 
 There were other people in the room 
 again, and the Signora spoke in a whisper. 
 Azubah obeyed her, and almost before she 
 knew it found herself upon a stage with a row 
 of foothghts in front which, for the first 
 moment or two, obscured the hall beyond. 
 She heard a piano playing the overture to 'Eise, 
 gentle Moon,' and in due time she began to 
 sing. At the end of the first verse a man 
 rapped vigorously with a hammer upon a table,
 
 284 HEARTS. 
 
 and there was a faint scattered sound of 
 applause about the hall. Then her sight came 
 to her, and she saw a crowded auditormm, in 
 which men sat smoking and drinking. It was 
 not what she had looked to find, and she felt 
 debased and degraded, but at least she would 
 not break down before all these people. She 
 took up the air at the due time, and sang again 
 as she had never dared to sing before. The 
 place seemed so vast to her that she dared, for 
 the first time in her life, to give her voice full 
 scope. She disdained the people, and she 
 hated herself for being there. She would not 
 strain her power by a thread's breadth to please 
 them, but the freedom of the long and lofty 
 hall invited her, and, half to her own amaze- 
 ment, her voice filled it with sound. The 
 applause at the end of the second verse was 
 considerable, and in spite of her disdain and 
 disappointment at the place and people, she 
 was conscious of a sense of elation as she
 
 HEARTS. 285 
 
 walked from the stage with no answering sahite. 
 It was by pure accident that she went off on 
 the right side, and met the Signora in the flies. 
 
 'Mademoiselle Mora will appear again,' 
 said a loud voice, and the tapping on the table 
 began again. 
 
 ' Your music,' whispered the Signora, 
 thrusting? one roll into her hand and taking 
 away the other. ' Go. They are ready for 
 you.' 
 
 She walked proudly back with tlie music 
 clenched tightly in her gloved hand. She had 
 been tricked into coming here, though she 
 scarcely knew whom to blame ; yet, being 
 here, she would not fail. The pianist began 
 'The Banks of Allan Water,' and she sang 
 the llrst verse with conscious power. But as 
 she opened her lips for the second she saw 
 directly beneath and before her a face familiar 
 from childhood, and this so froze her that the 
 musician had to try back again. The face she
 
 286 HEARTS, 
 
 had seen was Mark Carroll's, and her eyes 
 roving helplessly from his recognising gaze 
 encountered another glance — Tom CarrolFs 
 this time. It would have been bitter enough 
 to have been seen there by anybody who knew 
 her when Michael Moore had held his head 
 high in the world, but to be met there by him, 
 and to be hopeless of telling him by what an 
 error she came there, seemed for the moment a 
 thing too shameful to be borne. The pianist 
 was nearing the note once more, and she 
 nerved herself to the task and struggled through 
 the son^y. She knew that she was sintrinor 
 
 O CO 
 
 badly, that she was out of time and tune, and 
 she was prepared for the ominous silence which 
 met her at the close. 
 
 'You'll do better to-morrow,' said Mr. 
 Moss, kindly enough, as she quitted the stage. 
 
 ' I think it right to tell you, sir,' she 
 answered quietly, ' that I shall not be here to- 
 morrow. Signora Malfi,' flashing round upon
 
 HEARTS. 287 
 
 her witli widening eyes and clenched hands, 
 ' how dared you bring me to a place like this ? ' 
 
 ' Moore was a very proud fellow,' Tom was 
 saying to his cousin. ' He would never have 
 allowed the girl to appear in a place like this 
 unless something had happened to him. I 
 must hunt him up.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mark, carelessly, ' I suppose the 
 Signora brought her here. She doesn't sing 
 badly. It's a bit of an adventure, though, to 
 find two lady acquaintances on the Mega- 
 therium stage in one evening. Malfi has 
 kicked the charming Caterina out, I suppose,' 
 he added to himself. ' That is my fault, and 
 does me an honour of which I am hardly worthy. 
 It's a very appropriate line of life for her, and 
 shell do well at it. These dunderheads fancy 
 she can sing. The little girl's worth fifty of 
 her. Mark, I think you must look up the 
 playmate of your childhood. She's growing 
 absolutely pretty.'
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 When Mark turned after these reflections his 
 cousin Tom had disappeared. 
 
 ' He'll be back to see Leonie,' said Mark, 
 and thought no more about it. Mademoiselle 
 Leonie (otherwise Mrs. Whitehouse) was attract- 
 ing all London, more or less, by her mid-air 
 somersault in full flight from one trapeze bar 
 to another, and Tom and Mark were there to 
 see her. The performance came on, and in 
 due time was over, and Tom had not returned. 
 In point of fact, Tom had found other business. 
 He was always a bit of a Quixote, and the 
 sight of his old playfellow on a music-hall 
 stage seemed to speak so plainly of some sort 
 of misfortune that he went out at once to
 
 HEARTS. 289 
 
 find out what tlie misfortune was, and, if it 
 might be, to alleviate it. 
 
 'You can't go in, sir,' said the keeper of 
 the stage -door, with inflexible aspect. 
 
 ' Take in my card to Miss Moore,' said 
 Tom, and at a half crown presented with the 
 card the door-keeper grew suddenly flexible, 
 juid obeyed. Tom followed in his footsteps, 
 and by-and-by came upon a scene of quarrel, 
 in wdiich the persons concerned were the 
 Sign or a and Mr. Moss. 
 
 ' You cad say what you hke,' cried Mr. 
 Moss, ' it's all the sabe to me. It's the pridciple 
 of the thig I go for. The yug woman's billed 
 for a week, ad she'll have to appear for a week. 
 She aid't ady particular catch neither, but I'm 
 goig to stick to the bargain.' 
 
 Azubah, with an extremely white face, was 
 trying to get past Mr. Moss, and Mr. Moss by 
 much adroit dodging frustrated her at every 
 move. 
 
 VOL. I. U •
 
 290 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Allow the lady to pass, if you please/ 
 said Tom, in a tone a shade too decided to 
 sound civil to a stranger. Mr. Moss regarded 
 him angrily, and demanded to know who he 
 was and how he came tliere. These inquiries 
 were presented with more than necessary 
 emphasis, and accompauied by some gross- 
 nesses of expression which w^ere part of Mr. 
 Moss's common conversational stock-in-trade. 
 They sounded horrible to the gentleman, used 
 as they were in the presence of women.. 
 ' Stand aside,' cried Tom. ' Allow me, Miss- 
 Moore.' His command to Mr. Moss was en- 
 forced by a strong but quiet hand ; the girl 
 took the protecting arm and clung to it, and 
 she and Tom moved together towards the 
 stairs which led to the street-door. The 
 manager in a fury declared that the intruder 
 should repent this, and roared for a pohceman. 
 Then running forward, he stood half-way down 
 the stairs to intercept Tom's exit, and a most
 
 HEARTS. 29,1 
 
 unfortunate thing happened. Mr. Moss stand- 
 ing there bello^ving blaspliemy and blocking 
 the way so incensed Tom Carroll that he took 
 him by the coUar and swung him down such 
 of the stairs as still remained to be traversed. 
 
 At this Tom was seized from behind, and 
 a dreadful hubbnb arose, Mr. Moss holding 
 his nose and cursing through it, the Signora 
 shrieking from the top of the stairs, and the 
 whole available talent of the Megatherium 
 Concert Hall swelling the chorus which ac- 
 companied this duet. In the middle of it all 
 somebody brought a policeman, and the noise 
 redoubled, and somehow, when Tom had 
 tendered his card, they all surged out together 
 into the street, Azubah still clinging to her 
 too-impetuous protector's arm, frightened and 
 white, but for all that self-possessed and silent. 
 
 The card was not enough. It was evident, 
 said the policeman, that a serious assault had 
 been committed, and the gentleman must come 
 F 2
 
 292 HEARTS. 
 
 to the station. On liis own authority the 
 policeman could not let the gentleman go. 
 
 Things began to look exceedingly un- 
 pleasant for Tom, but having got himself into 
 the position, he bore it as well as he could, 
 demanded a cab, which was brought witli 
 difficulty through the crowd, saw Azubah into 
 it, paid the cabman his fare beforehand, and 
 then finding another hansom for himself and 
 the policeman, submitted to be driven to the 
 station, leaving Mr. Moss to follow. The 
 district police-office being very near at hand, 
 he had the satisfaction of being followed by a 
 score or two of the onlookers. 
 
 Mr. Moss appeared with his nose bleeding, 
 and his charge against Tom was that he had 
 forced his way through the stage-door, and 
 had there, without provocation, grievously 
 assaulted him — Mr. Moss. To this Tom 
 answered coldly and contemptuously with a 
 statement of the facts, and again proffered his
 
 HEARTS. 293 
 
 card. The inspector regretted that he could 
 not accept that as a sufficient guarantee of the 
 gentleman's identity, and offered an alternative 
 suggestion. Mr. Carroll might either go home, 
 accompanied by a policeman, who would be 
 instructed to ascertain the accuracy or non- 
 accuracy of his professed address, or he might 
 send for a friend who would become surety 
 for his appearance on the morrow. 
 
 All this was more and more unpleasant to 
 a sensitive youngster w^ho had gone out to 
 relieve distress and had met with so poor a 
 reward for good intentions, and Tom was 
 naturally indignant at it. But he made shift 
 to control himself and to write a brief note 
 to his cousin Mark, whom he described so 
 particularly to the officer that that functionary 
 had no difficulty in finding him at the place at 
 which Tom had left him. He glanced at the 
 note and rose tranquilly. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' he asked, on reaching
 
 294 HEARTS. 
 
 the street. The official told the story as he 
 knew it. * Nonsense,' said Mark decisively. 
 ' Mr. Carroll is one of the best tempered and 
 gentlest fellows in the world. He must have 
 received great provocation.' 
 
 Mr. Mark Carroll, of Pump Court, Temple, 
 barrister-at-law, having identified his cousin, 
 and having become surety for his appearance, 
 Tom was released, and went on his way 
 much perturbed. Mark accompanied him 
 home, and they talked the matter over on the 
 way. 
 
 ' You'll get a solicitor to instruct me, as a 
 matter of form,' said Mark, ' and I'll defend the 
 case. All these fellows are servants of Mr. 
 Moss, and they'll lie of course till they're black 
 in the face. Your only witnesses are the two 
 women. I shall have a chance of airing my 
 Italian with the Signora.' 
 
 He laughed at that fancy. It was certainly 
 an odd chance which would throw them to-
 
 HEARTS. 295 
 
 getlier in a police-court as barrister and witness. 
 Tom broke in on the current of his thoughts. 
 
 ' You don't suppose, Mark, that I am going 
 to drag that poor httle girl's name into an 
 affair like this?' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' cried Mark. ' Why not ? 
 She is your principal witness. Moss's men will 
 all swear Avhat Moss wants them to swear — that's 
 human nature. The poor* devils have to live 
 one way or another, and a little perjury is all 
 in the day's work when it's wanted. Your 
 case is this. Being a person of known bene- 
 volence ' — there Mark smiled his own pleasant 
 smile — ' and observing on the stage of the 
 Megatheriimi a young lady whose parents were 
 once prosperous tenants on your father's estate 
 (a very good point that father's estate), 
 you arrive at the natural conclusion that her 
 parents are either lost or have fallen into finan- 
 cial difficulties. With that warm-hearted im- 
 pulsiveness which is known to be your chief
 
 296 HEARTS. 
 
 characteristic, you go round to the back of the 
 stage to see if you can be of service. You 
 find the young lady being horribly bullied by 
 the manager, why and wherefore we at present 
 know not, and you interfere mildly for her 
 protection. You admit that for the lady's pro- 
 tection you laid your hand upon Mr. Moss. 
 Mr. Moss unfortunately fell downstairs.' 
 
 ' No,' said Tom ; ' I threw him downstairs, 
 and he deserved it. If I had broken his neck 
 I should have had no pity for him.' 
 
 ' That would have been manslaughter,' said 
 Mark, smilingly. ' And, of coarse, you threw 
 him downstairs, and no doubt he deserved it. 
 But it is the rule to admit nothing in these cases.' 
 
 'I shall tell the truth,' said Tom hotly. 
 ' I'll have none of your confounded legal lies.' 
 
 ' Tell the truth and shame the devil, eh ? 
 Well, that's a proverb, and there's some of the 
 wisdom of our ancestors in it no doubt. " Tell 
 tlie truth and go to the devil " would do for a
 
 HEARTS. 29} 
 
 revised edition. Leave the case to me, Tom. 
 My conscience is a little tougher than your own.' 
 
 ' You want to drag Miss Moore's name into 
 it ? ' asked Tom, who was not by any means 
 in his usual state of placid good temper. 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' cried Mark, ' you can't do 
 without it.' 
 
 ' But I can do without it,' cried Tom, in 
 great heat, ' and I ivill do without it. What 
 does it matter to me ? People whose opinion 
 I value know that I am no brawler, and the 
 people whose opinion I don't value can think 
 what they please.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' began Mark again, but 
 Tom stopped him. 
 
 ' I w^on't hear any more about it, Mark. I 
 shall go down to-morrow, and what happens 
 will happen. But I will have no lies told or 
 suggested in my behalf, and I won't have the 
 name of poor Moore's daughter dragged into the 
 affair at all.'
 
 298 HEARTS. 
 
 ' You seem tender about poor Moore's 
 daughter,' said Mark, with an open sneer. He 
 thought he had never heard of anything so 
 downright foolish as the viev/ Tom took of this 
 business. 
 
 ' I am tender about Moore's daughter,' 
 answered Tom, coldly. ' I hope I should be 
 tender about the daughter of any old friend in 
 such a matter.' 
 
 ' Well, now,' said Mark, ' if Miss Moore is 
 to be left out what brought you there at all ? 
 It's a case of wanton and purposeless intrusion 
 at once.' 
 
 Tom, seeing how untenable his position was 
 against any reasonable assault, naturally held 
 to it all the more doggedly. 
 
 ' Well, Tom,' said his cousin, 'you know 
 how much I like you, but I'm bound to tell you 
 that in this case you are acting like an ass.' 
 
 ' And you,' Tom answered, ' advise me to 
 act like a cad and a coward.'
 
 HEARTS, 299 
 
 Mark sliriio'fyed his shoulders, and was 
 * silent. It was evident that Tom was not in a 
 mood to be reasoned with, and if in this case 
 he chose to act like a fool, one man, at least, 
 had done his duty and had warned him. Mark 
 had no inclination to be a martyr in the case, 
 as he would be if he offended Tom too far by 
 his interference. Tom was too valuable a friend 
 to be offended lightly, and if he would not be 
 helped out of this awkward scrape he must 
 get out of it by himself as best he could. So 
 the two cousins parted for the night somewhat 
 coolly. 
 
 On the morrow they met at the police-office, 
 where, by Mark's interference, one discomfort 
 was spared to the most prominent criminal of 
 the day, and Tom was allowed to take a seat 
 at the table in place of appearing in the 
 dock. Mark had done more than this before- 
 hand. He had met the presiding magistrate 
 once or twice, and had taken advantage of that
 
 300 HEARTS. 
 
 fact to call upon him early in the morning and 
 to relate his cousin's case. 
 
 ' My cousin, sir,' said Mark, ' is the most 
 Quixotic fool alive. There is a most perfect 
 defence to the case, and he will not use it. He 
 has no earthly reason to consider the girl, 
 except that she is the daughter of an old 
 tenant of his father's.' 
 
 ' I must go by the evidence, Mr. Carroll,' 
 said the magistrate. ' I can't allow myself to 
 be affected by an ex parte statement.' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' cried Mark, piously. ' My 
 only object in calling upon you was to explain 
 the case for my cousin's benefit with you 
 personally, and not in your capacity as magis- 
 trate. You are an old acquaintance of his 
 father's, and if any questions are asked and you 
 are able to say on my authority that a complete 
 defence existed, but was not brought forward 
 from motives of exaggerated dehcacy ' 
 
 ' I can refer the inquirers to Mr. Mark
 
 HEARTS. 301 
 
 Carroll,' said the magistrate, and there the 
 conversation ended. 
 
 It came to pass, in consequence of Mark's 
 manoeuvre, that the magistrate handled Tom 
 gently, and the result was that the mis- 
 demeanant was fined iQw pounds, Avhich was 
 paid at once, and as a matter of course. And 
 if the affair could have ended there it would 
 have passed off* lightly enough. But every- 
 body knows what a hungry interest attaches 
 to matters theatrical in the public mind, and 
 the Megatherium, though not exactly a theatre, 
 was next door to it. The one reporter who 
 sat in this particular court, and was paid two- 
 pence a line by the daily papers, not for what 
 he wrote, but for what they published, hailed the 
 case as a God-send, and took a keen verbatim 
 note, manifolded it in long-hand, and sent it to 
 every journal in the metropohs. The bills of 
 the evening papers made a special line of the 
 case, and the mornmg papers headed it,
 
 302 HEARTS. 
 
 ' Unprovoked Assault.' The Mirror had an 
 indignant article on the shameless indulgence 
 displayed by the magistrate towards the ruffianly 
 defendant, who, without being able to plead even 
 the ordinary excuse of drunkenness, had forced 
 his way into a scene of peaceful business, and 
 without rhyme or reason assaulted the manager 
 of the Megatherium in the execution of his duty. 
 
 The Mirror^ being a Tory journal of the 
 highest and dryest sort, was naturally on 
 Mr. Carroll's breakfast-table every morning. 
 In its columns Mr. Carroll read the dreadful 
 story, and whilst he sat in a condition of horri- 
 fied amazement, Lording, who was an earlier 
 riser and had seen the news at breakfast an 
 hour before, came bursting in impetuously. 
 
 * This is all some horrible mistake,' he said, 
 seeing at a glance that Mr. Carroll had read 
 the news. ' Some scoundrel has taken a re- 
 spectable name. I want you to wire to Tom 
 and demand the truth about the matter.'
 
 HEARTS. 303 
 
 ' I shall go up to town immediately,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, ruffling with injured majesty. It 
 would have been bad enough for any father to 
 read such a record of a son, but he suffered 
 in proportion to his pride, and that being 
 abnormal, so were his pains. 
 
 ' I will come with you,' answered Lording. 
 ' Mary knows nothing about the matter, and I 
 have burned the daily papers. If you'll let me 
 write a note here and send one of your men over 
 with it, he can take my horse and leave him.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Mr. Carroll. He bore the 
 misery of the news firmly and like a man. 
 
 Lording wrote a -brief note to his daughter, 
 saying that important business called him up 
 to London, and asking that a portmanteau 
 might he sent on to him. He added that 
 Mr. Carroll accompanied him, and that put it 
 into the girl's head at once that something had 
 happened to Tom. She sent a note by the 
 groom who drove back her father's messenger.
 
 304 HEARTS. 
 
 demanding to know if anything were the 
 matter. Lording, thinking the deceit justifiable, 
 scrawled a hasty line to say that there was 
 nothing on earth to be alarmed at ; and he had, 
 indeed, quite persuaded himself that somebody 
 had been impersonating Tom Carroll. There • 
 was nothing; easier than to offer a card that 
 belonged to somebody else in an affair of that 
 sort, and Tom had always been so much a 
 gentleman that it was impossible to think of him 
 as being thus suddenly transformed into a rowdy. 
 
 The two elders had no heart for talk as 
 they travelled to London, and a more and 
 more unpleasant dread lest the thing sliould 
 prove true after all began to settle down on 
 both of them. 
 
 ' I'll tell you what, Carroll,' said Lording, 
 at Eustcn, ' I won't interfere with 3'Our talk with 
 the lad. It will be better for you and him to 
 have it out together. I'll go and see Mark. 
 The two are always together, and he's bound
 
 HEARTS. 305 
 
 to know soraetliiiig about it. If he doesn't I 
 shall follow you to Tom's place, for I can't 
 stand the suspense and I must know the truth.' 
 
 ' As you will,' said Mr. Carroll frozenly, and 
 they parted on their separate ways. 
 
 Lording found Mark at home. 
 
 ' What's all this in the papers about Tom ? ' 
 he cried. ' Do you know anything about it ? 
 Is it true ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' Mark answered, ' it is and it isn't.' 
 
 ' Hang it all, man ! ' cried Lording, ' don't 
 offer me riddles. What is it ? TeU me what 
 you know\' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mark, ' there's a lady in the 
 case, and Tom has some high-flown notions 
 about its being dishonourable to put her in 
 the witness-box to clear him.' 
 
 ' A lady in the case ? ' said Lording, blankly. 
 ' Confound him ! And confound you, too ! 
 Can't you tell a plain tale, and be hanged to 
 you?' 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 3o6 HEARTS. 
 
 Thus adjured, Mark told the story as he 
 knew it, and Lording breathed freely. 
 
 ' It's abominably unpleasant, and all that, of 
 course,' said the good old boy. ' But we who 
 know the lad can trust him, eh, Mark ? He's in 
 the right, is Tom, quite in the right. And what 
 on earth can be the matter with poor Moore to 
 let his girl get into a place like that? My 
 daughter's quite savage at the girl not writing 
 to her. She's sent three letters and not had a 
 line in answer. I say Mark, there must have 
 been a good deal of hard swearing against 
 Tom. Eh?' 
 
 ' About half a dozen of the witnesses went 
 for flat perjury, according to Tom's story,' 
 answered Mark. ' I told him what an ass he 
 was not to have a defence. I could have made 
 those fellows contradict each other a thousand 
 times over. But Tom's a Quixote.' 
 
 'I like him the better for it,' said Lording. 
 ' As honest-hearted and truthful a lad as
 
 HEARTS. 307 
 
 breathes. A fine, high-minded, honourable 
 lad, by gad, sir ! And all the same, its abomin- 
 ably unpleasant to have these things said of one 
 and not to be able to deny them.' 
 
 Nothing that happened to other people 
 affected Mark greatly, as a rule, but for once 
 a circumstance outside his own interests almost 
 cost him his temper. 
 
 ' I'm glad for Tom's sake that you approve 
 of him,' he said. ' Personally — if my opinion's 
 of any value — I think him the most unmiti- 
 gated ass in Europe. Look at the pain he 
 gives you,' cried Mark, not because he cared 
 for that, but to make good his argument. 
 ' Look at the pain he gives his fether I And 
 all for a girl for whom he has no business to 
 care a farthing.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Lording, ' he cares no 
 more for her than he has a right to care for 
 her.' 
 
 ' That's his concern,' said Mark, ill-tem- 
 X 2
 
 3oS HEARTS. 
 
 peredly. ' You had better ask him.' Lording 
 was not a thin-skinned man, and Mark knew 
 when brusquerie of manner was harmless to 
 himself, and when it was hkely to be harmful. 
 To the people from whom he expected nothing, 
 he cQuld afford to be impolite if it suited him. 
 He was a little sore about this matter of 
 Tom's also, because he had calculated on being 
 employed for the defence, and might very 
 easily have borrowed a fifty on the strength 
 of it, for of course he could not dream of 
 accepting a fee from liis cousin for such a 
 service. 
 
 Lording looked serious for a moment, but 
 whatever fancy assailed him, he dismissed it. 
 
 ' Your uncle is in town,' he said, ' and has 
 gone to see Tom. Perhaps we had better 
 walk up and help to smooth things.' 
 
 Mark acceded, and the two drove to Mon- 
 tague Gardens together. There they found 
 father and son at decided loggerheads, the
 
 HEARTS. 309 
 
 elder in a cold rage, and the younger in a 
 hot one. 
 
 ' I have never given you the right to doubt 
 my word,' Tom was saying loudly as they 
 entered, ' I never told you a lie in my life, 
 and I claim yoiu' credence for my version of 
 the story as a right.' 
 
 ' And I demand that if your tale be true, 
 sir,' his father answered him, 'you prosecute 
 those low fellows for perjury, and clear your 
 name of the stain which rests upon it.' The 
 old man was naturally indignant. There is 
 pretty generally some right on both sides in 
 a real quarrel between people who have cared 
 for each other. ' It is an insult personal to 
 myself,' said Mr. Carroll, swelhng himself 
 anew now that he had an audience, ' that such 
 an imputation should rest upon my son.' 
 Tom was very near yielding. After all, was 
 Miss Moore's privacy in a matter like this to 
 be set against his father's peace of mind? He
 
 3IO HEARTS. 
 
 had not thought about this side of the question 
 until now, and it moved him a good deal. 
 But Mr. Carroll could not let well alone, and 
 unfortunately he went on, 'Whom am I to 
 believe, the six or seven sworn witnesses in 
 the case who appeared, sir, in the light of day, 
 or the person who was incriminated by their 
 evidence, and who declines to take steps for 
 the clearance of his character ? Declines,' said 
 Mr. Carroll, with a white face turned towards his 
 only son, ' on a pretence so flimsy and absurd 
 that I can but look upon it as a subterfuge.' 
 
 VAm I to understand,' asked Tom, with a 
 rather wicked-sounding repression in his voice, 
 ' that you refuse to accept my word upon this 
 matter ? ' 
 
 ' Unless you substantiate it, certainly,' 
 said Mr. CarroU, loftily. ' The story as you 
 relate it is sufficiently dishonouring to me, 
 but until you establish it I must prefer to 
 believe the other and the worse.'
 
 HEARTS. 311 
 
 'That is very unfortunate for both of us,' 
 said Tom, quietly. After that wild horses 
 would not have drawn him to an exculpation 
 of himself. 
 
 ' Tom,' cried Lording, ' you mustn't leave 
 your father in this way. Carroll, be reason- 
 able.' 
 
 The youngster had gathered up hat and 
 stick and gloves, and was making for the door. 
 
 'My dear uncle,' cried Mark, ' forgive me if 
 I suggest that you are both a little heated at 
 this moment. I am sure Tom's story is the 
 true one.' 
 
 If Tom and his father quarrelled, half 
 Mark's income stood in peril. 
 
 'What do you know about the matter, 
 Mark ? ' inquired Mr. Carroll. 
 
 ' I have Tom's word,' said Mark. His uncle 
 turned away with a mere wave of the hand, 
 and as he turned he faced Tom, who felt his 
 father's gesture almost unbearably insulting.
 
 312 HEARTS. 
 
 ' My father cannot accept my word,' he 
 said, controlling himself to outer quiet. ' That 
 is very unhappy for us both, but my fault by 
 no means.' 
 
 ' You shan't go,' cried Lording with an oath, 
 stepping in between Tom and the door. 
 
 ' / will go,' said Mr. Carroll, taking up his 
 hat. ' Nephew Mark — may I ask that you will 
 give me your arm P Shall I see you before you 
 leave town, Lording ? Good-day, sir,' turning 
 to his son, ' and good-bye.' 
 
 ' You shan't go either,' cried Lording again, 
 setting his back against the door. 
 
 ' Sir ! ' said Mr. Carroll, with pompous 
 passion, ' stand aside. I can manage my family 
 afiairs without extraneous assistance. I disown 
 that fellow. He is no son of mine any longer. 
 I repudiate all claims he may make upon me.' 
 
 ' Go your way,' said Lording, puffing and 
 blowing with rage at the other's tone towards 
 him, ' you pompous idiot, go your way. But
 
 HEARTS. 313 
 
 mark my words, youll be sorry for this to the 
 day of your death.' 
 
 Mr. Carroll, with his white face suddenly 
 grown scarlet, stood waiting for Mark's arm. 
 Mark, with an apologetic glance at Tom and 
 Lording, offered it, and the two marched out 
 of tlie room and down the stairs together. 
 The two who were left behind stood agaze at 
 each other, listening to the creak of Carroll's 
 footsteps on the stairs, to the jar of bolt and 
 chain as the door opened, and the crash with 
 which it closed behind him. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 I.OXI.OX : I'EI>TED BT 
 
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